The French windows of Patal Bari looked out over the Hooghly River, which shimmered like liquid silver. Inside the old mansion's courtyard, the air was thick with a fragrant mist of crimson and gold. Rima stood by the ornate pillars, her white Chanderi silk sari a blank canvas she knew would soon be ruined. In Chandannagar, Holi—or Dol Jatra—was more than just noise; it was a sophisticated mix of tradition and fleeting glances.
"You’re hiding, Rima," a low, rhythmic voice said from behind her.
She didn’t need to turn. The smell of sandalwood and wet earth arrived before him. It was Akash. He had been her "almost" for three years—the childhood friend who had grown into a man with broad shoulders and eyes full of questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
"I’m preserving the silk," she shot back, finally turning.
Akash was already covered in colors. A smudge of turquoise marked his jawline, and his white kurta clung to him, damp from the morning’s water festivities at the Strand. He held a small silver bowl of abir, the traditional dry powdered color.
He stepped closer, the space between them vanishing until she felt the heat from his skin. The sounds of the dhak drums and distant laughter faded into a soft hum.
"I don't want to ruin the silk," he whispered, lowering his voice. "But I do want to mark what’s mine."
Rima’s breath caught. "I didn't know I belonged to anyone."
"Then you haven't been paying attention."
He dipped his fingers into the deep magenta powder. Instead of tossing it, he moved slowly. His fingertips brushed the skin behind her ear and trailed down to the hollow of her throat. The powder felt like a warm velvet brand. Rima’s eyes closed, her fingers clutching the fabric of her sari.
His touch wasn’t playful; it felt like a claim. His thumb traced her lower lip, leaving a pink stain and a jolt of electricity that made her weak in the knees.
The crowd in the courtyard grew louder. A bucket of saffron water splashed nearby, making Akash grab Rima’s hand.
"Come with me," he urged.
They ran through the winding lanes of Chandannagar, passing colonial buildings with peeling yellow paint and green shutters. The city felt dreamlike, blending French influence with the chaotic energy of Bengali spring. They finally stopped in a quiet spot near Sacred Heart Church, where bougainvillea draped over the walls like a floral waterfall.
The shade was cool, and the air was heavy with blooming jasmine. Akash gently pushed her against a weathered brick wall.
"You've been avoiding me since Saraswati Puja," he said, his breath brushing her cheek.
"I wasn't avoiding you," Rima lied, her voice shaking. "I was... thinking."
"About what?" He leaned closer, his chest almost touching hers. "About how my hand felt on your waist when we crossed the road? Or how I look at you when you think I’m not watching?"
Rima looked up, her brown eyes defiant despite her racing heart. "About how you never actually say anything, Akash. You just hover. You're like the color on my skin—always there but silent."
Akash exhaled sharply. He set the bowl of abir on a stone ledge. "I'm tired of being silent."
He reached out, framing her face with his hands. His palms were stained with different colors, but his touch was gentle. He smeared bright yellow across her cheekbones, blending it with his thumb, his eyes locked on her lips.
"I love you, Rima. Not just as friends. I love you with a fierceness that scares me."
He leaned down, and time seemed to stop. When his lips finally met hers, they tasted like the sweet malpua they had shared earlier and the heat of the afternoon. It was a slow, deep kiss—a merging of two souls that had circled each other for too long.
Rima’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Her white sari met his stained kurta, transferring colors from his heart to hers. The kiss was passionate and filled with the relief of a truth finally spoken.
As the sun began to set, casting a burnt-orange glow over the Hooghly, they walked back toward the Strand, fingers entwined.
"My mother is going to kill me," Rima laughed, looking down at her ruined Chanderi silk, now a masterpiece of chaotic beauty.
"Tell her it’s a designer original," Akash joked, pulling her close. "By Akash."
They paused by the riverbank, watching the boats glide by. The day’s chaos faded into a peaceful fatigue. The people of Chandannagar headed home to wash away the stains, but as Rima looked at the smudge of magenta on Akash's neck—the mark she had left—she realized some things weren't meant to be washed away.
"Next year?" Akash asked, kissing her forehead.
"Every year," she promised.
Under the pink sky of a Bengali evening, the "almost" had become "always."
