The next morning dawned bright and clear. The last traces of the monsoon had vanished, leaving the sky a deep blue. Birds called from the trees as the village slowly woke to the day's chores.
Devdas rose early. He bathed and dressed with more care than usual, smoothing his hair back and dusting his clothes clean. He tried to tell himself it was only curiosity that made him nervous, but the truth lay heavier in his heart than he wanted to admit.
After breakfast, he slipped out of the house, careful not to draw attention. He walked along the narrow path that led to the pond behind the temple. It was a place they had played as children—throwing pebbles into the water, daring each other to wade in up to their knees.
When he reached the old banyan tree that leaned over the pond's edge, he stopped. The air smelled of wet earth and blooming lilies. He looked around, half-afraid she wouldn't come.
Then he heard footsteps behind him.
Paro appeared, carrying a small brass pot. Her hair was braided in a single plait down her back, and her sari was the pale blue she often wore on festival days. She didn't smile when she saw him.
"I came to fetch water," she said, though they both knew it was only an excuse.
Devdas nodded, feeling the awkwardness stretch between them. He searched for something to say.
"Paro," he began, then hesitated. "Have you…have you been angry with me?"
She knelt at the water's edge, dipping her pot into the pond. The ripples spread out in widening circles.
"I wasn't angry," she said after a long silence. "But you left without saying much. And when you were gone, there were no letters. No message. It was as if you forgot all about this place."
Her voice didn't tremble, but he heard the quiet hurt beneath the words.
"I didn't forget," he said quickly. "I thought about you often."
Paro looked up then, her dark eyes searching his face. "Then why didn't you write?"
Devdas swallowed. "I tried. I just…I don't know. It felt…strange."
She studied him a moment longer, as if deciding whether to believe him. Finally, she set her pot aside and sat back on her heels.
"We've known each other all our lives," she said softly. "And still you couldn't send even one letter?"
Her words made him feel as if something precious was slipping further from reach. He sat down beside her on the worn stone step, staring out at the water.
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Paro's gaze dropped to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "I know."
They fell silent. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the pond against the bank.
After a while, Paro spoke again, her voice steadier. "Will you stay long this time?"
"Only a few weeks," Devdas admitted. "Then I must go back to Calcutta."
She nodded as if she had expected this. But he thought he saw her fingers tighten around the edge of her sari.
"I wish you could stay longer," she said quietly.
He didn't know what to say to that. He wanted to tell her he wished the same thing—that he hated the city, the lessons, the endless grey buildings. But some stubborn pride kept him silent.
At last, Paro rose, brushing dust from her sari. She picked up her brass pot, now full to the brim.
"Will you come here again tomorrow?" she asked without looking at him.
Devdas felt a rush of relief. "Yes," he said. "I'll be here."
She turned to go. For a moment, he thought she might say something more. But she only walked away, her steps sure and measured.
He watched her until she disappeared behind the curve of the path. Then he stood alone beside the pond, feeling as if some invisible barrier still remained between them—something he didn't know how to cross.
That evening, when he returned home, his mother looked up from her weaving. "You were out a long time," she said.
Devdas only nodded, unable to explain why the day had left him more restless than before.
In his room, he unwrapped the small bundle Paro had given him so many months ago. The clay figure she'd made was still there, its edges smoothed by time.
He set it on the low shelf by his bed.
Perhaps it was foolish, but he felt as if it was the only thing anchoring him to the person he had once been—and to the girl who still waited by the pond.