10-06-2026, 02:53 PM
Dear friends it's good to be back after a while again! Hope you enjoy this new venture as well.
__________________
Chapter 1
The telephone rang just as the evening light began withdrawing from the balconies and rooftops of Kolkata. The city always seemed to possess a different personality at that hour. The urgency of the afternoon softened into something gentler; shopkeepers arranged their evening displays, tram bells echoed through the humid air, and the smell of frying telebhaja drifted upward from the street below. Komolini stood alone on her narrow balcony, her hands wrapped around the iron grill as she gazed absently toward the horizon. The past few weeks had changed the rhythm of her life so completely that even familiar evenings felt unfamiliar.
A strand of hair brushed against her cheek. She reached up automatically and tucked it behind her ear. Her thick hair, once entirely black and now threaded with soft streaks of silver, was tied into its usual careful knot. She had never been a vain woman, yet there remained something undeniably graceful about her presence. Years of motherhood, responsibility, and quiet endurance had not diminished her beauty so much as transformed it into something calmer and deeper. Her full lips were pressed together in thought, and her almond-shaped nails tapped lightly against the painted iron of the balcony railing as though searching for reassurance.
Then the telephone rang.
Her heart immediately tightened.
The call could only be from one person.
By the time she reached the receiver, her pulse had already quickened.
"Komo?"
The voice arrived through static and distance.
Her eyes closed instantly.
"Probal."
For several moments neither spoke. Twenty-seven years of marriage had taught them that silence itself could be a language. The line crackled softly between Kolkata and Sholapur. Somewhere hundreds of kilometers away, her husband sat in a prison cell because of an investigation that neither of them fully understood. A transfer to a newly established branch office had somehow become a nightmare of accusations, paperwork, and endless waiting.
Yet hearing his voice made the distance disappear.
"How are you?" he asked.
The question almost made her laugh...
How was she?
She was frightened.
She was exhausted.
She was angry.
She was trying to hold together an entire household while convincing everyone—including herself—that everything would eventually be fine.
"I'm managing," she replied.
The answer fooled neither of them.
A pause followed before Probal asked the question she knew was coming.
"How is Hiyan?"
The mention of their son immediately softened her expression.
The worry in Hiyan's eyes had become impossible to ignore lately. At twenty years old he tried very hard to appear strong. He attended classes, spoke politely, answered relatives, and pretended life was normal. Yet every evening he found excuses to linger near the telephone. Every ring made him look up. Every conversation ended with the same unspoken disappointment.
"He misses you," Komolini said quietly.
The words seemed to weigh heavily upon the line.
"He doesn't say much. But I know he misses you."
Probal sighed.
"I miss him too."
The simplicity of the statement hurt more than any dramatic declaration could have.
For the next several minutes they spoke about ordinary things. Meals. Sleep. Lawyers. Relatives. The normal details of a normal life that suddenly felt precious. Yet beneath every sentence lay the same truth—they were both frightened.
Eventually, after promising to call again soon, Probal lowered his voice.
"Komo."
"Yes?"
"Take care of yourself."
Her throat tightened.
"You too."
When the call ended, she remained seated beside the telephone long after the dial tone had disappeared. Outside, evening had deepened. The first lights were appearing in apartment windows across the neighborhood. She stared toward the darkening sky and thought about Sholapur.
Until a few months ago it had been little more than a name on a railway map.
Now it occupied her thoughts constantly.
The farther she imagined it, the more mysterious it became...
A city beyond Bengal.
A city of unfamiliar languages.
Unfamiliar food.
Unfamiliar customs.
A city where her husband waited.
The thought frightened her.
Yet beneath the fear lurked something else.
Curiosity.
The realization unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
The following afternoon she carried these thoughts to the veranda of Madhumita Banerjee's house.
If Komolini represented restraint, Madhumita represented cheerful rebellion. The two women had known each other for more than thirty years, and during that time Madhumita had never once allowed seriousness to remain serious for long. At fifty she possessed the same mischievous spirit that had gotten them into trouble during college. Her thick silver-streaked hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and she wore her confidence with such ease that it often infuriated Komolini.
The moment Komolini sat down, Madhumita narrowed her eyes.
"You've decided to go."
It wasn't a question.
Komolini blinked.
"How do you know?"
Madhumita laughed.
"Because you're pretending not to smile."
The observation was annoyingly accurate.
Tea steamed gently between them as the conversation drifted toward Probal. Komolini described the telephone call. She repeated his concerns about Hiyan, his attempts to reassure her, and his insistence that she should not travel all the way to Maharashtra alone.
The mention of Hiyan immediately changed Madhumita's expression.
"Then take him with you."
Komolini looked up in surprise.
"What?"
"Hiyan."
"To Sholapur?"
"Of course."
The suggestion had never occurred to her.
"I hadn't thought about it."
"Then start thinking about it."
Madhumita stirred her tea thoughtfully.
"Your son needs to see his father."
Komolini remained silent.
"He misses him."
"I know."
"And he's trying not to show it."
"I know that too."
Madhumita leaned forward.
"Komo, that boy has the softest heart I've ever seen."
The statement made Komolini smile despite herself.
"Hiyan would hate hearing that."
"Which is precisely why I'm saying it."
Madhumita's eyes twinkled.
"He acts mature. He acts responsible. But every emotion passes straight through those eyes of his. Whenever I visit, I can tell exactly how he's feeling before he says a word."
Komolini laughed softly.
It was true.
Hiyan had never been particularly good at hiding emotions.
Madhumita continued.
"Take him with you. He needs his father. And frankly, I don't think he likes being away from his mother for very long either."
The observation startled Komolini.
"Hiyan is twenty."
"And?"
"He isn't a little boy."
"No."
Madhumita smiled and shook her head as she watched Komolini quietly absorb the thought that Hiyan might indeed need her more than she realized. "But he'll always worry about you," she said softly. The remark lingered in the air between them. Something unexpectedly tender stirred inside Komolini's chest. Perhaps Madhumita was right. Hiyan was twenty now, a grown man in every practical sense, yet there remained something deeply gentle about him. He worried quietly. He carried emotions carefully. He watched people he loved with an attentiveness that often escaped his notice but rarely escaped hers. The thought brought both comfort and sadness. For a brief moment, the veranda grew quiet.
Unfortunately, the moment the emotional conversation ended, Madhumita's natural instincts reasserted themselves.
Her eyes drifted toward Komolini's tightly secured bun. Immediately her expression darkened as though she had discovered a serious national crisis.
"No."
Komolini groaned instantly.
"Please don't."
"Yes."
"No."
"Absolutely yes."
The older woman pointed dramatically toward her head.
"You are not going to Maharashtra looking like a retired headmistress."
"My husband is in jail."
"And your hairstyle remains a separate emergency."
The sheer absurdity of the statement caught Komolini completely off guard. A laugh escaped before she could stop it. Madhumita immediately seized the opening. There was nothing she enjoyed more than discovering a crack in someone's composure.
"There! That's better."
From that moment onward, the teasing became relentless. First came the hair. Then came the chiffon saree. Then came the sleeveless blouse that had apparently become a matter of national importance. Every objection Komolini offered only seemed to encourage Madhumita further. The more she protested, the more entertained her friend became. By the time Madhumita was enthusiastically recommending the expensive blue chiffon saree with her hair open, Komolini was laughing so hard that her teacup became a genuine safety hazard.
"Look at you," Madhumita declared triumphantly. "Your husband is in jail and here you are blushing over wardrobe decisions."
"I am not blushing."
"You absolutely are."
"I am worried about Probal."
"And somehow also deeply concerned about which saree should accompany you on a train journey."
The accusation was so outrageous that Komolini could no longer maintain even the illusion of dignity. Her laughter echoed across the veranda. For a few precious minutes she forgot every lawyer, every document, every unanswered question and every sleepless night. She simply laughed.
Madhumita watched with obvious satisfaction before launching her next attack.
"Imagine if Hiyan heard you laughing like this."
Komolini nearly dropped her cup.
"Leave my son out of this."
"Poor boy"
"Madhumita..."
"He spends weeks worrying about his father, worrying about his mother, trying to be responsible..."
The dramatic pause that followed was deliberate.
"...and then he discovers his mother giggling because somebody mentioned chiffon."
By now tears had appeared in the corners of Komolini's eyes. She was laughing too hard to formulate a proper defense.
Eventually the conversation drifted toward Maharashtra itself. What began as a joke gradually transformed into genuine curiosity. The unfamiliar state had begun occupying far more space in Komolini's imagination than she was willing to admit. The thought of travelling beyond Bengal, navigating unfamiliar railway stations, hearing unfamiliar languages, and seeing entirely new landscapes both frightened and intrigued her.
"What do you think it's like?" she asked.
Madhumita immediately looked delighted.
"There she is."
"Who?"
"The curious traveller."
The teasing continued without mercy. They discussed trains. They discussed cities. They discussed language barriers. Then, inevitably, they arrived at food.
Madhumita sat up straighter.
"Now let us discuss the real danger."
Komolini immediately became suspicious.
"What danger?"
"The food."
"What about it?"
The older woman lowered her voice dramatically.
"I have heard things."
"You've heard things?"
"Terrifying things."
Komolini rolled her eyes.
"Madhumita."
"I am serious."
She wasn't.
"Those people eat spice as though it is a constitutional requirement."
The statement sent Komolini into another fit of laughter.
"I'm sure that's not true."
"Oh, it's true."
"No."
"Absolutely."
Madhumita nodded with the confidence of someone inventing facts in real time.
"I've heard respectable Bengali women have wept into their plates."
"You're making this up."
"Am I?"
She leaned forward conspiratorially.
"You'll arrive thinking you're brave. Then some smiling Marathi auntie will hand you lunch. You'll take one bite. Suddenly you'll discover emotions you never knew existed."
Komolini laughed.
"You are impossible."
"That's not the worst part."
"There is a worse part?"
"Oh yes."
Madhumita looked deeply concerned.
"The food is apparently so good that people stop talking about returning home."
"Now you're definitely making things up."
"I refuse to rule anything out."
The conversation continued in this increasingly ridiculous manner until Madhumita finally delivered what she clearly considered her masterpiece.
"Just remember your mission."
Komolini immediately narrowed her eyes.
"What mission?"
"Go to Sholapur. Meet lawyers. Speak to security officer. Bring Probal home."
"Obviously."
"Good."
Madhumita nodded solemnly.
"Then don't return six months later completely transformed."
Komolini laughed.
"Transformed?"
"Yes."
The older woman waved her hand dramatically.
"Wearing a Marathi saree, speaking Marathi words, arguing that mustard oil is overrated, and insisting everyone try food so spicy that it requires emotional preparation."
"I would never."
"Oh, you would."
Komolini smiled and after some random talks on Hiyan's academic progression, she took a leave.
.............
Sholapur District Prison -
The prison always seemed to change character after sunset. During the day there was at least movement—officers walking through corridors, paperwork being exchanged, prisoners being escorted from one place to another. The noise created the illusion that things were happening. Once darkness settled over the compound, however, that illusion disappeared. The prison became what it truly was: a place of waiting. The long corridor outside Probal's cell lay beneath a row of weak yellow bulbs whose light barely penetrated the shadows gathering in the corners. The smell of damp concrete mixed with stale tobacco and rusted iron. Every sound echoed longer than it should have. A distant cough. The scbang of a chair. The clang of a closing gate. Together they created an atmosphere so heavy that even breathing felt like work.
Probal stood at the bars of his cell, staring toward the two havaldars seated beneath a lazily rotating ceiling fan at the end of the corridor. Both men appeared completely at ease. One was chewing supari while the other rolled tobacco between his fingers with the concentration of a craftsman. Their conversation flowed comfortably in Marathi, interrupted occasionally by laughter. To them it was another ordinary evening at work. To Probal it was another evening stolen from his life.
"Havaldar!"
Neither man looked up.
"Havaldar!"
The older security officerman finally glanced in his direction.
"What now?"
Probal tightened his grip on the bars.
"When is the officer in charge coming?"
The havaldar shrugged.
"When he comes."
"I've been hearing that for days."
"Then you've already got your answer."
The younger security officerman laughed softly at something unrelated to the conversation, and that somehow made the situation even more infuriating.
"I haven't done anything wrong."
The older havaldar nodded absentmindedly.
"Everybody says that."
"I can prove it."
"Then prove it to Sahib."
"When?"
Another shrug.
The gesture felt like an insult.
The indifference of these men was worse than hostility. Hostility at least acknowledged his existence. Indifference reduced him to background noise. He struck the bars with the side of his palm. The metallic clang echoed through the corridor, bouncing from wall to wall before fading into silence. Neither havaldar reacted beyond a brief glance. One continued chewing. The other resumed his conversation.
"You're talking to the wrong people."
The statement came from the younger security officerman without even looking up.
For several moments Probal simply stared at them. He hated the fact that the man was probably right. The havaldars had no power to release him. They had no authority to review evidence or challenge orders. They were merely the lowest visible layer of a system that seemed determined to grind forward without urgency or accountability.
Frustrated and exhausted, he stepped away from the bars and lowered himself onto the narrow concrete bench attached to the wall. The cool surface pressed against his back as he stared upward toward the ceiling. His thoughts drifted once again toward the man whose shadow seemed to hang over every aspect of this nightmare.
Vitthal Aapte!
Even now, weeks later, Probal could picture the minister with perfect clarity. The immaculate white kurta.
The carefully maintained appearance. The expensive watch that glinted beneath office lights. Most of all, the smile. That smile had disturbed him long before any accusations appeared. It wasn't openly threatening. In fact, it was the opposite. It was warm. Friendly. Patient. The sort of smile that immediately lowered people's guard.
The memory returned so vividly that the prison around him seemed to disappear.
The minister's office had been large and tastefully decorated, filled with expensive furniture and carefully framed photographs. Cool air-conditioning hummed softly in the background. Tea had been served in elegant cups. The conversation began pleasantly enough. Development projects. Economic opportunities. Infrastructure. Shipping. The kind of discussion Probal expected to have with a powerful political figure interested in regional business.
For nearly half an hour nothing seemed unusual.
Then the direction of the conversation shifted.
Not abruptly.
Deliberately.
Almost elegantly.
"There is an export consignment leaving next month."
Probal nodded.
"Yes."
The minister leaned back comfortably.
"A valuable one."
"Several of our consignments are valuable."
The smile widened slightly.
"This one is special."
Something about the tone immediately made Probal cautious.
The minister noticed.
"There may be certain items that attract unnecessary attention."
"What kind of items?"
The answer arrived casually.
"Gold."
For a moment the room seemed unusually quiet.
The minister spoke as though discussing logistics.
"A few gold biscuits mixed among legitimate cargo."
Probol thumped on his paper stand...."Sorry sir, you have come to the wrong person! I won't allow it!"
The minister raised an eyebrow...."Think again Mr Chatterjee, you can have a life of ease, wealth and comfort...."
Probol was admant ....."I better leave"
"Very well."
The conversation ended there.
No threats.
No warnings.
No dramatic confrontation.
Only that smile.
Looking back, Probal often wondered whether the outcome had already been decided the moment he refused. Perhaps the meeting had never been about persuasion. Perhaps it had simply been an exercise in identifying who could be trusted to cooperate and who could not.
The memory faded slowly, replaced once again by iron bars and prison walls. The contrast felt cruel. Somewhere beyond these walls, people like Vitthal Aapte continued moving through luxurious offices and expensive meetings. Meanwhile he sat inside a cell, trapped in a situation that seemed almost impossible to explain without sounding paranoid.
His thoughts eventually drifted away from politics and corruption toward something far more painful.
Home.
The image of Komolini appeared immediately. He imagined her standing on the balcony at dusk, looking out across Kolkata while pretending not to worry. He imagined her speaking to lawyers and relatives, carrying responsibilities she never should have been forced to carry. Knowing her, she was probably neglecting her own sleep and meals while focusing entirely on solving problems.
Then came thoughts of Hiyan.
The boy would be trying to act brave.
Trying to reassure his mother.
Trying to behave like an adult even while carrying fears no twenty-year-old should have to carry.
The realization settled heavily inside him.
A father was supposed to protect his family.
Instead they were spending every day worrying about him.
Outside the cell, the havaldars resumed their conversation and laughter. The ceiling fan continued rotating above them. Darkness settled completely over Sholapur. Probal leaned back against the wall and stared toward the small window near the ceiling where a narrow strip of night sky remained visible. Somewhere beyond that darkness lay Kolkata. Somewhere beyond it waited Komolini and Hiyan. And for the first time in his life, the ordinary life he once took for granted felt like the most precious thing in the world.
................
Komolini sat quietly in the back of the cycle rickshaw as it rolled through the evening streets of Kolkata. The familiar creak of the wheels and the rhythmic sound of the cyclist's pedaling seemed unusually loud in the gathering dusk. Around her, the city moved at its usual pace. Office workers hurried home. Tea stalls filled with customers discussing politics. Vendors arranged their evening displays beneath yellow lights. The world carried on exactly as it had yesterday and exactly as it would tomorrow.
Yet Komolini felt strangely unsettled.
The guilt had followed her all the way from Madhumita's veranda.
She lowered her eyes toward her saree and immediately found the evidence.
A faint tea stain remained visible on the edge of her pallu.
Not large enough for anyone else to notice.
Large enough for her.
The sight made her groan inwardly.
The memory returned instantly.
Her laughter.
That uncontrollable, ridiculous laughter.
The way she had nearly spilled the entire cup while Madhumita continued inventing increasingly absurd stories about chiffon sarees, Marathi food, and railway adventures.
Even now, remembering it made a reluctant smile threaten to appear.
She quickly pressed her lips together.
"No," she muttered silently to herself.
The cycle rickshaw turned into a quieter lane lined with old houses. Evening shadows stretched across the road.
What kind of wife laughed like that while her husband sat in a prison cell hundreds of kilometers away?
The question returned for the tenth time.
She covered her mouth lightly with her fingers as the cycle rickshaw rolled steadily through the evening streets. The embarrassment seemed almost physical now, settling over her shoulders like a shawl she couldn't remove. It wasn't merely that she had laughed. Under normal circumstances, laughter would have been harmless. What troubled her was how completely she had surrendered to it. For those few moments on Madhumita's veranda, she had forgotten herself entirely. Forgotten the lawyers whose numbers were scribbled in her handbag. Forgotten the investigation that dominated every conversation. Forgotten the anxiety that had occupied every waking hour since Probal's arrest. She had simply sat there laughing like a young woman listening to college gossip, unable to regain control no matter how hard she tried.
The thought alone was enough to make her cheeks warm again.
And then came the truly horrifying possibility.
What if Hiyan noticed?
Komolini immediately closed her eyes. Of course he would notice. The boy noticed everything. He always had. Even as a child he possessed an uncanny ability to detect moods, tensions, and unspoken worries. As he grew older that sensitivity had only sharpened. The tea stain on her pallu alone would probably be enough. Hiyan could identify a change in her expression from across a room. He would take one look at her and know something unusual had happened.
The problem was not merely that he would notice.
The problem was explaining it.
Her mind immediately began constructing the conversation she dreaded...
"Ma, what happened to your saree?"
"Nothing."
"Then why is there tea on your pallu?"
"I spilled it."
"How?"
And then what?
Would she honestly explain that she had spent the afternoon laughing helplessly while Madhumita invented increasingly ridiculous futures for her? Was she supposed to confess that an entire discussion had taken place regarding chiffon sarees, hairstyles, Marathi food, and the possibility of returning from Sholapur as some transformed traveller who spoke Marathi phrases and insisted on serving impossibly spicy meals?
The absurdity of it nearly defeated her again.
A smile escaped before she could stop it.
Immediately she pressed her lips together.
This was becoming a genuine problem.
The cycle rickshaw slowed as several young men crossed the road ahead. They were broad-shouldered boys in their twenties, laughing loudly among themselves, pushing one another playfully as they walked. Their confidence filled the street around them. Without intending to, Komolini found herself comparing them to Hiyan once again.
Madhumita's words returned immediately.
"Those eyes of his give him away every time."
"That boy has the softest heart I've ever seen."
At the time she had dismissed the observations with laughter. Now, sitting alone in the rickshaw with the evening breeze brushing against her face, they lingered differently. A mother noticed things other people missed. She knew how easily Hiyan worried. She knew how hard he tried to appear composed. She knew how carefully he watched both her and Probal without ever saying very much. The boy carried his concern quietly, almost apologetically, as though he feared becoming an additional burden.
Perhaps that was why Madhumita's comments had affected her so strongly.
They were true.
The rickshaw continued forward through streets that grew increasingly familiar. The cyclist pedaled steadily while twilight settled across the city. A loose strand of hair escaped from Komolini's bun and brushed against her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear absentmindedly, still lost in thought.
What would Hiyan actually say if she told him the truth?
The image appeared immediately.
"Ma, Baba is in Sholapur and you were discussing sarees?"
The expression she imagined on his face was so vivid that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to suppress another smile.
"Madhumita is such a terrible influence!!"
Yet beneath the embarrassment, beneath the guilt, and beneath the increasingly ridiculous effort to hide her amusement, another realization slowly began taking shape.
For weeks every conversation in her life had revolved around fear. Lawyers. security officer. Documents. Telephone calls. Waiting. Endless waiting. Every morning began with worry and every evening ended with uncertainty. The future had shrunk into a narrow corridor occupied entirely by Probal's situation.
The cycle rickshaw finally entered her neighborhood. Familiar houses appeared one after another. Familiar shopkeepers. Familiar sounds. Familiar faces. Everything looked exactly as it always had, yet somehow she felt slightly different from the woman who had left earlier that afternoon.
She adjusted the stained edge of her pallu self-consciously and sighed.
The tea stain remained.
A small, stubborn piece of evidence.
She was absolutely certain Hiyan would notice it.
And she was equally certain that she had no idea how she intended to explain it.
The thought followed her all the way to her front gate.
__________________
Chapter 1
The telephone rang just as the evening light began withdrawing from the balconies and rooftops of Kolkata. The city always seemed to possess a different personality at that hour. The urgency of the afternoon softened into something gentler; shopkeepers arranged their evening displays, tram bells echoed through the humid air, and the smell of frying telebhaja drifted upward from the street below. Komolini stood alone on her narrow balcony, her hands wrapped around the iron grill as she gazed absently toward the horizon. The past few weeks had changed the rhythm of her life so completely that even familiar evenings felt unfamiliar.
A strand of hair brushed against her cheek. She reached up automatically and tucked it behind her ear. Her thick hair, once entirely black and now threaded with soft streaks of silver, was tied into its usual careful knot. She had never been a vain woman, yet there remained something undeniably graceful about her presence. Years of motherhood, responsibility, and quiet endurance had not diminished her beauty so much as transformed it into something calmer and deeper. Her full lips were pressed together in thought, and her almond-shaped nails tapped lightly against the painted iron of the balcony railing as though searching for reassurance.
Then the telephone rang.
Her heart immediately tightened.
The call could only be from one person.
By the time she reached the receiver, her pulse had already quickened.
"Komo?"
The voice arrived through static and distance.
Her eyes closed instantly.
"Probal."
For several moments neither spoke. Twenty-seven years of marriage had taught them that silence itself could be a language. The line crackled softly between Kolkata and Sholapur. Somewhere hundreds of kilometers away, her husband sat in a prison cell because of an investigation that neither of them fully understood. A transfer to a newly established branch office had somehow become a nightmare of accusations, paperwork, and endless waiting.
Yet hearing his voice made the distance disappear.
"How are you?" he asked.
The question almost made her laugh...
How was she?
She was frightened.
She was exhausted.
She was angry.
She was trying to hold together an entire household while convincing everyone—including herself—that everything would eventually be fine.
"I'm managing," she replied.
The answer fooled neither of them.
A pause followed before Probal asked the question she knew was coming.
"How is Hiyan?"
The mention of their son immediately softened her expression.
The worry in Hiyan's eyes had become impossible to ignore lately. At twenty years old he tried very hard to appear strong. He attended classes, spoke politely, answered relatives, and pretended life was normal. Yet every evening he found excuses to linger near the telephone. Every ring made him look up. Every conversation ended with the same unspoken disappointment.
"He misses you," Komolini said quietly.
The words seemed to weigh heavily upon the line.
"He doesn't say much. But I know he misses you."
Probal sighed.
"I miss him too."
The simplicity of the statement hurt more than any dramatic declaration could have.
For the next several minutes they spoke about ordinary things. Meals. Sleep. Lawyers. Relatives. The normal details of a normal life that suddenly felt precious. Yet beneath every sentence lay the same truth—they were both frightened.
Eventually, after promising to call again soon, Probal lowered his voice.
"Komo."
"Yes?"
"Take care of yourself."
Her throat tightened.
"You too."
When the call ended, she remained seated beside the telephone long after the dial tone had disappeared. Outside, evening had deepened. The first lights were appearing in apartment windows across the neighborhood. She stared toward the darkening sky and thought about Sholapur.
Until a few months ago it had been little more than a name on a railway map.
Now it occupied her thoughts constantly.
The farther she imagined it, the more mysterious it became...
A city beyond Bengal.
A city of unfamiliar languages.
Unfamiliar food.
Unfamiliar customs.
A city where her husband waited.
The thought frightened her.
Yet beneath the fear lurked something else.
Curiosity.
The realization unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
The following afternoon she carried these thoughts to the veranda of Madhumita Banerjee's house.
If Komolini represented restraint, Madhumita represented cheerful rebellion. The two women had known each other for more than thirty years, and during that time Madhumita had never once allowed seriousness to remain serious for long. At fifty she possessed the same mischievous spirit that had gotten them into trouble during college. Her thick silver-streaked hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and she wore her confidence with such ease that it often infuriated Komolini.
The moment Komolini sat down, Madhumita narrowed her eyes.
"You've decided to go."
It wasn't a question.
Komolini blinked.
"How do you know?"
Madhumita laughed.
"Because you're pretending not to smile."
The observation was annoyingly accurate.
Tea steamed gently between them as the conversation drifted toward Probal. Komolini described the telephone call. She repeated his concerns about Hiyan, his attempts to reassure her, and his insistence that she should not travel all the way to Maharashtra alone.
The mention of Hiyan immediately changed Madhumita's expression.
"Then take him with you."
Komolini looked up in surprise.
"What?"
"Hiyan."
"To Sholapur?"
"Of course."
The suggestion had never occurred to her.
"I hadn't thought about it."
"Then start thinking about it."
Madhumita stirred her tea thoughtfully.
"Your son needs to see his father."
Komolini remained silent.
"He misses him."
"I know."
"And he's trying not to show it."
"I know that too."
Madhumita leaned forward.
"Komo, that boy has the softest heart I've ever seen."
The statement made Komolini smile despite herself.
"Hiyan would hate hearing that."
"Which is precisely why I'm saying it."
Madhumita's eyes twinkled.
"He acts mature. He acts responsible. But every emotion passes straight through those eyes of his. Whenever I visit, I can tell exactly how he's feeling before he says a word."
Komolini laughed softly.
It was true.
Hiyan had never been particularly good at hiding emotions.
Madhumita continued.
"Take him with you. He needs his father. And frankly, I don't think he likes being away from his mother for very long either."
The observation startled Komolini.
"Hiyan is twenty."
"And?"
"He isn't a little boy."
"No."
Madhumita smiled and shook her head as she watched Komolini quietly absorb the thought that Hiyan might indeed need her more than she realized. "But he'll always worry about you," she said softly. The remark lingered in the air between them. Something unexpectedly tender stirred inside Komolini's chest. Perhaps Madhumita was right. Hiyan was twenty now, a grown man in every practical sense, yet there remained something deeply gentle about him. He worried quietly. He carried emotions carefully. He watched people he loved with an attentiveness that often escaped his notice but rarely escaped hers. The thought brought both comfort and sadness. For a brief moment, the veranda grew quiet.
Unfortunately, the moment the emotional conversation ended, Madhumita's natural instincts reasserted themselves.
Her eyes drifted toward Komolini's tightly secured bun. Immediately her expression darkened as though she had discovered a serious national crisis.
"No."
Komolini groaned instantly.
"Please don't."
"Yes."
"No."
"Absolutely yes."
The older woman pointed dramatically toward her head.
"You are not going to Maharashtra looking like a retired headmistress."
"My husband is in jail."
"And your hairstyle remains a separate emergency."
The sheer absurdity of the statement caught Komolini completely off guard. A laugh escaped before she could stop it. Madhumita immediately seized the opening. There was nothing she enjoyed more than discovering a crack in someone's composure.
"There! That's better."
From that moment onward, the teasing became relentless. First came the hair. Then came the chiffon saree. Then came the sleeveless blouse that had apparently become a matter of national importance. Every objection Komolini offered only seemed to encourage Madhumita further. The more she protested, the more entertained her friend became. By the time Madhumita was enthusiastically recommending the expensive blue chiffon saree with her hair open, Komolini was laughing so hard that her teacup became a genuine safety hazard.
"Look at you," Madhumita declared triumphantly. "Your husband is in jail and here you are blushing over wardrobe decisions."
"I am not blushing."
"You absolutely are."
"I am worried about Probal."
"And somehow also deeply concerned about which saree should accompany you on a train journey."
The accusation was so outrageous that Komolini could no longer maintain even the illusion of dignity. Her laughter echoed across the veranda. For a few precious minutes she forgot every lawyer, every document, every unanswered question and every sleepless night. She simply laughed.
Madhumita watched with obvious satisfaction before launching her next attack.
"Imagine if Hiyan heard you laughing like this."
Komolini nearly dropped her cup.
"Leave my son out of this."
"Poor boy"
"Madhumita..."
"He spends weeks worrying about his father, worrying about his mother, trying to be responsible..."
The dramatic pause that followed was deliberate.
"...and then he discovers his mother giggling because somebody mentioned chiffon."
By now tears had appeared in the corners of Komolini's eyes. She was laughing too hard to formulate a proper defense.
Eventually the conversation drifted toward Maharashtra itself. What began as a joke gradually transformed into genuine curiosity. The unfamiliar state had begun occupying far more space in Komolini's imagination than she was willing to admit. The thought of travelling beyond Bengal, navigating unfamiliar railway stations, hearing unfamiliar languages, and seeing entirely new landscapes both frightened and intrigued her.
"What do you think it's like?" she asked.
Madhumita immediately looked delighted.
"There she is."
"Who?"
"The curious traveller."
The teasing continued without mercy. They discussed trains. They discussed cities. They discussed language barriers. Then, inevitably, they arrived at food.
Madhumita sat up straighter.
"Now let us discuss the real danger."
Komolini immediately became suspicious.
"What danger?"
"The food."
"What about it?"
The older woman lowered her voice dramatically.
"I have heard things."
"You've heard things?"
"Terrifying things."
Komolini rolled her eyes.
"Madhumita."
"I am serious."
She wasn't.
"Those people eat spice as though it is a constitutional requirement."
The statement sent Komolini into another fit of laughter.
"I'm sure that's not true."
"Oh, it's true."
"No."
"Absolutely."
Madhumita nodded with the confidence of someone inventing facts in real time.
"I've heard respectable Bengali women have wept into their plates."
"You're making this up."
"Am I?"
She leaned forward conspiratorially.
"You'll arrive thinking you're brave. Then some smiling Marathi auntie will hand you lunch. You'll take one bite. Suddenly you'll discover emotions you never knew existed."
Komolini laughed.
"You are impossible."
"That's not the worst part."
"There is a worse part?"
"Oh yes."
Madhumita looked deeply concerned.
"The food is apparently so good that people stop talking about returning home."
"Now you're definitely making things up."
"I refuse to rule anything out."
The conversation continued in this increasingly ridiculous manner until Madhumita finally delivered what she clearly considered her masterpiece.
"Just remember your mission."
Komolini immediately narrowed her eyes.
"What mission?"
"Go to Sholapur. Meet lawyers. Speak to security officer. Bring Probal home."
"Obviously."
"Good."
Madhumita nodded solemnly.
"Then don't return six months later completely transformed."
Komolini laughed.
"Transformed?"
"Yes."
The older woman waved her hand dramatically.
"Wearing a Marathi saree, speaking Marathi words, arguing that mustard oil is overrated, and insisting everyone try food so spicy that it requires emotional preparation."
"I would never."
"Oh, you would."
Komolini smiled and after some random talks on Hiyan's academic progression, she took a leave.
.............
Sholapur District Prison -
The prison always seemed to change character after sunset. During the day there was at least movement—officers walking through corridors, paperwork being exchanged, prisoners being escorted from one place to another. The noise created the illusion that things were happening. Once darkness settled over the compound, however, that illusion disappeared. The prison became what it truly was: a place of waiting. The long corridor outside Probal's cell lay beneath a row of weak yellow bulbs whose light barely penetrated the shadows gathering in the corners. The smell of damp concrete mixed with stale tobacco and rusted iron. Every sound echoed longer than it should have. A distant cough. The scbang of a chair. The clang of a closing gate. Together they created an atmosphere so heavy that even breathing felt like work.
Probal stood at the bars of his cell, staring toward the two havaldars seated beneath a lazily rotating ceiling fan at the end of the corridor. Both men appeared completely at ease. One was chewing supari while the other rolled tobacco between his fingers with the concentration of a craftsman. Their conversation flowed comfortably in Marathi, interrupted occasionally by laughter. To them it was another ordinary evening at work. To Probal it was another evening stolen from his life.
"Havaldar!"
Neither man looked up.
"Havaldar!"
The older security officerman finally glanced in his direction.
"What now?"
Probal tightened his grip on the bars.
"When is the officer in charge coming?"
The havaldar shrugged.
"When he comes."
"I've been hearing that for days."
"Then you've already got your answer."
The younger security officerman laughed softly at something unrelated to the conversation, and that somehow made the situation even more infuriating.
"I haven't done anything wrong."
The older havaldar nodded absentmindedly.
"Everybody says that."
"I can prove it."
"Then prove it to Sahib."
"When?"
Another shrug.
The gesture felt like an insult.
The indifference of these men was worse than hostility. Hostility at least acknowledged his existence. Indifference reduced him to background noise. He struck the bars with the side of his palm. The metallic clang echoed through the corridor, bouncing from wall to wall before fading into silence. Neither havaldar reacted beyond a brief glance. One continued chewing. The other resumed his conversation.
"You're talking to the wrong people."
The statement came from the younger security officerman without even looking up.
For several moments Probal simply stared at them. He hated the fact that the man was probably right. The havaldars had no power to release him. They had no authority to review evidence or challenge orders. They were merely the lowest visible layer of a system that seemed determined to grind forward without urgency or accountability.
Frustrated and exhausted, he stepped away from the bars and lowered himself onto the narrow concrete bench attached to the wall. The cool surface pressed against his back as he stared upward toward the ceiling. His thoughts drifted once again toward the man whose shadow seemed to hang over every aspect of this nightmare.
Vitthal Aapte!
Even now, weeks later, Probal could picture the minister with perfect clarity. The immaculate white kurta.
The carefully maintained appearance. The expensive watch that glinted beneath office lights. Most of all, the smile. That smile had disturbed him long before any accusations appeared. It wasn't openly threatening. In fact, it was the opposite. It was warm. Friendly. Patient. The sort of smile that immediately lowered people's guard.
The memory returned so vividly that the prison around him seemed to disappear.
The minister's office had been large and tastefully decorated, filled with expensive furniture and carefully framed photographs. Cool air-conditioning hummed softly in the background. Tea had been served in elegant cups. The conversation began pleasantly enough. Development projects. Economic opportunities. Infrastructure. Shipping. The kind of discussion Probal expected to have with a powerful political figure interested in regional business.
For nearly half an hour nothing seemed unusual.
Then the direction of the conversation shifted.
Not abruptly.
Deliberately.
Almost elegantly.
"There is an export consignment leaving next month."
Probal nodded.
"Yes."
The minister leaned back comfortably.
"A valuable one."
"Several of our consignments are valuable."
The smile widened slightly.
"This one is special."
Something about the tone immediately made Probal cautious.
The minister noticed.
"There may be certain items that attract unnecessary attention."
"What kind of items?"
The answer arrived casually.
"Gold."
For a moment the room seemed unusually quiet.
The minister spoke as though discussing logistics.
"A few gold biscuits mixed among legitimate cargo."
Probol thumped on his paper stand...."Sorry sir, you have come to the wrong person! I won't allow it!"
The minister raised an eyebrow...."Think again Mr Chatterjee, you can have a life of ease, wealth and comfort...."
Probol was admant ....."I better leave"
"Very well."
The conversation ended there.
No threats.
No warnings.
No dramatic confrontation.
Only that smile.
Looking back, Probal often wondered whether the outcome had already been decided the moment he refused. Perhaps the meeting had never been about persuasion. Perhaps it had simply been an exercise in identifying who could be trusted to cooperate and who could not.
The memory faded slowly, replaced once again by iron bars and prison walls. The contrast felt cruel. Somewhere beyond these walls, people like Vitthal Aapte continued moving through luxurious offices and expensive meetings. Meanwhile he sat inside a cell, trapped in a situation that seemed almost impossible to explain without sounding paranoid.
His thoughts eventually drifted away from politics and corruption toward something far more painful.
Home.
The image of Komolini appeared immediately. He imagined her standing on the balcony at dusk, looking out across Kolkata while pretending not to worry. He imagined her speaking to lawyers and relatives, carrying responsibilities she never should have been forced to carry. Knowing her, she was probably neglecting her own sleep and meals while focusing entirely on solving problems.
Then came thoughts of Hiyan.
The boy would be trying to act brave.
Trying to reassure his mother.
Trying to behave like an adult even while carrying fears no twenty-year-old should have to carry.
The realization settled heavily inside him.
A father was supposed to protect his family.
Instead they were spending every day worrying about him.
Outside the cell, the havaldars resumed their conversation and laughter. The ceiling fan continued rotating above them. Darkness settled completely over Sholapur. Probal leaned back against the wall and stared toward the small window near the ceiling where a narrow strip of night sky remained visible. Somewhere beyond that darkness lay Kolkata. Somewhere beyond it waited Komolini and Hiyan. And for the first time in his life, the ordinary life he once took for granted felt like the most precious thing in the world.
................
Komolini sat quietly in the back of the cycle rickshaw as it rolled through the evening streets of Kolkata. The familiar creak of the wheels and the rhythmic sound of the cyclist's pedaling seemed unusually loud in the gathering dusk. Around her, the city moved at its usual pace. Office workers hurried home. Tea stalls filled with customers discussing politics. Vendors arranged their evening displays beneath yellow lights. The world carried on exactly as it had yesterday and exactly as it would tomorrow.
Yet Komolini felt strangely unsettled.
The guilt had followed her all the way from Madhumita's veranda.
She lowered her eyes toward her saree and immediately found the evidence.
A faint tea stain remained visible on the edge of her pallu.
Not large enough for anyone else to notice.
Large enough for her.
The sight made her groan inwardly.
The memory returned instantly.
Her laughter.
That uncontrollable, ridiculous laughter.
The way she had nearly spilled the entire cup while Madhumita continued inventing increasingly absurd stories about chiffon sarees, Marathi food, and railway adventures.
Even now, remembering it made a reluctant smile threaten to appear.
She quickly pressed her lips together.
"No," she muttered silently to herself.
The cycle rickshaw turned into a quieter lane lined with old houses. Evening shadows stretched across the road.
What kind of wife laughed like that while her husband sat in a prison cell hundreds of kilometers away?
The question returned for the tenth time.
She covered her mouth lightly with her fingers as the cycle rickshaw rolled steadily through the evening streets. The embarrassment seemed almost physical now, settling over her shoulders like a shawl she couldn't remove. It wasn't merely that she had laughed. Under normal circumstances, laughter would have been harmless. What troubled her was how completely she had surrendered to it. For those few moments on Madhumita's veranda, she had forgotten herself entirely. Forgotten the lawyers whose numbers were scribbled in her handbag. Forgotten the investigation that dominated every conversation. Forgotten the anxiety that had occupied every waking hour since Probal's arrest. She had simply sat there laughing like a young woman listening to college gossip, unable to regain control no matter how hard she tried.
The thought alone was enough to make her cheeks warm again.
And then came the truly horrifying possibility.
What if Hiyan noticed?
Komolini immediately closed her eyes. Of course he would notice. The boy noticed everything. He always had. Even as a child he possessed an uncanny ability to detect moods, tensions, and unspoken worries. As he grew older that sensitivity had only sharpened. The tea stain on her pallu alone would probably be enough. Hiyan could identify a change in her expression from across a room. He would take one look at her and know something unusual had happened.
The problem was not merely that he would notice.
The problem was explaining it.
Her mind immediately began constructing the conversation she dreaded...
"Ma, what happened to your saree?"
"Nothing."
"Then why is there tea on your pallu?"
"I spilled it."
"How?"
And then what?
Would she honestly explain that she had spent the afternoon laughing helplessly while Madhumita invented increasingly ridiculous futures for her? Was she supposed to confess that an entire discussion had taken place regarding chiffon sarees, hairstyles, Marathi food, and the possibility of returning from Sholapur as some transformed traveller who spoke Marathi phrases and insisted on serving impossibly spicy meals?
The absurdity of it nearly defeated her again.
A smile escaped before she could stop it.
Immediately she pressed her lips together.
This was becoming a genuine problem.
The cycle rickshaw slowed as several young men crossed the road ahead. They were broad-shouldered boys in their twenties, laughing loudly among themselves, pushing one another playfully as they walked. Their confidence filled the street around them. Without intending to, Komolini found herself comparing them to Hiyan once again.
Madhumita's words returned immediately.
"Those eyes of his give him away every time."
"That boy has the softest heart I've ever seen."
At the time she had dismissed the observations with laughter. Now, sitting alone in the rickshaw with the evening breeze brushing against her face, they lingered differently. A mother noticed things other people missed. She knew how easily Hiyan worried. She knew how hard he tried to appear composed. She knew how carefully he watched both her and Probal without ever saying very much. The boy carried his concern quietly, almost apologetically, as though he feared becoming an additional burden.
Perhaps that was why Madhumita's comments had affected her so strongly.
They were true.
The rickshaw continued forward through streets that grew increasingly familiar. The cyclist pedaled steadily while twilight settled across the city. A loose strand of hair escaped from Komolini's bun and brushed against her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear absentmindedly, still lost in thought.
What would Hiyan actually say if she told him the truth?
The image appeared immediately.
"Ma, Baba is in Sholapur and you were discussing sarees?"
The expression she imagined on his face was so vivid that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to suppress another smile.
"Madhumita is such a terrible influence!!"
Yet beneath the embarrassment, beneath the guilt, and beneath the increasingly ridiculous effort to hide her amusement, another realization slowly began taking shape.
For weeks every conversation in her life had revolved around fear. Lawyers. security officer. Documents. Telephone calls. Waiting. Endless waiting. Every morning began with worry and every evening ended with uncertainty. The future had shrunk into a narrow corridor occupied entirely by Probal's situation.
The cycle rickshaw finally entered her neighborhood. Familiar houses appeared one after another. Familiar shopkeepers. Familiar sounds. Familiar faces. Everything looked exactly as it always had, yet somehow she felt slightly different from the woman who had left earlier that afternoon.
She adjusted the stained edge of her pallu self-consciously and sighed.
The tea stain remained.
A small, stubborn piece of evidence.
She was absolutely certain Hiyan would notice it.
And she was equally certain that she had no idea how she intended to explain it.
The thought followed her all the way to her front gate.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)
, I know it will be a block buster story ( add pictures and gif, it creates magical sexy environment in story)
that probal and hiyan become her past forever)