Chapter 15 / 51 · 2 min

Blue Naphthalene - 2

After nineteen years, it took Subrata no time at all to recognize Nila. He walked up and called out, “Nila!”

Subrata’s call startled her, but it embarrassed her more than it startled her. For three years, one thousand and ninety-five days, she had been this man’s companion through joy and sorrow. Then somehow a gap of nineteen years had fallen between them, days Nila had long stopped counting.

Subrata spoke again. “Do you recognize me?”

“You’ve gotten a little sharper, that’s all. No reason I wouldn’t recognize you.”

Nila’s voice was cold. Subrata couldn’t tell whether it was a compliment or a subtle jab.

“You’re at Kamalapur?”

“Going to Chittagong…”

“Alone?”

For some reason a strange nostalgia stirred in Subrata. But he couldn’t let it show.

Nila pointed to her daughter, sitting a little distance away. “No, Raisa’s with me.”

Subrata looked at Nila’s daughter. She looked a lot like Nila. Seventeen, eighteen years old. The girl’s eyes had turned strangely beautiful. She sat reading the newspaper.

“Introduce me to your daughter,” Subrata said.

The lines on Nila’s face hardened further. In a firm, hard voice she said, “No.”

The firmness struck Subrata hard. But he said nothing. Nineteen years ago he had turned this woman away. He owed her many wrongs. He couldn’t expect things to come easy.

Subrata said, “Her father didn’t come?”

Nila looked at him for a moment. “No, he’ll get on at the airport. Something came up at work. Why are you here?”

“Going to Chittagong too. My driver’s sick. Didn’t have the nerve to drive that far myself, so the train…”

He had managed to let her know, in passing, that he owned a car. A strange satisfaction came over Subrata. Nila said nothing. Both of them were quiet for a while. For a while, some dust-covered time gathered in both their eyes.

The train’s whistle brought them both back. Subrata asked, “Which coach are you in?”

“Ta.”

“Oh… mine’s Ka.”

“I’ll go, then.”

Subrata fumbled a little. “Listen, give me your number.”

“Why?”

Subrata tried to smile. “You’ve already forgotten me. You’ll forget me again. So I’d like to take on the duty of reminding you, now and then.”

Nila started walking toward her daughter. At the end she turned around once and said, “Forget you? For nineteen years I’ve been carrying your mark with me. How could I forget?”

Subrata set his face hard and tried to make the numbers add up. Suddenly everything seemed to scatter. No, no, he’d have to think about this with a cool head. What was Nila saying? Could the answer to nineteen years of curiosity be this cruel?

Nila left, and so did the train. In this life Subrata could never hold on to Nila or the train, neither one.