My mother used to say to me, ‘You’re just like a bird. Here today, gone tomorrow.’ Now I see that my children are like birds too. They just fly around and roam. If they get a chance, they’re off. It’s hard to keep up with them, just like my mother couldn’t keep up with me. Aritri left for Atlanta yesterday. A 16-hour drive! A 4-hour drive from Toronto to Windsor, then across the border to Detroit. After lunch there, another 6-hour drive to Kentucky for the night. Checked out in the morning and another 6-hour drive to reach home. I was so worried until she arrived. Sitting at home, I could only hear Aritri’s voice. Finally, around 5 pm, Aritri messaged, ‘Dad, arrived in Atlanta.
Meanwhile, Arka has gone to Europe. It’s been two days, but I hadn’t heard any news. Today, I messaged him, ‘Arka, how are you? Where are you now?’ Arka replied after a few hours. ‘Dad, we’re in Lisbon now. Tomorrow, we’re going to another town. Everything’s good, enjoying it.’ Arka loves nature very much. He loves mountains, forests, and the sea. From Lisbon, he will go to Spain. He will visit some villages in Madrid and Barcelona. Mom and Dad are very worried.
It was a peculiar sensation that day. The sky turned black towards evening, and a torrential downpour ensued. Earlier in the day, the sun had been blazing, its heat almost unbearable, as if it had descended upon the earth. Then, suddenly, the sky darkened, and the rain began its frenzied dance. It was like a wild beast, unrestrained and relentless. Driving through it, I was overcome by a profound sense of loneliness. In the dark, rainy night, I was alone. I couldn’t even see myself in the gloomy interior of the car. It felt as if a wild wind was constantly tugging at my sails, urging me to leave harbor, to drift away, to be lost at sea. Ahead lay a boundless ocean. In this death-haunted world, human time is so short. Enjoy life to the fullest, experience all it has to offer, before it’s too late.
As I felt the physicality of everything around me, the mournful song of the River of Death drifted in from a far, far distance. White stones, a vast valley, an endless river, its ceaseless song. The murmur of the River of Death reaches my ears. My lifespan is waning. There’s so little time left in life. So little. Age will never return. The river will never flow upstream. The river only knows how to flow in one direction. Its roar is just the song of death. In its empty, hollow valley, the white, still, icy stones lie scattered. A terribly white, empty valley, where the river spreads out and hums its song all day long. Ever since Mother died, this river has been with me. And soon it will be the anniversary of Mother’s death.
Toronto, Canada
