[UnSpokenPages19]

Chapter 6 - When Colours Returned
The calendar on my desk was a silent witness to time slipping away, but mentally, I was still anchored to a dark date etched into all our memories. Nearly a year had passed since the funeral—three hundred and sixty-five days of hushed conversations, awkward family dinners, and an unspoken, heavy dark cloud that seemed to hover over every single one of us. Grief had turned our cheerful family into a quiet assembly of walking on eggshells.
So when my phone buzzed on a Tuesday afternoon and Abhi’s name flashed across the screen, I wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary. I swiped to answer, pressing the receiver to my ear while glancing through work emails.
"Aashu! Are you sitting down?" Abhi’s voice vibrated through the speaker, carrying an unmistakable, infectious lift that I hadn't heard in ages.
"I am," I replied, leaning back in my chair, intrigued by his tone. "What happened? You sound suspiciously energetic."
"Rani's engagement date is locked!" he declared, his voice booming with unsuppressed excitement. "It’s finally happening, man. The venue is booked, the pandit ji gave the mahurat, and the caterers are finalized!"
I paused, letting the news wash over me. A slow, genuine smile—the first real, unforced smile I had felt in what felt like an eternity—spread across my face. "An actual celebration? An honest-to-god happy occasion?"
"When Abhi told me that Rani's engagement had finally been fixed, it felt like the first genuine celebration our family had looked forward to in a long time."
"Exactly," Abhi said, his tone turning warm and earnest. "We're bringing the whole family together for something good this time. Aai is already going crazy with the preparations."
"That's amazing news, Abhi. Truly."
"Everyone's coming," he said over the phone, his voice suddenly shifting into a firm, non-negotiable command. "No excuses."
I chuckled, leaning forward onto my desk, enjoying the familiar, comforting rhythm of his bossiness. "I wasn't planning to make any."
"Good. Aai has already told everyone you'll be there."
I laughed out loud, shaking my head at how typical that was of Abhi’s mother. She never asked; she simply announced, and the universe complied.
"So I've officially lost the right to refuse?" I asked, grinning.
"You lost that privilege months ago," Abhi shot back instantly with a smirk in his voice, before adding, "Now make sure you iron a good kurta and get here early on Saturday."
Saturday arrived with a bright, relentless sun that chased away the morning chill. The engagement hall was a dizzying whirlwind of color, noise, and scent. The moment I pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the ambient noise washed over me—the sharp clatter of brass utensils, the fragrant sweetness of crushed marigolds and tuberose garlands mixed with warm filter coffee, and the chaotic hum of a dozen overlapping conversations.
Children in miniature silk kurtas and tiny ghagras darted between long rows of neatly arranged chairs, their high-pitched laughter ringing out as they played tag. Cousins who hadn't seen each other in months stood in tight circles, catching up on jobs, relationships, and gossip.
Near the main stage—which was dbangd in stunning white and orange floral curtains—two of our older uncles were already deep in an animated, highly dramatic argument with the hired photographer.
"Suresh, listen to me!" Uncle Ramesh was yelling, waving his arms wildly toward the ceiling lights. "If you put the main camera on that side, the shadow from the arch will completely hide the groom's uncle! Do I have to teach you photography now?"
The young photographer, holding a heavy lens in one hand and clutching his forehead with the other, looked ready to faint. "Uncle ji, the flash bouncing off the white backdrop will balance the shadows, I promise you—"
"Don't promise me! Just move the tripod two feet to the left!"
Standing near the entrance, taking in the hilarious, beautiful chaos of it all, I felt a strange knot untie itself in my chest. For the first time in a very long while... our family had gathered for happiness instead of grief. We weren't speaking in sympathetic hushed tones; we were shouting over each other, laughing, and arguing over flower arrangements.
"There you are!"
I turned to see Abhi striding toward me through the crowd, looking slightly disheveled with a half-tied floral sash in his hands.
"You started without me?" I asked, looking around at the half-decorated hall.
Abhi stopped in front of me, crossing his arms and throwing me a dramatic glare. "You call being ten minutes late 'on time'?"
"It's practically early," I grinned, adjusting my watch. "You know how our family operates. If the card says 4:00 PM, guests show up at 5:30 PM."
Before Abhi could fire off a comeback, his mother walked past us like a force of nature, gracefully navigating through the chairs while carrying a massive stainless-steel tray piled high with extra flower garlands and red satin ribbons.
"Both of you stop talking and help decorate the stage," she commanded without even breaking her stride, her saree rustling loudly as she marched toward the mandap.
Abhi let out a long, theatrical sigh, watching her back as she walked away. "See?" he muttered under his breath, turning to me with exasperated eyes. "We're still children in her eyes. Doesn't matter if we have jobs, pay taxes, or drive cars."
For the next half hour, we were put to work. We arranged heavy velvet chairs into neat arcs, carried heavy gift boxes wrapped in shiny metallic paper, and adjusted elaborate flower decorations around the stage columns. My hands smelled faintly of sap and fresh roses as I tied the final satin knot around a massive bouquet of lilies near the side stairs.
Just as I finished tying the last ribbon around a bouquet, someone called from the entrance in a voice that was both surprised and delightfully warm.
"Pooja... come quickly!"
Almost everyone turned.
So did I.
For a brief moment... I forgot what I had been doing. The ribbon slipped slightly from my fingers as my eyes fixed on the entranceway.
It had been almost a year since her husband's passing. The loss had struck like an unexpected thunderstorm, ripping away the foundation of her world. The first few months had changed her in ways that were difficult to describe to anyone who hadn't seen it up close. The cheerful, spirited woman who had once laughed through every family gathering—whose presence alone used to light up a room—had completely retreated into herself. She had become quiet, distant, almost invisible. Sleepless nights had left traces of exhaustion and pale shadows on her face, and the sudden, brutal weight of responsibility had slowly replaced the carefree confidence she once carried so naturally.
For nearly twelve months, she had hidden herself behind plain, dull colours—muted greys, washed-out creams—simple clothes, and a heavy, impenetrable silence. She had walked through family check-ins like a ghost afraid of taking up space.
Time, however, had quietly been doing its work, returning little pieces of her, brick by brick, smile by smile.
The woman who entered the hall that afternoon wasn't the carefree, blissfully innocent Pooja everyone remembered from years ago.
She was calmer.
Stronger.
More graceful than ever.
She wore an elegant emerald-green saree with a delicate golden border. It wasn't ridiculously expensive or heavily embroidered with gaudy beads, yet it suited her effortlessly. Every pleat had been arranged with care, the rich, vibrant green fabric flowing naturally around her legs as she walked. Her matching blouse and neatly braided dark hair gave her a poised, understated elegance, while a pair of small gold earrings caught the warm light whenever she turned to greet another relative.
More than the outfit itself... it was the confidence with which she carried herself that drew people's attention.
For months she had moved through life trying not to be noticed—hunched shoulders, eyes cast downward, dreading the heavy, pitying looks of well-meaning relatives.
Today, she wasn't seeking attention—she wasn't strutting in to make a grand scene—but neither was she hiding from it anymore. She walked with her head held up, her posture straight, breathing in the air of the room without fear.
Conversations paused for a moment as relatives smiled in genuine appreciation. The heavy air of sympathy that usually surrounded her had evaporated, replaced by genuine warmth.
An elderly aunt sitting near the front row leaned over to her sister and whispered softly, "She looks so lovely today."
Another aunt nodded, her eyes glistening with happy tears. "It's good to see her smiling again. Truly good."
Even some of the younger cousins who usually paid no attention to traditional attire exchanged approving smiles before returning to their frantic selfie-taking.
Her mother stepped forward, looking at her with an overwhelming expression of maternal pride and relief. She reached out, gently adjusting the dbang of the saree over Pooja's shoulder.
"There..." her mother said, her voice rich with satisfaction. "I told you this colour would suit you."
Pooja smiled with quiet embarrassment, a soft, natural blush creeping into her cheeks. "You've been saying that since morning, Aai."
"And I was right," her mother insisted, beaming.
Abhi and I walked over from the stage area. Abhi looked at her for a long moment, nodding approvingly as he nudged her arm. "You almost look like your old self again."
She rolled her eyes playfully, throwing him a mock glare. "Don't start, Abhi."
The laughter that followed felt easy. Natural. Unforced.
I stood there slightly to the side, taking in the moment—the sound of her light chuckle, the emerald fabric glowing under the hall lights, the relaxed posture of the people around her.
I realized then that people were no longer looking at her with sympathy. They weren't whispering about her tragedy, nor were they watching her steps with fragile concern. They were simply happy to see her happy.
That, more than anything else—more than the vibrant green saree or the bright lights of Rani's engagement—told me she had begun healing.
___________________________
The morning had deepened into the crisp, sunlit warmth of early afternoon. I was tucked away near the far left side of the raised wooden stage, leaning over a tall, ornate brass vase dbangd with cascading sprigs of tuberoses and cream-colored carnations. The scent of floral sap and crushed marigold stems was heavy on my fingertips. I was painstakingly re-securing a stray satin ribbon when a subtle rustle of silk drew near, accompanied by the gentle, rhythmic clinking of thin gold bangles.
Someone stopped right beside me.
I turned around, wiping a speck of green leaves off my palm onto my trousers.
It was Pooja.
Standing there in her rich emerald-green saree, framed by the bright sunlight streaming through the tall banquet windows, she looked astonishingly grounded. The soft jasmine in her hair caught the afternoon breeze, releasing a delicate, clean scent. She looked at me for a quiet second, her deep dark eyes scanning my face with a faint, amused curiosity before a slow, genuine smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"I almost didn't recognize you," she said smoothly, her voice carrying a light, melodic lilt I hadn't heard in ages.
I blinked, pulling back slightly and lowering the pair of floral scissors I was holding. A genuine frown of confusion creased my forehead. "I almost didn't recognize you?" I echoed, tilting my head. "What changed?"
She didn't hesitate for a beat. "The gym."
I froze, completely thrown off guard. My jaw went slightly slack as I stood there in my traditional wear. "What?"
Her smile broadened into a gentle, knowing smirk, her eyes twinkling with understated amusement. "It's working."
A sudden, helpless laugh escaped my chest as I shook my head, feeling a warm splash of color rise up my neck. "So now you've joined Abhi in teasing me?" I asked, putting my hands on my hips and throwing her an exaggerated look of betrayal. "I thought you were on my side in this family."
"I'm not teasing you," she replied softly, her tone entirely earnest despite the playful gleam in her eyes.
She took a half-step back, her eyes briefly glinting as she casually glanced at my outfit—a neatly pressed, tailored cream-coloured silk kurta with subtle threadwork along the collar, paired with straight-cut churidar pants.
"It suits you," she added quiet approval in her voice. "The fit, the broad shoulders... the whole look."
I cleared my throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how straight I was standing. I smoothed down the front of the cream fabric with my palm, attempting to regain my usual composure with a bit of dry humor. "I suppose I should thank the tailor."
Pooja tilted her head, shaking it slowly with an amused, knowing smile that made her gold jhumkas dance against her neck. "I don't think it's only the tailor."
For a second, the bustling noise of the engagement hall—the clatter of plates, the shouting uncles, the kids running around—seemed to fade into background hum. I stood there, utterly tongue-tied, my mind scrambling to assemble a clever response. "I... well... I'll still pass the compliment on to him anyway," I managed to utter, coughing slightly.
She laughed softly—a clear, ringing sound that was completely free of the dark, suffocating weight she had carried for the last twelve months. "You're impossible, Aashu."
Before either of us could continue the banter, a sharp, hurried voice echoed from the bustling catering section across the wide hall.
"Pooja! Pooja, where are you? We need the gift trays near the entrance!"
Pooja paused, looking over her shoulder toward her aunt, who was waving frantically from across the room. She turned her head back to reply, raising her voice slightly over the ambient noise. "I'm coming!"
She shifted her gaze back to me, her expression softening into that quiet, confident warmth that had defined her presence all afternoon. She gestured toward the stage with a pointed finger.
"Don't disappear," she instructed warmly, a playful authority in her tone. "We still need help with the family photographs in a bit."
I raised my eyebrows, chuckling softly. "I've officially been recruited?"
"You have," she replied effortlessly, giving me a tiny, approving nod. "No escaping now."
She turned smoothly, the deep emerald silk of her saree swishing elegantly as she walked away toward the chaos of the main entrance. I stood motionless by the floral pillar for a long moment, watching her navigate through the crowd with a light, graceful step.
I smiled to myself, shaking my head as I tucked the floral scissors back into my pocket. Compliments between family members weren't unusual, I reasoned internally. After all, we had all known each other for years; we were practically extended family through Abhi. At least... that’s what I told myself to explain the sudden, lingering warmth in my chest.
As the engagement ceremony progressed into the late afternoon, the hall became an absolute blur of rituals, loud laughter, and endless errands. Yet, amid the chaotic sea of nearly two hundred relatives, Pooja and I seemed to cross paths again and again.
It was never planned, yet it felt strangely inevitable.
While I was helping arrange the dining tables, she walked up with a heavy silver platter filled with brass pooja bowls and sandalwood paste.
"Can you hold this tray for a minute?" she asked, looking up at me with an apologetic, breathless smile as she adjusted her falling saree pleat. "My hands are completely full."
"Of course," I took the heavy tray without hesitation, balancing it easily while she fixed her dbang.
Twenty minutes later, near the side courtyard where elderly guests were looking for seats:
"Will you help move these chairs?" she requested, pointing to three heavy wooden seats stacked near the wall. "Uncle wants them placed near the shade."
"On it," I replied, lifting two of them at once.
Later still, as the photographer finally gathered the enormous, sprawling extended family onto the main stage:
"Stand here..." her voice soft right beside my elbow, her hand lightly guiding me toward a spot on the second tier of the platform. "Everyone's taking a family picture, and you're standing all the way in the back."
"Are you sure I should be in the core frame?" I whispered back.
"Yes," she said firmly, taking her spot just a step in front of me. "Now look at the camera."
Each request was completely ordinary. Every task was just routine family assistance for a major function. Yet somehow... whenever she needed an extra pair of hands, whenever she felt overwhelmed by a heavy box or needed someone to organize a group, she looked for me first. In a hall packed with cousins, brothers, and old family friends, her eyes somehow filtered through the crowd and landed straight on me.
I never questioned it. Helping Abhi's family had become second nature over the past several months, especially during the darker times when everyone was trying to carry the burden of grief together.
But perhaps something quieter, something entirely unspoken, had changed.
It wasn't in the way we behaved outwardly—we were still courteous, helpful, and grounded. It was in the effortless ease with which we found each other in a crowded room. A mere glance across a noisy hall was enough to signal a brief, shared smile or an understanding nod.
By the end of the evening, after the last guests had departed and the flower arrangements had begun to wilt, I drove home through the quiet city streets, reflecting on the day. I genuinely thought it had simply been a pleasant, heartwarming family function—a day where the family finally laughed again.
I had no idea that, for Pooja, something far more subtle had begun to unfold.
For the first time since losing her husband—for the first time in a whole year of painful solitude—she hadn't seen me merely as Abhi's reliable, constant oldest friend. She had begun, layer by layer, seeing me as my own person.
She didn't fully understand that shift in feeling yet. She was still navigating the fragile, terrifying waters of coming back to life after severe loss. Neither did I; I was simply content being a steady presence in her world.
All she knew that evening was a simple, subconscious truth: whenever she felt overwhelmed or looked around the vast, noisy hall... her eyes seemed to find me before anyone else.
The weeks following Rani's engagement slipped by quietly, like a smooth river settling back into its course.
Life returned to its familiar, rhythmic routine. The frantic energy of engagement planning faded, replaced by workdays, quiet evenings, and my sacred Sunday afternoon visits to Abhi's house.
The vibrant laughter from that afternoon in the hall hadn't magically erased the family's deep, underlying grief. The memory of the loss was still there—it would always be there, a quiet mark on the family history. But that single function had served as a gentle, profound reminder to everyone: happiness could still find its way back into our lives. We didn't have to live in perpetual shadow.
Pooja, in particular, seemed visibly lighter now. The rigid tension in her shoulders had melted away. She smiled more often—not just polite, reserved half-smiles, but real, full smiles that reached her eyes. She spoke more freely at the dinner table, joining in on Abhi's ridiculous debates, and she no longer hesitated to include me in everyday conversations. Whether it was asking for my opinion on a book, offering me tea the moment I walked through Abhi's front door, or simply sharing a sarcastic commentary about a TV show we were watching, her guard was down.
Before any of us fully realized how quickly the months were rolling by, another golden-lettered invitation arrived at the doorstep.
This time, the family was gearing up for another milestone—her cousin brother Vikas's wedding. A full, elaborate wedding with days of ceremonies, music, and gatherings.
As Abhi tossed the thick, scented wedding card onto the living room table in front of me during one of my Sunday visits, I looked down at the ornate golden fonts printing Vikas's name. A soft breeze came through the window, carrying the faint, familiar warmth of upcoming festivities. I looked up to see Pooja walking into the room, holding a tray of tea cups, her eyes meeting mine with a familiar, easy smile.
The door to the past was quietly closing, and a whole new, unwritten narrative was waiting for us just around the corner.