They did not go back immediately.

Carol suggested they walk further in, and Amit agreed, though he was no longer sure what they were looking for. The path narrowed, bending through a stretch of low trees where the air felt marginally clearer, as if the smoke had hesitated before entering.

“Do you remember,” Carol said after a while, “the Charles River in winter?”

Amit smiled faintly. “Only because you kept dragging me there.”

“You didn’t complain.”

“I was jet-lagged. I didn’t have the energy.”

“That’s not true.” She glanced at him. “You liked it.”

He did. He remembered the quiet most of all. The way the river held the cold without resistance. The way Carol would stand still for long stretches, as if waiting for something to reveal itself.

“There were more people than birds,” he said.

“But you could hear them,” she replied. “Even when you couldn’t see them.”

They walked a few more steps.

“And here?” she asked.

Amit didn’t answer.

By the time they left Okhla Bird Sanctuary, the sun had climbed higher, and the haze had thickened instead of clearing. The road outside was louder, impatient with itself. Auto-rickshaws, motorbikes, a bus that seemed to move more by insistence than by design.

Carol stood for a moment at the gate, looking back.

“We can come again,” Amit said. “Maybe tomorrow morning. Earlier.”

She nodded, though without conviction. “Maybe.”

That evening, his mother insisted on cooking something “light” for Carol, which meant three different dishes, each introduced with an apology for its simplicity.

“You must be tired of all this,” she said, placing another serving on Carol’s plate.

“It’s wonderful,” Carol replied, smiling in a way Amit recognized—warm, attentive, slightly careful. “I’ve never had anything like this before.”

“That’s because he never learned,” his mother said, gesturing toward Amit. “Always outside food. America made it worse, I think.”

Amit laughed. “I survived.”

“Survived,” his mother repeated. “Listen to him.”

Carol watched the exchange with interest. “He cooked sometimes,” she said. “In Boston.”

His mother looked surprised. “He cooked?”

“Very basic things,” Amit said quickly.

“Pasta,” Carol added. “And once, something he said was Bengali but I’m not sure.”

His mother shook her head, amused. “He doesn’t even speak proper Bengali.”

“I understand it,” Amit protested.

“Understanding is not speaking.”

Carol leaned slightly forward. “Teach me,” she said. “Both of you. Then I can judge.”

His mother laughed, delighted. Amit felt something loosen, briefly.

Later that night, standing on the balcony, Carol watched the street below. The noise had shifted but not reduced—voices, a distant burst of music, the occasional crack of something sharp.

“Firecrackers?” she asked.

“Early,” Amit said. “For Diwali, maybe. Or just because.”

“Just because,” she repeated.

A child ran across the lane, lighting something that sparked and fizzled before dissolving into smoke.

“It’s beautiful,” she said after a moment.

Amit turned to her, surprised.

“And also…” She searched for the word. “Relentless.”

He leaned against the railing. “You’ll get used to it.”

She didn’t respond.

The next morning, they didn’t return to the sanctuary.

Instead, Amit’s cousin called, insisting they come over. “Everyone wants to meet her,” he said, as if Carol were a rare exhibit that had briefly come into circulation.

The house was crowded, warm with bodies and conversation. Questions came in clusters:

“How do you find India?”
“Is it very different?”
“What do your parents do?”
“When is the wedding?”

Carol answered each with patience, her smile adjusting but never fading. Amit watched her from across the room, aware of a distance that hadn’t been there before—not physical, but perceptual, as if she were already translating the experience into something else.

At one point, an elderly relative said, “Our festivals are the best. Nothing like them anywhere.”

Carol nodded. “They’re very… alive.”

“Alive!” the woman repeated, pleased. “Exactly.”

Amit caught Carol’s eye. For a second, neither looked away.

In the afternoon, as they drove back, traffic slowed to a near halt. A temporary structure had been set up near a water body—bamboo poles, cloth canopies, loudspeakers mounted at precarious angles.

“Dusht dahan, a major festival,” Amit said. “It starts today.”

People were already gathering. Women in bright saris, men carrying offerings—fruits, baskets, plastic containers.

Carol leaned forward slightly, watching. “Can we stop?”

“It’ll be crowded.”

“I want to see.”

He hesitated, then pulled over.

The air near the site was thick—sound, smell, movement compressed into a single field. Devotional songs blared from the speakers, distorting at higher volumes. The water’s edge was lined with people, some standing ankle-deep, others arranging offerings.

Carol moved slowly, taking it in.

“It’s… intense,” she said.

Amit nodded. “It’s important.”

A boy brushed past them, dropping something that rolled toward the water—a small plastic packet. No one noticed.

Carol bent to pick it up, then paused, looking around. There were dozens more like it, scattered, half-hidden.

“Where does all this go?” she asked.

“Municipality cleans it later,” Amit said.

“All of it?”

“Most of it.”

She held the packet in her hand, as if weighing it.

A sudden burst of firecrackers went off nearby. The sound tore through the air, sharp and immediate. A group of children cheered.

Carol flinched.

“Is that necessary?” she asked.

“It’s celebration,” Amit said, though without much conviction.

Another round followed, louder this time.

From somewhere beyond the immediate crowd, a flock of birds rose abruptly, their movement chaotic, unpattern.

Carol looked up. “They’re scared.”

“They’ll settle,” Amit said.

But even as he spoke, the birds kept moving, away from the noise, toward a part of the sky that seemed no quieter.

They left earlier than expected.

In the car, neither spoke for several minutes.

Finally, Carol said, “Do you come here every year?”

“Sometimes,” Amit replied. “Not always.”

“And it’s always like this?”

“More or less.”

She nodded slowly, looking out of the window. “I didn’t know.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Not this.”

That night, she didn’t come to the balcony.

Amit found her sitting on the edge of the bed, her laptop open but untouched.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

She looked up. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He sat beside her. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

He waited.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Does it not bother you?”

“What?”

“Any of it.”

He exhaled. “It’s not that simple, Carol.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“Because it’s true.”

She closed the laptop gently. “I’m not asking for simplicity. I’m asking for honesty.”

He felt a flicker of irritation. “And you think I’m not being honest?”

“I think you’re… managing it. Explaining it away.”

“It’s my country,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “I can’t just stand outside it and judge.”

“I’m not asking you to judge,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m asking you to see.”

“And I’m asking you to understand context.”

“Context doesn’t erase consequence.”

The words landed harder than either of them expected.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Carol said, more quietly, “My father used to say that.”

Amit looked at her. “About what?”

“About climate change. About how people hide behind complexity because it’s easier than change.”

He softened slightly. “Your father sounds intense.”

She smiled faintly. “He was.”

A pause.

“He’s in Florida,” she added. “Coastal area. Every year the storms get worse.”

Amit nodded, unsure where this was going.

“He says one day the water will just… not go back.”

The room felt smaller suddenly.

They did not return to Okhla Bird Sanctuary the next day either.

But Amit went alone, two days later.

He didn’t tell Carol.

The morning was colder.

The haze was still there, but thinner, as if the city had briefly loosened its grip. The path was quieter too. Fewer people, fewer sounds.

He walked to the same spot where they had stood.

For a while, nothing happened.

Then, gradually, he began to notice what was missing—not just the birds, but the expectation of them. The space felt adjusted, recalibrated to absence.

A plastic bottle lay near the edge, the same one, perhaps, or another identical to it.

He stood there longer than he intended.

At some point, he took out his phone and typed a message:

You were right.

He looked at it for a few seconds, then deleted it.

When he returned home, Carol was packing.

“I have to go back,” she said before he could ask.

“So soon?”

She nodded. “Something’s come up.”

“What?”

She hesitated, then said, “There was a storm. Back home.”

Amit felt a tightening in his chest. “Your family?”

“My father…” She stopped. “He didn’t make it.”

The words seemed unreal, as if they belonged to a different conversation.

“I’m so sorry,” Amit said.

She nodded, but her eyes had already moved elsewhere, inward.

“I should have been there,” she said. “He called last week. I said I was busy.”

Amit stepped closer, unsure whether to touch her.

“He used to say these things would happen,” she continued. “Not exactly like this, but… close enough.”

The room was very quiet.

“When do you leave?” he asked.

“Tonight.”

At the airport, they stood facing each other, the space between them filled with everything that hadn’t been resolved.

“I don’t know what happens now,” Amit said.

“Neither do I,” Carol replied.

A pause.

“Will you come back?” he asked.

She considered the question, not avoiding it, but not answering immediately either.

“I don’t know,” she said finally.

Another pause.

“Take care,” she added.

“You too.”

She smiled, briefly, then turned and walked toward the gate.

Amit watched until she disappeared.

A week later, he went back to Okhla Bird Sanctuary.

He wasn’t sure why.

The air was clearer that day. Unusually so. The sky held a sharper blue, almost unfamiliar.

He walked the same path, slower this time.

And then, faintly at first, he heard it.

A call—distant, but distinct.

He looked up.

A small group of birds crossed the sky, their formation uneven, tentative, as if testing the space.

Amit stood still.

For a moment, it felt like something had returned.

Then the sound of a loudspeaker crackled in the distance, and the birds shifted course, veering away.

He watched until they were gone.

This time, he did not look away.