Devdas was born in the village of Tal Sonapur, in a respected Brahmin family whose name everyone knew. His father, Narayan Mukherjee, was a man of considerable means. Their home was one of the largest in the village—two stories high, with a wide front verandah shaded by tamarind trees. Inside, the rooms were always cool and dim, the air smelling of sandalwood and old books.
Narayan's wealth came from the land. He owned fields that stretched as far as the eye could see, where laborers worked from dawn till dusk. He also held a certain authority in the village council, and whenever disputes arose, people would come to him for advice or judgment.
Next door lived Nimai Chakraborty. His house was smaller, built of baked clay with a thatched roof that needed repair every few years. But even though Nimai didn't have as much land or money, he was known for his kindness. Neighbors would often gather in his courtyard in the evenings, sharing stories or bringing small troubles to him because they trusted his fairness.
Nimai had only one child—Parvati, whom everyone called Paro. She was born two years after Devdas, and from her earliest days, it seemed she recognized his face before any other. When she learned to crawl, she would somehow always end up in the Mukherjee courtyard, her tiny hands clutching at Devdas's clothes.
As they grew a little older, the bond between them became something the whole village noticed. In the afternoons, after lessons, Devdas would sprawl beneath the neem tree with a wooden slate on his lap, practicing his letters. Paro would squat beside him, her head tilted, watching each mark he made. She liked to trace the shapes with her finger when he was done.
Sometimes, Devdas would tease her—he would cover the slate and refuse to show her his writing, or he would pretend he had forgotten her name. She would scowl and tug at his hair, and he would laugh until he fell over.
When they played hide-and-seek, Paro always chose the same hiding place—a hollow behind the old water drum near the Chakraborty wall. Devdas never failed to find her there, but he would pretend to look everywhere else first, calling her name in an exaggerated, dramatic voice. Then, just when she was sure he would leave her behind, he would tap her shoulder and grin.
Their mothers watched all this with a kind of gentle amusement. Both women believed that the children's closeness was a blessing. After all, what harm could come from such an innocent friendship?
In the evenings, Paro's mother would light the lamp at the household shrine. Paro, her face glowing in the flickering light, would glance toward the Mukherjee veranda, hoping to catch a glimpse of Devdas returning from his father's study. If he was late, she would sulk and refuse to eat her dinner until her mother coaxed her with promises that he would come in the morning.
Devdas was not the most obedient child. He had a stubborn streak that sometimes made his mother sigh. But whenever Paro appeared, he softened. He would let her braid wildflowers into his hair or smear his forehead with streaks of clay during their games. Even at that age, she had a gentle authority over him that no one else did.
Their fathers, occupied with accounts and village matters, paid little attention to these things. They assumed, as many did, that when the children were older, everything would fall into place naturally.
And so, season after season passed in this way—summer days spent wading in the pond or collecting mangoes that fell from the old trees, winter evenings wrapped in shared blankets as they watched the stars.
No one imagined how fragile this happiness was. No one suspected that under the surface of their laughter, life was already preparing the trials that would one day shatter their world.
But for now, they were simply Devdas and Paro—two children who did not yet know what it meant to lose each other.