Passionate Obsession

Maple Leaves and Hidden Histories

Rows of maple trees lined both sides of the road. Because it was spring, their orange-yellow leaves were falling softly—like raindrops—touching skin with a hint of spring warmth before landing silently on the shiny black asphalt.

Just watching such a sight brought calm to the eyes. And since this was a foreign country, it felt even more magical: sitting on an empty bench by a quiet street on a spring afternoon, you could stare at the beauty forever as if whole ages might pass in that stillness.

Yet today, no one lining the roadside was interested in the falling maple leaves.

Instead, the crowd overflowed between the tree trunks, faces turned toward the street, waving and cheering, their shouts echoing as one. Old men, young men, women, children—everyone seemed to be there, like an audience for some performance or contest.

And it wasn’t just this stretch of road—crowds extended far beyond, past San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, winding between the Pacific Ocean and the mountains as far as the eye could see. Sayani was sure the road itself stretched all the way into California.

Curious, Sayani walked forward to see what had captured everyone’s attention.

Just then, a cluster of motorbikes roared past at lightning speed. They were so fast she barely had time to blink. As soon as the bikes crossed the road, the crowd erupted, shouting one name over and over: “JK! JK!”

From their cheers and excitement, Sayani guessed it was a bike-racing competition. But how could anyone ride this fast on a cold mountain road? No fear at all? She sneered inwardly—“Typical Americans, getting thrilled over such stupid entertainment.”

Moments later another group of riders zipped by, again at impossible speed. Once more, everyone chanted “JK.”

“Who on earth is JK?” Sayani muttered, stopping to wait until this “dangerous race” ended.

By the fourth round, the race finished. Seven bikes stopped at once. Sayani noticed which one arrived first—the KTM 390 Adventure. That must be JK’s bike, judging from the cheers.

Yet JK himself looked different from the others. He wasn’t reacting at all to the adulation, his expression calm and unreadable, unlike the runner-up who grinned ear to ear.

JK removed his helmet and set it on his thigh. Shoulder-length hair tumbled out—making him look less like a gentleman and more like a superstar just off a commercial shoot. He brushed his hair back with one hand while glancing at his Apple Watch with the other, then put the helmet back on.

Meanwhile the organizers were calling him onstage to receive his champion’s prize. JK only glanced once in their direction, seeming careless. At last an official approached him.

“Wait a minute,” JK said. Within minutes a black car pulled up and a man in formal dress stepped out.

“Look, this is my assistant, Pratyay Ehsan. Give him the prize money,” JK said.

The official frowned.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. I’m serious.”

“Then why do you even attend the game and risk your life?”

JK tilted his head, smiled sharply.

“You know? Riding is thrilling but also dangerous. And I love danger… a lot.”

His calm voice carried a frightening tone. With that, he slipped on oversized sunglasses, revved the KTM 390, and vanished around a mountain bend. Everyone’s eyes followed him long after he’d disappeared. The official sighed. Every year this boy caused some stunt—either beating a rival senseless, vanishing mid-race, or making a scene at the prize ceremony. Only his popularity kept them inviting him back.

“Such a psychopath,” the official muttered.

“He’s got attitude, looks, everything so manly,” murmured a foreign woman standing beside Sayani, gazing down the empty road.

Sayani, curious about the stranger’s fascination, asked,

“Who is he?”

The woman’s eyes glittered like she was under a spell.

“He is JK, the champion.”

“I know that, but…” Sayani began.

Before she could finish, the woman answered in broken Bengali,

“Oh, he is Wasip Jhayan Khritik. He is a very good rider.”

Sayani smiled at the fractured Bengali. “He looks different,” she said.

The woman raised an eyebrow.

Indeed, Sayani thought, he looked completely different—golden brown skin, British build, yet those floating black eyes spoke of some aristocratic Asian lineage. His attitude certainly did.

Still staring at her with those gray eyes, the woman asked for Sayani’s name.

“I’m Sayani Mukherjee,” she said.

“Oh, are you a foreigner?”

“Yes, I’m from India.”

The woman smiled. “I’m Kathleen Christian.” Soon Sayani learned Kathleen knew JK personally. He was not British at all but a U.S. citizen of full Bengali heritage. Then why did his face look so foreign? The question stayed with her.

---

Two days had passed since their aunt’s departure. Aru had known trouble would start as soon as Anu returned home—and it had.

Aru had stayed quiet under their aunt’s barbed words, but Anu couldn’t. With their mother lying in a hospital bed, marrying a petty gangster was impossible—Anu said so outright.

Words escalated to shouting. Anu’s temper flared and she began smashing glass objects in the hall. Hearing the shattering, Aru rushed out of her room to see her usually gentle sister in full fury.

The aunt blanched but did not back down. At last Reza escorted his mother out of Kritik Kunj to end the confrontation.

As soon as they left, Anu bolted the front door and locked herself in her room. Aru knocked in vain. That night neither sister ate dinner.

The next morning Aru cooked breakfast and soup for their mother and knocked again. This time Anu opened the door, neatly dressed in a cotton churidar, long hair in a French braid, tote bag ready for the hospital.

Seeing her so composed, Aru’s eyes filled with relief. She tried to speak but Anu simply pulled her into a hug.

“Why did you change, Anu? Yesterday I was scared of your anger,” Aru whispered.

Anu smiled faintly.

“I haven’t changed. I just had to push the snakes out of our home. Otherwise they’d be back every few days.”

“You’re a genius, Apa,” Aru said.

“Come on, I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Anu replied. “Let’s have breakfast or I’ll be late to see Ma.”

“My Apa’s smile is prettier than Nikhil Bhai’s,” Aru said softly.

The name Nikhil triggered memories. Aru thought of that morning’s emails and the ugly events of the past days.

That Friday Anu would go late to the hospital. Aru planned to visit too. Finishing her emails early, she showered and then noticed several missed calls from Nilima.

Nilima’s voice crackled with urgency. “Nikhil Bhai is leaving today—already near the airport! This is your last chance, Aru. Tithi and I are waiting in a CNG on the main road. Come now or you’ll never see him again.”

The thought of never seeing him—his dimpled smile, the way the campus lit up around him—stabbed Aru’s heart. She began to sob.

“Come quickly,” Nilima said and hung up.

Aru dropped everything, grabbed her purse and ran out. She didn’t care if Nikhil married someone else; she only wanted to tell him, once, what had lived in her heart all these years. If she stayed silent now, life itself would be meaningless.

Anu, carrying the hotpot to leave for the hospital, caught sight of her sister rushing out.

“Where are you going? Aren’t you coming to the hospital?”

Aru didn’t answer, disappearing from Kritik Kunj in a blur.

---

Life runs on hope. Without it, existence becomes unbearable. People tell themselves a new dawn will bring new joy. Yet sometimes that dawn takes too long—and hope vanishes behind a passing cloud.

Standing at the airport fence, Aru felt her own hope dissolve. She cried aloud, staring at the departing plane.

“I’ll find you, Nikhil Bhai! We’ll meet again. I’ll come to the USA—if not for anyone else, then for you. Even if it means going with that Jayaan Kritik Chowdhury!”

“Enough, Aru, stop now!” Tithi tried to calm her. They had never imagined the quiet girl could cry like this.

Again that name—Jayaan Kritik Chowdhury. Nilima was confused.

“Aru, you’re Sheikh, then why do you call him Chowdhury?”

“He’s not my brother, not even related,” Aru sobbed.

“Then why do you email him every day?”

“I don’t. I email the JK Group head office about Ma’s illness—only his approval can unlock the funds,” she said through tears.

“We’re stuck in an unresolved relationship,” she went on. “When I was eight, we first came to Kritik Kunj. He was about twenty then—twelve years older than me. My mother is his father’s second wife. We’re not blood at all. My mother now chairs the JK Group since his father died.”

Tithi asked, “So he never comes to the house?”

“Not in eight years. When his father died three years ago, he came only to the funeral but didn’t enter the house,” Aru said.

Nilima frowned. “Guess he doesn’t like you at all, since you’re from his stepmother’s side.”

Aru shrugged. “Maybe.”

Just then Anu’s number flashed on Aru’s phone, snapping her out of the trance. She realized she had just poured out their deepest family secret to her friends. Panic hit.

“Your father then—?” Tithi began.

Aru swallowed hard. “Apa’s calling. I have to go.” She rushed off, leaving them staring.

---

Aru returned home heavy with regret. As soon as she stepped inside, Anu’s palm landed on her cheek. Shocked, she asked herself:

“What did I do? Why is everyone so angry at me?”