After that evening, something settled into place between the two families—a silence that felt heavier than open disagreement.
People in the village soon understood that the marriage everyone had assumed was inevitable might not happen after all. The gossip began quietly at first, murmured in doorways and under trees. But it grew louder with each passing day.
Paro felt it every time she stepped into the lane—eyes lingering on her face, voices dropping to whispers as she passed. She walked with her head high, refusing to let them see how it stung.
Her mother watched her closely, worrying over her thinness, the way her smiles no longer reached her eyes.
One evening, as they sat together weaving garlands for the household shrine, her mother finally spoke.
"Child," she began softly, "if this marriage does not happen, you must not think your worth is any less."
Paro's hands stilled. For a moment she said nothing. Then she bent her head lower over the flowers.
"I know," she whispered.
But in her heart, she did not feel so certain.
Meanwhile, Nimai Chakraborty grew tired of waiting. He loved Devdas as if he were his own son, but a father's duty came before sentiment.
One morning, he rose before dawn and took a long walk along the flooded paddy fields. By the time he returned, he had made up his mind.
Later that day, he sent word to a family in a nearby village—a wealthy zamindar who had expressed interest in Paro months before.
When the messenger returned with an eager reply, Paro's mother grew anxious.
"Are you sure?" she asked her husband. "Should we not wait a little longer?"
Nimai's face was set. "How long will we wait? Until everyone believes our daughter has been rejected?"
That afternoon, as the sun burned high over the roofs, Paro carried water from the pond. She heard her father's voice drifting through the open window of the sitting room.
"…a good match…respectable family…they will take her with honor…"
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She set the pot down too hard, and water sloshed over the rim.
When she stepped inside, her parents fell silent.
Her mother tried to smile, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Come, child," she murmured. "We must talk."
Paro sank onto the floor, her sari damp against her ankles. She listened without a word as her father explained.
"This family has asked for you," he said gently. "They will treat you well. Their home is large, their fields are prosperous."
Paro stared at her hands. For a long moment, the room was so still she could hear the ticking of the brass clock on the shelf.
Finally, she looked up. Her voice was very soft.
"And Devdas?"
Her father sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "Devdas has made no promise. His family does not answer clearly. A girl cannot wait forever."
Paro rose and went to her small room at the back of the house. She closed the door behind her and leaned her forehead against the wood.
Outside, the village carried on as if nothing had changed. But inside, she felt something breaking.
That evening, Devdas heard the news from his mother.
She found him in the veranda, staring blankly at a book he had not turned a page of in an hour.
"Parvati's father has received a proposal," she said quietly.
His head jerked up. "What proposal?"
"A zamindar's family near Chandranagore. They are wealthy. Respectable. He is considering it seriously."
Devdas felt as if the ground shifted beneath him. "He can't," he said hoarsely. "He knows—he knows I…"
His mother laid a hand on his shoulder. "He knows nothing, Devdas. You have never spoken."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No defense came.
That night, he could not sleep. He sat by the small clay lamp in his room, the shadows long on the walls.
He thought of Paro's face—her steady gaze, the softness in her voice when she had asked, Are you happy about this?
And he had hesitated.
Now he was beginning to understand what that hesitation had cost.
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, he walked to the pond. The water was smooth as glass, the sky paling to the color of old linen.
He stood there for a long time, alone, listening to the silence he himself had created.
And for
the first time, he felt regret so deep it seemed to hollow him out from the inside.