The long, golden summer had just begun, and twelve-year-old Rohan was beside himself with excitement. He had never been to Calcutta before, and this summer, his parents had decided to visit his grandparents’ home—a grand old house with wide, airy verandahs, tall wooden doors, and an old grandfather clock that chimed every hour in a deep, solemn voice. It stood right in the heart of the city, on a street bustling with hand-pulled rickshaws, trams, and hawkers selling steaming jhalmuri and fragrant sweets wrapped in banana leaves.
Rohan had heard countless stories about Calcutta from his parents—the river Hooghly that sparkled in the sun, the towering Victoria Memorial standing proud and white like a great marble palace, and the endless bookshops that lined College Street. He could hardly wait to explore it all.
His grandparents, Dadu and Dida, welcomed him with open arms. Dida immediately pressed a warm sandesh into his palm. “Eat, eat, my dear! You have grown so thin!” she fussed, ruffling his hair. Rohan grinned; he liked her fussing.
The house was a wonderland for a boy like Rohan. There were hidden attics filled with dusty books and trunks brimming with old treasures. He found a set of marbles that his father had once played with, a cricket bat signed by an unknown player, and a scrapbook of yellowing newspaper clippings that spoke of a Calcutta long past. But most of all, he loved the sprawling garden in the backyard, where a great banyan tree stood like a wise old guardian, its roots tangling and twisting like the stories of the past.
Every morning, he would follow Dadu to the Ganges, where they watched the boats bob lazily on the river’s surface. The air was filled with the calls of boatmen and the scent of the river, thick and heady with history. Dadu told him tales of the river—how it had watched over the city for centuries, how it carried the prayers of countless devotees, and how it was the lifeline of Calcutta. Rohan listened, enthralled, his heart swelling with a love for a city he was only just beginning to know.
Days passed in a blur of joyous discoveries. He rode in a tram for the first time, feeling the old wooden benches creak beneath him as the city moved past like a living painting. He tasted rosogolla, the sweet syrupy delight that melted in his mouth. He fed pigeons in Dalhousie Square, their wings fluttering in a grey-blue cloud as they took flight. And every evening, he sat on the terrace with Dadu, listening to stories as the city lights twinkled like fallen stars.
One afternoon, as Rohan wandered through the house, he stumbled upon a dusty, forgotten room. Inside, he found a rusting tin box filled with letters. He opened one and saw delicate, looping handwriting. It was a letter from his father to his grandfather, written when he was Rohan’s age.
“Dadu, one day, I will grow up and build a big house by the river where you can see the boats every day. I will take you to the Eden Gardens to watch a cricket match, and I will buy you the biggest rosogolla in the world. I promise.”
Rohan’s fingers trembled as he read the words. His father had never built that house. Life had taken him far away to a different city, and Dadu had grown old waiting. A lump formed in Rohan’s throat. He ran to his grandfather and hugged him tight.
“I will take you to the Eden Gardens, Dadu,” he whispered. “And I will buy you the biggest rosogolla in the world.”
Dadu smiled, his eyes shining with a deep, quiet love.
That evening, Rohan sat by the Hooghly with his grandfather, watching the boats glide past in the golden light. He understood something now—something he hadn’t before. Love was not in grand promises or far-off dreams. It was in small moments, in shared laughter, in sitting quietly beside someone and watching the river flow.
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Rohan made a promise—not of houses or grand gestures, but of always returning to this city, to his Dadu, to love, and to the stories whispered by the Ganges.
And so, that summer, amidst the laughter and the scent of old books and sweets, Rohan learned the greatest lesson of all – love is found in moments, not in promises unfulfilled.
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