Music
A quiet excitement had begun to spread across the city. There was still more than a month left for Durga Puja—but in Kolkata, Puja doesn't wait for dates. It arrives slowly, softly… in the air, in the sky, in people's hearts.
The autumn sky stretched endlessly above—washed in a pale blue, dotted with drifting white clouds. Along the outskirts, kash flowers swayed like waves of white silk. And within the city, the rhythmic knocking of bamboo echoed through narrow lanes, as pandals slowly took shape. It felt like the city itself was whispering— "She is coming…Maa Durga is coming..."
After a few days, when Kushal had regained enough strength, he stepped out again. A sling bag rested on his shoulder, and his guitar hung across his back—like always, like a part of him. Before leaving, he casually told his mother, "Going to meet friends."
But his path led somewhere else. Somewhere he had begun to return to without thinking.
Apu's house.
That afternoon, Apu was busy.
She moved around the house quietly, finishing small chores—folding clothes, arranging books, tidying up. At this time of the day, she tried to complete everything so that Jaya wouldn't have to struggle after returning from work.
Life had taught her to grow up early.
Suddenly—
The sharp sound of the calling bell cut through the stillness. Apu frowned slightly, annoyed at the interruption. But when she looked through the peephole—
Her expression changed.
Kushal.
A faint smile appeared on her lips, one she didn't even realize. Quickly fixing her messy hair, she opened the door.
"Well, well…" she said, a teasing tone in her voice, "the teacher finally decided to show up!"
Kushal walked in casually and dropped onto the sofa. "How is Jaya Kakima?" he asked. "She didn't come to see me even once. I was suffering from such a terrible fever!"
Apu leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "If we had gone to your house, do you think we would've come back alive?" she replied. "Your mother would've chewed us up—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
The words hung in the air.
Unfinished.
Heavy.
Kushal didn't respond to that. Instead, he stood up and walked toward the room. "Come on," he said, trying to keep things normal. "Let's see how much you've studied these past few days."
Apu's face fell instantly.
Studied?
She hadn't studied at all. Instead, she had spent her days writing poems—one after another, pouring her emotions into words she couldn't speak aloud. Slowly, without her realizing, poetry had begun to take over her entire existence.
But still—
Teacher is teacher.
With a reluctant sigh, she went to wash her hands and entered the room.
The moment she stepped in, she did something unexpected. She held out Kushal's phone.
"Here," she said, trying to sound casual. "Take your treasure."
For a second, Kushal just stared.
Then—his eyes widened.
"Hey! My phone!" he almost jumped in excitement. "How did this end up with you?"
Apu smirked slightly. "You give your phone to random people and then they call me and bother me."
Kushal lightly tapped her head. "Stop acting smart. Tell me properly."
And she did.
She told him everything.
About that night.
About the girl.
About the call.
About the conversation.
Kushal listened quietly.
When she finished, he spoke softly, almost to himself— "She was really hurt… because of me."
Apu looked at him.
"I got scared," he admitted. "It was the first time I saw her like that."
Apu's expression softened. "At first, I was very angry with you, Kushal da," she said. "But when I spoke to her… I couldn't stay angry."
There was a pause.
"She has a beautiful way of speaking," Apu added, almost dreamily.
Kushal looked at her. "Did you see her face?"
Apu nodded slowly. "Yes."
"And?"
Apu looked away for a moment. "It's someone's cruelty," she said quietly. "Someone's twisted mind."
Silence filled the room again.
Then Kushal asked, "Didn't you ask her anything?"
"I wanted to," Apu replied. "But she recited a poem… by Antara Banerjee… so beautifully that I forgot everything."
A faint smile appeared on Kushal's lips. "So, we've got another fan of Antara Banerjee."
Apu laughed lightly. "You could say that."
Then, after a moment—
"Don't forget to take your phone when you leave."
Kushal hesitated.
Then said, "Will you come with me once, Apu?"
She looked at him. "Where?"
"I want to meet her," he said. "And say sorry."
Apu nodded almost immediately. "Let's go."
Then, with a sudden spark in her eyes—
"Do you know she has a library at her house? It's like heaven!"
Kushal laughed. "Alright then. Tomorrow. What time?"
"Morning," Apu said.
"Will you come on my bicycle?"
Apu made a face. "On that broken thing? My back will break! Let's take a bus."
Kushal grinned. "Fine. Be ready by ten. Come to Hazra crossing."
Apu nodded.
Then, after a pause—
"Kushal da… can I ask you something?"
He looked at her. "Hmm?"
"You said you'd compose a tune… for my poem."
The words were soft.
Careful.
Hopeful.
Kushal bit his tongue suddenly. "Oh no! I completely forgot!" he said. "I actually came to you for something else. I'm working on Antara's poem—I want to sing it at our neighbourhood function this year. What do you say? Will you help me?"
Apu smiled.
A small, quiet smile.
"Yes," she said. "I will."
But something inside her—
Fell silent.
She remembered.
The way she had told her mother, with innocent excitement—
Kushal-da will compose a tune for my poem.
How easily she had believed it.
How naturally she had hoped.
And now—
It was forgotten.
Just like that.
A strange heaviness settled in her chest.
Her eyes stung.
But she didn't let the tears fall.
She never did.
Instead, she swallowed the pain—quietly, completely.
She had learned that long ago.
Kushal picked up his guitar.
"So," he said lightly, "ready?"
Apu looked at him.
At his fingers.
At the guitar.
At the boy she had unknowingly given her heart to.
And then she said softly—
"Always, Kushal da."
The first note rang out.
Soft.
Clear.
Alive.
Kushal's fingers moved across the strings, searching… shaping… building something from nothing.
And that day—
A tune was born.
But for Apu—
Every note felt like a quiet ache.
Every vibration of the strings—
Like something piercing straight through her heart.
She sat there, listening.
Helping.
Smiling.
And somewhere deep inside—
Understanding something she didn't want to accept.
Maybe…
Her Kushal da would never compose a tune—
For her poetry.
To be continued...