He woke up. The train had come to a stop. He could hear the engine pant.
"Baba? The train, it stopped."She didn't ask.
"Yes."
"Where is it? Station?"
He tried to look outside. Fog. Mist. And the clouds. Made it tough to understand what part of the day they were exactly in.
"Bujhte parchhi na re. Can't see anything outside."
"Oh."
Quiet again. Now he could only hear the engine outside. And the rain.
He turned around to look at her. Seventeen. Not exactly the best age to leave your parents, your siblings, and go away into a far off land. He'd always been rather protective about her. Youngest of the lot after all. He looked away.
"Wanna have some water?"
"No. Beshi khele toilet pabe, tahole beshi norachora korte hobe"
"Lazy Bum, you!" He said. She grinned stupidly.
Was she trying to act tough? Maybe keep a straight face? Kids these days, they do grow up fast.
He looked at her again. She'd got thin. The paleness added a sweet timidness to her. And that pink hoody. She was still a kid. A kid who needed her family.
"Whatcha looking at?"
"You've grown up a lot, you realise that?"
"Isn't that natural, baba? I mean, kids grow up, they have to leave. It's all a very natural process"
But did it need to be this way, he thought.
"Yes. Right you are. Now eat this."
"Noooo!" Okay, she still was a kid. He'd got sure with that tone of her. He tried to smile inside, didn't really happen though.
"Come on, you need to eat. Then you'll have to take your medicines."
She was sick. And he was taking her to a hill station, to his aunt's home. The doctors had advised a vacation for her.
"Uff baba! Do you really think these tablets will let me live a few days longer? Will stop me from dying? Do you seriously believe so? Tumio na, shotti!"
She was talking with a mock seriousness. He knew, she was fighting. Yeah, she'd grown up.
"Don't talk rubbish. Ke shekhalo eshob tomay? Beshi peke gechho?" He tried to imitate her tone. Sounded so false.
"Uff, jaliyo na to!" She maintained that tone. But he couldn't speak.
Quiet again. Why wasn't the train moving yet? The animalistic pant of the engine was getting on his nerve now. He tried to look outside. Tall trees. Very tall. But there wasn't any shadow. All of them seemed to be godlike, without a shadow.
"Dukhho pele?" She asked.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. That kid, that kid who used to grab his hand tightly while crossing the road, even a few years ago. That kid, who used to run up to the terrace, dragging him behind, to dance in the rain. That kid, his daughter, was asking whether he was sad.
"Duur pagli. Oto moja korchhilam. But seriously, ebar oshudh ta kheye nao."
"You old people na. Give me."
He handed over the medicines. She would take them by herself, as long as she could. The hoody slipped over from over head. He looked away. He couldn't look at her. So ugly, so hairless. He knew he had to be strong, he was the father. And it was his duty to protect his family. But he couldn't. This one, the littlest of the lot, was leaving him. It's almost like he's running behind a train, trying to catch it, trying to just get in the last compartment somehow. He knows, he won't be able to catch it. He still keeps running, till maybe the day the platform will get over. And then he won't be left anymore ground to run on. And the train will have left.
She arranged the hoody back, and looked up to him. She held his hand.
"Ki hoyechhe? Thik achho?" He had to be strong. He just couldn't cry yet. Not yet.
"Yeah. Thik-i toh... thik-i toh a-ach-chhi" He couldn't take it anymore.
He sat on the dirty, unwashed, floor of the Indian Railways Train, and wept. He cried on. What he didn't observe was, she slowly stood up, wobbly, like a toddler. And she held his head to her stomach, and caressed his hair, and made sounds which resembled a lullaby. She was trying to calm him down.
"Kandchho keno boka'r moton? Why the hell are you crying baba? Everything's gonna be fine. It's just a matter of few days, na. Thik hoye gelei to I'm coming back to you. And once I'm alright, we can start our joint study of music. And tumi amay abar purono Kolkata ghorabe. Remember College Street baba? And amra abar shobai mile chhuti'r shomoy berate jabo, pahare, shomudre. Shobshomoy maa ar amrai to thik kori kothay jabo, this time, it'll be your decision. Just think baba, a matter of few days only!"
He could hint the glimmer of hope in her voice for just a fraction of a second maybe. She believed. He needed her to cry now. He needed her to break down. Only by crying could she save him, could make him the father again, and not the child anymore. But she didn't cry, and that moment passed. He understood. And he surrendered to her wholly this time. No more chances left for him. She held his head in her arms, and caressed like a mother soothing her child to sleep.
She was seventeen, and she wasn't going to be eighteen, yet it was he who needed her. She'd outgrown him a long time back. He just never comprehended it clearly, till now.
The train started moving.
"Baba? The train, it stopped."She didn't ask.
"Yes."
"Where is it? Station?"
He tried to look outside. Fog. Mist. And the clouds. Made it tough to understand what part of the day they were exactly in.
"Bujhte parchhi na re. Can't see anything outside."
"Oh."
Quiet again. Now he could only hear the engine outside. And the rain.
He turned around to look at her. Seventeen. Not exactly the best age to leave your parents, your siblings, and go away into a far off land. He'd always been rather protective about her. Youngest of the lot after all. He looked away.
"Wanna have some water?"
"No. Beshi khele toilet pabe, tahole beshi norachora korte hobe"
"Lazy Bum, you!" He said. She grinned stupidly.
Was she trying to act tough? Maybe keep a straight face? Kids these days, they do grow up fast.
He looked at her again. She'd got thin. The paleness added a sweet timidness to her. And that pink hoody. She was still a kid. A kid who needed her family.
"Whatcha looking at?"
"You've grown up a lot, you realise that?"
"Isn't that natural, baba? I mean, kids grow up, they have to leave. It's all a very natural process"
But did it need to be this way, he thought.
"Yes. Right you are. Now eat this."
"Noooo!" Okay, she still was a kid. He'd got sure with that tone of her. He tried to smile inside, didn't really happen though.
"Come on, you need to eat. Then you'll have to take your medicines."
She was sick. And he was taking her to a hill station, to his aunt's home. The doctors had advised a vacation for her.
"Uff baba! Do you really think these tablets will let me live a few days longer? Will stop me from dying? Do you seriously believe so? Tumio na, shotti!"
She was talking with a mock seriousness. He knew, she was fighting. Yeah, she'd grown up.
"Don't talk rubbish. Ke shekhalo eshob tomay? Beshi peke gechho?" He tried to imitate her tone. Sounded so false.
"Uff, jaliyo na to!" She maintained that tone. But he couldn't speak.
Quiet again. Why wasn't the train moving yet? The animalistic pant of the engine was getting on his nerve now. He tried to look outside. Tall trees. Very tall. But there wasn't any shadow. All of them seemed to be godlike, without a shadow.
"Dukhho pele?" She asked.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. That kid, that kid who used to grab his hand tightly while crossing the road, even a few years ago. That kid, who used to run up to the terrace, dragging him behind, to dance in the rain. That kid, his daughter, was asking whether he was sad.
"Duur pagli. Oto moja korchhilam. But seriously, ebar oshudh ta kheye nao."
"You old people na. Give me."
He handed over the medicines. She would take them by herself, as long as she could. The hoody slipped over from over head. He looked away. He couldn't look at her. So ugly, so hairless. He knew he had to be strong, he was the father. And it was his duty to protect his family. But he couldn't. This one, the littlest of the lot, was leaving him. It's almost like he's running behind a train, trying to catch it, trying to just get in the last compartment somehow. He knows, he won't be able to catch it. He still keeps running, till maybe the day the platform will get over. And then he won't be left anymore ground to run on. And the train will have left.
She arranged the hoody back, and looked up to him. She held his hand.
"Ki hoyechhe? Thik achho?" He had to be strong. He just couldn't cry yet. Not yet.
"Yeah. Thik-i toh... thik-i toh a-ach-chhi" He couldn't take it anymore.
He sat on the dirty, unwashed, floor of the Indian Railways Train, and wept. He cried on. What he didn't observe was, she slowly stood up, wobbly, like a toddler. And she held his head to her stomach, and caressed his hair, and made sounds which resembled a lullaby. She was trying to calm him down.
"Kandchho keno boka'r moton? Why the hell are you crying baba? Everything's gonna be fine. It's just a matter of few days, na. Thik hoye gelei to I'm coming back to you. And once I'm alright, we can start our joint study of music. And tumi amay abar purono Kolkata ghorabe. Remember College Street baba? And amra abar shobai mile chhuti'r shomoy berate jabo, pahare, shomudre. Shobshomoy maa ar amrai to thik kori kothay jabo, this time, it'll be your decision. Just think baba, a matter of few days only!"
He could hint the glimmer of hope in her voice for just a fraction of a second maybe. She believed. He needed her to cry now. He needed her to break down. Only by crying could she save him, could make him the father again, and not the child anymore. But she didn't cry, and that moment passed. He understood. And he surrendered to her wholly this time. No more chances left for him. She held his head in her arms, and caressed like a mother soothing her child to sleep.
She was seventeen, and she wasn't going to be eighteen, yet it was he who needed her. She'd outgrown him a long time back. He just never comprehended it clearly, till now.
The train started moving.
No comments:
Post a Comment