Rising from the Ashes

The burial took place the very next day, swift and sorrowful, as per Hindu tradition. The body—unclaimed by identity yet claimed by grief—was laid to rest under the weight of a thousand unspoken questions. The Sen family had no choice but to accept what was given to them. The priests chanted their final prayers, the flames of incense swirled in the air, and Chitrakshi Sen—at least in name—was returned to the earth.

The mansion of Bipin Sen remained draped in mourning. It was not just the home of a wealthy, renowned family; it was now a house of sorrow, filled with voices that alternated between quiet sobs and sudden wails of agony. Grief came in waves—sometimes silent, sometimes deafening.

Through it all, Akash Pal stood among them, the picture of a broken man. They embraced him, pitied him, whispered about how unfair life had been to him. They believed he had lost the love of his life, and so they comforted him, unaware that the only weight he carried was the burden of his deception.

For a full week, both families—Akash’s and Chitrakshi’s—stayed under one roof. They leaned on each other, exchanged words of encouragement, and tried, in vain, to lift the unbearable weight off one another’s hearts. Kiaan Roy visited them every single day. At first, he came with the intention of offering strength, trying to make them smile, to remind them of life beyond grief. But as the days passed, as he witnessed their suffering, something inside him broke too.

He no longer tried to bring joy; instead, he wept with them. His presence was no longer that of a visitor, but of a man who had also lost something irretrievable.

The rituals continued—day after day, night after night—performed with utmost devotion, as if each prayer, each offering of sacred fire, could ease the ache in their hearts. But nothing could erase the truth of their loss.

Time moved forward, but they remained stuck in the same moment, unwilling to let go, unable to move on.

The Mega Book Fair—A Postponed Legacy

The Sen family had been pillars of the literary world for decades. Their name was not just a brand; it was a legacy, a symbol of Kolkata’s rich literary culture. Every year, their publishing house hosted the grand Mega Book Fair, an event awaited by authors, readers, and scholars alike.

This year, the dates had been set, the arrangements made. But after Chitrakshi’s death, everything came to a standstill.

Kiaan Roy was the first to bring it up. He approached Bipin Sen gently, hesitantly, understanding the weight of his request.

“Sir, I know this is not the time… but the book fair—”

Bipin Sen looked at him, his weary eyes hollow.

“Not now, Kiaan. Not yet.”

Kiaan nodded, accepting the inevitable postponement. But he did not give up.

Every week, he returned with the same request. “We should not let this moment define us.” “She would have wanted us to go on.” “Let the world know the Sen family still stands.”

And every week, the answer was the same. “Not yet.”

The world waited. The book fair was postponed once. Then again. Then again. Whispers began to spread—would it ever happen this year? Had the loss of Chitrakshi shaken the foundation of their empire? Was the Sen family slipping into an abyss they could not climb out of?

Then, one day, Bipin Sen gathered his family. His voice, hoarse from weeks of silence, finally spoke with conviction.

“It is time.”

The preparations resumed, subdued at first but gathering momentum. The Sen family did not just want to hold the book fair; they wanted to send a message. To the industry. To their rivals. To the world.

They would stand back up.

The Chitrakshi Book Fair—A Tribute Etched in Ink

The machines at Sen Publishers roared back to life, pressing ink onto crisp white pages, binding spines that would soon hold stories in their embrace. The scent of fresh paper and hot ink filled the air—a scent that had once been routine in their printing house, now carrying the weight of both grief and determination.

Every book rolling off the presses had been carefully chosen, scrutinized, and approved by the Chamber. The Sen family’s publishing empire had long been known for its literary excellence, but this time, every page held something deeper—a tribute to a lost daughter, a silent promise that she would never be forgotten.

A New Name, A New Beginning

One evening, as the preparations for the book fair were in full swing, Bipin Sen sat in his study, staring at the invitation cards. The words Mega Book Fair were printed in bold at the top—an event that had carried their name with pride for years. But this time, it didn’t feel right.

His fingers traced the letters absentmindedly before he reached for a pen. With slow, deliberate strokes, he crossed out the title and wrote something new.

Chitrakshi Book Fair.

His wife, seated across from him, looked up with teary eyes. Kiaan Roy, who had come to check on the final arrangements, saw the change and nodded.

“This is perfect, Sir,” he said softly.

Bipin exhaled, his chest tightening. Yes. It had to be this way.

His daughter had loved literature, had grown up surrounded by books, had dreamed of taking the family publishing house to even greater heights. If she could no longer be part of their future, then her name would be.

And so, the Mega Book Fair ceased to exist. From that moment on, Kolkata would know it as the Chitrakshi Book Fair, an event not just of literary grandeur, but of remembrance.

A Book Never Meant to Be Read—But Now It Must Be

Among the many books set to be unveiled at the fair, there was one that had not been meant for public eyes.

A book written by Akash Pal.

He had poured his heart into those pages, crafting words he had once intended as a wedding gift for Chitrakshi Sen. A love story. A testament to their bond. A future that had crumbled before it could begin.

The wedding never happened. The bride was gone. The book remained.

One evening, as Bipin Sen and Kiaan Roy reviewed the final list of books for display, Kiaan stumbled upon the manuscript. He picked it up carefully, his fingers pressing against the paper as if it held a piece of the past.

“We should print this,” Kiaan said, looking up at Bipin Sen.

Bipin hesitated. It was a personal work—something Akash Pal had never intended for public reading.

“Are you sure?” Bipin asked.

“He wrote it for her. Let the world see it,” Kiaan replied. “Let it be part of her memory.”

That night, they called Akash Pal.

He sat before them, silent, his face unreadable as they placed the manuscript on the table.

“We want this book printed,” Bipin Sen said. “For her.”

Akash looked down at the words he had once written with hope, now nothing more than remnants of a love that had never reached its destiny. His throat felt dry, his hands cold.

Would he be able to bear it? Seeing those words in print, displayed for the world to read?

But then he saw the name of the book fair— Chitrakshi Book Fair.

A tribute. A remembrance.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. Then, he nodded.

“Print it.”

And so, the book he had written for his bride-to-be—his lost love, his greatest deception—would now stand among the grand titles at the Chitrakshi Book Fair. A book meant for one heart, now open to many.

And only Akash Pal knew the bitter truth buried beneath every word.