Swapan Mesho—that’s what he’s lovingly called by his family and dear ones. A gentle-looking man who has grown older alongside the world and its many responsibilities. He reminds me of my father, except with a full head of white hair at the age of 70. He walks ahead of everyone else, never engaging in anything that doesn’t align with his nature. His wife, evidently weary of his ways, threatens not to cook for him before leaving for school, her voice laced with a mix of frustration and need for his affection.
At first, I didn’t like him. He seemed stern, even cold—he barely spoke a word.
“Pagli, shon tui jabi Source e amar r tor jonno. Group e asha mane compromise, kintu tui jash,” he said.
For a moment, I had no clue what he meant, so I simply replied, “Haan, jabo. Amra eksathe.”
“Oto din ami thakbona, tui jash,” he said again.
I was taken aback. A little heartbroken, honestly, because he reminded me so much of my own father. The way he moves, the way he carries his quiet resentments, and how he says “ektai chicken dao” just like my dad always does. His build, his demeanor—everything. He is a kind soul, and hearing him say that, even after knowing him for just a day and a half was not q pleasant feeling.
He often sits quietly, away from the crowd.
What he truly wants is for me to find the source of the Kaveri River. Many places have been closed due to flooding from heavy rains, but he still holds onto that wish.
At dinner, he brings it up again: “Pagli tui jash,” he says softly, almost as if talking to himself. I look at him and reply, “Tomake niye e jabo, bujhle?”
He doesn't respond, just gazes downward while the rest of the table looks on in confused silence. I smile at him. His face bears the marks of a life lived with love, loss, and longing. And now his daughter,who has moved far away from Kolkata—fills his heart with anxiety. He grieves quietly. But he cares deeply.
He asks for the book I have, reads through it.
“Ishannita koi? Or ruti? O khabe toh? Haan haan,” he mutters with concern on his own while making ruti
“De de, shobai bag guno de,” he says as I pick up my bag to leave. Then, like a sheltering tree, he takes my bag in his hand and walks ahead, leaving the rest behind.
“Ami jaboi jabo, jotoi hata hok,” I had said, when others told me the Kaveri source was too far. I was determined to go—with him. I wanted to feel the chill of that sacred water against my feet.
He has a soft spot for animals—all kinds and shapes.
I’ve forgotten what exactly I intended to write, because at this moment my thoughts are clouded. Maybe this is what it feels like when life takes your children far away and you're left with an empty nest echoing with loneliness.
Taking him to the source of the Kaveri is something I will do,if not physically, then emotionally.
