Under The Willow Tree

By Srotoswini Bar Saha

A cold breeze swept across the hills, stirring the mist that curled around the crowns of pine trees. The November afternoon in the little hill station of Rishav lay blurred, every outline softened by haze. And there I sat, a fluffy Persian cat curled up on my lap, my fingers slipping through the silk of her fur. Her head was resting on my thigh, chilly wind made her nose run leaving tiny stains on the knees of my denims. Around us the haze thickened, softening the outlines of the hills as if the whole valley was holding its breath. Looking at the topsy- turvy schists and gneiss scattered pavement mind visions an August night when I was running down the hill, slicing through the sudden, shadowed shower. Rain drops clung to my lashes and soaked my thin cotton shirt, each breath a rush of cool mist against my skin. I stood there, ringing the bell of a small cottage homestay, rain dripping from my hair and soaking my shirt. Warm yellow light spilled from the stained glass windows, pooling on the porch where water gathered at my feet. I couldn't stand still - my shoes tapped nervously against the wood as tears blurred my sight, my nose ran, and sweat pickled beneath my skin.

 What if-

the thoughts splintered as the wooden door swung open. 

“Oh, my son — you! God, you're shivering. Come in, come inside. I thought you were arriving tomorrow morning.”

He pulled me gently across the threshold, and I felt myself sink into the comfort I'd been aching for.

I stayed back in Rishav for seven months. When my winter break ended, I returned to college, but those months lingered like a dream. Every moment there felt like a droplet of rain resting on moss — small, gentle, alive. There everything around me glowed with the warmth of a yellow filament bulb, and somewhere between their laughter and the still hills, I began to revive — slowly, quietly, finding my way back to life.

And there was her — the one I shared the 19 years of my life with, sitting beneath the willow tree, her fingers tracing through my hair as I let the dark clusters of my heart spill out.

Never have I ever thought the boy I once was — the Horlicks-framed nerd who got bullied every day in college, who shrank away from girls with thick makeup and long lashes, who was once framed for molestation he was a victim of— would find peace again. The police interrogated me for nights. They left cigarette burns on my dewy skin, was thrashing with rubber hoses cracking the bone of my forearm just to let their anger seep through.

I ran then — like a coward without a tail, lost and hollow.

And yet, here I was, opening up to a girl barely five foot one, chubby-cheeked with rose-tinted skin and almond eyes that disappeared when she smiled. A girl who carried her own quiet shame and fear beneath her soft fat folds.

Nalina. The ointment that healed me — gentle as magic, steady as spring after frost. I was getting too comfortable in the tangles of lotus— the cold yet misty warmth of her words and presence, gentle and deep, just like her name. Nalina.

And then the time came to say goodbye.

She stood by the wooden door, leaning slightly, her nails tracing small marks into the frame. She didn't look up once. The mist had thickened again — or maybe it was just my eyes.

As I began walking up the hill, her voice echoed faintly through the valley. I turned just in time to see a small figure running toward me, breathless, hair flying. She stopped a few steps away and pressed a tiny Persian kitten into my hands.

“Take her,” she murmured, eyes glistening.

I clutched the kitten to my chest and started walking again, the air thick with everything unsaid.

Her voice carried through the fog one last time — soft, breaking, almost fading into the wind.

“She Is just a baby… can't live without me for too long… remember that—”

By Srotoswini Bar Saha