The Unventured Passions

Journey to thy heart

"Love hurts" is probably the biggest lie out there because true love heals. Love makes people whole again and love fills them with the goodness they need to be as kind and loving as their Creator intended. What hurts is betrayal, thoughtlessness, uncaring attitudes and careless glances. What hurts is people being unfriendly, people shutting down a scope of love, making "exclusive" cliques that are defined by who is "not welcome." What hurts is denial, indifference, coldness and rejection.

Batakrishna was hurt, feeling an emotional tug-of-war in his heart, a constant push and pull - the push when he feared being close to Mira, and the pull when he feared being alone. These were his fears to conquer, yet somehow he needed her emotional stability as his safe harbour. Mira was the mature one, atleast emotionally, and Batakrishna had realised it the day she had pushed him away to keep him safe from societal ill-fame. Yet, when she brashed him away mercilessly despite all his attempts to soothe her, infront of Mahamaya, Batakrishna couldn't digest the hurt.
He too wished to be as mature as her, as cold as a human could be... But even in that coldness, he wished to become her safe harbour in pain, the sanctuary in her storms.

At the peak of the misty dawn the train had stopped at a small foggy station for an hour before the arrival of Faridpur junction. It was a lonely station, and with the white veil of impenetrable fog, it was almost difficult to gauge if there was a soul outside. In the fog the entire surrounding was blurred like an old painting, as if a great work drawn by expert hand. The modest station hut and the red Krishnachura trees were silhouetted black, two-dimensional. The red clay path yawned in every direction with only the old wooden benches and one street lantern to break the view between trees so high that the tops disappeared in the swirling white. It smelled misty, in fact it smelled of nothing but the damp trees not yet in bloom. Without the fumes of the train, now at halt, its odour was as fresh as any meadow without tincture of grass. Batakrishna's footsteps outside the coupe echoed like stones off a cave wall. He was outside, and he wanted to melt onto the misty darkness, but what was the point? Her eyes had given him the vibe of abandonment long ago, and other than the odd roosting birds, all he could register was the melancholic beating of his own heart in many square miles of loneliness.

The sky wasn't clear yet, and the sleeping birds were yet not prepared to leave their nests, as staring vacantly at the half drawn window, lost in thoughts, Mira felt like those reluctant birds, suddenly filled with apprehensions if her son would accept her motherhood, if she's indeed turning away from happiness, if...
Her body swayed with the haulting movement of the train carriage, a lazy and understated rocking motion, and throughout the journey this forlorn stature of hers had made Batakrishna wish he had brought a large book to hide behind.

Mira was thoughtful, Mahamaya's final words playing in her mind like a relay, weighing her heart with a sad helplessness.
'What if she was right? What if Mira was indeed losing her final beckon of life, her last opportunity to find true happiness!'

She sighed, and closed her eyes.

Mahamaya had already left, her uncle Girish Lahiri had received her at the Chattagram junction, leaving Batuk in a mess of stupifaction, an abrupt realisation of how far he had been from reality. They had decided to leave him out of something, the mission, for which he had woven dreams, and although he didn't object to their decision, he couldn't help feel a grave heaviness in his heart.
He had stood by the gate of the train as it moved, unable to recover from the abruptness of the truth of abandonment, both by his purpose and by love. He looked at the rail tracks with vacant eyes, the receding tracks of life as if, and as it gradually came to a halt, Batuk let go of a long held sigh and entered inside their first class four bunker coupe reluctantly, now to be occupied only by the two of them.

"Awake?" He asked her plainly, perhaps purely out of habit, as his eyes fell on her closed eyelids, yet her fingers fidgeting with the small wooden toy cart that Mahamaya had gifted for her son. Batuk touched his pocket to feel the weight of the thick gold bangle, his mother's last sentiments, and suddenly it weighed more than his heart was prepared to take.