Broken Story

I

The train stopped. Her father dropped the luggage on the platform, and she jumped off the steps of the train. Her father’s colleagues waved at her. She smiled and waved back. Her mother got out three tickets from her purse. They all promenaded towards the railway station’s old overbridge. The sun looked dim. It got spread at the lower end of the sky as the train passed through it. The evening breeze had a chilling nudge. This was their usual way of travelling to her grandparents’ place. That small town had that quintessential country-side vibe. Every time she felt that the trains gladly dropped her in the nineteenth century. The ritual from the railway station to the house was unco simple. A cycle rickshaw used to wait for them at the station gate. The rickshawala always had a wide smile. Every time he used to say loudly, “Eito, anekdin por, haan?” (Here, it’s been long, right?)

Whenever the rickshaw used to take the final turn through a narrow, bushy lane, she could see that red and white house’s name blooming, even in the dark evenings. Her grandparents’ house was far away from the bustle of their city life. She could feel as if the celestial spectrum came down from their great-great grandmothers’ heaven to adore the house.

She heard her cousin’s cheerful shouting voice, “Hey!”

They shared the same birth year. They had a quirky rapport.

She saw that her cousin was leaning down from the terrace. She called her with a hand gesture, “Hi!”

They entered the house with smiling faces. The whole house had coral red flooring. The big pendulum clock made seven echoing sounds. Her cousin came down hurriedly. Her cousin’s steps made hollow toot on the wooden stair. Everybody was talking, laughing, shouting. The whole place was cuddling with so many voices. 

II

In a few years, everything disappeared.

She picked up a broken piece of the coral-red floor. That was the last time she smelled the place.

She wrote, “You know, I often get very judgmental about my decisions, especially about my relationships. I feel helpless when they come or interact. Now it’s forced. But you know it used to be very different; like literally, “Once upon a time it was warm.”

She paused for a moment but continued speedily, “Nope, I am not talking about partnerships; it’s about the ‘relatives’. I still remember how I loved to go to my grandparents’ house. From the railway station, I could feel the vibe of acceptance.”

She stopped. She slowed down, “You know what, I had picture-perfect kind of expectations. I even had the belief that this place might be the winner of some ‘best place’ kind of competition.”

She felt as if she swallowed something hard. She trembled a bit and went on, “After my grandparent’s death, we could see the changes. I never thought about the opposite side of the coin. Property papers, separation, registration dates, and legal formalities—these words were so normal in each conversation. They say, “Finally, now we live in harmony.” I still wonder about separation and harmony—do they go well together?”

She stopped typing and grabbed a blanket. It was a winter day and the sun did not seem quite sure about its own presence. She placed a hot mug of coffee on a wooden coaster and started again, “You know Dan, now I don’t hear my cousin’s cheerful call. Her eyes look different. She once said in a snobbish tone, “Your mom gave her share to us because this property is way too cheaper for you. The cost will not even give you a 2 BHK in your city!” I stood numb. I never knew the ‘cost’ of any house. That was a new lesson for that ‘teenager me’. I never asked my mother anything about that bloody property’s valuation but I probably would have never imagined that could cost us the worth of our sentiments. It’s broken in every way—physically and emotionally.  Everything fell down like a card house. In Bengali, we call that Tasherghar! It was meant to be broken. Dan, our beloved queen fell down.” 

III

Dan read the email the next morning. He marked some points and quoted them. His thesis accumulated the personal stories of some famous broken houses. He skipped the names of the owners. Every house story had long paragraphs, and later only the name of the place.

Dan replied to her after some days, “Hey, my thesis is ready. It got a name. It’s ‘Tasherghar: The Personal Stories of Broken-Houses’. Thanks buddy. I am sorry for your loss. But we just can hope that long may our queens reign, at least in our hearts. See you soon.”