In the days that followed his return, Devdas tried to convince himself that nothing had changed.
He rose early, bathed in the cold water drawn from the well, and sat in the courtyard with his books, pretending to study. But more often than not, his thoughts drifted to Paro.
She came and went with a quiet purpose. When she greeted his mother, she was polite and warm, but there was a new reserve in her eyes. She no longer followed him around the courtyard. She didn't tease him about his studies or slip sweets into his hand as she used to.
Sometimes, Devdas caught himself watching her when she wasn't looking—searching her face for some sign that the old closeness still remained. But Paro had learned to hide her feelings in that year he'd been away.
One afternoon, the rain stopped at last, leaving behind a sky scrubbed clean and blue. The village children came out in a rush to play on the drying earth. Paro was helping her mother spread lentils on a mat to dry.
Devdas lingered nearby, feeling restless. He wanted to say something—anything—to bring back the easy laughter they'd shared. But the words tangled in his throat.
Finally, he walked over, stopping just at the edge of the mat. Paro kept working, her fingers sifting the damp grains.
"You never told me," he began, trying to sound casual, "how things were here while I was gone."
She didn't look up. "Things were as they always are."
"Did you miss me?" he asked before he could think better of it.
Paro's hand paused. For a moment, she was completely still. Then she lifted her head, and he saw her eyes—clear, steady, impossible to look away from.
"You were busy," she said quietly. "Studying in the city. Why would you expect me to be thinking about you all the time?"
Devdas felt heat rising in his face. He tried to smile, but it didn't feel right. "That's not what I meant."
Paro didn't answer. She picked up the edge of the mat and shook it out, her bangles chiming softly.
He turned away, feeling a tightness in his chest he didn't understand.
That evening, the two families gathered again for dinner. The smell of ghee and roasted spices filled the courtyard. The elders spoke about the harvest and the rising cost of rice. But Devdas barely heard any of it. He kept glancing at Paro, trying to read her expression.
After the meal, she rose to help her mother clean up. As she passed behind him, she paused for the briefest instant.
"I did miss you," she murmured so softly he almost thought he'd imagined it. Then she walked away, her steps quick and light.
The next morning, he woke before dawn, unable to sleep. He stepped outside into the cool hush before sunrise. The sky was a pale wash of grey, and the air smelled of wet grass.
He crossed the yard to the old neem tree, where they had played as children. The ground beneath it was worn smooth by years of footsteps. For a moment, he stood there, remembering the afternoons when Paro would wait for him, her face bright with laughter.
Now he felt as if he had come back to find something had slipped through his fingers. And he didn't know how to get it back.
Later that day, Paro came to see his mother. She brought a brass bowl filled with fresh milk, her hair still damp from her morning bath. She spoke softly, her eyes lowered.
Devdas watched her from the doorway, his heart beating faster than he wanted to admit.
When she turned to leave, he stepped forward. "Paro."
She stopped, her hand on the gate.
"Will you come to the pond tomorrow?" he asked, his voice uncertain.
Paro didn't look at him, but he saw her shoulders rise and fall with a breath. "If my mother allows."
Then she was gone, the gate swinging shut behind her.
That night, Devdas lay awake, staring at the beams of the ceiling. He didn't know what he would say
to her when they met.
He only knew that he had to try.