When Devdas turned eight, his father decided it was time for him to begin more formal education. A tutor was hired to teach him Sanskrit, arithmetic, and the scriptures. The tutor came every morning, carrying a cloth bag full of palm-leaf manuscripts and ink.
At first, Devdas struggled to sit still. His mind was always drifting to the courtyard, where he could hear Paro's voice calling to the other children. Sometimes, she would run up to the veranda, her anklets jingling, to peek inside and see if his lessons were over.
The tutor would scold her gently. "Little girl, let him study. You can play later." But Paro never took the scolding seriously. She would stand just beyond the doorway, watching Devdas with bright, curious eyes.
If Devdas noticed her, he would pretend not to care. But inside, he felt restless, as if she was tugging at something he couldn't name.
In the afternoons, after the lessons ended, he would hurry outside, relieved to be free. Paro would be waiting for him under the neem tree, holding a small clay pot of sweets she had coaxed from her mother. She would press one into his hand before he could protest, smiling in triumph.
"Eat it," she would say. "I saved it for you."
He would grumble—"You always act like you're older than me"—but he never refused.
Seasons passed like this, the rhythm of lessons and play blending into something that felt unchanging. They grew taller. Their faces began to lose the round softness of childhood. But their bond stayed the same.
When Devdas turned twelve, Narayan Mukherjee decided it was time to send him to Calcutta for further studies. The news unsettled the entire household. His mother spent days worrying over the preparations—collecting clothes, arranging for a distant relative to take him in, making sure he would be safe in the big city.
But no one seemed as shaken as Paro. When she first heard the news, she didn't say anything. She only stared at the floor, her hands twisting the edge of her sari. Later that evening, when the courtyard was empty, she walked over to the Mukherjee house and stood silently by the veranda.
Devdas was sitting on the steps, trying to pretend he wasn't troubled. When he saw her, he looked away. He didn't know what to say.
Paro sat down beside him without asking. For a while, neither of them spoke. The sky was streaked with the colors of sunset, and the air smelled of cooking fires and earth cooling after a hot day.
At last, she asked, very softly, "Will you forget me when you go?"
The question startled him. He turned to look at her. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were too bright.
"No," he said quickly. "Why would I forget you?"
She didn't answer. She just drew a line in the dust with her finger, tracing it over and over.
That night, Devdas lay awake on his mat, listening to the sounds of the house—the kitchen door closing, his father's quiet cough, the low murmur of his mother's prayers. But beneath all of it, he kept thinking of the look on Paro's face.
The next morning, she didn't come to the veranda. She didn't watch for him during lessons. For the first time he could remember, he felt her absence like a weight in his chest.
Before he left for Calcutta, Paro finally came to say goodbye. She brought a small cloth bundle tied with string. Inside was a handful of betel nuts, a copper coin, and a little clay figure she had made herself.
"Keep it," she said, her voice hushed. "So you won't forget."
He wanted to tell her that he didn't need anything to remember her, that he couldn't forget even if he tried. But the words wouldn't come. He only nodded and tucked the bundle into his satchel.
And so, on a clear morning just after the harvest, Devdas left Tal Sonapur. He climbed into the bullock cart beside his father, and as the village road curved away, he looked back one last time.
Paro stood in front of her house, watching him go. The wind lifted the end of her scarf, and for a moment, it seemed to him that she was reaching out.
Then the car
t turned a corner, and she was gone from view.