The house on the edge of Ballygunge was quiet, save for the scratch of a fountain pen moving across yellowed paper. Bijoy , once a celebrated novelist, now writes  only for himself and Anamika . Their only son is  settled abroad  Now only the two elderly creatures moving like ghosts in the lonely house . His fingers tremble slightly as he shapes each word, but his mind remained sharp, tethered to memories more vivid than the present. Bijoy imagines  that this book of his will be  the best seller as it tells about the lonely life of old people ,a very common phenomenon of modern life.

His wife, Anamika  is a charater in the pages of his latest manuscript. She is  no longer just a   character, the heroine of his story, the light that flickered in his otherwise dim world.In the story, she is  radiant, her silver hair catching the last rays of the sun like a crown. She walks through the garden in a blue cotton sari, humming Tagore’s melodies, pausing to touch the hibiscus petals as if greeting old friends. Bijoy  writes about their  youthful days — busy ,poetic,  and full of laughter that still  echoes through the corridors of their home. But outside the manuscript, the house remains  silent. The bookshelves sagged under the weight of decades, and the radio, once tuned to Rabindra Sangeet, now remains most of the time  mute. Anamika  rarely ventures beyond the veranda. The Black City as Kolkata is called  has changed, and they no longer recognizes its rhythm. His friends have  faded into phone calls and obituaries. His readers have  moved on to newer voices.

Good writing comes in post midnight hours, Bijay is no exception. He will have to complete the book and this is the titular story of the book.

In the morning when he wakes up, Anamika has already gone out for morning walk without waking  Bijoy. The poor fellow is sleeping so tired after writing all night the rest part of the new story.

But Bijoy woke up suddenly and  felt  concerned about his wife’s safety, “Anu, did you take your mobile?”.She has high pressure and the concern is natural for a loving husband.

“Yes,” replied Anamika.

She laughs to herself .This overmuch concern for  wife is a recent development in Bijoy’s nature. Earlier the bohemian Bijoy   never used to call  her or show his concern even once throughout the day. Not from his  college where he is a successful teacher, not from the newspaper office where he is the most adorable writer, and certainly not from that Coffee House adda where he is the most amiable friend.

Those days are gone. Now Anamika’s time is filled with chores. She experiments with new recipes—Bijoy loves trying them. Every year, he’d gather hilsa and mangoes. Raw mango chutney was his favorite.

Now, there are restrictions. Sugar, blood pressure, and even creatinine levels are rising. Since retirement, Bijoy spends his days at home, going to the market, sipping tea, and writing endlessly.

Anamika’s morning walks are essential. Whenever she steps out, Bijoy worries—will she manage? They used to walk together. Now she walks alone. Bijoy can’t wake up so early anymore. He stays up late, writing.

The Sunday  afternoon was a little different. The sky was lightly clouded, the sun gently spreading Sindoor all over the West. Anamika sat on the balcony, sipping tea. Bijoy was still in his writing room. The scratch of his pen occasionally drifted in.

“What were you writing  last night? Are you polishing it now?”

“A short story. I’ve titled it ‘After the Evening.’ Thought I’d write about this time of day. Our time. Our evenings.”

Anamika smiled. “Then I’m a character in it?”

Bijoy replied, “You’ve always been. Not just in this story, but in every piece I’ve written. Maybe not by name, but your shadow is there.”Anamika fell silent. She stared at the trees beyond the balcony. A yellow leaf floated away in the breeze.

Before dusk, Bijoy came out to the balcony with an old notebook.

“Take a look at this,” he said.

“This is from your college days!”

“Yes. I wrote my first poem about you in here. Back then, you didn’t even know.”

Anamika took the notebook. The pages were aged, some stained.

“This one… ‘Your face in the evening light’—I knew then, you were the beginning of my story.”

She didn’t speak. Just turned the pages slowly.

Evening deepened. Bijoy said, “Let’s go for a walk. I’ll come today.”

“Will you manage?”

“I’ll try. Let this evening be a little different.”

They stepped out. The neighborhood street was quiet. Tree shadows stretched long, a crow called in the distance.

“Remember this road?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s where you first said—‘I like walking with you.’”

Anamika laughed. “And you said, ‘Your walking rhythm feels like poetry.’”

Bijoy paused. “Still feels that way. Just a slower rhythm now.”

They reached the old Coffee House. It wasn’t as crowded as before.

“Let’s have a cup of coffee?”

“You’re not supposed to have coffee.”

“Just half a cup. With you.”

They sat at the same corner table.

“This table’s still here!”

“So are our memories.”

The coffee arrived. Bijoy took a sip, closed his eyes. “This taste… after so many years.”

Anamika asked, “Will this scene be in your story?”

“It will. At the end. An evening where two people, slowed by age, still walk in step.”

Night fell. Back home, Bijoy returned to his writing desk.

Anamika sat quietly. Her phone rang—it was an old college friend.

“Anu, how are you?”

“I’m well. Today I was inside a story.”

“A story?”

“Yes. ‘After the Evening.’ Bijoy’s writing it. I’m a character.”

Every evening, Anamika  lights  a lamp  and reads aloud from his manuscript.Anamika switches off the electric light to  create a nostalgic atmosphere .She might recall the old Kolkata and its loadshedding hours  when the tram was moving slowly near their Beadon Street residence.  He imagined her listening, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her fingers tapping the armrest in approval. “You’ve captured me well,” she would say. “But don’t forget the mango tree incident—you always leave that out.”He would smile, alone in the lamplight, and add the scene: Malini climbing the mango tree at age sixty to rescue a stranded kitten, sari billowing like a flag of rebellion. That was her—his evening star—defying age, defying silence.

One monsoon evening, as the rain tapped gently on the windows, “You’ve made me too perfect,” she says. “I was stubborn, remember? I burned your manuscript once because you forgot our anniversary.”He chuckled aloud, startling himself. The memory was real. She had indeed tossed his draft into the fireplace, then made him promise to write her a poem every year instead. He had kept that promise. Forty-two poems, each tucked inside her jewelry box. The next morning, Bijoy walked to the local press with his manuscript. “It’s not for sale,” he told the printer. “Just a few copies. For friends. For memory.” The book was titled The Evening Star. The cover bore a painting of Anamika in her garden, eyes lifted to the twilight sky. Inside, the dedication read: To the woman who taught me that love is the only story worth telling.Weeks passed. One copy went to their niece in Scotlan . Another to the neighborhood library. The rest sat in a box beneath his writing desk. He didn’t need readers. He needed her.

One night, as he read aloud from the final chapter, he paused. In the story, Anamika  walks into the sunset, her silhouette merging with the horizon. Bijoy closed the book and whispered, “Wait for me.” Anamika’s eyes were filled with tears. After dinner, Bijoy said, “I’ve finished the story.”“What did you write at the end?” Bijay  wrote—“After the evening, when the light fades, the colors of relationships deepen./Where words are few, emotions run deep.”

This story isn’t just about an evening, but about two people staying together in the final light of life.’”Anamika didn’t speak. Her eyes welled up.

“You’re the writer of my story, Bijoy. I’m just the reader.”

Bijoy smiled. “No, Anu. You’re the light of my story. The glow that remains after the evening.”

International Tagore Awardee  writer Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee is a former Affiliate Faculty of Virginia Commonwealth University ,USA . email   profratanbhattacharjee@gmail.com

About Dr Ratan Bhattacharjee

International Tagore Award (DRDC UK & India)  winner 2024 Dr Ratan Bhattacharjee Ph.D. ,DLitt USA) who is formerly Affiliate Faculty Virginia Commonwealth University and President Kolkata Indian American Society is a leading multilingual columnist cum writer .He is Founder Member of International Theodore Dreiser Society Philadelphia USA in the Advisory Board. With nearly 38 years of teaching experience in colleges and universities in India and abroad   he claimed his  poetic debut with The Ballad of the Bleeding Bubbles(Cyberwit Allahabad 2014)  and later for his publication of Oleamder Blooms (Authorspress 2015 ) he is called Oleander poet of India .His short story collection Six Feet Distance published from Bloomington USA He wrote on British and American Literature including  Francis Scott Fitzgerald ( Patridge Singapore 2020 ) and Theodore Dreiser : Going Beyond Naturalism ( 2021 INSC Bangalore).and Our Time Revisited published in 2025 by IIP Bangalore