The Wasted Years - By Bhavna K. Mehta

Written By: Bhavna K. Mehta

Category: Family drama

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Bhavna K. Mehta's poignant short story, "The Wasted Years," is a compelling entry in the Family Drama category of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. As participants from around the world present their creative works, Bhavna's story stands out with its themes of loss, family bonds, and the search for identity. Set against the backdrop of a bereavement journey, this narrative explores the depth of familial relationships and the unexpected connections that can emerge even in times of sorrow.

About the Work

"The Wasted Years" by Bhavna K. Mehta delves into the emotional landscape of a family dealing with the loss of a loved one. With a rich tapestry of memories and emotions, Bhavna paints a vivid picture of Arundati's journey as she navigates grief and the rediscovery of long-lost familial ties. The narrative style is intimate and evocative, allowing readers to feel the weight of unspoken pasts and the hope of new connections. Through thoughtful character development and nuanced storytelling, the work highlights the enduring power of family.

The Wasted Years

Original Submission by Bhavna K. Mehta

Short Story 3 – Hashtag Kalaakaar submission.

Word Count: 2953

The Wasted Years by Bhavna K. Mehta

She could not remember the journey to the airport. Memories of her mum had flashed through her mind. The day she heard that her mum was no more, stood out. The shock of the news, the sheer unexpectedness of the event, coupled with the strange, stormy weather on that day, was something she would never forget. It was around noon, but the sky was dark, the rain was heavy and relentless, and visibility on the road was poor. She was jerked out of her reverie when she heard her husband speak:

“Aru, wake up! We have arrived at the airport.” His voice was gentle – even a little apologetic.

She looked out and saw the familiar signs at O.R.Tambo Airport. She swiftly gathered her belongings.

They made their way to the check-in counter, collected her boarding pass and then walked towards the departures gate. Just before entering, she paused, to lightly kiss and hug her husband goodbye. She could feel his love and support in his firm embrace. She stood still, careful not to cry in public.

“Take care of yourself and the kids! I’ll call you when I reach.”

“Don’t worry about home. I’ll take care of everything. The children and I will join you tomorrow. We will leave early in the morning.”

She followed the queues through security in a daze. Once on the plane, she closed her eyes and tried to make sense of her muddled thoughts. Two weekends before, she had seen her Mum. She was bright and cheerful, despite the serious prognosis made by the doctors on her condition. That weekend was one of the happiest in her memory. Mum thrived on the attention from family and friends, who came in a continuous stream to visit her on her first weekend home after delicate surgery to her spine.

Arundati was jerked out of her reverie as she became aware that someone was occupying the seat next to her. He was a man in his forties, of Indian descent and of medium build. She nodded acknowledgement of his arrival and promptly closed her eyes, returning to her thoughts. She was vaguely aware that the plane had taken off.

Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she remembered waving goodbye to her mum as she left for school as a little girl; her mum waiting anxiously on the patio for her to return from high school; her Mum crying each time she visited after her marriage; her mum bathing her new-born babies…. She suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She ignored the feeling and turned slightly in her seat towards the window. But the feeling persisted. She opened her eyes slowly to see the man seated next to her, staring at her with a strange expression. He smiled and said, “You look exhausted. Are you from Johannesburg?” She recognised that he was trying to be friendly, but she was in no mood to make small-talk with a stranger. She replied briefly, “I’m okay. I’m from Johannesburg,”

“Where about exactly?” he asked. Now he was being nosey. “I have some business partners in Johannesburg,” he continued.

“I doubt I know them. I don’t socialise a lot. No time.” she responded.

“I’m here on a business trip. Just spent three days in Johannesburg and now I’m off to Durban. I’m in the import-export business. That was a broad term for a whole range of business activities, she thought. This is my third trip. I love Durban – so beautiful with the sea. And the people are so friendly.” He spoke with an Indian accent, but not from India. “I’m from Dar- es- Salaam, in Tanzania,” he said, answering her unspoken question, “and I trade in Indian clothing, jewellery and ornaments.”

“That’s good. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d rather you didn’t talk. I’m not in a mood for conversation. I’m just going through something very personal.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I did not mean to intrude.” He flushed slightly as he spoke. “ I will be quiet.”

She closed her eyes again and this time she remembered her parents bidding her, her siblings and their partners goodbye, as they left for a New Year’s Eve party three months before. She was smiling at her thoughts, when she got that uncomfortable sensation again that she was being watched. When she opened her eyes, her airplane neighbour was staring at her again. He was startled at being caught out. Before, she could think of a response, he blurted an explanation. “Look, I’m sorry for staring, but I can’t help myself. I’m not a pervert or anything like that; it’s just that you look so much like someone that it’s hard to ignore - You probably won’t believe this, but you look identical to my wife!”

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, I have a picture of my wife in my wallet.”

With that, he whipped out his wallet and removed two pictures; one of his wife and the other of his wife and two children posing together with him in a family photograph. She looked at the picture of his wife and sucked in her breath. Staring back at her was a spitting image of herself. The woman even had a mole above her right upper - just like hers. She had heard that everyone has a doppelganger in the world somewhere, but this was uncanny.

“Her name is Aarti. We have been married for twelve years. We have two children, a boy and a girl,” he said, pointing to the second picture. “Is it possible that there is some connection somewhere?

“I don’t think so, I’ve never been to that part of the world.”

“I’m sorry. I did not introduce myself. My name is Ashutosh Soni. My wife was Aarti Trivedi when I met her.”

“My name is Arundati Trivedi. After a pause, she said, “Look, I am sure you are a nice person, but I don’t think we are connected in any way. I need you to drop this topic. It’s none of your business, but I am on my way to Durban to attend my Mum’s funeral. She passed away this morning. I am still coming to terms with her loss. I would appreciate it if we did not talk now. I need to be with my thoughts.”

“I am so sorry for your loss. I understand your need to be alone.”

He was silent for the rest of the short flight. She was grateful and closed her eyes as if she were asleep, but sleep eluded her. She opened her eyes after the announcement informing passengers that the aeroplane was preparing to land. She murmured a thanks when the man helped her retrieve her hand luggage from the storage cabin. As she made her way out, he stopped her once again. This time, he offered her his business card saying, “I know that the timing is wrong, but perhaps we can meet again – I would like you to meet my wife and she will be joining me in a few days. I am staying at the Royal Hotel. Please give me a call if you can spare the time. My contact details are on the card.” She took the card and put it in her jacket pocket, with a brief inclination of her head. Then she made her way towards baggage collect.

She searched through the sea of faces outside and was immediately met by her brother and her nephew. They hugged, cried and made their way to the car. In the car, she enquired about what went wrong with Mum in the hospital. Her brother explained about the botched –up operation and the complications that set in thereafter. She asked how Pappa and the family were taking the news. They spoke in hushed tones for some reason. Within a short while they were at home. More hugs, more crying, someone commenced with the singing of peace hymns for the departed soul. The funeral was the next day in the afternoon and there were a lot of preparations to be completed in a short space of time.

The funeral was emotional and family and friends arrived in big numbers to pay their respects. The next twelve days of mourning went in a haze. There was a continuous stream of sympathisers coming to offer their condolences during the day and in the evenings, there was the traditional singing of hymns to grant the departed soul safe passage into the next world. On the thirteenth day, the final prayer took place and there was the feeding of family and friends. Arundati felt a sense of closure. It was time to go back home.

That night, the family sat together and reminisced about significant events over the years. Mum was the livewire in the house. She held everything and everyone together. She was talkative and self-proclaimed expert on just about every topic. Father was the opposite, quiet and thoughtful. Yet, the two complemented each other perfectly. After fifty years of marriage, they were inseparable and a constant inspiration to all. They were all concerned about how Pappa would cope with her loss. Her eldest brother said, “Difficult though it may be for all of us to cope with her passing away, at least we know that she lived a full and happy life, saw all her children grow up and settle down and she even got to see six grandchildren.”

Then Pappa spoke.

“She was special and blessed with every joy, except for one. She never got to see her missing brother again. Until the end, she never stopped hoping that she would be re-united with him, and he would let the bitterness of the past be buried. It’s forty years since he left home after the disagreement with his father, so I guess there’s no lead left to follow. Who knows if he is even alive.” Everyone was silent.

Arundati suddenly remembered the man on the plane, the conversation, the business card and her strange likeness to the man’s wife and realised suddenly that he may well be the lead the family was waiting for. She related the story of her encounter with the man on the plane to the family, in a mixture of excitement and hope. If only she could remember more about the man. What was his name? – Santosh… no Ashish… no Ashutosh. Oh gosh! I’m not sure. And his surname – it is Patel, Modi…” She remembered that she had put the card in her coat pocket and rushed to see if it was still there, but apart from a few crumpled tissues and a packet of nuts and raisins, there was nothing. Where could it be?

Everyone was curious and hopeful. “Try and re-trace your steps, Aru!”

“Look in your handbag’” said another.

“Maybe you left it in the car,” said another.

“Check in the cubby!” said someone.

“What if it fell out of your pocket?” said another.

In the next ten minutes, there was rummaging in all those places and a few others too. Just as they were about to give up the search, one of the nephews who was searching in the car, slid his thin fingers under the passenger seat in the front, and found the business card that the family was looking for.

Arundati looked at the card and read the name and details on the card aloud. “Ashutosh Trivedi, One-stop Eastern Bazaar, Shop No. 10, Orient Park, Dar-es-Salaam,” Below was written the telephone, e-mail and fax details. It was 8.30 in the evening, and she asked if it were not too late to phone someone, but everyone insisted that that there was no harm in trying. Nervously she dialled his mobile number, but she was greeted with, “The number you have dialled is not available at present. Please try again later.” Everyone let out a collective sigh of disappointment.

“What if we try the hotel? asked Pappa. There was general agreement. She googled the Royal Hotel and got the phone number. This time the phone was answered by a man at reception. She asked to speak to Mr Ashutosh Trivedi. “Do you know what room number he is in?” No, he did not. “Would she hold while he checked?” Yes, of course, she would. After what seemed like ages, he returned to the phone and said, “Ma’am, our records indicate that Mr Soni checked out this morning.”

“Did he leave any forwarding address?”

“I’m afraid we are not allowed to divulge personal information of our guests.”

“But this is important!”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but this is company policy. Are you family?

A slight hesitation, then “Not quite!”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I can’t help you.” More decisive this time, followed by the sound of the call being disconnected.

“Now what!” she exclaimed as she threw her hands in the air.

“Now nothing! It’s late. Tomorrow you can try again. If that fails, you can try e-mailing him,” said Pappa in a quiet but firm voice.

That night, she could not sleep. All she could think of was the possibility of meeting a relative and family members, she had never met before.

The next morning, she was due to fly back home after an absence of just over two weeks, but before she left, she sent an e-mail with a fervent prayer.

Dear Mr Ashutosh Trivedi, you may be surprised to hear from me after all these days, but I was caught up in a flurry of activities after my Mum’s passing away. I spoke to my family about our meeting, and they are convinced that there may be a connection between your wife and my Mum’s family. We think that there is a distinct possibility that your wife may be the daughter of my Mum’s missing brother. He left home after an argument with his father in 1945 and he has not been seen since. This happened in the village of Amboli in Surat district in India. Please reply when you read this e-mail. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely yours

Arundati Bawa.

Two weeks later, there was still no reply. She was getting agitated as she had sent several mails and tried the number several times. She kept seeing her Mum’s teary face as she recounted the tale of the events leading up to her brother walking out of their lives. There was an argument between her eldest brother and her father. Her father had indicated that he wished to go back to Africa and her brother became upset. He spoke of all the hardships the family faced while father was away. He accused his father of neglecting his responsibilities. His father retaliated that he was providing for the family. Her brother called him out as a liar and that Father was enjoying the colonial lifestyle too much. Throughout the heated accusation, our mum had just wept quietly. Then came the ultimatum – If you go, you take the family with you.

“I can’t,” said Father.

“Can’t or you don’t want to?” asked Brother. “Maybe there’s another reason…maybe there’s another family.”

“How dare you speak to your father like that!” In a flash, his right hand swung and connected with brother’s left cheek.” There was a moment of shocked silence and then brother stormed out. They never saw him again.

And now, after almost 50 years, there was a hope that he was alive.

Another two weeks passed, and there was still no reply. Arundati tried the number on the business card, but it kept ringing. Arundati was not yet ready to give up hope. Every night, before going to bed, she checked her email. Another week went by. No news. She cursed herself for her rudeness on the plane. She even found herself bargaining with God when she was alone.

Midway through the third week, Arundati’s prayers were answered. Ashutosh Soni had replied.

Dear Arundatibahen

Namaste. My sincere apologies for not responding to your mail earlier. We also suffered a loss recently. My wife’s father passed away two days after I returned to Dar-es-Salaam. Naturally, we were busy with funeral arrangements. It was only after the 12th day prayer that we were able to say our final goodbyes to my father-in-law. His ashes were poured into the Indian Ocean. We were clearing his room when we came across a box with photographs and some items that were from his home in India. Bapu had never shown us anything from his childhood, but there is a family photo which shows him with a sister who bears some resemblance to you. In perfect block writing everyone in the photo is named. Was your Mum’s name Snehlata? I bet it is.

I think you should come down and spend a few days with us. You can go through his belongings and spend some time with our family. We would love to get to know you better. Too many years have been wasted.

Pranaams to your family

Ashutosh and Aarti

The tears were rolling down Arundati’s face. She shook her sleeping husband until he was awake. She had waited too long.

A week later she was in Dar-es- Salaam with her eldest brother and sister. There they spent time with a branch of the family that circumstances had robbed them of knowing earlier. There were tears of joy when they found old black and white family photographs of my Mum’s family. They spent hours walking down memory lane. Bonds were solidified for future generations. The family jigsaw puzzle was finally complete. Arundati put her palms together to thank the Almighty and felt a warmth engulf her. She smiled with contentment.

……………………….. The End………………………

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About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious event celebrating the art of storytelling and poetry. Welcoming entries from diverse voices worldwide, the competition is a platform for creative expression, where writers and poets share their unique perspectives and narratives. It serves as a beacon for emerging talent, providing them with the opportunity to engage with a global audience and contribute to the rich tapestry of contemporary literature.

Thank you, Bhavna K. Mehta, for sharing "The Wasted Years" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your story of family, loss, and reconciliation is a powerful reminder of the ties that bind us and the healing that can come from understanding our past. We are grateful for your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your insightful storytelling in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.