After 4.5 years away at NISER, I came back home to Kolkata. Once and for all.
Familiar walls, familiar faces, and my mother’s tea — with milk, elaichi, tulsi, sugar, and love. The quiet rhythm of home settled back into my bones.
But something had changed. Something small. Something new. My mother had made a new little friend.
Our kitchen window faces the staircase window of the house next door. They are separated by ten feet of open air and a thousand feet of silence — the kind of silence that accumulates over years in a metropolitan neighbourhood where people live next to each other, but not with each other. You can grow old here without ever learning the names of those who share your walls.
But somehow, everyone forgot to tell these rules to the seven-year-old girl with boy-cut hair and a voice that carries curiosity like sunlight.
One evening, from that staircase window, a voice called out, stretching playfully over the distance:
“Eii! Tumi ki rannna korcho go…”
(hey! what are you cooking?)
Not really a question about the food — more like a gentle tap on a door that had never been knocked on before. My mother heard the warmth first. She has been a high school teacher for twenty years now; dealing with babies is her business. That subtle, magical tone — she recognized it instantly. For a moment, she wanted to respond immediately. To reach across the ten feet with words.
But something held her back. In this city, friendliness can feel like trespassing. The unspoken rules are clear: adults do not chat with children who aren’t theirs.
How will her parents respond if she starts talking… would they mind? Would they think it is odd?
So she responded softly…
“Doodh gorom korchhi go…”
(I am warming milk)
The conversation kite caught wind…
What followed was a slow unraveling. Names revealed, schools shared, stories of classmates and teachers, little everyday adventures and mischief. How the monitor had noted down her name that day. How her friend got punishment while talking to her. How the teacher gave her a toffee for being a good girl. How she accidentally broke a glass and her mother scolded her. My mother listened patiently, sometimes gasping in surprise, sometimes consoling, or laughing quietly at the girl’s innocent complaints.
In those small exchanges, a quiet warmth blossomed — a friendship stitched from fleeting moments and soft voices across the open air.
Sometimes the girl would ask about the plants on the rooftop or the meals being prepared. My mother would describe the changing seasons, show her the flowers, teach her their names — and gently explain why she shouldn’t nibble her nails.
But this afternoon, on the rooftop, my mother might not have been able to fully engage with her. She was busy with chores — washing clothes, watering plants — and the little girl’s stories about her large hardships poured out from the higher rooftop. My mother wanted to listen, but she could only offer distracted half-smiles and gentle nods, caught between duty and desire. She got offended…
”Jao tomar sathe aar kotha bolbo na. Ari!”
(Go I won’t talk to u anymore! Friendship cancelled!)
And then, that evening, I arrived.
Home.
Luggage still by the door, I stepped into the kitchen. Hugged my mom. Suddenly I heard a sound…
“Kigo… bhab na ari?” (Hey… friends or not?)
There she was, standing on their staircase windowsill, unaware of my presence, sad, playing with the end of her frock. The tone mattered. It was not just a question. It was a careful offer — friendly but not desperate; hopeful, but guarded.
My mother paused, her heart softening in that quiet moment.
And then, with a gentle smile, she replied softly:
“Aaj dinner e menu ki?”
(What’s on the dinner menu tonight?)
Ten feet apart. Yet not distant at all.