The city had quieted down —
Siliguri under a soft haze of dim streetlights, closed shutters, distant dog barks, and the hum of insects hiding in the dark.
They walked in silence at first.
Not awkward.
Just quiet.
Like the world had stepped back for a moment… to let them breathe.
The clock on Shankar's phone read: 9:17 p.m.
The road was mostly empty now.
Streetlights buzzed faintly above them, flickering over shuttered shops and quiet homes.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A lone leaf dragged itself across the sidewalk.
Siliguri was asleep.
They walked under the soft amber glow in silence.
Savitri glanced sideways. Her voice was low.
"Shankar… what happened to you?"
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You just… feel too quiet today. No sarcastic jokes. No eye rolls. You're not saying much."
Shankar's steps slowed slightly.
He didn't want to say it.
But maybe saying it would make him feel better.
And maybe she was the right person to hear it.
"I had a fight with my mother last night," he said. "A big one."
He took a breath.
"I don't even know whose fault it was. I yelled. She got quiet. And since then, I don't know… something just doesn't feel right."
Savitri looked at him, genuinely concerned.
"I'm really sorry, Shankar."
He nodded faintly. "Yeah. Me too."
A pause followed, soft and almost warm.
Then she offered a gentle reassurance — the kind that had always worked for her.
"I don't know what happened between you two," she said, "but… I believe God will make it right. Just give it time. And please… take care of—"
Shankar let out a dry, humorless laugh.
It wasn't loud.
But it landed like a slap.
"Gods?"
She turned to him, confused.
"Seriously, Savitri… Gods?"
His voice didn't rise.
But his pain did.
"I don't get it. Why do people believe in something that's never answered?"
She looked at him, unsure whether to speak.
He didn't wait.
"If there was a god… he wouldn't have let me and my mom tear each other apart last night."
"If there was a god… people wouldn't starve while others burn money in wedding fireworks."
"If there was a god… people wouldn't kill for power, for land, for names."
He stopped walking.
Savitri did too.
Shankar looked down the empty road, hands in his pockets.
"And if there was a god… I would've lived a normal life."
His voice dropped — quiet. Almost broken.
"My father wouldn't have died in a car crash when I was four."
Savitri's eyes widened.
She hadn't known that.
She stepped forward instinctively.
"I'm… I'm so sorry."
Shankar shook his head. "I didn't mean to raise my voice. Things just aren't going well. And…"
He trailed off.
There wasn't a word for whatever he was feeling.
They stood under the flickering streetlight.
No arguments.
No answers.
Just two people
caught between belief and grief.
And the night listened like it had heard this before.
A few minutes passed.
Their steps softened.
The road ahead was quieter now — the kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled.
Then, gently, Shankar spoke.
"Savitri… I haven't seen someone so into all these things before."
She turned to him, a bit puzzled.
"What things?"
He glanced at her.
"Mythology. History. Gods. But at the same time… you love science. Books. Facts. You're curious — not blind."
He paused.
"I want to know… why you believe."
Savitri slowed her steps.
For a moment, her face was unreadable.
Then she gave a small smile — the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
There was something older behind it. Something heavy.
"Shankar," she said softly,
"I wasn't always like this."
He looked at her.
"I wasn't born quiet. Or calm. Or scared to speak."
Her voice trembled — just once.
"My family used to run a big business. We were known. Respected. The house was always full. People came to us for help. For advice. For favors."
She took a breath.
"Until the day it all collapsed."
Shankar listened — silent.
"Our business failed. Almost overnight. And when it did… so did every relationship we thought was real."
She looked away, her voice calm but sharp.
"The people who smiled at us every day disappeared first.
The ones who praised us stopped answering calls.
And the ones who claimed they were family?"
She exhaled. "They turned colder than strangers."
Shankar stayed quiet.
"I wasn't allowed to play with my cousins anymore," she said. "They'd say things. Whisper like I couldn't hear. That we were finished. That we were a burden."
"But… we didn't stop believing," she said.
Her eyes met his.
"We didn't curse God. We didn't give up. We built everything again. Brick by brick. Rupee by rupee. Quietly. Without asking anyone for help."
She smiled.
But it wasn't a smile of pride.
It was the kind worn by people who learned how to carry things alone.
"And now… there's barely anyone left to trust."
Her voice softened further.
"No friends. No family. Just… a few loyal ones."
She looked up at the night sky, where the stars blinked behind clouds.
"And God."
Shankar didn't speak.
Because he finally understood something:
She didn't believe because she wanted comfort.
She believed
because when the world turned its back—
faith stayed.
Savitri walked a few steps ahead, then slowed.
Her voice came quiet, like a breeze moving gently through silence.
"I never forced anyone to believe in gods."
She didn't turn to him. Just let the words hang in the air like something she'd carried a long time.
"For some people, gods are divine beings.
For others, they're hope.
For some… they're their parents, the ones they lost.
And for a few… they're just luck they whisper to when nothing else listens."
She glanced at Shankar now, her expression open. Calm. Unapologetic.
"I think different religions, different cultures… they all paint gods in different colors.
But the message?"
She smiled softly.
"It's always the same.
To believe in something bigger than your pain."
Shankar didn't reply at first.
But something inside him shifted.
And slowly—without forcing it—
he smiled.
The first real smile since everything had unraveled.
Not because he believed in what she said.
But because he believed something about her.
The way she spoke, like she'd walked through storms and still kept a candle burning.
The way she looked at him — steady, without judgement, like she could see the mess inside him and wasn't afraid of it.
The way she balanced calmness with wonder, faith with intellect.
Like she lived in two worlds and made peace with both.
She was like him — questioning, curious, observant.
And yet… completely different.
Where he raged, she reflected.
Where he doubted, she dreamed.
She was like him.
Yet utterly opposite.
A contradiction.
A paradox.
And somehow…
it made sense.
She didn't ask why he smiled.
She just noticed.
And for that moment —
nothing else needed to be said.