The Homecoming

As the sun broke through the night beyond the faraway mountains and its crimson rays kissed the deep verdure of the foothills, Riddhiman felt a new dawn emerging within him. The beaming headlights that were guiding them as they sped through the night were no longer necessary. Like a sole caravan through the desert, the blue Honda City was making its way through a lonely yet enchanting tea estate. In the morning light, the whole landscape looked surreal and mesmerizing to Riddhiman—for a moment he could forget his anxiety and marvel at the beauty that lay around him, lamenting as he had done on many previous occasions, the fact that he didn’t come here at least once every year. Dooars, as the region was often called, indeed opened the doors to his senses. By now they had entered a small village right outside the tea estate. A distinct burning smell greeted them followed by the sight of a few torched shacks and roadside shops. They had seen a few of those during their journey. And a couple of mobs. But all seemed very quiet now. A little too quiet perhaps.

“Driverji, how far are we?”, Riddhiman asked.

“Close. We’ll see how far we can go”. The driver’s eyes were weary but alert.

A little village nested in the foothills—complete with farmlands, tea gardens and an idyllic stream flowing by—that’s where they were going. A little part of him still wanted to turn back. There may be other fires burning as they got closer—bigger, more dangerous ones. In fact, he felt like he was diving right into a boiling cauldron. Riddhiman looked out towards the sun—he liked staring at the sun at dawn or dusk. It was mellow and kind and didn’t blind his eyes. He realized he could still make out some stars in the clear sky—those that would disappear as the sun got brighter in the sky. Does too much light blind you? , he thought. Perhaps it does.

A couple of days earlier, when he was summoned to go to Siliguri to meet a client, Riddhiman didn’t expect it to be too different from his regular official visits. There was a slight uneasiness about going back to the Dooars, but he never let it dominate his thinking. A proposed bridge across the Mahananda in Koch Behar had caught the attention of the Indo-German engineering firm he worked for. Generally, he preferred delegating the small town meetings and visits to his juniors—taking advantage of the fact that he was the executive engineer. This time he himself had volunteered to go. Was he ready to go back to the Dooars again? He didn’t know. Perhaps it was some kind of validation—the egoist within him wanted to prove to himself that he could go back to the Dooars and do his job and not be impeded by thoughts of what had transpired when he last visited this region three years ago. Or perhaps, he just wanted to give himself another chance to be drawn towards that enigmatic woman and the tiny little village she had made her own. Perhaps subconsciously, he wanted to give in.

As soon as he came out through the gates of Bagdogra airport, he could feel the clean air inside his nostrils. And the slight chill in the air that you inevitably associate with being close to the mountains. Riddhiman felt at ease. Perhaps he was being unduly apprehensive—after all, it had been a long time. Three years—a lot of water under the bridge. It was a clear day—you could see far into the horizon and make out the ominous shadows of the mountains towards the north. Mountains that reminded him of the long, winding roads, clouds hanging low, sometimes intermingling with the fog and rolling onto the road. And the gushing streams of water, running through the mountains—cutting deep gorges and forging their way through. Once or twice in life, you meet people—who are like these free flowing mountain streams and they chisel your dreams that you thought were set in stone into new, unprecedented shapes. The question is, what do you do then? Do you build a dam and divert the stream or do you jump in, like the adventurous canoer in search of unexplored waters?

The meeting went well. His clients looked happy with the pitch he’d made and seemed pretty impressed by his technical knowhow. The afternoon sun appeared deeply inviting through the windows of the conference room. Riddhiman decided to take a stroll after his meeting looking for a cup of tea in one of the road-side stalls. That’s how he loved his tea—in an earthen pot—overboiled, oversweetened and steaming hot. As he sipped on the tea, he reached for a newspaper lying on the bench to take a glance. His gut wrenched as he read the headlines; the tea cup never reached his lips—his hands slowly moved down again as his eyes transfixed themselves on the paper in front of him. He grabbed the newspaper with both hands, leaned forward and devoured the article. Till now, the shadow of his previous visit to the Dooars had seemed very far away—like a lonely mountain range overlooking the vast plains. Not anymore. Unrest had turned into violence in Madhupur, a small village near Koch Behar, the article read. Local police have not been able to contain the violence so far and additional forces were to be deployed. Madhupur, the name was all too familiar to Riddhi. What are the odds, he thought. Madhupur had been in the news for a while—an agitation against forceful land acquisition had taken center stage in the area. In fact, that’s what had brought back memories of that chapter of his life which he had so carefully locked aside in a safe inside his mind. Was that the actual reason why he’d decided to make this trip in the first place? It was as if some invisible hand had put all the pieces of a puzzle together and brought him here today. He had spent one whole summer in Madhupur—and what a summer of emotional upheavals it was! And Dyuti? She was still there, wasn’t she! She was not one to leave her ground, not even in the face of unrest and agitation. Riddhi knew that. He remembered her smiling face and how she would shrug and overturn all his practical arguments with a simple “I just feel like it”. Dyuti—like the afternoon sunlight that was streaming in through the roof of the roadside shack. And then, memories came rushing back to him as if the floodgates had been forged open and the spirit of a mountain stream had been set free.

They had met while studying for their MBA. Dyuti was different from the other MBA students. She was ambitious, but not blinded by it. To be honest, Riddhi never thought she was the kind of girl he would fall in love with. But while he saw other relationships around him grow out of need, desperation, deceit or sometimes just bullish perseverance, he was unwittingly drawn in by Dyuti’s effortless charm. And before he could realize what was happening, he found himself one day consoling her after a bad day, and never wanting to let go of her. It made him ecstatic and afraid at the same time. Like a premonition that all this was just a fleeting glance, a tiny ripple in the ever-changing river of time.

Dyuti interned with an NGO working on education for underpriviledged kids and that’s what brought her to Madhupur the first time. She liked the experience so much that she wanted to go back and work for the NGO full time. Riddhi remembered how she mentioned to him how innocent the kids were, how they deserved as much a chance as anybody else and that she wanted to give them that chance. At all costs. That’s how she was—free as a bird, ready to question her dreams, break and remold every ideology, every belief and go wherever her passions led her. That’s what made her so different, so secure in her ways, so confident and so irresistibly attractive! Riddhi wanted his path to be less fluid, or so he thought. He felt like an embankment in front of a monsoon-fed river—being swept off his feet, engulfed by the sweet embrace of love.

Then came the summer three years ago—the moment of truth. Dyuti was going back to Madhupur to work for the summer and then, if all went well, she would stay back permanently. Like everything else, she’d been very forthcoming with her feelings on this. Riddhi however, couldn’t bring himself to tell her that this was not the way he had envisioned his life. He decided to accompany Dyuti. Perhaps he’d thought he’d be able to convince her to change her mind. Dyuti, on the other hand, strongly believed that Riddhi would be truly happy with this life even though he himself didn’t know it. That the bond they shared was far deeper than these differences. Maybe Riddhi also understood, but failed to accept that truth from deep within—perhaps that’s why he couldn’t bring himself to tell her how he felt. He was caught between where he was and where he thought he’d be. Many a times afterward, he had thought about that summer, how good it was, how peaceful and fulfilling. On the occasional restless night, he would still come out to the balcony of his flat in Kolkata and look down upon the sleeping giant—the big city with its lights like numerous glowworms and his mind would go back to that summer. Those strolls they had taken by the river, hours they’d spent lying on the grass, those evening walks through the tea gardens, the smiling children and their innocent, grateful faces, the deep silence of the night and the sense of profound peace and fulfillment at the end of each day. Yes, he felt he could let go of everything to get that feeling back. But he didn’t let on, ever. And then morning came, inevitably drowning his introspection in the sea of millions, hiding his self-doubt in the midst of a bustling city. Now, fate had brought him back here, or had he himself? Either way, he knew he had to answer the call.

“This is as far as I go”, the driver’s voice broke his train of thoughts. That’s what their agreement had been. There was a little stream flowing by the village—sort of bordering one side and a quaint little footbridge made of bamboo for crossing the stream. The car was going to take him there, and no further. He’d agreed to travel during the night so they would be able to avoid any unrest that could break out en route. He got out of the car and paid the driver his due. Before long, the car had turned around and started its journey back. Riddhi felt a slight shiver of excitement—he was all on his own now. The footbridge was nowhere to be seen. And then, he saw little pieces of bamboo sticks floating on the water—only they were black. Burnt. The bridge had been burnt down.

He walked along the river bank, looking desperately for something he could use to cross the stream. The early morning air was quiet, punctuated by birds calling out and the gentle splashing of the water. The green fields extended to whichever way the eyes went. One could see little villages in the distance, surrounded by bamboo groves and every few miles you could make out the lonely banyan tree—arms outstretched, resting in peace. There was, however, the heavy air of apprehension, a lingering smell of burning and the sound of silence—the lull before the storm. Riddhi’s hands were shivering slightly—but he was not scared. Normally he would be, under the circumstances. But something was different today—he had the strength that comes with being certain about something. He knew beyond an inkling of doubt that he wanted to do what he was about to. That unearthed in him a strength he never knew existed. Finally he spotted a small wooden boat bobbing harmlessly on the water, tied to a nearby tree trunk. A stroke of luck! An abandoned boat—another sign that all was not well in this locality.

Riddhi’s mind drifted to the last time he was here. It was also at daybreak. He was crossing this very bridge. At the end of that summer, he’d decided not to let his life “slip away” so easily. He’d made his choice. To go back and cut all ties. All day and all night, he couldn’t muster up the courage to confront Dyuti about his decision. So early in the morning, he left her a note and slipped out, took the first train out and back to the big city. He thought he was doing the right thing, but in reality he never forgave himself for the cowardly act. He had let her down then, and let himself down. Today there was a chance of redemption. Another daybreak, another story. He was going to come through this time. Riddhi untied the boat gently, pushed it into the water and carefully stepped in. As he reached for the oar, an old Tagore song rang in his ears—“O tor mora gange baan esechhe…”  Yes indeed, the tide had finally reached the shores of his desolate soul—it was time to let the feelings flow free…