After that conversation in the courtyard, something changed between them.
Paro no longer came to the Mukherjee house as often. When she did, she stayed close to her mother, her eyes lowered, her voice polite but cool. The warm familiarity that had once wrapped around them both like an old shawl was gone.
Devdas felt the loss like an ache, but he didn't know how to mend it. Every time he thought of going to her house to explain, pride tightened his throat. He kept telling himself that there was still time—that when he returned from Calcutta again, everything would go back to how it had been.
But days turned into weeks. Word spread through the village that Nimai Chakraborty was growing uneasy. Paro was of marriageable age, and many families had begun to send quiet inquiries about her hand.
One evening, Nimai sat in the courtyard with his wife, a frown carved deep into his brow.
"We can't wait forever," he said quietly. "Narayan Babu hesitates too long."
His wife's voice trembled. "But Paro has loved that boy all her life. If they break the promise now…"
Nimai sighed. "A promise never spoken aloud can be forgotten."
The next morning, Paro went to the pond alone. She sat on the worn stone step where she and Devdas had shared so many secrets. The surface of the water was still, reflecting the sky like a piece of polished glass.
For a long time, she simply sat there, her hands folded in her lap. She thought of how easily he had said, I haven't decided.
She tried to remember him as a boy—the one who had chased her with fistfuls of wildflowers, who had once cried when she scraped her knee. She wanted to believe that part of him still cared. But the memory felt faded now, like a dream she wasn't sure had ever been real.
That afternoon, Devdas's mother called him into the sitting room. She looked tired, her eyes shadowed by worry.
"Your father says you must make your mind clear," she began gently. "Parvati is a good girl. Everyone knows she would be a worthy wife. But if you have doubts—"
"I don't have doubts," Devdas interrupted, though he heard how unconvincing he sounded.
She studied him. "Then why do you hesitate?"
He had no answer. In truth, he didn't understand it himself. He loved her—he was sure of that—but something in him rebelled at the idea of being tied down, of becoming part of the endless rituals and negotiations that turned love into an arrangement.
When his mother saw he could not explain, she sighed. "You are young. But remember, your silence can wound more deeply than any harsh word."
That evening, as the sun dipped below the rooftops, Paro's father made his decision.
He crossed the lane to the Mukherjee house. Devdas saw him arrive from the veranda and felt a cold, twisting dread in his stomach.
Nimai was shown to the sitting room. The conversation was quiet but heavy. No accusations were spoken aloud, but the meaning was clear enough.
If you truly wish for this marriage, you must speak. If you do not, let us be free to find another match.
Narayan Mukherjee listened, nodding gravely.
"My son must return to Calcutta soon," he said at last. "He will continue his studies. When he comes of age, we can consider the matter properly."
Nimai inclined his head, his face stiff with disappointment.
"As you wish," he said. "But understand—my daughter cannot remain in uncertainty forever."
When he had gone, the house fell silent.
Devdas stood in the courtyard, staring up at the neem tree. He felt as if he were watching his life unfold from a distance, powerless to stop any of it.
Later that night, he walked past Paro's house. A single lamp burned in the window. He paused in the shadows, wanting to knock on the door, to call out her name.
But he didn't.
Instead, he turned away and walked into the darkness, telling himself that there would be time to fix things later—that nothing final had been said.
He didn't know that, in her own room, Paro was kneeling by her bed, her hands pressed over her heart, fighting to hold back her tears.
She, too, was telling herself that everything could still be mended.
Neither of them realized how quickly a small hesitation can grow into something that no apology can erase.