The Morning Before the Result
Tomorrow is the result day.
Just as he has for the past three months, Pratyush came early this morning and sat beneath the same mango tree, right in the middle of the orchard. A light breeze made the crimson blossoms of the palash trees sway gently.
This part of Palashpur was rather secluded. The orchard was fenced on all sides; no guards had been appointed yet. There was only one narrow way in from the outside, so it took quite some time to reach the center.
For the past three months, Pratyush had been coming here. But today, he brought his paints and brushes — he was going to paint a picture of love. Somewhere in the distance, a cuckoo called, and occasionally the caw of a lone crow drifted through the air.
A Glimpse Beyond the Fence
When Pratyush looked up, his eyes caught something beyond the fence — a young boy bending down as if whispering to someone. It was Godhuli.
The sight unsettled him. Something inside him stirred, and old memories from two years ago came alive once more.
Two Years Ago: The Artist and the Rain
Back then, Pratyush was in his third year at art college. He wasn’t one of the flashy types — calm, steady, deeply focused. There was simplicity in his face, a kind of detachment from the bustling world around him.
It was mid-monsoon. The streets of Kolkata were flooded. Life was at a standstill after two days of relentless rain, which still hadn’t stopped. The college was open but almost empty.
Pratyush was sitting on the second-floor veranda, painting the rain in long, fluid brushstrokes. Suddenly, a soft voice —
“Isn’t anyone here?”
A rain-soaked girl stood there, asking him.
“I looked in the principal’s room — didn’t see anyone. Hasn’t he come?”
Pratyush looked up, startled.
“No… no one’s come yet,” he replied.
The girl seemed restless, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
A Conversation in the Rain
Pratyush broke the silence:
“You must be wondering why I’m here, right? Honestly, I just didn’t feel like staying at the hostel, so I came here instead. But wait — you’re drenched to the bone!”
“The principal told me to come today, that’s why—”
“He won’t come until the rain stops — no one will.”
“Oh. Then what should I do?”
“For now, you’d better head back.”
“Head back? You mean all the way to Egra?”
“You came from Egra? Why? There’s no one here.”
“My aunt lives here, my second aunt. But I didn’t tell them I’d come. I thought I’d get the admission done and go straight home afterward.”
“And if you go now, they’ll scold you?”
“No, they won’t.”
“Then go on. I’ll tell the principal you came.”
“You’ll tell him? That’ll work?”
“Let’s see. Next time, just bring the admission fee — that’s all you’ll need.”
Pratyush turned back to his canvas.
The First Goodbye
The girl lingered.
“You haven’t even asked my name.”
“Oh—right! My mistake. What’s your name?”
“Godhuli. Godhuli Basu.”
“Well then, you’d better go. Otherwise, you’ll catch pneumonia.”
He looked down again at his work. Godhuli was still standing there.
After a pause, she asked,
“And your name?”
“Pratyush Mitra.”
Still she stood there.
Pratyush smiled faintly.
“Why are you still here? It’s getting late.”
She wanted to talk a little longer, but the empty, echoing college scared her a bit, so she left.
Yet Pratyush felt something stir within him — something about that girl had touched him.
Sunshine and Return
The monsoon faded, and sunshine returned. Life resumed its rhythm. College went back to normal. But there was no sign of Godhuli.
Slowly, even her memory began to blur — until one day, she appeared again.
She found Pratyush and said,
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For getting all the admission work done in my absence. I just had to fill out the form and pay the fees.”
“Where were you all this time?”
“In bed.”
“In bed?”
“Yes, down with fever.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, not pneumonia. But I had to spend ten days talking to the walls.”
Pratyush smiled faintly and turned to leave, but she stopped him.
“Don’t you like talking to me?”
“Why would you think that? I’m just in a bit of a rush, that’s all. How many people live in your family?”
“My, you’re quite the interrogator!”
“No, not like that. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Are you angry?”
“No, not at all. I just can’t force people into things. That’s not me.”
“You’re such a strange person,” she laughed. “At home it’s just my parents and me. I’m their only child.”
“Then you must be very pampered.”
“You could say that,” she smiled.
Then after a pause —
“Would you like to go to the canteen? We could have a cup of tea.”
Without thinking, Pratyush said,
“No, not today. I’m in a hurry.”
The Missed Tea
“A hurry for what?”
“If I don’t secure my career, three people will suffer — my parents and my unmarried sister. To make them happy, I have to—”
Godhuli interrupted, laughing softly.
“Say no more. You sound like a hero straight out of an ’80s Bengali movie. So men like you still exist — who’d turn down a tea invitation from a young woman, especially when the woman herself offered it!”
She turned and left.
Pratyush stood there with his head down.
What did I just do? Would ten minutes have made such a difference? Why am I like this?
From that day, he began to feel a pull toward her — a quiet, unnamed affection.
A Year of Unspoken Words
Soon, they started meeting almost every day. They enjoyed each other’s company, though neither ever spoke of what they felt.
A year passed like that. By then, Godhuli had found a new friend — or rather, a new girlfriend, Madhumita, with whom she shared everything.
Meanwhile, Pratyush got busy preparing for his final exams.
Still Life
One day, Godhuli appeared again. She saw him sitting with a book instead of a paintbrush. Walking closer, she said,
“Sir told me to come to you for help with still life. He said you’re really good at it.”
Without looking up, Pratyush said,
“That’s just because I love it. Dutta Sir is fond of me — maybe too fond.”
“That doesn’t make it any less true. Come on, teach me a little.”
“With the reputation you’ve built over the past year, I doubt there’s anything left for me to teach.”
“You mean you don’t have time to teach me. The exams are close, right?”
“Well, even someone who can cook perfect shukto might not be able to make good fish curry,” he teased.
“Why not? Cooking itself is what matters, isn’t it? Once you know that…”
“So what you’re saying is, you want me to teach you?”
“You see? You’re already turning it into a story! Did I say I would teach you?”
“Some things are understood without being said,” she smiled.
He pretended to be annoyed.
“Still life is simple enough — at least for you. Pick any subject that feels alive, sketch its outline on paper, and there you go — done.”
“How, exactly?”
“Hmm… like me, for instance. Draw me — from the angle you’re seeing me right now.”
