Odia Kohinoor Calendar 1997 -

In the corner of Gouri’s kitchen, right next to the clay water pot, hung the Odia Kohinoor Calendar for 1997. Its top was curled from the steam of morning tea, and the pin that held it to the nail had rusted into a brown sun. The calendar’s art showed Lord Jagannath in the center, flanked by Balabhadra and Subhadra, their faces white, blue, and yellow against a crimson sky. Below them, in neat block letters, read: Śrī Kohinoor Calendar & Stationery, Cuttack.

In 2019, when they finally sold the house, Gouri—now a woman with grey in her hair—carefully removed the calendar. The December 31st leaf fluttered and fell. Behind it, written on the wall in fading blue ink, was her father’s handwriting:

He nodded. The new calendar—Odia Kohinoor 1998—lay wrapped in old newspaper on the dining table. Its first page showed the Sun Temple. But his eyes kept returning to the 1997 leaf. odia kohinoor calendar 1997

“We lived here. We loved here. 1997, don’t forget us.”

“Let it stay,” he said, staring at the faded print. Guruvar. Purnima. In the corner of Gouri’s kitchen, right next

Gouri’s mother had bought it for nine rupees from the Badabazar wholesale market. That was in January. Now, in the last week of December, only one leaf remained: .

“Bapa,” Gouri whispered, tugging his shirt. “Why don’t you want to change it?” Below them, in neat block letters, read: Śrī

Gouri didn’t fully understand. But she reached up, pressed her small palm against the December 31st square, and said, “Then let’s not tear it, Bapa. Let’s fold the new calendar in half and hang it below. That way, 1997 can stay on top forever.”