Odia Kohinoor Calendar 1997 | AUTHENTIC ✦ |

And that is what they did.

“Let it stay,” he said, staring at the faded print. Guruvar. Purnima.

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.”

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: . odia kohinoor calendar 1997

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.

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:

“Bapa,” Gouri whispered, tugging his shirt. “Why don’t you want to change it?” And that is what they did

His voice cracked. “Next year, you’ll be older. Your brother will walk. Your mother will take the morning shift at the hospital. The terrace will be locked because of the new water tank. Nothing will be the same.”

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.

She pressed the calendar to her heart, and for the first time in twenty-two years, she wept—not because the year had ended, but because it had never really left. Purnima

Every morning, Gouri’s father would tear off the previous day before his first sip of tea. He did it slowly, respectfully, as if removing a layer of time itself. But today—December 31st—he did not.

For years after, the Odia Kohinoor Calendar 1997 hung in that kitchen—yellowed, torn at one corner, its December leaf still intact. Visitors would ask, “Why is last year’s calendar still there?” And Gouri’s father would just smile and say, “Some years don’t end. They just become the roof over the years that follow.”