The Return

Winner – 1st Position

All India Literature Competition 2019-20

by The Creative Post

— by Antara Mukherjee

–Reading Time – 15 min Approx 

Doors were slammed. Suitcases in the dickey jumped, with joy. But as the school building began winding high towards the sky, a familiar old heaviness settled in Bonku’s heart. Fading behind him were the warm exchange of pleasantries and goodbyes, and with the next turn, the crowd wobbled out of his sight.

It was a bright sunny afternoon, but the tall pines escorting them down the lazy hills were grieving in silence. Without pockets to fill, pinecones would lay scattered, walnuts would bury into decay and the wildflowers of the valley would wilt unnoticed, all through the summer. From the corner of his reddened eyes, Bonku caught the last glimpse of his boarding school; cold and stoic, deserted but dignified.

His face was rested on his arm, over the window and his large eyes reflected the moving scene outside with their steady descend. A red velvet heart embossed with an italicized ‘Love’ dangled from the front rear-view mirror and he wondered if at all it could be his father’s choice. Fifteen minutes into the journey, not a word had been spoken. He had noticed their young Nepali driver looking at them through the rear-view mirror. Could he also see the disinterested look in his father’s face? Was it the report card again or a word from the Principal perhaps? In his ten years of life, Bonku had come to realize that his father despised him with a certain dedication. He was scolded often for not having enough friends, for being a favorite pick among the school bullies, for failing to be the class topper and for still sobbing for his mother at night. His weakness angered his father, and his anger humiliated him. That had linked them together somehow.

The bifocals beside him were set on some official papers and between them lay a stack of files and a copy of The Telegraph. The front-page corner had carried the photograph of an ISRO rocket that had failed in its mission. Bonku tried reading the article upside down, without causing any disturbance or annoyance. The mystifying moon of his childhood, though merely an astronomical body now, had still remained unattainable. The crisp suit looked handsome on his father and he admired the adult smoke rising from the burnt end of his cigarette, flowing into the world outside their window.

“How was school this year?” Advocate Biswas asked, breaking the silence. “Still struggling?” His voice boomed, carrying the fierceness of a courtroom drama.

Bonku shook his head and tried to put up a cheerful face in defiance as his eyes met the Nepali driver in the rear-view mirror. He needed to say something.

Instead, his father said, “Anyways, today we are not going to discuss your grades, that stupid beetle jar, or… or just anything unpleasant.”

Bonku lowered his eyes, knowing that he must have looked miserable beside him. It didn’t go unnoticed then that while the other children were exchanging hugs and greeting cards huddled by their parents, Bonku had passed right through them, heading straight for the car. In his refusal, lay his victory. But when the Matron’s son came running to hand him a glass jar with a beetle wriggling inside an apple core, their friendship drew a sharp glare from his father. Another weakness perhaps.

“It’s a special day today,” he said, flicking the stub out of the window. “And there’s a surprise waiting for you.”

There was something threatening about his father’s excitement. Like he was about to gift him a new volume of the encyclopedia or another DVD of a foreign language. If the interference of his boarding school was worse than the indifference at home, he didn’t know. In both the places, he was lonely, pushed to the borderline.

The car, he noticed, had taken an unfamiliar turn. Pebbles crunched beneath the tyres as it slowed to a halt before a roadside tea-shop. His father went inside and returned with a lady, who in her high boots and cap looked like a race jockey.

She slid into the backseat with Bonku, exclaiming, “Hello Bonku Babu! I’m Ramona. Do you mind if I sit here?” The air suddenly blossomed with her lemony peach perfume.

“Bonku, say hello?” prodded his father and he obliged.

“Ah, what’s that little beauty on your lap?” she asked.

“A beetle,” he said clutching the jar tight as he saw his father taking the seat beside the driver.

“How very charming. Have you thought of a name for it?”

He shrugged.

“Oh, I could suggest one. I have a thing for all that crawls and creeps you know,” she said and eyed the head bending forward with a smirk.

“Bonku, you believe me, don’t you?”

Bonku could very well understand where all this was going. The moment he had stepped into the car he had noticed the shirt button stretching on his father’s belly. Besides his hair was dyed into a ridiculous black and he didn’t even seem to mind those fashion magazines peeking from the pouch behind the driver’s seat.

Ramona took out a box wrapped in silver paper for Bonku, who accepted it graciously, looking for a place to keep. He kept shuffling on his feet, till Ramona extended her hesitant arms. The transfer of lap made the beetle stir for a bit, but it settled down again dreaming of a lemony peach sky.

“Go on, open it. Once unwrapped, bet you can’t keep your hands off it,” she said, winking at the rear-view mirror on her side.

“Now don’t you spoil him too much.”

A PS3 PlayStation it was; promised by his father on his previous birthday. In all these years, letters and cards posted for him had remained unacknowledged. Could the change of hands, soil the spiritedly hope of ink as it journeyed to reach his father? He had wondered that often.

“Do you like it?” she asked. “He doesn’t talk very much, does he?”

“Bonku… what do you have to say?”

“I like it very much. Thank you, Ma’am,” he said.

“Ah, not Ma’am. Not Ma’am,” both of them chimed in together, with the release of laughter.

“Well, you see, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Ramona,” said his father, without turning to look back. “From now on, you’ll see more of her,” he declared.

“Oh Dhiren, come on, we discussed this. I’d hate to break it to him this way.”

“Are you going to be my new mother?” Bonku asked in a matter of fact manner.

“Oh… mother? Why, yes of course. He’s such a munchkin, isn’t he? Though you’ll have to pardon me for my inexperience please,” she said looking at Bonku.

Then taking out another box she said, “In fact, I’d like you to know that I’m not here to take the place of your mother. I don’t even want to pretend to be like her.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Advocate Biswas muttered.

The box sat heavy on his lap and contained a potpourri of the life that his mother had left behind. Nothing could have been more precious than what lay inside; the tactile titbits that assured him that he too could be loved. A tiny pair of shoes, a bib and a half-woven sweater. Also, a photograph of his plump cheeks pressed against that of a woman whose memories had intermingled with the soggy warmth of his nanny’s lap so that, he couldn’t put a thumb on when exactly one began and when the other left.

A kiss was planted on his wet cheeks that toppled the jar, unnoticed on Ramona’s lap.

“Poor baby! I know how much this means to you. That’s why when we were re-modelling the house, I thought you’d love to keep them,” she said.

“See, you’re a natural,” Advocate Biswas chuckled.

“You’ve broken down our whole house?” Bonku asked.

“What kind of a question is that Bonku? Apologize at once.”

“Oh no-no. I understand his concerns. No honeypie, everything is as is. Maybe, a bit more appropriate for your father’s standing now.”

— by Antara Mukherjee

“Can I return? I don’t like my hostel.”

“Bonku! I had made it clear that we’re not talking about anything unpleasant today. Besides, we are leaving for a month-long Europe tour and you’re headed straight to a summer camp.”

Without anyone realising, the beetle had escaped and had settled on the edge of the driver’s seat.

“I can’t even begin to tell, how exciting it all looks. Horse riding, Bollywood dance”

“But I want to go home.”

The beetle had now started flying and came and settled on Ramona’s hair. She screamed and jumped on her seat like her life was escaping. Bonku started laughing, along with the Nepali driver. The car was pulled by, and she stomped off crying, “I hate bugs. I hate that they are so unpredictable. Totally unpredictable. Didn’t I tell you, I’m not good with children?”

He watched his father consoling her on his shoulder, as Bonku was left waiting once again at the borderline.