A few weeks had passed since Puja had confessed to her mother. One night Amit had finally said the words he had been carrying for over a year.

"Puja, I don't want to be your your long-distance friend anymore. I want to be the man who wakes up next to you. I want to be your husband. Will you marry this Punjabi boy?"

Puja hadn't hesitated for even a second. The year of separation had taught her that a life without him was no life at all.

"Yes, Amit. A thousand times, yes."

But the joy of the proposal was quickly followed by the looming shadow of the Big Talk. Puja knew she couldn't keep this a secret from her father any longer. He was a man of old school principles, a man who believed that marriage was a union of families, cultures, and traditions.

The evening in the Banerjee household was unusually quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Puja sat on the floor, by her father's feet, her heart feeling like a trapped bird fluttering against her ribs. Her mother, Rekha, stood by the door, her hands twisting the end of her saree in nervous anticipation.

Mr. Banerjee sat in his wooden armchair, reading the newspaper. He hadn't said a word since Puja had asked him to sit down because she had something important to say.

"Baba?"

Puja's voice was barely a whisper. Her father didn't look up from the paper.

"Hmm."

"Baba, please... look at me."

She pleaded. He slowly folded the newspaper and placed it on the side table. His face was a mask of stoic calm, but his eyes were sharp.

"I'm listening, Puja. Your Ma told me you have found someone. From Punjab?"

The way he said Punjab made it sound like another planet. Puja felt a lump in her throat. She moved closer and sat by his feet, resting her hand on his knee, just as she used to do when she was a little girl asking for a new toy.

"Baba, please don't be angry. I know it's not what you expected. I know you wanted a Bengali boy who lives nearby. But Amit... he is different. He is the kindest person I have ever known."

Mr. Banerjee looked at the ceiling.

"A boy from so far, Puja? A boy we don't know? A boy whose language we don't speak?"

"Baba, he's not just a boy from so far. He is the person who stayed by me when I was at my lowest. He waited for me for an entire year when I pushed him away because I was scared of this very moment. He understands my dreams, my studies, my fears... he understands me."

Puja's voice trembled with emotion.

"He's been learning Bengali, Baba! Just so he can talk to you. He spends his evenings practicing 'Aapni kemon achen?' and 'Aapnar swasthya ki valo?' (How are you? Is your health good?) because he wants to impress you. He told me that if I'm worried about leaving you and maa alone, he is ready to shift his base to Kolkata. He's willing to leave his home for me."

Mr. Banerjee remained silent. This was the most terrifying part for Puja. If he shouted, she could argue. But his silence was like a wall she couldn't climb.

"Baba, please say something."

She sobbed softly.

"I can't imagine my life without him. He makes me feel like I can take on the world. Ami take chara thakte parbo na."

(I won't be able to stay without him.)

Rekha stepped forward, her voice trembling but firm.

"He has made our daughter smile again, Bijoy. Isn't that what we always wanted? To see her happy?"

Mr. Banerjee finally looked down at Puja. He saw the tears, the desperation, and the absolute certainty in her eyes. He sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate his stern posture.

"You say he loves you this much?"

He asked quietly.

"More than I can put into words, Baba."

"Then tell him to call me."

Mr. Banerjee said, his voice regaining some of its authority.

"I want to see this boy. I want to know who is claiming to love my daughter so much that he'd leave his land for her. I will not give my decision until I meet him on a call."

Puja felt a surge of hope. It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either. It was an opening.

"Thank you, Baba! Thank you!"

She cried, hugging his knees.

Meanwhile, in Punjab, the scene was much more chaotic. Amit was pacing back and forth in the living room, his hands sweating and his face pale. He was wearing a fresh kurta, even though it was a video call. He wanted everything to be perfect.

His elder brother, Rahul, was leaning against the doorframe, laughing.

"Oye, Amit! Shaant ho ja! It's just a phone call."

(Calm down!)

"Bhai, you don't understand! This is her father! He probably hates me already!"

Amit groaned, checking his hair in the mirror for the tenth time. His sister-in-law, Simran, came in with a glass of water.

"Drink this. Tu tension mat le. You are a gem, Amit. Any father would be lucky to have you as a son-in-law. Just be yourself. And don't try to use too much of that broken Bengali you've been practicing, or he'll think you're making fun of him!"

(Don’t worry.)

"Bhabhi! I've been practicing so hard!"

Amit pouted. Just then, his elder sister, Preeti, who had come over specifically for this historic event, patted his shoulder.

"Amit, listen to me. Our parents aren't here, but we are. We have raised you to be a man of honour. Just show him that. Tell him that you will keep Puja like a queen. Tell him that his daughter's happiness is your priority. Darna nahi hai. Punjabis don't back down!"

(Don’t be scared.)

"Exactly!"

Rahul added, giving him a playful shove.

"Sher ban ke baat kar. If he asks about your business, tell him the truth. If he asks about your feelings, tell him the truth. Truth is your best weapon."

(Talk like a brave man.)

Amit's phone vibrated. It was a message from Puja.

Baba is ready. He wants to talk now. Please be brave. I love you.

Amit took a deep breath. He looked at his siblings, his pillars of strength. Their smiles gave him the courage he needed. He felt the weight of his family's love behind him, and the pull of Puja's love ahead of him.

"Thik hai."

(Ok.)

Amit said, his voice steadier.

"I'm ready."

He sat down on the sofa, propped his phone up, and hit the video call button. His heart was hammering, but as he saw the screen connect and Puja's face appeared, followed by the stern, spectacled face of Mr. Banerjee, Amit straightened his posture.

"Namaste, Uncle."

(Hello, Uncle.)

Amit said, his voice respectful and clear. Then, he added with a nervous but sincere smile

"Aapni kemon achen?"

(How are you?)

In Kolkata, Mr. Banerjee leaned forward, squinting at the screen. He saw a young man with honest eyes and a family standing behind him in the background, waving silently with encouraging smiles.

The silence on the call lasted for a few seconds, but for Amit and Puja, it felt like an eternity. 

"Amit."

Mr. Banerjee said, his voice neutral.

"Puja has told me a lot about you. Let's talk."

Amit nodded, his nervousness replaced by a quiet determination. He looked into the camera, ready to fight for the girl he loved with everything in him.