Devdas

Childhood with Paro was a monsoon of longing—soft hands, stolen glances, a world swept away by my father's scorn. I traded her for Calcutta's whiskey, turned devotion into a slow suicide. Chandramukhi saw my ruin and loved me still, but I could only taste Paro's letters in the dirt. My name is a dirge now. A drunk's stumble, a courtesan's ache, the weight of a thousand 'what ifs.' The road to her door was always mine to walk—and mine to collapse on.