Having completed his formidable examinations — the Higher Secondary and the JEE — when Shubho arrived at the house of Babli-di, it seemed as though he was drawing breath for the very first time in his life. Babli-di, a cousin on his mother’s side, had become his host at his mother’s earnest behest, a chance to spend his holidays in a small, quiet town of Bengal, where time itself flowed with the languid grace of a river.
At Babli-di's home, a study session was in progress — a gathering for discussion among students of Class Ten from the local school. It was there that he first saw Sanchita. She sat in a corner, still in her school uniform of white and blue, her hair left loose down her back. Immersed in the pages of a book, she would occasionally glance up, weighing the logic in someone’s words. Her eyes held a peculiar maturity, a burden of understanding and awareness that seemed far beyond her years.
Gradually, Shubho learned — Sanchita was a Class Ten student, the girl from the house next to Babli-di's aunt's home, preparing for her board examinations. Her greatest passions were books and the plants in her small garden. A startling depth resided within her, yet in Shubho's presence, she seemed to assume a different guise.
After the study session, over tea, everyone was chatting. Shubho, whose own journey had just culminated in those pivotal exams, remarked, "I think mathematics and music share a kinship — both speak the language of harmony."
Stirring her leaf tea, Sanchita replied, "An interesting thought. But mathematics speaks of perfect solutions, while music speaks of perfect feeling. That is not kinship, but distinction." Then, with a slight smile, she added, "Anyway, you are heading to college now. The philosophies of school students like us are something you wouldn't yet know." Amidst the general laughter, she rose and began gathering her books.
One day, they met again in the backyard under the old mango tree. Sanchita was seated there, solving a mathematical problem. Shubho approached and asked, "Do you need any help?"
Without looking up, she said, "No, thank you. One learns best by doing it oneself."
Shubho persisted, "But sometimes, accepting help is also part of learning."
Finally, she looked at him, her gaze holding a kind of stern honesty, "You are brilliant. I am not brilliant like you. Our levels are different, Shubho-da." With that address of 'da' — elder brother — she seemed to erect an invisible wall between them.
One evening, walking along the village pond, Shubho asked directly, "Do you keep everyone at such a distance, or is it just me?"
Sanchita gazed at the pond water and said, "Not all distance is truly distant, Shubho-da. Besides, you are exceptionally gifted. Your life's path is a different one, beyond our reach. This distance is only natural."
"Talent isn't the measure of everything, Sanchita."
"No," she said, "but time is. Your time is for higher education now; my time is for board exams. These two times do not run side by side." And with that, she began walking back.
Shubho could not understand. Sanchita laughed, conversed, and discussed academic problems with everyone else — but the moment he drew near, she seemed to transform. A polite yet frosty courtesy, or a direct withdrawal. His heart would ache faintly; within this young girl seemed to hide a wisdom that felt almost ancestral.
In June, the results arrived. Shubho had secured a place in Computer Science at IIT Kharagpur. While everyone was lost in celebration, Shubho felt as if an unfinished melody played within him. He resolved to ask directly once more before leaving.
They stood on the terrace of Babli-di's house at dusk. Shubho said, "I leave tomorrow."
Sanchita kept her eyes on the moon. "I know. All the best."
"Don't you have anything to say?"
Sanchita took a deep breath. "I am a Class Ten student, Shubho-da. My life is inside a box right now — board exams, results, then higher secondary. You have opened the door to the world. I... I am still trapped inside that box."
"You know there comes a time to step out of the box too."
"Yes," she smiled softly, looking directly at him for the first time, "but that time is not now. Your time is now, my time is then." Her eyes held a touch of childish sorrow and a trace of adult grief.
Shubho was left speechless. He understood then it wasn't a gap in their minds, but the sheer chasm of perceived merit in her mind that was the real barrier.
Life began at IIT. Classes, labs, assignments, coding — existence became so frenetic that day and night merged into one. Babli-di would call occasionally for news. A year later, during one such call, she said, "Shubho, Sanchita asks about you."
Shubho was surprised. "Really? She always kept her distance from me, avoided me. Why would someone who evaded me so deliberately bother to inquire?"
"She has changed now. She's taken her board exams, done very well. She left a small gift for you — a book on programming. She says, 'Di, is Shubho-da still busy with coding?'"
A faint tremor passed through Shubho's heart, but he said, "Di, you know I wanted to reach out to her. She never gave me the chance. Feelings are like a tree — they grow only if given soil. She gave no soil because we were on different steps of the ladder. My life is of a different kind of busy now."
Babli-di sighed. "She thought the difference in age, the gap in their stages of life — these were monumental things. Now she understands that time changes everything. But time never returns."
Shubho looked out the window. The stars seemed the very same ones from that small Bengali town. He said, "Life is a different kind of busy now, Di. On the path I am on, there is no time to look back. The moment she withheld that opportunity, that was the final word. There is neither the space nor the time in my life now for feelings to grow."
Hanging up, Shubho opened his laptop. Lines of code glittered on the screen. Sometimes, he would remember the girl under the mango tree, the Class Ten student whose gaze, though young, held the gravity of a profound conclusion.
And in that small Bengali town, Sanchita now wore a new school uniform — for higher secondary. Writing something in the margins of a new mathematics book, she suddenly stopped. She looked out the window. How far away was Kharagpur? How far away was that Shubho-da? In her mind, she calculated an equation — the gap in their ages would shrink, but would the gap in their time ever diminish?
Not all relationships in life are built. Some remain only as a possibility — like a beautiful, aching, unfinished melody that pl
ays only in the mind, never reaching the ears.
At Babli-di's home, a study session was in progress — a gathering for discussion among students of Class Ten from the local school. It was there that he first saw Sanchita. She sat in a corner, still in her school uniform of white and blue, her hair left loose down her back. Immersed in the pages of a book, she would occasionally glance up, weighing the logic in someone’s words. Her eyes held a peculiar maturity, a burden of understanding and awareness that seemed far beyond her years.
Gradually, Shubho learned — Sanchita was a Class Ten student, the girl from the house next to Babli-di's aunt's home, preparing for her board examinations. Her greatest passions were books and the plants in her small garden. A startling depth resided within her, yet in Shubho's presence, she seemed to assume a different guise.
After the study session, over tea, everyone was chatting. Shubho, whose own journey had just culminated in those pivotal exams, remarked, "I think mathematics and music share a kinship — both speak the language of harmony."
Stirring her leaf tea, Sanchita replied, "An interesting thought. But mathematics speaks of perfect solutions, while music speaks of perfect feeling. That is not kinship, but distinction." Then, with a slight smile, she added, "Anyway, you are heading to college now. The philosophies of school students like us are something you wouldn't yet know." Amidst the general laughter, she rose and began gathering her books.
One day, they met again in the backyard under the old mango tree. Sanchita was seated there, solving a mathematical problem. Shubho approached and asked, "Do you need any help?"
Without looking up, she said, "No, thank you. One learns best by doing it oneself."
Shubho persisted, "But sometimes, accepting help is also part of learning."
Finally, she looked at him, her gaze holding a kind of stern honesty, "You are brilliant. I am not brilliant like you. Our levels are different, Shubho-da." With that address of 'da' — elder brother — she seemed to erect an invisible wall between them.
One evening, walking along the village pond, Shubho asked directly, "Do you keep everyone at such a distance, or is it just me?"
Sanchita gazed at the pond water and said, "Not all distance is truly distant, Shubho-da. Besides, you are exceptionally gifted. Your life's path is a different one, beyond our reach. This distance is only natural."
"Talent isn't the measure of everything, Sanchita."
"No," she said, "but time is. Your time is for higher education now; my time is for board exams. These two times do not run side by side." And with that, she began walking back.
Shubho could not understand. Sanchita laughed, conversed, and discussed academic problems with everyone else — but the moment he drew near, she seemed to transform. A polite yet frosty courtesy, or a direct withdrawal. His heart would ache faintly; within this young girl seemed to hide a wisdom that felt almost ancestral.
In June, the results arrived. Shubho had secured a place in Computer Science at IIT Kharagpur. While everyone was lost in celebration, Shubho felt as if an unfinished melody played within him. He resolved to ask directly once more before leaving.
They stood on the terrace of Babli-di's house at dusk. Shubho said, "I leave tomorrow."
Sanchita kept her eyes on the moon. "I know. All the best."
"Don't you have anything to say?"
Sanchita took a deep breath. "I am a Class Ten student, Shubho-da. My life is inside a box right now — board exams, results, then higher secondary. You have opened the door to the world. I... I am still trapped inside that box."
"You know there comes a time to step out of the box too."
"Yes," she smiled softly, looking directly at him for the first time, "but that time is not now. Your time is now, my time is then." Her eyes held a touch of childish sorrow and a trace of adult grief.
Shubho was left speechless. He understood then it wasn't a gap in their minds, but the sheer chasm of perceived merit in her mind that was the real barrier.
Life began at IIT. Classes, labs, assignments, coding — existence became so frenetic that day and night merged into one. Babli-di would call occasionally for news. A year later, during one such call, she said, "Shubho, Sanchita asks about you."
Shubho was surprised. "Really? She always kept her distance from me, avoided me. Why would someone who evaded me so deliberately bother to inquire?"
"She has changed now. She's taken her board exams, done very well. She left a small gift for you — a book on programming. She says, 'Di, is Shubho-da still busy with coding?'"
A faint tremor passed through Shubho's heart, but he said, "Di, you know I wanted to reach out to her. She never gave me the chance. Feelings are like a tree — they grow only if given soil. She gave no soil because we were on different steps of the ladder. My life is of a different kind of busy now."
Babli-di sighed. "She thought the difference in age, the gap in their stages of life — these were monumental things. Now she understands that time changes everything. But time never returns."
Shubho looked out the window. The stars seemed the very same ones from that small Bengali town. He said, "Life is a different kind of busy now, Di. On the path I am on, there is no time to look back. The moment she withheld that opportunity, that was the final word. There is neither the space nor the time in my life now for feelings to grow."
Hanging up, Shubho opened his laptop. Lines of code glittered on the screen. Sometimes, he would remember the girl under the mango tree, the Class Ten student whose gaze, though young, held the gravity of a profound conclusion.
And in that small Bengali town, Sanchita now wore a new school uniform — for higher secondary. Writing something in the margins of a new mathematics book, she suddenly stopped. She looked out the window. How far away was Kharagpur? How far away was that Shubho-da? In her mind, she calculated an equation — the gap in their ages would shrink, but would the gap in their time ever diminish?
Not all relationships in life are built. Some remain only as a possibility — like a beautiful, aching, unfinished melody that pl
ays only in the mind, never reaching the ears.
