Between Home and Lights

December 23, 2009 – 7:00 AMDakshin Barasat – Naskar Household

The winter sun cast a soft, golden glow across the courtyard of the Naskar home, dew glistening on the hibiscus plants lining the boundary wall. The faint smell of wood smoke hung in the air — a familiar scent from kitchens across the village as homes warmed water for morning baths and cooked hearty breakfasts.

Inside the modest, two-story house, the clinking of steel utensils blended with low murmurs from the kitchen, where Aritra's mother was already busy at work. The faint aroma of payesh — thickened rice pudding, rich with cardamom, nuts, and the faintest hint of saffron — drifted into the hallway.

Katherine stood barefoot near the doorway, wrapped in one of her simple black sweaters, her hair still slightly damp from her morning bath. This house, so different from the polished surfaces and stark modernity of Aritra's villa, felt... alive. The worn but gleaming wooden furniture, the embroidered curtains stitched by hand, and the rows of framed photographs that told stories she could only guess — it felt like a world Aritra had kept hidden from her, until now.

It was her birthday. Her first birthday as Katherine Naskar.

The realization felt surreal.

When Aritra's mother had quietly told her the night before — while Aritra had stepped out to buy some milk and vegetables — Katherine had been stunned. In all the chaos, the elections, the policies, the whirlwind of their strange marriage, her own birthday had become an afterthought even to herself. And yet, here they were, preparing a small celebration in the place where Aritra had grown up.

"Did you sleep well?" Aritra's mother called from the kitchen, her voice gentle but firm.

Katherine turned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes, Ma. I did."

It still felt strange calling her Ma, but Aritra's mother smiled every time she said it — as if she were both proud and a little protective of the new daughter fate had delivered to her doorstep.

The warmth in that smile made Katherine want to belong.

"Come, taste the payesh. It's for you." His mother held out a small ceramic bowl, her bangles jingling softly.

Katherine stepped closer, the warmth of the bowl seeping into her fingers as she took it. The first spoonful was creamy, delicately sweet, with just a touch of crunch from the cashews. "It's delicious," she said softly, her smile genuine.

His mother beamed. "Good. There's more for later."

10:00 AM – Aritra Arrives

The low rumble of an audi car echoed through the lane, and Katherine glanced out the window just in time to see Aritra stepping out, his father climbing out behind him. They carried plastic bags filled with fresh mutton, vegetables, and a few packets of sweets from Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick — a touch of the city brought back to the village.

Aritra caught her eye through the window and gave a small, tired smile. His hair was slightly tousled, the chill air having left faint traces of pink across his ears and nose.

"You look like you belong here already," he said softly as he stepped into the house, his voice teasing but with a note of quiet affection.

Katherine only smiled, her fingers tracing the edge of the dining table.

11:30 AM – The Birthday Meal

The table was set simply — no elaborate decorations, no grand cake covered in frosting. Just a round, freshly baked black forest cake, topped with a few candles Aritra's mother had found in an old kitchen drawer. Beside it sat the payesh, plates piled high with fragrant mutton biryani, and bowls of salad, chutney, and fried papad.

Aritra's father, who had spent most of the morning reading the newspaper, finally joined them at the table. His sharp eyes softened slightly as he looked at Katherine. "You've seen the world," he said, "but have you ever had biryani made by her hands?"

Katherine shook her head, smiling softly. "No, Baba. Not yet."

"Then you're in for a treat." His voice carried quiet pride.

Aritra slid into the seat beside her, his leg brushing lightly against hers under the table — a touch so subtle it could have been accidental, but wasn't. "Happy birthday," he said, voice low, just for her to hear.

"Thank you," she whispered back.

They ate slowly, laughter and conversation weaving between the clink of spoons and the shifting of plates. His father talked about the election results, still bemused by how badly the established parties had performed. "BVM—what kind of party even is that?" he said, shaking his head. "Came from nowhere."

Aritra kept his expression neutral, offering only the occasional shrug, but Katherine felt the faintest tension in the set of his jaw. She didn't know why, but the mere mention of BVM always seemed to unsettle him. She didn't ask — not yet.

December 25, 2009 – Christmas eve on Park Street

The transition from Dakshin Barasat to Kolkata's Park Street felt like stepping through a portal — from old-world charm to dazzling modernity. The street was alive, glowing with fairy lights draped across trees, buildings decked out in red, green, and gold, the air thick with the scent of roasting chestnuts, freshly baked plum cakes, and the ever-present aroma of street food.

Katherine walked beside Aritra, her black t-shirt tucked into slim-fit jeans, a black sports cap shielding her face from the extra attention. She looked nothing like the shy girl who had once stepped into his life — her posture was relaxed, her smile easier, her steps confident. This was who she had become beside him.

Aritra walked with his hands in his pockets, his usual calm confidence radiating even in the festive chaos. Despite the crowd, there was a comfortable silence between them, broken only by the occasional bump of her shoulder against his.

They paused outside Flurys, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth within. Through the glass, couples and families laughed over hot chocolate and towering slices of cake.

"Want to go in?" Aritra asked.

Katherine shook her head. "Too crowded."

Instead, they bought two cups of spiced coffee from a nearby stall, the vendor wishing them a Merry Christmas as he handed over the steaming cups. They leaned against the railing separating the street from the footpath, the crowd flowing around them like a river.

"First Christmas here?" Aritra asked quietly.

Katherine nodded. "In India, yes. It's… warmer than I expected."

"Everything's warmer here," he said, his tone half-serious.

She sipped her coffee, the spices warming her throat. "I used to love Christmas markets back home. But this—this feels real."

He didn't ask why. Some things didn't need explanation.

They wandered further down the street, past St. Xavier's College, where carolers sang softly near the gates. A small band played Jingle Bells with off-tune enthusiasm, drawing smiles from passing children. Near Allen Park, they stopped at a tiny cake stall, where Katherine bought a small fruitcake.

"For later," she said, tucking it into her bag.

Aritra only nodded.

As the sky darkened, the lights grew brighter, casting a golden hue over the crowd. There was no dramatic moment, no grand gesture — just two people standing side by side, sharing silence, warmth, and something that didn't need words.

For the first time in months, there was no plan, no calculation — just a moment.

And in that moment, Aritra allowed himself to breathe.