The Return – A Beautiful Story

A Beautiful Malayalam Story written by acclaimed writer Bindu P. Menon and Translated to English by Sindhu Gatha

Cold morning rays stumbled through the clouds toward the earth. Rosebuds sobbed as they bloomed from beneath a blanket of mist. The wind’s breath was heavy with a muffled sob.

One by one, the doors of the ancestral home were closed. The sounds of hinges, latches, and locks echoed inside the house. Darkness spread through the rooms. The sounds ceased. Silence, like black bats, folded its wings in the dark corners.

With a deep sigh, Sreedharan Nair walked to the corridor. Only the faint rustle of his laundered dhoti lingered in the air. Behind a lit oil lamp on a table against the wall sat the graceful photograph of Subhadra. Sreedharan Nair stared at his wife’s radiant face for a long time, as if seeing it for the first time. Then, he slowly extinguished the lamp, took the photograph, and placed it safely in his bag. His feet moved slowly toward the light filtering through the front door.

As he closed the main door and handed the bunch of keys to the caretaker, Bhaskaran, his voice and expression were filled with the despair of having to surrender to a long period of his life. He watched emotionlessly as the cow and calf were led away from the cowshed and walked down the steps into the courtyard.

His son, Nishanth, was busy packing boxes into the car’s trunk. To the south of the courtyard, where his wife had been cremated, nine varieties of grain had begun to grow. Sreedharan walked there. Tiny flowers nodded and smiled over the six feet of earth… a gentle breeze whispered a secret as it caressed him. Sreedharan knelt on the ground, closed his eyes, and stretched his hands toward the earth. He untucked a handkerchief from his waist and spread it on the ground. With both hands, he scooped up a handful of earth, placed it in the cloth, and tied it securely.

His eyes overflowed with tears… as he tried to stand up, his legs faltered. Nishanth ran to him and helped him up. Nishanth, too, felt the pain of uprooting his father from this land—the place where he was born and raised, and where his mother now slept.

In that luxurious room, Sreedharan carefully placed Subhadra’s photo on a table near a large mirror. His hands trembled as he placed the handful of earth wrapped in the handkerchief before the photograph. “A handful of earth of my own in this Canadian soil…” he said, looking into the mirror.

The morning sun extended friendly hands of light through the window curtains. The Canadian wind buzzed around with needles of cold. Suddenly, the sound of a door opening…

“Grandpa…!” It was his grandchildren, the little mischief-makers. Sreedharan held them both close and kissed them. The younger one shared her grandmother’s features—Subhadra’s curly hair and mischievous eyes were exactly the same. Even the dimples that appeared when she laughed belonged to Subhadra.

The grandchildren took their grandfather by the hand and showed him every corner of the house—their books, toys, and the plants they were growing in the yard. Sreedharan slowly entered their world. Nishanth had prepared a surprise for his father: a reclining chair on the balcony, complete with Malayalam newspapers and books. Even though they were in Canada, they sincerely hoped his father wouldn’t lose the goodness and beauty of his homeland. Lekha served him hot, traditional meals.

Despite the laughter, Nishanth noticed his father’s mind frequently slipping back to his homeland. Amidst the love of Nishanth, Lekha, and the children, Sreedharan tried his best not to show the nostalgia in his heart. However, as the days passed, Sreedharan grew more silent, lost in thoughts of his homeland and Subhadra.

The son did not fail to understand his father’s mind…

“What are you thinking about, Father?” Nishanth asked his father, who was sitting on the balcony watching a beautiful scene: an elderly neighbour trying to pick an orange from a tree, and her husband coming to pick it for her.

“I suddenly remembered the mango season back home… Bhaskaran mentioned when he called the other day that the mango tree in the courtyard has bloomed well this time”. After a moment of silence, his father looked into the distance and said, “I had tied a small pole for your mother to pluck mangoes for the kitchen. It’s still hanging from a branch of that tree”.

Memories bloomed, bore fruit, and withered on the branches of the mango tree in his father’s mind… he lived only in those memories. Even in this Toronto wind, his father searched only for the fragrance of the Ayurvedic oil his mother used before her bath.

Days passed like this….

The sun had set. Returning home from the office, Nishanth took a cup of tea to his father’s room. Usually at that time, his father would be on the balcony reading. Not finding him there, Nishanth walked to the terrace.

In the dim light on the terrace, his father was sitting near a newly purchased flower pot. Nishanth sat quietly beside him. It was a mango sapling his father had bought as an experiment; he didn’t know if it would grow. Unaware that his son had approached, his father remained still, holding a handkerchief with a little soil. From it, he took a pinch of soil at a time and carefully scattered it at the base of the mango sapling. Tears fell onto the soil.

Nishanth put his arm around his father’s shoulder and sat close, looking into his face. His father looked back. Nishanth stood silent and helpless before his father’s irrepressible desire to recreate, even as a tiny sprout, the memories that stood bloo ming in his mind like a giant tree. The image of his father sitting in front of the TV, watching the temples, ponds, and nature of their homeland with a sense of loss, continued to shake Nishanth’s heart.

Though he ran happily with the children during the day, at night, Sreedharan’s mind would return to the courtyard of his ancestral home as he touched the small cloth bundle of earth that he believed held Subhadra’s scent.

Night… the city stood bathed in neon lights beyond the balcony. Sreedharan walked back into the room from the city views. He slowly took the bundle of earth from near the mirror, opened it, and brought it close to his face. The smell of soil and home… the smell of Subhadra. Sreedharan stood as if in a dream world, his eyes closed. He didn’t know for how long… he suddenly opened his eyes when he felt someone touch him.

Upon the soil in his palm lay a long envelope. Beside him stood Nishanth, looking at his father with love. Nishanth took the cloth bundle from his father’s hand, placed it on the table, opened the envelope, took out the paper inside, and handed it to him. Sreedharan looked at it over and over, unable to believe his eyes.

A ticket back home.

As he watched his father’s face fill with wonder and joy, Nishanth’s eyes welled up. In that moment as they stood looking at each other, darkness filled the surroundings…

The large latches of the gate to the ancestral home opened. The oil lamp was lit. The bats of silence flew away from his mind. The reclining chair on the veranda welcomed Sreedharan with open arms; what a temptation it was! From beneath the mango tree, an incorporeal voice flowed toward the veranda…

“Oh… how long I’ve been struggling to pluck four green mangoes… can’t you just get up from that chair and come here?”