Sharod Utsav

Torpon

The morning of September 24th was quite stormy in Zurich. Utsav's phone lit up with a notification.

Your flight XXXX to Kolkata via Dubai stands cancelled due to ill weather conditions. Any inconveniences are deeply regretted. You will be contacted for rescheduling or refunding.

The phone dropped from his hands. A tear trickled down his cheek as he stared out the window of one of Zurich's tallest towers. There was no way he could get to Kolkata in time for Torpon (a ritual Indians especially Bengalis perform to honour their forefathers). The butler came in with his breakfast.

"You can take that away", Utsav said with a hint of disgust.

Without asking any further questions, the butler turned and left.

After pacing around for what seemed like an eternity, it struck him. Of course! Why didn't he think of it sooner? If only he could get to Strasbourg by the evening, Monica could arrange for him to fly to Kolkata on her private jet. Oh wait, "we haven't talked in years. I haven't returned her calls. I have sent back her gifts. How can I face her now?", he thought to himself. As he sat down on the sofa, his face drooped and his eyes darkened. He raised an eye to the wall-mounted photograph of his parents. The garland of rotten flowers on it was falling apart. He picked up his phone and dropped a message in the family WhatsApp group.

"Eibaar hoyto Mahalaya te thik shomoy e pouchote parbona" (Maybe I won't be able to reach home on the right time.)

The phone pinged before he could put it down.

Shinjini: @~Utsav abar late? Chotobelar kotha mone nei? (Late again? Don't you remember your childhood?)

This was the breaking point for Utsav. He started crying and called Monica. She picked.

"Hello?"

(Sobbing noise)

"Utsav? You okay?"

"Take me home, Moni. Please, Moni."

"Calm down, buddy. Tell me what's going on."

...

Half an hour later, Utsav was on a bus to Strasbourg. He had the window seat. His tears camouflaged in the heavy rain. Not a soul in the bus had the slightest clue of his suffering. He struggled to sleep on the bus because his old memories kept haunting him. At the bus stop, Monica was there was there to receive him. She was wearing a red overcoat and leather jeans. As Utsav looked into Monica's eyes, he felt warmth and a feeling many would call vulnerability but our stud was too arrogant to admit that. With teary eyes, he hugged her tightly.

"Agomoni er aage Moni ke mone porlo?" (You remembered Moni just before Agomoni?)

"Beshi bhao khawar dorkar nei. Tui ekhono chhoto bachha amar kache." (No need to get all so proud. You're still a kid to me.)

Monica led him to her car and held the door open for him. With a smile, Utsav got in. Monica tried to initiate a conversation.

"Thank you for arranging this flight on such a short notice but I'd rather have silence for the rest of the ride."

"As you wish but I'm not keeping quiet during the flight."

"You're coming with me?", said Utsav in a surprised tone.

"I won't miss Kolkata's Durga Puja for the world. And there's one other thing."

"What?"

"I haven't seen you wearing a dhuti in quite a while."

Utsav couldn't resist smiling.

...

A long flight and a painfully long chain of conversations later the two finally landed in Kolkata. Utsav took a deep breath and said, "Smells like home"

Monica smiled. They walked out of the airport together.

"I guess this is goodbye."

"Wanna catch up on Soshti?", asked a nervous Utsav.

"Soshti and Ashtami", said Monica and flagged down a cab. As the cab drove away, Utsav looked at his phone. The tithi for Tarpan was soon to be over. He booked an Uber and hurriedly made his way to 13, Durga Charan Mitra Street.