The next day, the poetry session was held in the community hall, its walls adorned with alpana designs and strings of marigolds. Children ran about in kurta-pajamas and lehengas, their laughter a counterpoint to the solemnity of the rituals.Shaibal read first. His voice, deep and deliberate, carried the weight of years spent translating Tagore into German. He recited a new poem, “Sharad Smriti,” a meditation on autumn, memory, and the quiet ache of return.Amina followed with a piece titled “Danforth Diaries,” a lyrical recollection of their student days—of late-night chai at Donlands, of stolen kisses in the stacks of Robarts Library, of the first snowfall that caught them unprepared but laughing.The audience was spellbound. Elderly uncles nodded in approval; teenagers whispered to each other, perhaps seeing their own futures in the couple before them.After the reading, a young woman approached them. “I’m studying literature at U of T,” she said shyly. “Your poems… they made me feel seen.”Amina touched her arm gently. “Then we’ve done our job.”

On Saturday, they visited the old café where they had first met—The Blue Door, now rebranded as a minimalist espresso bar. The walls were bare, the music electronic, but the corner table by the window remained.They sat there, sipping flat whites, watching the city move past.“Do you remember,” Shaibal said, “how you spilled coffee on my manuscript?”Amina laughed. “And you said, ‘Now it’s a collaboration.’”They walked through the campus afterward, past Convocation Hall and Philosopher’s Walk. The trees were ablaze with color, and students lounged on the grass, oblivious to the ghosts of past lovers who once walked these paths.

On the final day of the puja, the hall was a riot of red and gold. Women in white saris with red borders gathered for sindoor khela, smearing vermilion on each other’s faces in a celebration of feminine power and solidarity.Amina stood before the idol, her eyes moist. She dipped her fingers into the sindoor and turned to Shaibal. “For us,” she whispered, pressing a red mark onto his forehead.He smiled, then did the same. “For all our autumns to come.”As the drums reached a crescendo and the crowd erupted into chants of “Bolo Durga Mai ki jai!”, they stood hand in hand, surrounded by a community that had once raised them, now welcoming them home.That evening, after the sindoor khela, Shaibal and Amina returned to their apartment, their faces still streaked with red, their hearts full. Mrs. Dutta had left a note on their door: “Come upstairs for tea. I made narkel naru.”They climbed the narrow staircase to her flat, where the walls were lined with sepia-toned photographs—Durga Puja from the 1980s, a young bride in a Banarasi sari, a child holding a toy dhaak.Over tea, Mrs. Dutta shared stories of the early days. “We used to gather in basements,” she said. “One idol, borrowed saris, and so much love. Now look—our children speak in three languages and our puja has a website.”

Shaibal sorrise. “La diaspora cresce, ma le radici si approfondiscono.” Amina notò una pila di lettere sul tavolo, legate con un nastro rosso. “Vecchie lettere d’amore?” scherzò. Mrs. Dutta rise. “No, vecchi inviti. Ogni anno li scrivo a mano. È il mio modo di mantenere viva l’anima.” Gliene porse uno. “Questo era il vostro. Ne ho conservata una copia.” Amina aprì la lettera. L’inchiostro era leggermente sbavato, ma le parole erano chiare: Tornate a casa. Tornate dove è nato il vostro amore, e lasciate che le vostre parole benedicano il nostro puja.

La domenica mattina iniziò la processione per l’immersione. L’idolo fu posto su un camion decorato con fiori, e la comunità lo seguì a piedi, cantando, danzando e salutando Ma Durga. Shaibal e Amina camminavano con loro, i passi lenti, deliberati. I bambini lanciavano petali nell’aria; gli anziani recitavano mantra. Il camion si diresse verso il lungolago, dove l’idolo sarebbe stato immerso nel Lago Ontario.

Quando il sole calò sotto l’orizzonte, proiettando una luce dorata sull’acqua, Amina sussurrò: “È come se stessimo lasciando andare qualcosa.” Shaibal annuì. “E facendo spazio a qualcosa di nuovo.” Osservarono mentre l’idolo veniva delicatamente calato nel lago, le increspature che la portavano via. Intorno a loro, la gente piangeva, rideva, si abbracciava. Non era una fine—era una promessa di ritorno.

Epilogo

Di ritorno a Heidelberg, settimane dopo, Amina sedeva accanto alla finestra del loro appartamento, il Reno scorreva silenzioso sotto. Aprì il suo quaderno e iniziò a scrivere:

Giorni di Sharad a Danforth, dove l’acero incontrò il tagete,  
E la memoria indossava un sari cremisi e dorato.  
Siamo venuti come poeti, ma siamo partiti come pellegrini,  
Portando versi intrisi di sindoor e canto.  
Il dhaak riecheggia ancora nelle nostre ossa,  
Il payesh sobbolle ancora nei nostri sogni.  
E da qualche parte su Pape Avenue,  
Una lettera attende, sigillata con nostalgia.

Chiuse il quaderno e guardò Shaibal, che stava traducendo Rilke al tavolo da pranzo. “L’anno prossimo?” chiese lei. Lui sorrise. “Sempre.”

Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee, vincitore del Premio APJ Abdul Kalam, è stato docente affiliato presso la Virginia Commonwealth University di Richmond ed è un giornalista multilingue.