09-03-2026, 01:17 AM
Today, I am going to share the real incident that happened in my childhood. My name is Ayan. I grew up in Kolkata with my Bengali parents. My mother's name is Debjani and my father's name is Bimalesh. My mother is a housewife and when this incident happened my father used to work as a merchant navy officer. He used to stay with us for six months and then leave for the sea for the next six months. My parent’s marriage was a love marriage. We lived with my grandmother in a small flat in South Kolkata.
I studied at one of the renowned colleges in Kolkata. This story starts when I was in class 5. There was a new Marwari boy who joined our class at that time. His name was Rohan Agarwal.
Rohan used to dress stylishly and was very tall for his age. I had a few female friends in my class. We used to sit together during lunch breaks and discuss our favourite cartoon shows. One day, I noticed Rohan staring at me when I was talking to one of my friends. When I smiled at him, he quickly looked away and pretended to read his book.
Later that day, during the bus ride home, Rohan sat next to me. He nudged me with his elbow and said in a mocking tone, "Ayan, the ladies' man." I didn't understand why he would say that. Was I supposed to laugh? Did he expect a response? I just looked out of the window, feeling confused.
My mom used to drop me in the bus stand and Rohan saw us multiple times. One day, he asked me, "Hey, who's that lady with you?"
I frowned, confused. "My mom."
Rohan leaned closer, his stupid grin widening. "No way. She's way too hot to be your mom." He said it like he'd just cracked some cosmic joke, and I felt embarrassed at this. I didn't know what to say.
I used to avoid Rohan but oneday Rohan sat beside me and pulled out a shiny new phone from his pocket, one of those sleek foreign brands that appears to be costly.
"Check this out," he said, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. The screen lit up like a neon sign in a dark alley, way brighter than anything I'd seen before. His thumb swiped through apps—games with graphics so sharp they looked like they'd jump off the glass.
My parents were careful handing any such electronic item to me at this age. Through Rohan, I used to get chance to look into those mobile games. Soon we became friends.
Soon, Rohan began saving the seat beside him for me. During those rides, I learned bits about his world. He’d casually mention things, like how his father brought him a new gadget from Singapore, but what stunned me was the PlayStation. "Dad got it last week," he said one Thursday, shrugging like it was nothing. My stomach clenched. I’d begged Ma for months just for a cheap handheld game, but she’d snapped, "Books first, distractions later!" Yet here was Rohan, treating a console like pocket change.
One humid afternoon, while we hunched over his phone playing some racing game, Rohan suddenly paused mid-race. His thumbs stopped tapping, letting my pixel car zoom past his. "You know," he said, voice oddly flat, "Ma died when I was born." The words hung between us, sharp as shattered glass. I froze, unsure whether to look at him or away. He finally glanced at me, his glasses fogged. "I like watching her," he admitted softly. "Your Ma. When she waves goodbye to you. And when she’s waiting there in the afternoon, holding your umbrella." He swallowed hard. "She looks... warm."
Other kids had noticed Ma before. Girls from our bus route—Priya and Shalini—used to giggle behind their hands. "Your mother’s so pretty, Ayan," Priya would tease, making my ears burn. "Like a film star!" They’d say it loud enough for Ma to hear sometimes, leaving me shuffling my feet, wishing the college bus would swallow me whole. But Rohan’s gaze was different. Quiet, intense, almost reverent. He never smiled when he looked at her; he just watched, absorbing every detail—the way she smoothed my collar, the tilt of her head as she scanned the bus windows for me.
One afternoon in the kitchen, Ma scbangd coconut flesh into a steel bowl, the rhythmic grating pausing intermittently. "That tall boy," she murmured, not looking up, "the one with glasses." A drop of sweat slid down her temple, vanishing into the cotton of her sari. "He stares at me like he’s trying to memorize my face." The words coiled in my gut. She finally lifted her eyes, her fingers stilling on the grater. " I have seen sitting with him sometime in bus. Is he from your class?"
I responded to my mom carefully, keeping my eyes on the bowl of peeled garlic cloves in front of me. "Yeah, that's Rohan. He sits next to me sometimes and sometimes I do." The words came out too quickly, and I winced at how defensive I sounded. Ma's fingers slowed their rhythmic chopping of onions. A single drop of sweat trickled from her hairline down her temple, catching the afternoon light before she wiped it away with the back of her wrist. She again asked: "Does he have any problem?"
I hesitated, then blurted it out. "He doesn’t have a mother." The knife clattered against the cutting board as Ma froze mid-chop. “ She died when he was born,” I added, softer this time, watching Ma’s face—the way her lips parted slightly, the crease forming between her brows.
Ma exhaled sharply through her nose, wiping her hands on her sari. “Oh, baba,” she murmured, the words heavy with something that made my throat tighten. For a moment, she just stared at the tiny heap of chopped onions, blinking fast. Then her fingers curled around the edge of the counter. “Bring him home sometime,” she said suddenly. “He must be missing food cooked with a mother’s hand.” Her voice wavered on the last word.
Dad came home after few days just before my birthday.Later on the same day of my dad arrival, when Mom was rolling *luchis* for dinner, she nudged me gently. "Ask Rohan to come," she murmured. "For your birthday." Flour dusted her cheekbone like a pale scar.
Everytime during my birthday when my dad was present, he used to create handmade personalised invitation cards for my friends. He was surprisingly artistic, sketching elaborate borders with ink pens he’d collected from foreign ports. This year, he spread his materials across the dining table—thick ivory paper, metallic markers, even a tiny stamp set from Japan. I hovered nearby, watching as he pressed the stamp onto an inkpad and transferred a delicate ship silhouette onto Rohan’s card. “Make the waves blue,” I suggested, pointing. Dad smirked. “Thought you’d want rockets for your space-cadet friend.”
I glanced sideways at Ma, who was pretending to fold laundry but stealing glances at Dad’s work. She had a shoebox under our bed filled with past invitations—the ones with palm trees from when I turned six, the intricate mandalas from eight.
Rohan’s fingers trembled when I handed him the card the next morning. He traced the embossed ship with his thumb, his nail catching on the raised ink. “Your dad made this?” His voice cracked. I said - “Yes”
On my birthday, Rohan arrived precisely at six, clutching a clumsily wrapped box. His father stood behind him, a stout man with thick forearms straining against his silk kurta sleeves. His dad handshake crushed Dad’s fingers briefly before he thrust a gleaming tin of Danish cookies into Ma’s hands. "For the lady of the house," he boomed, his eyes sweeping over our modest living room. Guests murmured greetings, but their glances lingered on his gold Rolex, the diamond stud winking from his cuff.
Dad flicked a glance at Ma—her spine rigid as she forced a smile—before stepping forward. "Bimalesh," he said, extending his hand again, firmer this time. Rohan’s father pumped it twice. "Ravi Agarwal." His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled the scent of ghee and cardamom wafting from the kitchen. Ma hovered near the doorway, fingers twisting her sari pallu. "Please, make yourself comfortable," she said, her voice unnaturally high. Ravi’s gaze slid past her to the framed photos on the wall, Dad in uniform, Ma laughing under a monsoon sky, me as a gap-toothed toddler. His thumb rubbed absently at his watch face.
Rohan nudged me, his elbow sharp. He kept staring at Ma's hands as she poured tea—the gold bangles sliding down her wrist, the way her fingertips pressed the cup’s rim just so. "Your mom," he whispered, "she smells like sandalwood."
I tugged Rohan toward my cousin Arjun and our old friends from the neighborhood. "This is Rohan," I announced, my voice too loud in the sudden lull. Arjun smirked, nudging Siddharth. "The new friend of yours?" Siddharth eyed Rohan’s stiffly ironed shirt. "You play cricket?" Rohan nodded eagerly, pushing his glasses up. "Batting or bowling?" Arjun challenged. Before Rohan could answer, Siddharth tossed a tennis ball. "Catch!" Rohan fumbled, the ball bouncing off his fingertips and rolling under Dad’s armchair. Arjun snorted. "Fielding practice needed." I laughed with them, clapping Siddharth’s shoulder, but Rohan’s smile faltered. He retrieved the ball silently, dusting it on his trousers.
Across the crowded room, Ravi uncle leaned against the sideboard, swirling whiskey in his glass. The amber liquid caught the ceiling light like molten gold. Between sips, his gaze slid toward the kitchen doorway where Ma adjusted the sari pallu over her shoulder, her bangles jingling as she stirred something on the stove. A strand of hair escaped her bun, clinging to her damp temple. Ravi uncle’s fingers tightened around his glass. Dad, chatting with neighbors by the balcony, caught Ma’s quick glance—her eyebrows flickering toward Ravi uncle—and excused himself with a pat on Mr. Ghosh’s shoulder.
Dad sauntered over, clinking his glass against Ravi uncle’s tumbler with deliberate cheer. "Another drink, Ravi?"
Ravi uncle said- “You have nice collection- Bimalesh Da”
Dad grinned—that easy, lopsided smile that made strangers feel like longtime friends. "All from ports you wouldn’t believe," he said, steering Ravi uncle toward the balcony where the humid Kolkata night clung to their skin.
Dad asked - “What you do Ravi? …must be in business?” Ravi uncle took a slow sip, his eyes flicking toward the kitchen again before answering. “Textiles,” he said. “Silk exports mostly.” His thumb rubbed the rim of his glass. “And you? Six months at sea—your wife must miss you.” The words hung between them, sticky as the July humidity. Dad’s grin didn’t falter, but his knuckles whitened around his drink. “Oh, Debjani manages,” he said lightly.
The cake cutting pulled us back inside. Chocolate sponge, Ma’s specialty. Dad lit the candles, his arm around Ma’s waist. "Make a wish, beta!" he urged. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing fiercely for Dad’s next shore leave to come faster. As I blew out the candles, applause erupted. Rohan stood slightly apart, clapping politely. His father’s gaze stayed fixed on Ma, who sliced the cake with careful precision.
Dinner followed – steaming plates of *luchi*, fragrant mutton curry, Ma’s delicate *alur dom*. Chatter filled the room. I drifted back to Arjun and Siddharth near the balcony door, drawn by their laughter over a shared joke about their strict maths teacher. Rohan hovered near the edge of our circle, trying to follow the rapid-fire Bengali words. Siddharth tossed the tennis ball again, this time aiming it playfully at Arjun’s head. "Fielding!" Arjun yelled, ducking. The ball bounced off the wall behind Rohan, who flinched but didn’t catch it. "Relax!" Siddharth laughed, retrieving it himself. "Just messing around." Rohan offered a thin smile.
At the dining table, Dad leaned towards Ravi Uncle, gesturing at the spread. "So, Ravi Bhai," he asked, his voice warm but carrying across the table, "how are you finding Bengali cuisine? A bit different from Marwari fare, eh?" Ravi Uncle paused, a piece of *luchi* halfway to his mouth. He dabbed his lips neatly with a napkin. "Different, yes," he acknowledged, his gaze sweeping over the dishes. "But exceptionally flavourful." He looked directly at Ma, who was quietly serving *cholar dal* to one of dad old friends samaresh uncle. "The subtlety of spices, the balance... truly remarkable cooking, Mrs. Sen." His praise felt precise, measured, like an appraisal. Ma nodded politely, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. "Thank you, Mr. Agarwal," she murmured, avoiding his intense stare.
![[Image: IMG-9307.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/fYSvXDZN/IMG-9307.jpg)
I studied at one of the renowned colleges in Kolkata. This story starts when I was in class 5. There was a new Marwari boy who joined our class at that time. His name was Rohan Agarwal.
Rohan used to dress stylishly and was very tall for his age. I had a few female friends in my class. We used to sit together during lunch breaks and discuss our favourite cartoon shows. One day, I noticed Rohan staring at me when I was talking to one of my friends. When I smiled at him, he quickly looked away and pretended to read his book.
Later that day, during the bus ride home, Rohan sat next to me. He nudged me with his elbow and said in a mocking tone, "Ayan, the ladies' man." I didn't understand why he would say that. Was I supposed to laugh? Did he expect a response? I just looked out of the window, feeling confused.
My mom used to drop me in the bus stand and Rohan saw us multiple times. One day, he asked me, "Hey, who's that lady with you?"
I frowned, confused. "My mom."
Rohan leaned closer, his stupid grin widening. "No way. She's way too hot to be your mom." He said it like he'd just cracked some cosmic joke, and I felt embarrassed at this. I didn't know what to say.
I used to avoid Rohan but oneday Rohan sat beside me and pulled out a shiny new phone from his pocket, one of those sleek foreign brands that appears to be costly.
"Check this out," he said, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. The screen lit up like a neon sign in a dark alley, way brighter than anything I'd seen before. His thumb swiped through apps—games with graphics so sharp they looked like they'd jump off the glass.
My parents were careful handing any such electronic item to me at this age. Through Rohan, I used to get chance to look into those mobile games. Soon we became friends.
Soon, Rohan began saving the seat beside him for me. During those rides, I learned bits about his world. He’d casually mention things, like how his father brought him a new gadget from Singapore, but what stunned me was the PlayStation. "Dad got it last week," he said one Thursday, shrugging like it was nothing. My stomach clenched. I’d begged Ma for months just for a cheap handheld game, but she’d snapped, "Books first, distractions later!" Yet here was Rohan, treating a console like pocket change.
One humid afternoon, while we hunched over his phone playing some racing game, Rohan suddenly paused mid-race. His thumbs stopped tapping, letting my pixel car zoom past his. "You know," he said, voice oddly flat, "Ma died when I was born." The words hung between us, sharp as shattered glass. I froze, unsure whether to look at him or away. He finally glanced at me, his glasses fogged. "I like watching her," he admitted softly. "Your Ma. When she waves goodbye to you. And when she’s waiting there in the afternoon, holding your umbrella." He swallowed hard. "She looks... warm."
Other kids had noticed Ma before. Girls from our bus route—Priya and Shalini—used to giggle behind their hands. "Your mother’s so pretty, Ayan," Priya would tease, making my ears burn. "Like a film star!" They’d say it loud enough for Ma to hear sometimes, leaving me shuffling my feet, wishing the college bus would swallow me whole. But Rohan’s gaze was different. Quiet, intense, almost reverent. He never smiled when he looked at her; he just watched, absorbing every detail—the way she smoothed my collar, the tilt of her head as she scanned the bus windows for me.
One afternoon in the kitchen, Ma scbangd coconut flesh into a steel bowl, the rhythmic grating pausing intermittently. "That tall boy," she murmured, not looking up, "the one with glasses." A drop of sweat slid down her temple, vanishing into the cotton of her sari. "He stares at me like he’s trying to memorize my face." The words coiled in my gut. She finally lifted her eyes, her fingers stilling on the grater. " I have seen sitting with him sometime in bus. Is he from your class?"
I responded to my mom carefully, keeping my eyes on the bowl of peeled garlic cloves in front of me. "Yeah, that's Rohan. He sits next to me sometimes and sometimes I do." The words came out too quickly, and I winced at how defensive I sounded. Ma's fingers slowed their rhythmic chopping of onions. A single drop of sweat trickled from her hairline down her temple, catching the afternoon light before she wiped it away with the back of her wrist. She again asked: "Does he have any problem?"
I hesitated, then blurted it out. "He doesn’t have a mother." The knife clattered against the cutting board as Ma froze mid-chop. “ She died when he was born,” I added, softer this time, watching Ma’s face—the way her lips parted slightly, the crease forming between her brows.
Ma exhaled sharply through her nose, wiping her hands on her sari. “Oh, baba,” she murmured, the words heavy with something that made my throat tighten. For a moment, she just stared at the tiny heap of chopped onions, blinking fast. Then her fingers curled around the edge of the counter. “Bring him home sometime,” she said suddenly. “He must be missing food cooked with a mother’s hand.” Her voice wavered on the last word.
Dad came home after few days just before my birthday.Later on the same day of my dad arrival, when Mom was rolling *luchis* for dinner, she nudged me gently. "Ask Rohan to come," she murmured. "For your birthday." Flour dusted her cheekbone like a pale scar.
Everytime during my birthday when my dad was present, he used to create handmade personalised invitation cards for my friends. He was surprisingly artistic, sketching elaborate borders with ink pens he’d collected from foreign ports. This year, he spread his materials across the dining table—thick ivory paper, metallic markers, even a tiny stamp set from Japan. I hovered nearby, watching as he pressed the stamp onto an inkpad and transferred a delicate ship silhouette onto Rohan’s card. “Make the waves blue,” I suggested, pointing. Dad smirked. “Thought you’d want rockets for your space-cadet friend.”
I glanced sideways at Ma, who was pretending to fold laundry but stealing glances at Dad’s work. She had a shoebox under our bed filled with past invitations—the ones with palm trees from when I turned six, the intricate mandalas from eight.
Rohan’s fingers trembled when I handed him the card the next morning. He traced the embossed ship with his thumb, his nail catching on the raised ink. “Your dad made this?” His voice cracked. I said - “Yes”
On my birthday, Rohan arrived precisely at six, clutching a clumsily wrapped box. His father stood behind him, a stout man with thick forearms straining against his silk kurta sleeves. His dad handshake crushed Dad’s fingers briefly before he thrust a gleaming tin of Danish cookies into Ma’s hands. "For the lady of the house," he boomed, his eyes sweeping over our modest living room. Guests murmured greetings, but their glances lingered on his gold Rolex, the diamond stud winking from his cuff.
Dad flicked a glance at Ma—her spine rigid as she forced a smile—before stepping forward. "Bimalesh," he said, extending his hand again, firmer this time. Rohan’s father pumped it twice. "Ravi Agarwal." His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled the scent of ghee and cardamom wafting from the kitchen. Ma hovered near the doorway, fingers twisting her sari pallu. "Please, make yourself comfortable," she said, her voice unnaturally high. Ravi’s gaze slid past her to the framed photos on the wall, Dad in uniform, Ma laughing under a monsoon sky, me as a gap-toothed toddler. His thumb rubbed absently at his watch face.
Rohan nudged me, his elbow sharp. He kept staring at Ma's hands as she poured tea—the gold bangles sliding down her wrist, the way her fingertips pressed the cup’s rim just so. "Your mom," he whispered, "she smells like sandalwood."
I tugged Rohan toward my cousin Arjun and our old friends from the neighborhood. "This is Rohan," I announced, my voice too loud in the sudden lull. Arjun smirked, nudging Siddharth. "The new friend of yours?" Siddharth eyed Rohan’s stiffly ironed shirt. "You play cricket?" Rohan nodded eagerly, pushing his glasses up. "Batting or bowling?" Arjun challenged. Before Rohan could answer, Siddharth tossed a tennis ball. "Catch!" Rohan fumbled, the ball bouncing off his fingertips and rolling under Dad’s armchair. Arjun snorted. "Fielding practice needed." I laughed with them, clapping Siddharth’s shoulder, but Rohan’s smile faltered. He retrieved the ball silently, dusting it on his trousers.
Across the crowded room, Ravi uncle leaned against the sideboard, swirling whiskey in his glass. The amber liquid caught the ceiling light like molten gold. Between sips, his gaze slid toward the kitchen doorway where Ma adjusted the sari pallu over her shoulder, her bangles jingling as she stirred something on the stove. A strand of hair escaped her bun, clinging to her damp temple. Ravi uncle’s fingers tightened around his glass. Dad, chatting with neighbors by the balcony, caught Ma’s quick glance—her eyebrows flickering toward Ravi uncle—and excused himself with a pat on Mr. Ghosh’s shoulder.
Dad sauntered over, clinking his glass against Ravi uncle’s tumbler with deliberate cheer. "Another drink, Ravi?"
Ravi uncle said- “You have nice collection- Bimalesh Da”
Dad grinned—that easy, lopsided smile that made strangers feel like longtime friends. "All from ports you wouldn’t believe," he said, steering Ravi uncle toward the balcony where the humid Kolkata night clung to their skin.
Dad asked - “What you do Ravi? …must be in business?” Ravi uncle took a slow sip, his eyes flicking toward the kitchen again before answering. “Textiles,” he said. “Silk exports mostly.” His thumb rubbed the rim of his glass. “And you? Six months at sea—your wife must miss you.” The words hung between them, sticky as the July humidity. Dad’s grin didn’t falter, but his knuckles whitened around his drink. “Oh, Debjani manages,” he said lightly.
The cake cutting pulled us back inside. Chocolate sponge, Ma’s specialty. Dad lit the candles, his arm around Ma’s waist. "Make a wish, beta!" he urged. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing fiercely for Dad’s next shore leave to come faster. As I blew out the candles, applause erupted. Rohan stood slightly apart, clapping politely. His father’s gaze stayed fixed on Ma, who sliced the cake with careful precision.
Dinner followed – steaming plates of *luchi*, fragrant mutton curry, Ma’s delicate *alur dom*. Chatter filled the room. I drifted back to Arjun and Siddharth near the balcony door, drawn by their laughter over a shared joke about their strict maths teacher. Rohan hovered near the edge of our circle, trying to follow the rapid-fire Bengali words. Siddharth tossed the tennis ball again, this time aiming it playfully at Arjun’s head. "Fielding!" Arjun yelled, ducking. The ball bounced off the wall behind Rohan, who flinched but didn’t catch it. "Relax!" Siddharth laughed, retrieving it himself. "Just messing around." Rohan offered a thin smile.
At the dining table, Dad leaned towards Ravi Uncle, gesturing at the spread. "So, Ravi Bhai," he asked, his voice warm but carrying across the table, "how are you finding Bengali cuisine? A bit different from Marwari fare, eh?" Ravi Uncle paused, a piece of *luchi* halfway to his mouth. He dabbed his lips neatly with a napkin. "Different, yes," he acknowledged, his gaze sweeping over the dishes. "But exceptionally flavourful." He looked directly at Ma, who was quietly serving *cholar dal* to one of dad old friends samaresh uncle. "The subtlety of spices, the balance... truly remarkable cooking, Mrs. Sen." His praise felt precise, measured, like an appraisal. Ma nodded politely, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. "Thank you, Mr. Agarwal," she murmured, avoiding his intense stare.
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