Part 2: Beginning at Khurda Road

The day the Ghosh family officially moved into their Khurda Road house, it was anything but smooth. With its red-tiled roof and a mango tree swaying in the front yard, the house seemed to breathe with an old-world charm, as if it had stories to tell.

Inside, chaos reigned. Boxes lay half-open, furniture sat awkwardly in the wrong places, and the kitchen, meant to be the heart of the home, was proving uncooperative.

Mrs. Ghosh had grand plans for their first proper meal in the new house. She wanted to recreate the comforting flavors of home, a meal to wash away the disappointment of last night’s bland macher jhol. But the kerosene stove had other ideas. The flame sputtered, flickered, and died.

“Just light it again,” Mr. Ghosh said absentmindedly from the doorway, fiddling with his old transistor.

“I’ve lit it three times already, but this stupid thing keeps dying,” Mrs. Ghosh snapped, swatting furiously at a mosquito buzzing around her head. “And stop standing there like a statue. Do something useful for once!”

Before he could respond, an aroma drifted into the house, warm and rich, cutting through their frustration. The scent of vanilla and caramel, of something freshly baked. Their stomachs grumbled in unison.

The doorbell rang.

Mrs. Ghosh quickly adjusted her saree before opening the door. A young Anglo-Indian couple stood on the doorstep, smiling warmly, a tray of neatly packed boxes in their hands.

“Hello, Mrs. Ghosh! I’m Celina D’Souza, and this is my husband, Anthony.” The woman’s voice was bright and welcoming.

“Namaste, namaste!” Mrs. Ghosh replied, her voice suddenly polite, though a little surprised.

“We live just down the lane. Our bakery makes fresh cakes every Christmas, and we always share some with the neighborhood. Welcome to Khurda Road!” Celina handed over the tray.

“Oh, that’s so kind of you!” Mrs. Ghosh’s face softened, the weight of the day momentarily lifting. “Please come in, have some tea with us.”

“Oh, maybe another day,” Celina said with a smile, glancing at the big van parked nearby, loaded with more boxes. “We still have a few more deliveries to make. But we’ll drop by later. After all, we’re neighbors now!”

As the D’Souzas walked back to their van, Meena came skidding into the room, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s. “Ma, open it, open it! The cakes smell soooo good!”

That morning, the Ghosh family had cake and doughnuts for breakfast—an unplanned but delightful feast, courtesy of their thoughtful neighbors.

The rest of the day unraveled in a blur of unpacking, misplaced belongings, and hastily prepared meals. By evening, exhaustion set in. They gathered on the verandah, sipping hot tea, nibbling on pakoras, and finally beginning to feel at home.

Then, a sudden commotion shattered the moment.

Somewhere in the distance, voices rose—sharp, angry, urgent. The argument was muffled but intense, an undercurrent of hostility humming through the night air.

“What’s going on?” Meena asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“Probably just neighbors having a spat,” Mr. Ghosh muttered, but there was something in his voice—something wary.

Mrs. Ghosh caught it too. “Are you sure?” she asked, brows knitting together.

He nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the darkened street beyond their gate.

The warmth of the neighborhood had been undeniable all day—kind neighbors, shared laughter, unexpected generosity. But now, as the night settled in, a different energy took hold. An unspoken tension hung in the air, heavy and uneasy.

Their new beginning might not be as simple as they’d hoped.

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