We grew up watching quiet sunsets together.
Summer evenings saw us running up to the terrace of our crumbly hostel building in South Kolkata with a fat book and two cups of tea. Studying was obviously the pretext; all we would do is play our favourite Punjabi playlist on speaker and look out into the distance while the sweltering Calcutta heat turned into a cool evening breeze. We were 18.
Watching the sunset at Marine Drive meant high chances of grazing shoulders with a couple whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. But we were determined; we finally found our quaint spot and after paying the hawker, nestled in with our cups of tea. The cacophony of Bombay and her giggle at my usual Parle-G disaster were our only music that evening. “Can you not let it drown for once?”, she said. I rolled my eyes at her and continued with the biscuit dunking. We were 28.
Though our most exceptional sunset was the one we saw last, primarily because we weren’t meant to share it in the first place. Together in the city where it all began, we were miles away from where both of us were supposed to be — she, in Bangalore and I, in Mumbai. If not for the pandemic, we’d had bawled our eyes out at the airport many moons ago.
And even though dad did a pretty average job at capturing this extremely posed moment, we’re happy we did it anyway. It reminds us that no matter where we go in life, no matter what we do, watching a sunset together will always mean that nothing’s changed.