At twilight, the memory softens when the sky turns a deep orange and the crescent moon quietly takes its place. A boy steps forward with a flower, hesitant and tender as the girl crowned in blossoms, listens with silence, her eyes steady, her hands still. The air is hushed, like the pause between two verses of a folk song. Manoj Dutta recalls this from his own youth, far from the city’s noise when love was silent, gestures gentle, and everything glowed under that fading rural light he still carries within his art.