The Homecoming- A Short Story
It didn't make sense. A place I had spent eighteen years at couldn't have turned into this ruin in a matter of hours. All my memories couldn't have gone up in flames this way.
I kicked away some rubble, my eyes aching at the sight. It was day, but I saw darkness all around me. The houses had collapsed. Soot covered the dirt roads. In place of the trees were their black remains. There wasn't a soul in sight. The fire had destroyed everything. There was no hope for me. My family was dead.
Tears didn't come from my eyes. For the last ten years, I had found it very easy to stay cut off from this village. Coming back didn't seem like a good idea. I didn't want to be one of the people who got dragged into the forests by the militants and never came back. Going to college was my way out of here, my only chance, and I didn't blame myself for taking it. Even now, when the darkness of the jungles had turned into a big, burnt void and its dark interiors no longer intimidated, I still looked back several times, afraid that people with guns would come and grab me by my collar. I would scream, some people would see me, but they would have to keep quiet because they didn't want to be next.
I shook off the thought from my head. The past didn't seem so frightening no, but that was because the future was empty. I was walking down a street I remembered from my childhood. We would play ball here. Once a month, the ice-cream man would come and we would coax our mothers to give us some money. That would never happen now.
I came to the road that led out of the village. Ten years ago, I had walked away from there, my family waving, my brothers helping me get my bags into the jeep. At the time, I hadn't planned on never returning, but over the years, the outside world became my safe haven. It felt good not to be afraid all the time, to have a walk at night, to actually eat ice-cream twice a week. I didn't have to fear for my life. Somehow, the fact that I had left a lot of people behind didn't seem to bother me. I couldn't imagine my family out of the village. They had lived here all their life. The city would be hard to adjust to. Or at least that's what I had told myself.
Maybe God wanted me to see what I had done. What was it, if not God, that had convinced me to come here with my wife after so many years? We had come to the town nearby, because there was no way we could adjust to village life anymore. I had sent a latter to my family because there were no computers here and absolutely zero people who knew how to use one. But if what I had heard was right, the post office had been shut down before the cross-fire began, which meant that my letter had never reached them. They must all have died thinking I was a traitor who had left his home never to return. When the militants set the village on fire, it killed all hope of me ever seeing them again.
I came across the post office, the one that had held back my message. I somehow felt...lifeless, as if my mind and body ere separated, as if I wasn't the one walking but someone who was watching myself walk. I climbed up the gravel steps and entered through the door that almost touched my head. The office didn't seem to be in such a bad condition. Papers and letter were strewn about everywhere, besides some damage to the walls and a thin layer of soot on some of the furniture, everything else was unharmed. I went to the first table and tilted it to make the letters fall on the floor. I sat down and picked up the first envelope.
The handwriting wasn't familiar but the name at the end was. It was written by somebody called Jhulki. She had once been my friend, before her parents had pulled her out of school at the age of ten.
Dear brother, Everything is fine. Both mother and daughter are okay. The midwife said it would be hard but it wasn't. We hope you will come here to name the child. Jhulki.
Someone had given birth to a child. How? Was it somebody I knew? How did it matter? The fire must have killed the child? Or had they managed to escape?
One by one, I opened the letters. There were letters asking for money. My family hand never asked for any money but I had always sent some, hoping it would make it to them. Then there was a letter about the division of family property. My family was still together, sans property feuds. Upon reaching the last letter, I finally began crying, or rather wailing, but my cried seemed rather distant. The sorrow ran way too deep inside to be let out by crying. I wildly tore apart the letters strewn on the floor, trying to give vent to my...what? There wasn't a word to describe it.
There was just one letter that managed to remain unaffected by my outburst. I sat there for hours, staring at the ceiling and it was only when my hand fell on it that I realized I hadn't opened the envelope again. I savagely tore it open, as if it was my last connection to the village.
Dear Rajen, You have forgotten all about us, and it is understandable. But now we need your help. Relations between the brothers has worsened and we all need our own space now. Our wives feel unsafe here and we all want to move to the city and live separately. We need somebody who will divide our assets, or the lack of it, amongst us equally. We hope to remain there for each other, just not physically in the same house. We will need some money to start our new lives and hope you will help us. We will arrive at Patna on 15th December of this year. Please be there to pick us up. Your older brother, Ratan.
My name was Rajen. My older brother was Ratan. They had reached on 15th December, the same day we had set out on our journey here. That was two days before the fire. The village had died, but my family had not.
(based on the short story 'The Tribute')
I kicked away some rubble, my eyes aching at the sight. It was day, but I saw darkness all around me. The houses had collapsed. Soot covered the dirt roads. In place of the trees were their black remains. There wasn't a soul in sight. The fire had destroyed everything. There was no hope for me. My family was dead.
Tears didn't come from my eyes. For the last ten years, I had found it very easy to stay cut off from this village. Coming back didn't seem like a good idea. I didn't want to be one of the people who got dragged into the forests by the militants and never came back. Going to college was my way out of here, my only chance, and I didn't blame myself for taking it. Even now, when the darkness of the jungles had turned into a big, burnt void and its dark interiors no longer intimidated, I still looked back several times, afraid that people with guns would come and grab me by my collar. I would scream, some people would see me, but they would have to keep quiet because they didn't want to be next.
I shook off the thought from my head. The past didn't seem so frightening no, but that was because the future was empty. I was walking down a street I remembered from my childhood. We would play ball here. Once a month, the ice-cream man would come and we would coax our mothers to give us some money. That would never happen now.
I came to the road that led out of the village. Ten years ago, I had walked away from there, my family waving, my brothers helping me get my bags into the jeep. At the time, I hadn't planned on never returning, but over the years, the outside world became my safe haven. It felt good not to be afraid all the time, to have a walk at night, to actually eat ice-cream twice a week. I didn't have to fear for my life. Somehow, the fact that I had left a lot of people behind didn't seem to bother me. I couldn't imagine my family out of the village. They had lived here all their life. The city would be hard to adjust to. Or at least that's what I had told myself.
Maybe God wanted me to see what I had done. What was it, if not God, that had convinced me to come here with my wife after so many years? We had come to the town nearby, because there was no way we could adjust to village life anymore. I had sent a latter to my family because there were no computers here and absolutely zero people who knew how to use one. But if what I had heard was right, the post office had been shut down before the cross-fire began, which meant that my letter had never reached them. They must all have died thinking I was a traitor who had left his home never to return. When the militants set the village on fire, it killed all hope of me ever seeing them again.
I came across the post office, the one that had held back my message. I somehow felt...lifeless, as if my mind and body ere separated, as if I wasn't the one walking but someone who was watching myself walk. I climbed up the gravel steps and entered through the door that almost touched my head. The office didn't seem to be in such a bad condition. Papers and letter were strewn about everywhere, besides some damage to the walls and a thin layer of soot on some of the furniture, everything else was unharmed. I went to the first table and tilted it to make the letters fall on the floor. I sat down and picked up the first envelope.
The handwriting wasn't familiar but the name at the end was. It was written by somebody called Jhulki. She had once been my friend, before her parents had pulled her out of school at the age of ten.
Dear brother, Everything is fine. Both mother and daughter are okay. The midwife said it would be hard but it wasn't. We hope you will come here to name the child. Jhulki.
Someone had given birth to a child. How? Was it somebody I knew? How did it matter? The fire must have killed the child? Or had they managed to escape?
One by one, I opened the letters. There were letters asking for money. My family hand never asked for any money but I had always sent some, hoping it would make it to them. Then there was a letter about the division of family property. My family was still together, sans property feuds. Upon reaching the last letter, I finally began crying, or rather wailing, but my cried seemed rather distant. The sorrow ran way too deep inside to be let out by crying. I wildly tore apart the letters strewn on the floor, trying to give vent to my...what? There wasn't a word to describe it.
There was just one letter that managed to remain unaffected by my outburst. I sat there for hours, staring at the ceiling and it was only when my hand fell on it that I realized I hadn't opened the envelope again. I savagely tore it open, as if it was my last connection to the village.
Dear Rajen, You have forgotten all about us, and it is understandable. But now we need your help. Relations between the brothers has worsened and we all need our own space now. Our wives feel unsafe here and we all want to move to the city and live separately. We need somebody who will divide our assets, or the lack of it, amongst us equally. We hope to remain there for each other, just not physically in the same house. We will need some money to start our new lives and hope you will help us. We will arrive at Patna on 15th December of this year. Please be there to pick us up. Your older brother, Ratan.
My name was Rajen. My older brother was Ratan. They had reached on 15th December, the same day we had set out on our journey here. That was two days before the fire. The village had died, but my family had not.
(based on the short story 'The Tribute')
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