Indentity
The city had dressed itself in artificial lights. Every streetlamp was glowing, casting a golden shimmer across the roads. The rhythmic sounds of hammering from the Durga Puja pandals still echoed through the night. It would continue—relentlessly—until the Goddess finally arrived.
Inside Antara's ancestral house, the old clock struck nine. Despite its age, the clock had not lost its precision. It still announced time with dignity, as if guarding the legacy of the house itself.
Hearing the chime, Apu turned to Kushal and said softly,
"Kushal da, it's getting late. Maa will scold me."
Antara had been sitting quietly on the sofa, her head resting on her hand. Hearing Apu, she straightened up, a hint of urgency in her voice.
"She's right. You both should leave now. It's already late."
Kushal could sense the hesitation behind her words. She didn't really want them to leave—not tonight. But she was forcing herself to say it. And truth be told, Kushal himself didn't feel right leaving her alone in this fragile state.
"But you'll be all alone…" he began.
Antara interrupted him gently, though firmly.
"I'm used to it. Don't worry about me. It's late—you should go. And Apu's family will be worried too."
Apu stepped closer to Kushal.
Kushal swallowed, his voice dry.
"Alright then… we'll leave. Please take care."
Antara nodded and tried to stand up—but suddenly, she collapsed back onto the sofa. Kushal instinctively moved forward to catch her, yet stopped himself just short of touching her.
Apu rushed to her side.
"What happened, didi? Are you okay?"
Holding her head, Antara murmured,
"It's nothing… just a little dizziness. It's been a long, exhausting day. I'll be fine. You both should go."
Apu shook her head stubbornly.
"That's not happening. I can't leave you like this."
Turning to Kushal, she added,
"You go home. I'll call Maa and manage something."
Kushal frowned.
"Are you mad? I'm not leaving you two alone here. I'll handle things. You go make something for her—she needs to eat first."
Antara protested weakly,
"No, no… don't do all this. Your families will worry. Please don't bother about me."
Apu smiled reassuringly.
"Don't worry about that. I'll make something. Coffee? I'll find everything in the kitchen, right?"
Antara nodded reluctantly.
"Yes… everything is there. Wait, I'll come show you—"
Before she could stand, Apu gently pushed her back down.
"No, you rest. I'll manage."
---
Meanwhile, Kushal called home and informed them that he would be staying over at a friend's place for a music rehearsal. Then he called Jaya and explained everything.
At first, Jaya wasn't convinced. But after Kushal patiently explained the situation, she finally agreed. Still, she said,
"Take care of her. I'm only agreeing because she's with you."
Kushal replied softly,
"Don't worry. I'm here."
After hanging up, Jaya felt a strange mix of concern and relief. If it were anyone else, she might have worried more. But since it was Kushal, she trusted him completely.
---
From a distance, Kushal found himself looking at Antara. Her dupatta had slipped slightly, revealing part of her face.
The scars were impossible to ignore.
The burnt skin, stretched and uneven, told a silent story of pain. Countless surgeries had tried to restore what once was, but the beauty of her face had been altered forever. One side still carried a faint echo of the woman she used to be—the other had surrendered to survival, losing its grace along the way.
It was not just a scar.
It was a lifetime of suffering etched into flesh.
---
Apu returned soon, carrying three mugs of coffee. Cooking wasn't her strongest skill, but coffee—she made that well.
Handing a mug to Antara, she said,
"I didn't find any biscuits. The jar's empty."
Antara took the mug and gave a faint smile.
"Yes… I didn't buy any. I'm sorry, you'll have to drink just coffee."
Kushal picked up a mug himself.
"It's fine. Please drink—you'll feel better."
Antara nodded and took a sip.
For a while, silence filled the room.
Then, quietly, Antara spoke—
"My mother was the only one I had… and now she's gone too. I don't know how I'll live alone."
Apu asked gently,
"What about your father? Your siblings?"
Antara looked at her, a distant sadness in her eyes.
"That belongs to another lifetime. Once, I had everything. Slowly… they all burned away along with this skin, leaving me behind."
Kushal, who had been listening silently, finally pulled a chair closer and sat down.
He began reciting softly—
"I know everything has shattered,
Yet here I am, still alive.
Holding onto dreams and poetry,
I walk forward…
Through a deep, endless forest of loneliness.
It's just me and my solitude—
We talk, we laugh,
And sometimes, we drown together
In an ocean of sorrow.
Hand in hand,
I have learned how to live…"
He paused. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember the next lines.
Apu picked it up seamlessly—
"Hand in hand, I have learned to live,
For I know—life is precious.
Otherwise, we die a little every day,
Only to be born again…
And die again.
This death cannot be seen,
Nor does the body go still.
It happens only to survive—
And it is unlike any other death."
She stopped.
Antara had been listening intently. After a moment, she said softly—
"When I wrote this… I was completely broken. It felt like I had truly died."
Kushal and Apu exchanged startled glances.
Apu whispered,
"You mean… this poem… it's by Antara Banerjee…"
She stopped mid-sentence, biting her tongue.
"Oh no… I've known you for two days, and I didn't even think to ask your surname…"
Kushal stared at Antara, stunned.
The Antara Banerjee he had only ever imagined—
The voice behind the words, the soul behind the poetry—
Was sitting right in front of him.
At last, the truth revealed itself.
A truth the world had forgotten—
But tonight, found its way back.
To be continued ....