The Last Ride Home( Part -II)

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As the train continued on its journey, Arun found himself thinking about Meera. She had stayed behind after their mother’s death, taking care of their father and the house while Arun chased his dreams in the city. Meera had always been the peacekeeper between Arun and their father, her calm presence often diffusing the tension that arose between them. He wondered how she had managed all these years, living under the same roof as their father, shouldering the responsibilities that he had so easily walked away from.

Guilt tightened its grip on his chest. He had never once stopped to consider what Meera had gone through, how lonely it must have been for her. She had called him a few times over the years, asking him to come home, but he had always found an excuse. There was always a gallery opening, a new project, something more important than facing the unresolved pain that awaited him at home.

But now, there was no avoiding it. His father was dying, and this would likely be the last chance to make things right. Or at least, to try.

The sun had begun to set by the time the train reached Arun’s stop. He stepped onto the platform, his heart pounding in his chest. The town looked much the same as he remembered, though there was a quiet stillness to it now, as if time had slowed in his absence. He slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way to the taxi stand, giving the driver his father’s address.

The drive through town felt surreal. Familiar landmarks flashed by—the old bakery where he and Meera had bought sweets as children, the park where his father used to take them on weekends. Arun’s stomach twisted with a mixture of nostalgia and dread. He wasn’t ready for this, but there was no turning back now.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the house, Arun hesitated for a moment, staring at the faded blue door. It looked smaller than he remembered, the paint chipped and weathered by time. The garden, once meticulously maintained by his father, was overgrown with weeds. Arun took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him.

Meera opened the door before he could knock, her face a mixture of relief and sadness. “You came,” she said softly, pulling him into a hug. He could feel the tension in her body, the weight of everything she had been carrying on her own.

“How is he?” Arun asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Meera stepped back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Not good. The doctors don’t think he has much time left.”

Arun nodded, his throat tight. He followed Meera into the house, the familiar smell of incense and old wood hitting him like a wave. The living room was quiet, dimly lit by a single lamp in the corner. And there, lying in the bed that had been set up near the window, was his father.

Kishore looked smaller than Arun remembered, his once strong frame now frail and fragile. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths. Arun stood frozen in the doorway, his feet unable to move. This was the man who had shaped his entire life—the man who had both guided and haunted him. And now, in the face of death, Arun didn’t know how to feel.

Meera touched his arm gently. “Go to him,” she whispered. “He’s been asking for you.”

Arun’s heart clenched at those words. Asking for me? After all these years of silence, his father had been asking for him? He swallowed hard and stepped closer to the bed, his eyes fixed on the man who had once seemed so invincible.

“Dad,” he said softly, his voice trembling.

Kishore’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, they were clouded with confusion. But then, recognition dawned, and a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Arun,” he whispered, his voice weak but filled with something Arun hadn’t expected—relief.

Arun sank to his knees beside the bed, his eyes stinging with tears. “I’m here, Dad.”

There were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions he had wanted to ask for years. But in that moment, none of it seemed to matter. The anger, the resentment, the distance—it all melted away as he looked into his father’s tired eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Arun whispered, his voice breaking.

Kishore’s hand, weak and trembling, reached out to touch Arun’s. “No, son,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have… I should have told you… how proud I was. I always was.”

Arun’s breath caught in his throat. He had spent his whole life searching for those words, never believing he would hear them. And now, as his father’s life slipped away, they were finally spoken.

For the first time in years, Arun felt a sense of peace settle over him. He took his father’s hand in his, holding it tightly, as if the strength of his grip could keep his father here just a little while longer.

They sat in silence, the weight of unspoken apologies hanging in the air. But for now, it was enough. They were together, and in this final moment, that was all that mattered.

The last ride home had brought Arun back not just to his father, but to the parts of himself he had long forgotten. And as the night settled in, he realized that sometimes, coming home was the hardest, but most necessary, journey of all.(END)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA 

17/10/2024