"You can love someone deeply... even from far away."
The morning, he left, the air smelled like cold dust and unsaid words.
His small bag was already packed — clothes folded by his mother, snacks sealed in foil, and tucked quietly into a corner, a photo of his mother, smiling, holding him on his third birthday. He didn't know she had placed it there.
He stood by the bus with sleepy eyes and tight hands, gripping his mother's kurta. She didn't say much. Just stroked his hair, like she always did when she was trying not to cry.
"Be a good boy," she whispered.
He nodded.
She bent down and looked him in the eyes. "You're going to live with Mausi now. She'll take care of you. You'll go to a better school, study well, and one day, you'll be so smart your Papa won't believe it."
The word "Papa" made his stomach twist. He hadn't seen his father since he was three. He remembered little—just a big smile, strong arms, and the day he carried his Papa's bag from the road, refusing to let anyone else touch it.
He was seven now, and already that memory felt like a dream.
The bus coughed to life. His Mausi was already inside, waiting.
His mother kissed him on the forehead and whispered again, "You'll do great, my babu. I'll call you every day."
He didn't want to go.
He wanted to stay.
He wanted to eat her food.
He wanted to sleep beside her.
He wanted to ask her why Papa never came back for long.
But instead, he just nodded and got on the bus.
The door closed.
Through the dusty glass, he saw his mother wave. Then, as the bus pulled away, she wiped her eyes with her shawl.
He looked until she disappeared into the blur of trees.
The city was bigger than anything he had imagined.
Buildings stacked like puzzle boxes. Buses that screamed with horns. People who didn't even look at each other when they walked. He held Mausi's hand tightly at the station. She was warm, patient, and spoke kindly to him. But she wasn't his mother.
Her house was quiet, clean, and full of strange clocks and flowerpots. She had a daughter who was in Class 2 and spoke to him. She also had a husband who worked late.
His room had a bed, a small study table, and a calendar with pictures of gods.
He stared at that calendar a lot.
School started the next week.
It was different.
The classrooms were big. The teachers wore coats. They spoke in English often, and fast. Too fast. The other boys talked about cartoons he had never seen, and played games he didn't understand.
He felt small. Dumb. Lost.
When the teacher asked him to read, he stuttered. When he couldn't answer a math question, the other kids snickered. One boy whispered, "He doesn't even know the basics."
He wanted to hide under his desk.
Back at Mausi's home, he didn't cry. He didn't know how to. But at night, when everyone slept, he would lie on his side, clutch the pillow, and silently mouth the words:
"I miss you, Mama."
She called him every evening. Her voice always sounded like sunshine.
"What did you eat today?"
"Did you study well?"
"Don't forget to pray before sleep."
He answered. Smiled sometimes. But never told her how lonely he felt.
He didn't want to worry her. She was already doing too much—alone in the village, waiting for a husband who barely came back, sending her son away for his "future."
Three months passed.
Then one evening, Mausi came into his room and said, "Your Papa called. He's coming to the village next week."
His heart jumped.
"Is he... staying long?" he asked.
"Only for two days. He couldn't take much leave. He wanted to surprise your mother."
A wave of emotions crashed inside him.
Papa was coming.
But he wouldn't be there.
That night, he stared at the photo in his bag.
The one with mama and him. Papa wasn't in it.
He wondered how his father looked now.
Older? Thinner? Happier?
Did he ever look at his photos and wonder the same?
When the day came, Mausi showed him a photo on her phone.
It was sent by mama — a blurry picture of his Papa, standing outside their house, holding a bag, smiling.
He stared at it for a long time.
He remembered the first time Papa had returned from abroad—how he had run, barefoot, to the road, shouting "Papa!"
How he carried the bag himself and refused to let go.
How he skipped school just to sit beside him the whole day.
But now?
He wasn't there.
There was no bag to carry. No road to run on.
Just a photo on a phone screen.
He turned it off and gave the phone back.
The two days passed.
Papa returned abroad again.
He didn't call.
Not once.
A week later, he wrote in his notebook.
"Dear Papa,
I hope you're okay. I heard you came. I wanted to see you. But I was here.
Studying.
Far.
I wanted to carry your bag again.
I wanted to tell you I'm learning English.
That I won a star sticker for good handwriting.
That I can finally ride a bicycle without falling.
But I couldn't.
You left before I could even say hello.
Sometimes, I think you forgot me.
Sometimes, I feel like a ghost child.
Like someone you remember only when you see photos.
Do you know I miss you?
Even if I don't remember your voice?
Love,
Your son"
He folded the page.
Tore it out.
Then burned it in the candlelight.
Time passed.
He moved to Class 4. Then Class 5.
He got used to the city, the loudness, the people who didn't care.
He got better at studies. His English improved.
He even made a friend or two.
But he never stopped missing the things he couldn't name—his mother's laugh, the smell of their old home, the warm touch of a father he barely knew.
One day, during summer vacation, he was sitting alone under a neem tree in the school compound. Other kids had gone home.
He looked at the sky — the way it slowly turned from orange to purple — and whispered,
"When will I stop waiting?"
No one answered.
But the wind rustled the leaves gently.
Almost like a reply.