© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

The air inside the house buzzed with excitement as the family reunion drew near. Laughter echoed through the hallways, children ran up and down the stairs, and the aroma of spices and freshly cooked food wafted from the kitchen. The dining table, adorned with a crisp white cloth, was set for a celebration, plates gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier. But one chair remained empty, tucked neatly in its usual place at the head of the table. The chair that once belonged to the family’s late grandmother, Nani.

It had been nearly a year since she passed, but her absence still felt sharp, like the edges of a forgotten memory that came rushing back when least expected. Every family member who passed by the chair paused, just for a moment, as if expecting to see her sitting there, smiling her gentle smile, presiding over the chaos of the gathering like the unspoken matriarch she had always been.

For this family, the annual gathering had been a tradition that Nani had nurtured for decades. It started as a modest get-together, but over the years, it became a day that everyone looked forward to, a day marked in bold on their calendars. No one dared to miss it, for fear of facing Nani’s disappointment. And even though she was no longer here, her presence felt undeniable, like the lingering scent of jasmine from her favourite shawl, draped over the armrest of her chair.

Ravi, the eldest of Nani’s grandchildren, stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. He had been dreading this day, unsure of how the family would handle her absence, unsure of how he would handle it. Nani had always been the one who grounded him. As a child, he would sit by her side, listening to her stories about their ancestral village, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she spoke of simpler times. She had a way of making the past feel alive, as though it were just waiting for them to return.

But now, without her, the room felt different. It wasn’t just the empty chair—it was the emptiness that seemed to settle in the corners of the room, a silent witness to the spaces she had once filled.

His thoughts drifted back to the last conversation he had with her, one of those quiet moments when they had both sat together on the veranda, the cool evening breeze rustling the trees. “Ravi, beta,” she had said, “Family is like a tree. Its roots are the elders who give us strength, its branches are the younger ones who reach out to the future. But all of us, no matter how far we grow, are part of the same tree.”

Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India 

21/10/24

SLIDE -16

© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

As she fumbled with the fabric, Suman’s mind wandered back to the day everything had changed. It had been sudden—her mother’s illness had crept in like a thief in the night, stealing her vitality before anyone could fully comprehend what was happening. A month of hospital visits, treatments, and the inevitable conversation with the doctors had left the family reeling. Suman had been in the middle of her final year of university, hundreds of miles away, when her father called to tell her that her mother was gone.

Guilt had weighed heavily on her since that day—guilt for not being there, for not appreciating her mother enough, for not knowing how to help her father and brother through their grief. She had thrown herself into her studies, into anything that could distract her from the emptiness that had settled in her chest. But now, as she stood in her mother’s room, she couldn’t escape the reality any longer. Her mother was gone, and Suman was left to figure out how to fill the void she had left behind.

Suman looked at herself in the mirror again, her reflection blurry through the tears she hadn’t realized were falling. The woman looking back at her seemed older, wiser in a way that didn’t come from experience but from loss. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the weight of the saree settle around her like a mantle of responsibility.

The door creaked open, and Suman turned to see her younger brother, Rahul, standing in the doorway. He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader. Grief had changed him too, though he rarely spoke about their mother. He had retreated into his own world since her death, spending more time with his friends and less time at home.

“Are you… wearing mom’s saree?” Rahul asked, his voice soft, unsure.

Suman nodded, unsure how to explain why she had put it on in the first place. “I don’t know… it just felt like the right thing to do,” she said, her voice shaky. “I miss her.”

Rahul stepped into the room, his eyes lingering on the saree. “I miss her too,” he said quietly. He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. “Sometimes, I think about all the things I never got to say to her. I didn’t even thank her for everything she did for us.”

Suman sat down beside him, the saree rustling softly as she moved. “I feel the same way. There’s so much I didn’t understand about her until now. It’s like, now that she’s gone, I’m finally starting to see her as a person, not just… mom.”

Rahul nodded, his eyes still focused on the floor. “Do you think she was happy? I mean, really happy?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded with the weight of their mother’s sacrifices. Suman thought about it for a moment, trying to piece together the puzzle of her mother’s life. “I think she found happiness in ways we didn’t always see,” she said slowly. “She loved us, and she loved taking care of us. But… maybe there were things she wanted that she never got to do.”

Rahul looked up at her, his eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored her own. “I wish we could have known her better. Really known her.”

The two siblings sat in silence for a while, the quiet of the house pressing in on them. Suman’s mind was racing with thoughts of her mother, of the life she had lived, the dreams she might have had. She had always seen her mother through the lens of her own rebellion—had always assumed that her mother’s life was small, confined by tradition and family expectations. But now, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe her mother had found a different kind of freedom, one that Suman was only beginning to understand.

Suman stood up and walked over to the dresser, picking up a small photo frame. It was a picture of her mother, smiling brightly at the camera, her eyes crinkled with laughter. Suman had never noticed how young her mother looked in that photo, how alive she seemed. She wondered what her mother had been thinking when that picture was taken, what dreams she had held in her heart.

She turned back to Rahul, holding the frame in her hands. “I think she was happy, in her own way. But maybe we can honor her by living the life she didn’t get to—by chasing our dreams, but also by appreciating the simple things that she loved.”

Rahul nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. I think she’d like that.”

Later that evening, as Suman helped her father with dinner, she found herself slipping into the rhythm of her mother’s routines—cutting the vegetables the way her mother had taught her, stirring the dal with the same care. Her father watched her quietly, his face etched with lines of grief and weariness. He hadn’t spoken much since Aarti’s death, but tonight, as they sat down to eat, he broke the silence.

“You look like her, you know,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Wearing that saree… for a moment, I thought…”

Suman looked at him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. “I miss her, Dad,” she said softly. “But I’m trying to understand her more now. I think… I think we all are.”

Her father nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “She was the heart of this family,” he said quietly. “But now, we have to learn how to carry on without her.”

Suman reached across the table, taking her father’s hand in hers. “We will. We’ll figure it out, together.”

In that moment, Suman realized that stepping into her mother’s shoes didn’t mean becoming her mother. It meant honoring her legacy, carrying forward the love and strength that Aarti had poured into their lives, and finding her own path forward.

As she looked around the table at her family, Suman felt a quiet sense of resolve settle over her. They would carry on, just as her mother had always taught them. And in doing so, they would keep her memory alive, not just in the saree she wore, but in the love and resilience they have .

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH 

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA

19/10/2024

SLIDE – 16

(c) All right reserved

© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

As she fumbled with the fabric, Suman’s mind wandered back to the day everything had changed. It had been sudden—her mother’s illness had crept in like a thief in the night, stealing her vitality before anyone could fully comprehend what was happening. A month of hospital visits, treatments, and the inevitable conversation with the doctors had left the family reeling. Suman had been in the middle of her final year of university, hundreds of miles away, when her father called to tell her that her mother was gone.

Guilt had weighed heavily on her since that day—guilt for not being there, for not appreciating her mother enough, for not knowing how to help her father and brother through their grief. She had thrown herself into her studies, into anything that could distract her from the emptiness that had settled in her chest. But now, as she stood in her mother’s room, she couldn’t escape the reality any longer. Her mother was gone, and Suman was left to figure out how to fill the void she had left behind.

Suman looked at herself in the mirror again, her reflection blurry through the tears she hadn’t realized were falling. The woman looking back at her seemed older, wiser in a way that didn’t come from experience but from loss. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the weight of the saree settle around her like a mantle of responsibility.

The door creaked open, and Suman turned to see her younger brother, Rahul, standing in the doorway. He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader. Grief had changed him too, though he rarely spoke about their mother. He had retreated into his own world since her death, spending more time with his friends and less time at home.

“Are you… wearing mom’s saree?” Rahul asked, his voice soft, unsure.

Suman nodded, unsure how to explain why she had put it on in the first place. “I don’t know… it just felt like the right thing to do,” she said, her voice shaky. “I miss her.”

Rahul stepped into the room, his eyes lingering on the saree. “I miss her too,” he said quietly. He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. “Sometimes, I think about all the things I never got to say to her. I didn’t even thank her for everything she did for us.”

Suman sat down beside him, the saree rustling softly as she moved. “I feel the same way. There’s so much I didn’t understand about her until now. It’s like, now that she’s gone, I’m finally starting to see her as a person, not just… mom.”

Rahul nodded, his eyes still focused on the floor. “Do you think she was happy? I mean, really happy?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded with the weight of their mother’s sacrifices. Suman thought about it for a moment, trying to piece together the puzzle of her mother’s life. “I think she found happiness in ways we didn’t always see,” she said slowly. “She loved us, and she loved taking care of us. But… maybe there were things she wanted that she never got to do.”

Rahul looked up at her, his eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored her own. “I wish we could have known her better. Really known her.”

The two siblings sat in silence for a while, the quiet of the house pressing in on them. Suman’s mind was racing with thoughts of her mother, of the life she had lived, the dreams she might have had. She had always seen her mother through the lens of her own rebellion—had always assumed that her mother’s life was small, confined by tradition and family expectations. But now, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe her mother had found a different kind of freedom, one that Suman was only beginning to understand.

Suman stood up and walked over to the dresser, picking up a small photo frame. It was a picture of her mother, smiling brightly at the camera, her eyes crinkled with laughter. Suman had never noticed how young her mother looked in that photo, how alive she seemed. She wondered what her mother had been thinking when that picture was taken, what dreams she had held in her heart.

She turned back to Rahul, holding the frame in her hands. “I think she was happy, in her own way. But maybe we can honor her by living the life she didn’t get to—by chasing our dreams, but also by appreciating the simple things that she loved.”

Rahul nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. I think she’d like that.”

Later that evening, as Suman helped her father with dinner, she found herself slipping into the rhythm of her mother’s routines—cutting the vegetables the way her mother had taught her, stirring the dal with the same care. Her father watched her quietly, his face etched with lines of grief and weariness. He hadn’t spoken much since Aarti’s death, but tonight, as they sat down to eat, he broke the silence.

“You look like her, you know,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Wearing that saree… for a moment, I thought…”

Suman looked at him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. “I miss her, Dad,” she said softly. “But I’m trying to understand her more now. I think… I think we all are.”

Her father nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “She was the heart of this family,” he said quietly. “But now, we have to learn how to carry on without her.”

Suman reached across the table, taking her father’s hand in hers. “We will. We’ll figure it out, together.”

In that moment, Suman realized that stepping into her mother’s shoes didn’t mean becoming her mother. It meant honoring her legacy, carrying forward the love and strength that Aarti had poured into their lives, and finding her own path forward.

As she looked around the table at her family, Suman felt a quiet sense of resolve settle over her. They would carry on, just as her mother had always taught them. And in doing so, they would keep her memory alive, not just in the saree she wore, but in the love and resilience they have .

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH 

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA

19/10/2024

© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

Suman stared at her mother’s saree, neatly folded on the edge of the bed. It was one of those rare mornings when the house was quiet, her father still at work, and her brother out with friends. The sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting a golden glow across the small bedroom. She hadn’t set foot in this room since her mother had passed, but today, something pulled her in—an invisible force that had been building since the day she watched her mother take her last breath.

It had been six months, but the house still felt hollow without her. Everywhere Suman looked, there were traces of her mother—the old, half-finished knitting project by the window, her favorite teacup on the kitchen shelf, the lingering scent of jasmine from her perfume. And now, this saree, neatly folded as if waiting for its owner to return.

Suman wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to pick it up, but her fingers brushed the soft fabric as though they were drawn to it. The texture was familiar, comforting. She remembered watching her mother wear it on special occasions—her birthday, a family wedding, or the festivals her mother loved so much. The saree was simple, cream-colored with a gold border, nothing flashy. Yet it was distinctly her mother’s style—graceful, elegant, and full of understated beauty.

Her breath caught in her throat as she held it up against her body, the fabric brushing against her skin. In that moment, she could almost feel her mother’s presence in the room, watching her. Suman turned toward the mirror, letting her gaze linger on her reflection. The saree looked different on her, unfamiliar, but somehow, it fit—both physically and emotionally. It felt as if, for the first time in months, she was closer to understanding the woman her mother had been.

Suman’s mother, Aarti, had always been the glue that held the family together. She was the first one up in the morning, ensuring breakfast was ready before everyone else stirred. She was the one who made sure her husband’s shirts were ironed, her children’s school uniforms clean and pressed, the groceries stocked, and the kitchen filled with the aroma of home-cooked meals. Aarti was the backbone, the silent force that everyone relied on but rarely acknowledged.

Suman had admired her mother, but she hadn’t understood her. As a teenager, Suman had found her mother’s devotion to their family both admirable and confining. Why didn’t she ever ask for more? Why didn’t she ever do something for herself? While Suman had pushed against the traditional expectations placed on her—choosing to pursue her studies and dreams in the city—her mother had remained the dutiful wife and mother, rooted in her role.

Now, standing in her mother’s room, holding her mother’s saree, Suman wondered if she had been wrong all along. Had she underestimated the depth of her mother’s life, the quiet strength it took to keep everything running smoothly?

Suman draped the saree around herself, trying to remember the way her mother had always done it with such ease. The pleats never seemed to fall quite right when she attempted it. But today, it felt important to try—to step into her mother’s shoes, even if only for a moment. She moved toward the dresser, searching for a pin to secure the pallu, just like her mother always did.( TO BE CONTINUED)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH 

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA

18/10/2024

Slide -15

© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

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

Slide -14