1. Diffraction
Avi watched sunlight trickle through the blinds of his laboratory window, scattering gently onto his outstretched palm. This was his favorite moment of the day. A quiet pause just after lunch when he could savor his coffee alone, away from students’ chatter and the constant hum of laboratory instruments.
Dr. Avi Sen had become a rising star within the Optical Engineering department at the University of Chicago. His lectures were popular, regularly filling entire auditoriums, inspiring many students to pursue optics. That was notable, given that optics these days was increasingly overshadowed by quantum physics. Beyond teaching, Avi and his research group had actively fostered collaboration between academia and leading corporations focused on space exploration technologies. He believed deeply that optics held significant untapped potential. Surely, humanity had not yet finished evolving its vision.
Yet recently, Avi had begun noticing how screens were quietly claiming more of people’s vision, including his own family’s. Even at home, virtual games absorbed most of his young son Rohit’s attention. Avi sighed quietly whenever he reflected on the long hours Sarita and he spent looking at screens, though mostly for professional reasons. While he encouraged his students to spend more time outdoors, Avi privately questioned whether that advice was practical anymore. Modern life left fewer moments for people to enjoy something as simple as natural light.
Avi’s thoughts broke off gently when Neel, a student and fellow Indian, appeared at his office door. Neel smiled brightly and said, “Happy Holi, Dr. Sen!”
For a moment, Avi was silent, caught completely off guard. Had Holi already arrived? Amid semester pressures and nearly two decades spent in the United States, he had entirely forgotten the festival that once filled his childhood with joy. Quickly recovering, Avi smiled warmly at Neel and wished him a sincere “Happy Holi” in return, before inquiring about his plans.
As Neel left, Avi felt a quiet pang of nostalgia in his chest. He glanced again at his palm, empty now of the scattered sunlight. A small voice stirred within him, reminding him that Rohit would soon be eight years old, yet had never visited India or experienced the festival of colors. Had Sarita and he unknowingly deprived Rohit of the vibrant heritage from their own childhood?
Perhaps, Avi thought, it was time to return home, if only to reassure himself that the colors he remembered had not faded entirely from the world.
2. Reflection
At dinner that night, Avi casually mentioned Holi to Sarita. She glanced up, mild surprise in her eyes. Between them, Rohit sat quietly absorbed in a cartoon on his tablet, unaware of their conversation. Unfortunately, it was the only way to get him to finish dinner.
“Holi?” Sarita echoed softly. She paused, spooning another bite of rice and dal onto Rohit’s plate. “We have not celebrated properly in years.”
Avi nodded. His thoughts wandered back to Krishnapur in Bengal, to those Holi mornings full of laughter and lively chatter. And the enticing aromas drifting from his mother’s kitchen. He could still hear the gentle sizzle of malpuas frying, ripe bananas folded into the batter, each golden piece carefully dipped into warm syrup flavored with cardamom. He vividly remembered gujiyas, crisp at the edges, stuffed with freshly grated coconut, and golden luchis puffing up in hot oil, served beside richly spiced alur dom. There would be plates of crunchy nimkis and neatly stacked narkel narus on the table. At the center always stood doi bora, cool and tangy, topped lightly with roasted cumin and red chili powder. These flavors lingered clearly in Avi’s memory, inseparable from the vibrant colors flying through the air outside, and the joyous voices of neighbors calling out greetings.
For a moment Avi was lost in these memories, feeling distant yet gently comforted. He wondered what Rohit might feel if he tasted these dishes, if he experienced those vibrant celebrations even once. At almost eight years old, Rohit’s connection to India was limited to video calls and occasional bedtime stories.
Sarita, noticing Avi’s silence, spoke gently, “Maybe we should attend the Holi celebration this weekend. It would be good for Rohit.”
Avi hesitated briefly, aware of experiments and papers waiting for him in the lab. But then he looked again at Rohit’s small face, softly illuminated by the screen’s glow. Avi had recently secured his tenure at the university, and Sarita was doing well at the bank. Perhaps this was the right moment to make a bold choice, to reconnect with something deeper.
“We could even consider visiting Krishnapur,” Avi suggested quietly. “Just a week. Rohit should see Holi as we once saw it.”
Sarita met his eyes softly. A gentle understanding passed between them. She did not reply immediately, but Avi sensed her quiet agreement.
Avi rose slowly from the table and carried his plate to the sink, feeling a quiet thrill stir inside him, like before delivering a talk at a major conference. The thought of Rohit finally experiencing the colors, scents, tastes, and memories of his own childhood filled him with quiet joy. Perhaps, finally, the time had arrived.
3. Refraction
As they stepped outside Kolkata airport, Rohit tugged gently at Avi’s hand. “Papa,” he whispered, “you said it would be different.”
Avi glanced down at his son’s face, puzzled at first, then slowly began to understand what Rohit meant. The airport appeared oddly familiar: steel, glass, polished grey concrete, uniformed attendants politely guiding travelers. Bright digital screens overhead displayed neat rows of arrivals and departures. Even the voices around them seemed softer, polished, carefully restrained. Nothing like the lively commotion Avi had described in his stories.
Gone was the lively chaos he remembered from childhood. He couldn’t spot the bright, colorful billboards advertising sweets and sarees, or the vibrant clusters of families enthusiastically greeting each other. The unmistakable aroma drifting from the food stalls, signaling their exact location from far away was gone too. Instead, the airport was now dominated by digital screens showing carefully curated, sanitized advertisements. Food courts were neatly partitioned behind sleek glass walls, their inviting smells no longer allowed to drift freely into waiting areas. Avi realized, with quiet unease, that they could have been standing in any airport in the world. The airport had lost its distinctive Kolkata signatures, its colorful personality replaced by efficient but impersonal uniformity.
On their taxi ride toward Krishnapur, Avi gazed quietly out the window. He felt increasingly unsettled as familiar roads, once bordered by sprawling fields of yellow mustard flowers, now appeared neatly paved and lined with identical grey buildings. New apartment complexes and corporate offices rose in orderly rows, their reflective windows gleaming blankly in the sunlight. Billboards advertised real estate projects in places where he remembered lush mango and banyan trees casting long shadows over the road.
Rohit, visibly confused, turned from the window and asked hesitantly, “Papa, where are all the flowers you talked about?”
Avi hesitated, uncertain how to reply. He glanced toward Sarita, who sat beside Rohit, observing the changed landscape silently. Rohit shifted toward her, hopeful. “Maa, why does everything look so different from the stories?”
Sarita gently stroked Rohit’s hair but did not reply, her expression unreadable. Avi placed a comforting hand on Rohit’s shoulder, quietly hoping that beyond the polished glass buildings and smooth roads, some traces of the old colors and warmth still existed, patiently waiting to be rediscovered.
4. Polarization
They reached Krishnapur sooner than Avi had expected. The smooth new highway, with their electronic taxi gliding effortlessly along it, brought them from Kolkata to their ancestral home in just twenty minutes. Avi remembered clearly that this journey had once taken almost two hours, filled with stops, winding lanes, and friendly interruptions. He was not sure he preferred the new speed to the leisurely pace he remembered.
As their taxi slowed near the old house, Avi saw his relatives already gathered at the gate, smiling warmly and waving in excitement. He recognized his cousin Anirban, his uncle, and several familiar faces whose smiles had grown a little older and gentler over the years. Sarita stepped out first, holding Rohit’s hand. Immediately, the relatives crowded gently around her, welcoming her with quiet affection. Rohit stayed close to Sarita, a little overwhelmed but curious, his eyes wide and carefully studying the unfamiliar faces around him.
“He looks exactly like Avi at that age!” laughed Avi’s uncle, affectionately touching Rohit’s shoulder. Avi watched Rohit carefully, relieved to see his son’s hesitation slowly melting away. Soon Rohit smiled shyly, nodding politely to each new relative. It seemed their warmth had put him at ease.
Inside the house, preparations for Holi had already begun. Avi caught glimpses of colorful powders arranged neatly in brass bowls, marigold garlands carefully strung and hanging around doorways, and trays of sweets placed strategically for guests. A comforting sense of familiarity briefly settled within him.
That evening, as the family sat around together, Avi’s uncle brought out old photo albums. “See, Rohit,” he said affectionately, placing an album before the boy, “this is your Papa at your age.” Rohit eagerly leaned forward, and Avi joined him, smiling quietly at the images of his younger self.
As he turned the pages, Avi’s fingers suddenly paused above a photograph from Holi thirty years ago. His smile slowly faded. Something felt strange. He noticed odd gaps in the colors, greyish patches in the midst of vibrant scenes. It was as if certain colors had quietly faded away from the photograph itself, leaving inexplicable voids behind. Avi’s brows furrowed slightly as a dull unease settled at the back of his mind. They had never played with grey powders — he would have remembered that. Why could he not recall these colors clearly now?
Unable to dismiss the curiosity that stirred in him, Avi quietly stepped out onto the veranda and dialed the number of his friend, Professor Palash Roy, from Calcutta University. Palash was a trusted colleague, another optical physicist whom he had known for years.
After exchanging quick pleasantries, Avi explained carefully, keeping his voice steady despite his puzzlement. Palash listened intently, then immediately offered to help. “Bring those pigments from your storeroom tomorrow,” Palash said thoughtfully. “We will run some tests.”
The next morning, Avi arrived early at Palash’s lab in Kolkata, carrying the carefully preserved pigments from his family’s storeroom. Together they began spectral analyses, studying how each pigment scattered and reflected different wavelengths of light. The equipment showed clear peaks, wavelengths precisely measured and documented. Yet Avi found his own eyes struggling slightly to perceive some hues clearly — certain colors seemed muted, oddly weak, not matching the vividness of the recorded spectral data.
Beside him, Palash nodded slowly, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Interesting,” he said quietly. “These wavelengths appear strong, Avi, just as we would expect. But your visual sensitivity to them seems noticeably lower than mine, or your uncle’s generation.”
Avi felt a quiet thrill of scientific curiosity stir within him, tinged with a strange sense of unease. Had something quietly changed in human vision itself, something subtle yet profound? He realized then that the mystery he had sensed since landing might lie deeper than the modern buildings or familiar landscapes. Perhaps, he thought, it lay quietly waiting within their very perception of the colors themselves.
5. Scattering
Avi stood by the window in Palash’s laboratory, silently looking out at the changed city skyline. Palash came up beside him, following his gaze. For a moment neither spoke. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight fell softly across buildings of steel and glass, smoothing everything into a gentle, golden-grey blur.
“It used to feel different,” Palash finally said, breaking the spell. “Twenty years ago Kolkata was full of life, remember? Street vendors selling cha-biscuits or phuchka at every corner, painted advertisements splashed across buses and trams, little neighborhoods bustling with tea stalls and tiny shops. It all vanished so quietly, we hardly noticed.”
Avi nodded slowly, a faint ache in his chest. “It feels familiar, somehow. Life back in Chicago is not much different. The same tall buildings, the same chain cafés, the same grey colors everywhere. It is like the whole world conspired and decided on the same style of living.”
Palash smiled wryly. “Globalization at work, I suppose. Or perhaps, something deeper? I don’t know, but it feels like even the way we see the world itself, has changed.”
Avi glanced thoughtfully at Palash. “Exactly what worries me. Those grey patches in the Holi photos — they were not just faded colors. Our tests showed strong, clear wavelengths, yet our eyes cannot fully perceive them. It is unsettling.”
“Which is why,” Palash said stepping toward his workstation, “we should test this more systematically.”
Over the next few days, Avi and Palash moved carefully through Krishnapur, conducting simple but meticulous vision tests on villagers from different age groups. With patient precision, they documented how clearly each individual could perceive various shades and wavelengths. Elderly villagers confidently identified colors, describing subtle hues vividly and accurately. Yet younger adults paused longer, hesitating as they named colors, their descriptions uncertain or incomplete, sometimes even bafflingly incorrect. The children’s responses were even more troubling, consistently struggling with shades that elders recognized instantly.
After collecting sufficient data, Avi and Palash carefully reviewed the results. “Look at this,” Palash muttered, indicating the charts. “Cone sensitivity for these wavelengths is significantly weaker among younger groups. They physically cannot see colors their grandparents easily identify.”
Avi stared at the data, feeling unease deepen within him. “Why would human eyes adapt away from seeing certain colors? And why now?”
Palash drew out another chart from a recent environmental study. “The atmosphere itself has quietly changed over these decades,” he explained. “Pollution, aerosolized pollutants, microplastics — all gradually increasing. The particulate matter changes how sunlight scatters through the atmosphere. Remember Rayleigh scattering? Changing atmosphere may be reshaping the color wavelengths reaching our eyes.”
Avi’s gaze returned thoughtfully toward the window. “You are suggesting the colors themselves have quietly shifted by the time they reach our eyes?”
Palash nodded slowly. “That’s one possibility. Or perhaps, the wavelengths still exist, but our perception of them has subtly diminished. Over generations, these small changes have accumulated, slowly altering human vision. Perhaps Rohit and others of his age truly see a world less colorful than the one we once knew.”
Avi stood quietly beside his friend, absorbing this thought. Had humanity unknowingly begun adapting to a world shaped more by pollution and technology than by nature? He remembered clearly the dullness he sensed upon landing, the quiet monochrome taking over familiar places. A kind of monochrome he was used to seeing in the farway continent which he now called home.
Looking again at their meticulous records, Avi felt a gentle resolve forming within him. He needed answers, not only scientifically, but also personally. Perhaps by understanding the quiet transformation happening within human vision, he could finally find a way to reclaim those missing colors. Not only for himself, but for Rohit and the generations that would follow!
(To be Continued in next week’s Qurious Quills publication)
