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The rhythmic hum of the train wheels against the tracks filled the otherwise quiet compartment, a sound both comforting and monotonous. Arun sat by the window, staring at the blurred landscape speeding past. It had been five long years since he last visited his hometown. And yet, with every passing mile, the memories he had tried so hard to bury began to resurface—each one more vivid than the last.
The train was nearly empty, save for a few passengers scattered across the compartment. A family sat two rows ahead, a little boy pressing his nose to the window, pointing excitedly at passing trees and rivers. Arun smiled faintly at the boy’s excitement, remembering a time when he had been that young, that carefree.
But today, Arun wasn’t returning home for a joyous occasion. His Sister’s voice still echoed in his ears from the phone call the day before: “ Father isn’t doing well, Arun. You should come home.” There had been a silence between them after that—one too heavy for words. He hadn’t responded with the immediate “I’ll be there,” as one might expect from a son. Instead, he had sat with the phone in his hand, paralyzed by the weight of everything that had gone unsaid between him and his father.
Arun’s father, Kishore, had always been a man of few words, but those few words often carried the weight of a command. Growing up, Arun had felt stifled under his father’s strictness. There were never any open displays of affection or words of encouragement—just expectations, rigid and unwavering. Arun had spent his youth trying to meet those expectations, but nothing was ever enough. The final straw had come five years ago when Arun announced he was moving to the city to pursue a career in art.
“You’re wasting your life,” his father had said, the disappointment in his voice cutting deeper than any words of anger could have. Arun had left that night, angry and hurt, determined to carve out his own path without his father’s approval.
And now, after all these years, Arun was returning—not as the successful artist he had hoped to be, but as a man unsure of where he stood in his father’s eyes. The anger he had felt back then had dulled over time, replaced by an emptiness that he couldn’t quite shake. Would his father even want to see him now, after everything that had happened?
The train rattled on, winding its way through fields and hills, each passing village bringing Arun closer to the small town where he had grown up. He could already picture the familiar streets, the old school building, the tea stalls where he had spent countless afternoons with his friends. And then there was the house—the one place that held both the happiest and most painful memories of his life.
Arun’s mind drifted back to his childhood. His father had always been a hard worker, a man who believed in discipline and order. He had been a respected figure in the town, known for his integrity and fairness. But at home, he had been distant, especially after Arun’s mother fell ill when Arun was in his teens. Kishore had thrown himself into work, rarely expressing his grief or vulnerability. Arun had been left to fend for himself emotionally, grappling with the loss of his mother and the growing chasm between him and his father.
The train slowed as it approached a station, jolting Arun back to the present. A few more passengers boarded, filling the compartment with a brief flurry of noise and movement. Arun checked his phone—no new messages. His sister, Meera, had promised to keep him updated on their father’s condition, but there had been no word since yesterday. The silence gnawed at him, heightening his sense of unease.( TO BE CONTINUED)
Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati , Assam , India
15/10/2024
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