The Journey Beyond the Score
Chapter 1
A Silent Farewell
The sun had barely risen, casting its soft, golden hues across the lush green fields of Assam. The early morning mist clung to the leaves, and the distant cries of the koel echoed through the sleepy village of Borgang. A cluster of bamboo huts lined the narrow, winding paths, their thatched roofs woven tightly against the monsoon’s wrath. Life here moved to the rhythm of the soil — the plow breaking the earth, the cattle returning at dusk, and the silent prayers offered to the skies above.
At the edge of this village, a humble house stood with its mud walls cracked from years of rain and sun. Its bamboo windows creaked with the breeze, and the small tulsi plant in the courtyard stood tall, a symbol of unwavering devotion. This was Arun’s home.
Inside, the air was still. The thin, woven mattress on the floor bore the faint imprint of a man who had slept there for years, though now, it remained empty. Arun’s father, Raghav, was gone — swallowed by the relentless grip of an illness that had crept silently, leaving despair in its wake. The house, once filled with his laughter and gentle reprimands, now echoed only with absence.
In the dim light of the room, Arun sat cross-legged on the floor, his fingers tracing the edges of a small, worn photograph. His father’s smile beamed back at him — a smile that masked years of toil under the scorching sun, the endless bending of his back in the fields, and the sleepless nights spent worrying about the next harvest. A single tear escaped Arun’s eye, trailing down his sun-darkened cheek.
“You won’t see me take the exam, will you, Baba?” he whispered. The words trembled, barely audible, as the weight of his loss pressed down on him. For fifteen years, he had lived in the shadow of his father’s silent strength. And now, with the exams just days away, that strength seemed to have vanished.
A Mother's Resolve
From the adjoining room, Sarita stood with her back against the cracked mud wall, her frail frame shrouded in a simple cotton saree. She had heard her son’s whispered words, each syllable piercing her heart like shards of glass. Her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her pallu, the memory of Raghav’s final days still fresh in her mind.
He had fought bravely, refusing to let the illness dictate his spirit. Even as the relentless cough tore through his chest, he would smile through his pain, watching Arun scribble equations under the dim glow of the kerosene lamp. “Our Arun will be someone great one day,” he had often said, his voice carrying a certainty that defied his frailty.
Now, that certainty rested on Sarita’s shoulders. The village, bound by unspoken customs, had begun whispering behind closed doors. A widow was often a subject of pity — a woman deemed fragile, incapable of navigating the world alone. But Sarita knew better. She had weathered storms before, and she would do so again.
Steeling herself, she stepped into Arun’s room, her presence as quiet as the breeze. “Beta,” she called softly, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your Baba may not be here, but his prayers are. He will watch you succeed, even if not with these eyes.”
Arun lowered his gaze, guilt gnawing at him. “But what if I fail, Ma? What if I can’t bear the weight without him?”
Sarita cupped his face, her fingers roughened by years of fieldwork. “You are not alone, Arun. I am with you. And more than anything, Baba’s belief in you is with you.”
She wiped the tear from his cheek and managed a faint smile. “Now come. The day has begun, and there is much to do.”
The Fields and the Shadows of the Past
The village was already stirring to life when Arun and Sarita stepped outside. The sky, now washed in pale blue, bore the warmth of the sun. Women with brass pots balanced on their heads walked gracefully to the community well, their chatter mingling with the distant bells of the cows returning from the fields. The air was tinged with the earthy fragrance of wet soil, and the rhythmic thud of bamboo pestles echoed from the homes where rice was pounded into flour.
Arun’s feet moved out of habit, his body swaying slightly under the weight of a small jute sack. The fields awaited — those endless stretches of emerald, where his father’s hands had sown hope year after year. Today, Arun worked not just to tend to the crops, but to chase away the shadows that threatened to consume him.
“Baba would say the soil knows our sorrows,” Arun murmured to himself, his bare feet sinking into the cool mud. “But it also knows our strength.”
He bent down, his fingers digging into the earth. With each turn of the soil, he felt his father’s presence — in the hum of the breeze, in the distant rustle of the betel leaves. Yet, the weight of his absence remained.
Sarita watched from a distance, the ache in her chest unrelenting. She had once hoped that Arun would never have to endure the harshness of the fields — that education would lift him beyond the cycle of toil. But fate had carved a different path.
The Village and Its Whispered Words
After the morning’s labor, Sarita and Arun returned home. The villagers paused to exchange muted glances, their eyes lingering on the boy who carried the burden of a fatherless home. The whispers were inevitable — some pitying, others doubtful.
“How will the widow manage?” a woman in a bright mekhela sador murmured to her companion.
“The boy is bright, but without a father’s guidance...” another voice trailed off, leaving the words unspoken.
Arun lowered his gaze, his fists clenched. He had grown accustomed to the weight of judgment, but today, it stung deeper. The unkind words were like embers, threatening to ignite the doubts he fought to suppress.
Sarita, sensing her son’s unease, straightened her shoulders. “Let them speak,” she said firmly. “Our strength is not for their eyes to measure.”
Arun nodded, though the weight remained. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the village. Tomorrow would come, and with it, another day of preparations.
Nightfall and Memories
That night, as the lantern’s glow flickered against the mud walls, Arun sat by the small wooden table. His books lay open, but the words blurred before his eyes. His mind wandered — back to the nights when his father would sit beside him, the soft baritone of his voice guiding him through tangled equations.
“Mathematics is like life,” Baba would say. “There is always a solution, even if it’s not the one you expect.”
Arun’s chest tightened. The ache was unbearable, but so was the thought of giving up. He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing the tears away.
“I will pass, Baba,” he vowed silently. “For you. For Ma. For us.”
As the village sank into slumber, Arun returned to his books. The light from the lantern danced across the pages, illuminating not just the words, but the fierce determination that had begun to take root within him.
The journey had only just begun.
