(Raitha's POV)
The fragrance of shiuli flowers clung to the dusk air, faint but piercing, like memories I couldn't let go of. Above Suryanagari, the sky blazed red-orange, as though Ma Durga herself had painted the heavens in her own vermillion.
The pandal shimmered in gold and crimson light, voices rising, drums shaking the ground. Around me, joy spilled over, laughter and chants filling the night. But I—I carried silence in my chest.
And then I saw him.
Shyam.
Not because he sought me out. Not because the crowd parted. But because in the storm of sound, his stillness caught my eyes. His gaze felt like it had been waiting, though neither of us had promised anything.
I turned, and in that single glance, I knew—he had noticed the weight I tried to hide.
The dhaak boomed, yet for that moment it all fell away. I felt stripped bare under his eyes. Afraid, and comforted.
That night, during the arati, I held a diya with hands that trembled. My prayers were desperate, words swallowed in the smoke. I begged the goddess for strength—not for myself, but for the truth I could not speak aloud.
The flame bent, nearly went out. My heart skipped, but I steadied it.
When I looked up, Shyam stood close, his face lit by the circling lamps. I asked without thinking, "Do you believe the goddess listens?"
His answer was soft, almost too soft. "Only when the silence after our prayers is heavier than the words themselves."
I smiled, though inside it hurt. Because silence—that was all I had left to give him.
On Maha Saptami, I carried a diya again, my fingers raw from too much holding, too much pressing. He saw it—of course he saw it. When the flame nearly flickered out, he looked at me as though he understood what I couldn't say.
On Maha Ashtami, I dropped a bel leaf during pushpanjali. He bent to pick it up, and his eyes caught the red marks on my palms before I could hide them. Marks from praying too hard. From holding on too tightly to something I knew I would lose.
On Maha Nabami, the drums grew louder, but the silence between us grew louder still.
And then came Bijoya Dashami.
The air turned crimson as women smeared sindoor across the goddess's face. I held the powder between my fingers, but all I could think of was farewell. Every year the goddess returned to her world. Every year we pretended our tears were joy.
I turned to him. "Every Puja ends with farewell," I whispered, knowing it wasn't just about the goddess. "Even she returns to her own world. We only pretend it's joy when we cry and say goodbye."
He stared at me, and I wished he wouldn't. His gaze was too steady, too certain. "But farewells aren't endings," he said. "Sometimes… they're beginnings we don't yet understand."
For a heartbeat, I almost told him. The truth of why my prayers were heavy. Why my hands trembled. Why this festival was the last one I would see by his side.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
Instead, I folded my hands and said the only words that could escape me—"Shubho Bijoya."
And I turned away.
Behind me, the idol was lifted, drums echoing like a thousand heartbeats. The river waited to take Ma Durga home. I didn't look back, though I wanted to. Though I knew he was still standing there, vermillion dust in his hair, watching.
The goddess descended into the water. Farewell wrapped the night.
Yet even as I walked into the crowd, my chest heavy with silence, I carried one certainty—something had begun between us. Something words would only weaken.
And perhaps, one autumn far from now, when the shiuli flowers bloom again, he will understand the meaning I buried in that silence.
(Shyam's POV)
The streets of Suryanagari burned with light. Gold and red banners draped the pandals, incense curled skyward, and drums thundered like the heartbeat of the goddess herself. The fragrance of shiuli clung to the wind, crisp, almost sweet enough to hide the ache in my chest.
I had told myself I was here for the puja. For Ma Durga. For the chants that shook the soul.
But the truth was—I was searching.
And then, through the blur of lamps and vermillion, I saw her.
Raitha.
Her sari was simple, green with silver edges, nothing that demanded attention. And yet, I couldn't look away. The way her eyes caught the light, the way her smile didn't quite reach them—it felt like she was holding back an ocean I would never touch.
She turned. Our eyes met.
And the sound of the dhaak died for me. Everything else vanished, like the goddess herself had demanded silence between us.
When the evening arati began, I found myself near her again. Priests circled their lamps, fire glowing against Ma's face. My lips moved with the chants, but my ears strained for something else—the faint hum of Raitha's voice, shaky, trembling, breaking in places I didn't understand.
Her hands shook as she held the diya. The flame bent dangerously, and for a moment I thought she'd drop it. But she steadied it.
She looked up, and her eyes caught mine.
"Do you believe the goddess listens?" she asked.
Her voice carried something more than curiosity. It carried fear. Longing. Something she would never name.
I wanted to tell her yes. I wanted to tell her no.
But instead, the truth slipped out: "Only when the silence after our prayers is heavier than the words themselves."
She smiled at that, though it was the kind of smile people wear when they're about to cry.
I kept noticing.
On Maha Saptami, the diya flickered in her hand, her fingers raw from pressing too hard. I wanted to reach out, but the crowd moved us apart.
On Maha Ashtami, she dropped a bel leaf during the pushpanjali. I bent to pick it up, and for a second saw her palms marked in red—too raw, too human, too telling. She pulled her hands back quickly, but the image stayed with me.
On Maha Nabami, the dhaak players drummed like the earth itself was trembling. But louder than that was her silence. Silence that wrapped around me and demanded I listen.
Then came Bijoya Dashami.
Vermillion dust whirled in the air, laughter spilling from every corner. Women smeared sindoor onto the goddess's face, their joy bright as the sun. But Raitha… she stood apart, her eyes wet even as her lips curved into something that pretended to be a smile.
She turned to me. "Every Puja ends with farewell," she said softly, her voice almost lost in the crowd. "Even she returns to her world. We only pretend it's joy when we cry and say goodbye."
Her words cut through me. Farewell. Why did it sound like she wasn't just talking about the goddess?
"Farewells aren't endings," I told her, though my own chest tightened. "Sometimes… they're beginnings we don't yet understand."
Her eyes shimmered. For one fragile moment, I thought she would speak—finally break the silence she carried like armor. But instead, she pressed her palms together, whispered "Shubho Bijoya", and turned away.
Just like that.
The idol was lifted then, drums exploding, chants rising higher. Vermillion dust clung to my hair, my skin, but all I felt was the emptiness where Raitha had stood.
Ma Durga descended into the river, her clay face breaking as the waters swallowed her. A farewell. An ending. Or perhaps, like I told her, a beginning I couldn't yet see.
I stayed until the last ripple of water stilled. My chest heavy, my hands empty.
But I carried something with me—her silence.
And the unspoken truth that sometimes silence says everything.
The shiuli flowers fell again that night, and autumn whispered, reminding me:
This was not the end. Not yet.
( The writer's PoV )
The air was sharp with the fragrance of shiuli flowers, scattered like white stars beneath the trees. The evening sky above Suryanagari burned orange and red, as though Ma Durga herself had brushed the clouds with vermillion.
The pandal glowed in layers of gold and crimson. Drums thundered, and the air shook with the chant of "Bolo Durga Ma ki—Joy!" Yet in the crowd of thousands, Shyam found himself standing still—his eyes searching.
And then he saw her.
Raitha.
She wasn't dressed in the grandeur of the festival queens—her sari was a muted shade of green, the borders embroidered in the simplest silver thread. But it was the way the lights flickered against her eyes, as if they carried secrets not meant to be spoken aloud, that made Shyam stop breathing for a moment.
She turned. Their eyes met.
The sound of the dhaak stretched into silence. For a heartbeat, the pandal fell away, and all that remained was a look that carried more than years of conversation ever could.
They didn't walk together immediately. No, fate had its own design. Shyam drifted close when the evening arati began. The priests' lamps danced, golden flames circling Ma's face, her lion fierce, her ten hands radiant. Shyam whispered the chant under his breath, but his ears strained toward the faint hum of Raitha's voice as she prayed.
When she looked up at the goddess, her lashes heavy with unshed tears, Shyam knew. She wasn't asking for joy. She was asking for strength.
And yet, she smiled at him.
"Do you believe the goddess listens?" Raitha's voice trembled like the conch blowing in the distance.
Shyam hesitated, then answered softly, "Only when the silence after our prayers is heavier than the words themselves."
She laughed—a small, broken laugh that seemed stitched with both hope and resignation.
As the nights of Durga Puja unfolded, they met again and again.
On Maha Saptami, when the idol's eyes were unveiled, Shyam noticed how Raitha's fingers trembled while holding a diya. The flame bent dangerously, but she steadied it at the last moment. He wondered what storm inside her made her so fragile and yet so unyielding.
On Maha Ashtami, during the pushpanjali, Raitha dropped a single bel leaf. Shyam bent to pick it, only to see that her palms bore faint lines of red, as though she had pressed them too hard in prayer. She quickly hid her hands, and for some reason, his heart ached.
On Maha Nabami, the dhaak drummers played louder, yet Shyam could hear her silence more clearly than the beats.
Finally, on Bijoya Dashami, when vermillion swirled in the air like the final breath of fire before winter, Raitha turned to him.
"Every Puja ends with farewell," she whispered, her voice trembling as the women around them smeared sindoor across Ma Durga's face. "Even the goddess returns to her world. We only pretend it's joy when we cry and say goodbye."
Shyam stared at her, the wind carrying the ashes of incense between them. "But farewells aren't endings. Sometimes… they're beginnings we don't yet understand."
Raitha's eyes glistened. For a moment, he thought she would speak, that she would finally open the vault of her secrets. But instead, she pressed her palms together, whispered "Shubho Bijoya", and turned away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.
Shyam stood there, vermillion dust in his hair, watching as the idol was lifted, drums echoing like a thousand heartbeats. He could still feel her presence beside him, though she was gone.
The river waited to take Ma Durga home, carrying her from this world into the next. And as the idol descended into the waves, Shyam realized something unspoken had begun between them. Something that words would only diminish.
The shiuli flowers fell once more that night, and though autumn whispered its farewells, it left behind a single promise hidden in silence.
( PoV of the end )
The autumn flowers bloomed with green, I crossed by them.
The autumn flowers bloomed as I crossed, and he looked back.
The autumn flowers bloomed as I watched her cross by, and the petals scattered like ash.
The dhaak thundered—louder, then softer, then gone.
The dhaak thundered, yet I could not hear it.
The dhaak thundered, and all I heard was silence.
"Do you believe the goddess listens?"
"Do you believe she hears me?"
"Do you believe she will listen, when my silence is heavier than prayer?"
The diya trembled, flame bending to break.
The diya trembled in my hand, but I caught it.
The diya trembled, nearly fell, but she steadied it, and I could only watch.
Farewell lingered on every vermillion breath.
Farewell lingered on every smile I wore.
Farewell lingered in her words, though I told myself it wasn't.
"Shubho Bijoya," whispered softly.
"Shubho Bijoya," I said, though my lips cracked.
"Shubho Bijoya," she left behind, and I held the syllables like they were hers.
The crowd surged, a wave of bodies, laughter and cries spilling into smoke.
The crowd surged, and my feet slipped. The red scattered into dust.
The crowd surged, and I saw the green vanish into crimson haze.
I tried to call, but silence swallowed my throat.
I tried to breathe, but the world had already left me.
I tried to reach, but the hand I sought was already gone.
The goddess descended into the river. Clay crumbled. Eyes broke. Vermillion bled into the tide.
The goddess descended, farewell sealed in water.
The goddess descended, and I stood on the bank, unable to move, unable to know if it was her or me who had left.
The autumn flowers bloomed once more that night.
The autumn flowers bloomed, though I was no longer there.
The autumn flowers bloomed, and I waited for one voice that never came.