The morning was unusually pleasant for a summer day in Bengal. The usual drenching humidity was absent, and the air felt light and refreshing. It was in fact breezy with the aroma of first mango panicle. Outside his window, a tiny birds was singing a medley of melodious notes incessantly, as if heralding a rare reprieve from the season's oppressive heat, and Jomidar Trilochan Ray Chowdhury felt rejuvenated like never before. After weeks of battling an inexplicable ailment, he seemed to have finally restored to his old self. In a burst of vigor and determination, he resolved to go fishing—a pastime that he had always cherished.

But a fishing expedition, though it may sound simple, was anything but that for a Jomidar. And Trilochan Ray Chowdhury was no exception. His ventures were grand, brimming with the pomp and ceremony befitting his stature. Friends from Calcutta and distant estates had been invited, and by the vast Tulsipukur, a lake so large it defied its humble name as a pukur, four enormous tents had been erected. The water of Tulsipukur was deep and clear, teeming with a variety of fish, its relevance was so great that the entire village was named after it. Raja TulsiNarayan, Trilochan's great, great grandfather had it dug, and it was thus named after his majestic memory.

On occasions like these, Trilochan was usually accompanied by his nephews, Anirudh and Batakrishna. But today, neither was present. Barrister Anirudh, ever the important man, was in Bombay, answering an urgent summons to the High Court. As for Batakrishna, his absence loomed larger, cutting deeper, like a wound that refused to heal. Trilochan tried to push the thought away. He had planned this outing to distract himself from Batakrishna's defiance and estrangement—from the anguish of a nephew who had walked away not only from his family but from him, the man who had raised him. He never fathered children, or lets just say he never could be a father to his own children, but to Anirudh and Batakrishna he tried to be more. Trilochan Ray Chowdhary left no stones unturned to make this excursion a grand distraction!

It was meant to be a two-day affair, meticulously planned. Trilochan's personal staff had prepared for every whim of their master and his esteemed guests. One tent was reserved for Trilochan himself, another two for his friends, and a smaller open tent stood ready to host two renowned Baul fakirs, who would perform their soulful barding by the fireside after dusk. Wine, brandy, and rum flowed freely, though Trilochan himself abstained—liquor had long been a stranger to his lips. Still, he spared no expense to ensure his guests wanted for nothing.

The first morning unfolded splendidly. The waters of Tulsipukur yielded a bountiful catch—three mighty Catlas, each weighing five kilos, and a grand seven-kilo Rui. The afternoon passed in ease, and as evening descended, the Bauls began their hypnotic songs, their voices weaving tales of love, longing, and liberation. Trilochan was lost in the mellifluous effect of the music as the heaviness in his heart was slowly fading into oblivion. A few pegs of brandy however had loosened the tongues of his companions, and as laughter rippled through the night, the conversation flowed smoother. But then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, one among them committed the unthinkable.

"So, Jomidar Babu," the guest began, his words were slurred but his intent was piercing, "what news of Batakrishna?"

The question hit Trilochan like a blow. 

"The yongest Ray Choudhary, we had atleast hoped for a week long celebration in his wedding." another had added. 

"We heard he married a widow, Jomidar babu? Is it true? Is it true that he has become a Brahmo follower now?" 

Trilochan's smile faltered. His face, that was so recently flush with vitality, first turned ashen, and then crimson with restrained fury. For a moment, he said nothing, and his silence felt a weight that stilled the laughter and song around them.

The Bauls were looking blankly at each others face, unable to fathom what just happened.

And then, in a voice sharp as a blade, Trilochan suddenly called out, "Bihari! Ei shaala Bihari!"

Old Bihari appeared instantly, his years of servitude attuning him to the moods of his master. Trilochan's command was curt and final. "Haramjada, where did you die?" he fumed, adding the next words in a low growl, "pack everything. We leave now."

The stunned silence of his stupefied guests felt almost amusing as the servants hurried to dismantle his carefully laid-out tents and equipment. The other two tents remained. Trilochan's abrupt departure left a void among his guests that no Baul song or brandy could have filled.

"And this is exactly why I keep my distance from these temperamental Jomidars." Only one of the guests had dared to mutter, his eyes red and words slurry, as the others kept staring intoxicatedly at the exit of the tent. 

Just two minutes later, the motor roared to life with all the subtlety of a frustrated goat, its sputtering cough echoing through the air as if it had just woken up from a bad nap and wasn't happy about it.

That particular morning unfolded differently within the grand Ray Choudhury palace. With the men away, the household fell into a leisurely rhythm, each person immersed in their own tasks. Among the women, there were only two. Bondita had busied herself with her little toddler, while Raimoti, as always, kept mostly to herself. Since her arrival at the palace, Raimoti's presence had been quiet, almost spectral, her world confined to a few rooms and the terrace. Each dawn, she would go up to the rooftop, standing for hours in solitude, gazing at the horizon as the rising sun painted her tear-filled eyes with its golden light. On some mornings, Bondita joined her, and together they spoke in hushed tones of the past, the present, and on rare occasions, the future. It was in conversations about the future that Raimoti fell silent, her hand instinctively resting on the faint swell of her belly, caressing the life growing within. Other days, they stood in each other's company, in complete silence, with their hearts heavy with unspoken emotions. Sometimes, tears would brim in one pair of eyes, and the other would quietly excuse herself, leaving the silence intact.

But this morning was unlike the rest. Raimoti was occupied with a purpose that had simmered in her heart for days. With Trilochan and his entourage away, she saw her chance. She moved through the palace like a shadow, silently entering Trilochan's master bedroom. This was a space strictly forbidden in his absence, with its boundaries enforced with unwavering rigor. Yet, Raimoti carried no fear as her resolve was greater than the risk.

She flung the door open, went directly to the wooden bedside table and opened the drawer with deliberate haste. There, amidst other objects, lay the old, half-burnt diary that had haunted her thoughts for days now. She grasped it, her fingers trembling as she flipped through its pages, her mind was racing like a wild horse. The pages of the diary spoke of love and devotion, and their words were an ode to a woman whose beauty and spirit seemed immortalized in ink. There were no names! And then, she found what she sought—the very lines she had been searching for... Her breath hitched, her throat tightening as if a phantom hand gripped it. Clutching the sapphire heart shaped pendant around her neck, she unlatched its hidden compartment. A small, yellowed piece of handmade paper emerged, its texture was a match for the diary's aged pages, though newer, less weathered. Raimoti unfolded the slip and compared it to the diary's verses. The handwriting was the same, as were the first two lines, but the diary held more—six additional lines completing the poem.

She read:

My queen, beneath the moon's soft glow,
Your touch ignites a fire, a steady flow.
Your eyes, dark pools that pull me in,
Your lips, the promise of every sin.
No time can dim this burning flame,
Forever I'll whisper your sweet name.

Raimoti's hands trembled as she clutched both the diary and the paper from the pendant. Her mind reeled with realization, as each thought felt like a thunderclap in her chest. If Satya's father had died the day he was born, and this pendant had come from his widowed queen mother, then could it be true? Could Trilochan's lady love—this queen immortalized in his poetry—have been Satya's mother?

Horrified, Raimoti's thoughts unraveled further. She recalled reading the love poems during her stay at Raipur palace, convinced then that the writer belonged to aristocracy. The records claimed that Satya's mother had been wed to a poor, illiterate Brahmin named Apurba. But was it possible that Trilochan was the true author of those verses? Was he the queen's lover? Could this explain why Satya's grandmother, on her deathbed, had urged him to meet Trilochan?

Raimoti's heart raced. Her breath quickened. She clutched her belly, as the weight of the revelation was bearing down on her. Confronting Trilochan felt inevitable, yet words failed her. How could she accuse a man of love? Love was not a crime. She wasn't sure if this secret love affair dated back to before the queen's marriage, after she lost her husband, the king consort, or if it was something else entirely... But then, another thought pierced through the haze, chilling her to the core. Could Satya himself be—

A sharp thud of a walking stick echoed from the corridor. Raimoti froze. Her blood ran cold as the sound grew louder, closer, haphazard. The door creaked open, and there he stood in the dark... A man with eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of Raimoti seated on the floor, clutching something to her bosom.

"Memsaheb, what are you doing in BoroBabu's room?" it was old Bihari's voice, and Raimoti let out a sharp exhale.

"Nothing! Go and tell Bondita Boudidi that I seek her audience, go at once."

Bihari nodded his head, he leaned the silver-headed walking stick against the wall and left without hesitation, without thinking twice about the situation. For him, Raimoti memsaheb was an aristocrat, and questioning this class was simply not in his nature.

....................................................................................................................................................

When the mind finds calm after enduring great turmoil, it naturally gravitates toward simple joys and heartfelt emotions, like affection and the appreciation of beauty. It was late in the night when Batakrishna had returned. The night had already enveloped the surroundings in its black charm, casting a bewitching spell over everything under its velvety darkness. The air was heavy with the sweet fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, infusing the atmosphere with a heady romanticism. The night felt like a dreamy canvas painted in dark shades of black and blue, with twinkling stars adding a surreal touch to the picture-perfect scene. Batakrishna was enjoying this night on his way back from the adibashi colony. He had seen Nakul- seen, met, spoken and treated, and now he had the confident knowledge that Nakul will live. His mind was particularly light with giddy happiness, his heart was brimming, and suddenly he longed for his wife. 

In his absence, the entire day Bhargavi had counselled Mira about various inhibitions in her life, each time countering Mira's fear, wiping her tears, listening to her, and explaining her in return, and by night Mira was smiling, a very rare sight! Leaving Mira alone in the kitchen she had started to shuffle Batakrishna's medicine books when one particularly on anatomy had caught her sight. She ruffled through a few pages and after a few minutes she was deeply engrossed in it. 

Batakrishna strolled in, with a cheerful whistle dancing on his lips

"What are you doing?" he snatched the book from her hand playfully. "Read something that girls of your age read, what's in these muscles and bones?" he winked at her meaningfully as Bhargavi blankly took the book back and resumed reading. 

"Where is your Mira Didi?" He asked and she just pointed towards the kitchen silently without looking up. "I haven't eaten anything the entire day, I am famished!"

"She made Luchi, Aloor Dum and Payesh for you."

Batakrishna smiled happily. "And what did you do?"

Bhargavi didn't reply. Although the food was entire prepared by her, she wished to give the credit to Mira, as she knew this would make him happier. She was wise, she knew and understood, and knowingly chose to remain unaware of the world around her. She understood there were issues, but it wasn't her place to meddle among couples, and hence she preferred to be lost in her world of knowledge. But she was prepared to do whatever needed to ease the pain of the two people who were dearest to her in the entire world. At that moment, she chose to be  completely engrossed in that fat book, flipping through the old off-white pages, deliberately oblivious to the brewing passion around her. Batakrishna, on the other hand was visibly brimming with desire, having craved the entire day to be alone with Mira. The night was his chance, and he didn't wish to waste a single moment. The night before she had come to him willingly, which was rare, and had urged him to stay by her side, but yet he had to leave after midnight. He murmured Mira's name, and a lot about how she loves to play hide and seek with his emotions, and it was then that Bhargavi lifted her face with a frown on her dark arched brows.

"Did you say something?" she asked in a pseudo confusion, and her abrupt question startled Batakrishna a bit.

"What? No, no... I wasn't talking to you. You continue reading."
He muttered to her.

Bhargavi smiled naughtily at him.
"Didi's in the kitchen you know, and its not very far..."

"What is she still doing in the kitchen for so long?" Batakrishna's tone was laced with a hint of impatience, and it made Bhargavi smirk in silence.

"She's simmering milk... for you."
She replied, and Batakrishna stopped pacing inside the room and looked at her with a frown.

"For me? milk? Tell her to simmer my soul with it, would you?"
He blurted out, and Bhargavi burst into soft ripples of laughter.

"Go on, say it aloud... see if she's ready to 'simmer' you tonight."

Batakrishna furrowed his eyebrows further at her for a moment, and then his eyes widened at deciphering the meaning of her words.

"You little rascal, Khub Pakamo na!... wait, I'll deal with you later."

Bhargavi heard him, and then she sighed loudly.
"I am ready to be dealt, but that you could do later too. Now go and let me study, please..."

She picked up the book kept on her lap, and covered her face with it.
Batakrishna sensed the naughty smirk behind the barrier.

"You really are a naughty one, aren't you..." He too smirked meaningfully and rushed out of the door.

As he crept into the kitchen, the silvery moonlight illuminated his handsome features, intensifying his already potent allure. He saw Mira standing inside, her back turned towards the door, and he didn't wish to waste a moment.

Batakrishna's heart throbbed with anticipatory love as he wrapped his arms around Mira's waist, pulling her close. She was startled, but the sight of him made her smile, the smile that was plastered on her lips since evening.

"Oh... it's you?"

"Why? Were you expecting someone else?"

"No... I mean... Bhargavi..."

"No... no one else. Only me. Its only I who would ever be this close to you..."

Mira smiled at his words, and as he leaned in to peck her on the cheek. Mira didn't object. Batakrishna felt happy and encouraged by her silence, his lips met hers in a passionate embrace, igniting a flame of desire within his own body. His kisses grew, tender yet intense, full of love and longing and his grip on her body had tightened. 

"Oh..leave...You... what are you doing in the kitchen?" Mira moaned and wiggled in his embrace, and Batakrishna tightened his grip on her body further.

"Why? Don't you know what I'm doing?" he hushed into her mouth. "I am doing exactly what a husband should do to his wife." he whispered seductively into her ears.

"Let go..."

"I won't..."

"What if someone sees us?"

"Who?"

"Bhargavi." The name was spelled like a moan, and Batakrishna's hands moved down to play with the softness of her buttocks.

"You'll only take my name... think only of me..."
He plunged his tongue deep into her mouth once again.

The kiss was nothing short of magical, as if two stars had collided, exploding into a magnificent burst of passion. Batakrishna's hands moved with loving intent, while his heart thumped wildly in rhythm with his emotions. But as the intensity increased, Mira suddenly pushed him away.

Batakrishna was taken aback for a moment.

"What happened?" He smiled at her in confusion, licking the taste of her lips still lingering on his.

Mira, however, didn't reply. She lowered her head and kept looking down.

Batakrishna's eyes shifted from a joyous, sensual sparkle to a look of disappointment, as a knot tightened in his stomach at the sight of Mira's sudden change of expression.

"Tell me, what's wrong?" he asked again.

"Nothing," Mira replied in a monotonous, shaky voice.

Batakrishna furrowed his brows.
"Then why did you push me away like that?"

Mira didn't respond, but he could see the tears welling up in her eyes.

Batakrishna's anger slowly began to rise.
"Don't you know how much I love you?" he demanded.
"Don't you know I've left everything behind for you? And yet, you..."
He sighed out loud and ran his fingers through his unkempt hair.
"I can't do this anymore, Mira... it can't be one-sided. If you don't love me, just say it. I'll stop coming to you."

"No!"
She looked up and raised her hand to cover her mouth.
"I love you... I do love you..."

"Then?"

Mira remained silent, the tears now streaming down her face. She knew she couldn't explain to him the deep-seated trauma that kept her from fully accepting this physical intimacy that he had to offer her.

"If you know you love me, then what's holding you back? What's so wrong about letting me into your life—about letting me close to you?" He exhaled sharply, frustration thick in his voice. "Mira, I don't understand love from a distance. For me, love is something real, something I can hold onto. If I love you, I need to feel you—your heart, your body, everything. My love is deeply physical, Mira. I don't know how to make sense of a love that stays untouched, unspoken, unfulfilled."

Mira stared at him vacantly, her tear-streaked face was silent, as her pain spilt out in quiet, glistening drops. Batakrishna was furious. He felt soured. The cheerful, romantic vibe had vanished, replaced by a storm of anger and frustration. His advances had been met with cold indifference, and the lack of explanation for her rejection only fueled his ire. He paced backward.

"This time, if you don't take two steps forward, I won't either... I swear on you!"

He stormed out of the kitchen, the door slamming behind him. Mira was left alone- to cry and feel hapless like all others nights. This was her own doing, but she just didn't know how to feel better.

"God... what do I do? Why am I like this?" she just broke down.
"Fix me... please fix me..." she wailed silently, as Bhargavi's voice pierced the stillness of the night, urgent and pleading.

"Batuk Da! Where are you going? Stop! Listen to me... Please, Batuk Da, come back. It's late... at least eat before you go!"

A loud, final slam of the front door echoed through the house.

Frustrated and visibly ruffled, Bhargavi stormed into the kitchen. Without sparing Mira a glance, she lashed out in exasperation.

"What's wrong with you, Didi? What did you do this time? Can't you let the poor man have a moment of peace, even for one night?"

She quickly grabbed a small basket of luchi and a bowl of Aloor Dum in a flurry and with a sharp glare, she hurried out the door, leaving Mira behind. Standing there, Mira watched helplessly as Bhargavi disappeared into the darkness of the night, chasing after Batuk. Her tears started rolling down with renewed vigor.