A window seat on a train is comforting, until the scorching mid-June sun finds its way through the window and lands on your face.
Normally, I would have bought an AC seat ticket, pulled the curtain and slept through the entire ride home. It had become a habit by now. But the tickets had sold out, leaving me with a regular window seat.
The heat didn’t last long, though.
Dark clouds slowly swallowed the blue sky, and the wind that followed carried the smell of rain. June had always been unpredictable, after all. One moment it burned and the next, it felt like the world could be washed clean.
I rested my chin in my hand, looking out the window. Maybe the regular carriage wasn’t so bad after all.
I’d taken this route countless times, yet what should have been familiar felt strangely new. Perhaps I had simply never looked outside for this long.
The city landscape soon disappeared as the train slowly picked up speed. Soon, different shades of green covered the entire view. After passing through a dense green forest, the train passed a field covered in tiny white flowers. They weren’t arranged neatly like a garden. They grew however they pleased, scattered among the grass until the entire field looked as though someone had spilled pieces of the sky onto the earth.
Before I could look any longer, they were gone. The image stayed with me long after I reached home.
The next time I visited, I returned to that field and carefully dug up a small plant. It fit inside my palm. I carried it back to the city and planted it in a clay pot on my tiny balcony.
It wasn’t as though I treated it badly. I really did care for it. I’d water it before leaving for class. Sometimes, I’d stop to look at it when I looked out, onto my balcony. But caring and remembering aren’t always the same thing.
There were days when I came home too tired. Days when it rained and I hurriedly carried the pot indoors, only to forget to place it back under the sun.
One afternoon, I noticed the leaves had curled in on themselves. The soil was dry.
“…I forgot again.”
I watered it anyway.
For the next few days, I kept checking the pot, hoping I’d gotten to it in time. I hadn’t.
I tried again. Another little plant stood where the first one had been. It survived longer, and I let myself believe I had finally learned.
Then one morning, it too had dried into silence. I stared at the empty pot for a long time before putting it away. After that, I stopped bringing plants home. Not because I didn’t like them, but because I couldn’t bear watching them die.
A friend gave me a gift a few months later.
People rarely knew what I liked. I wasn’t the kind of person who talked much, so opening gifts always felt interesting to me. It wasn’t any different this time.
It was a tiny cactus. Round, green, covered in tiny thorns. I had mixed feelings about plants. I was lost in thought, looking at it for a while.
“…Cute.”
I laughed to myself.
I left it beside the window after watering it once. Then life became busy. Days passed. When I finally noticed the pot again, the first thing I thought was–
It’s probably dead.
But it wasn’t. It looked exactly the same. If anything, it seemed healthier than before. I watered it again anyway.
_________________________________________________________
It didn’t ask for much. It didn’t bloom into white flowers. It didn’t mind if I forgot about it for a while. It simply stayed there, quietly alive. I placed it on my study desk. Somehow, I found myself smiling whenever I looked at it.
The next time I went home, I brought another regular ticket on purpose.
As the train slowed past the familiar tracks, my eyes searched for the field before I even realized I was looking.
There they were.
The white flowers stretched across the land just as I remembered.
The tiny petals rippled gently through the field with the dancing wind, shining brightly under the afternoon sunlight.
I watched until the field disappeared behind the train. I smiled faintly, leaning back in my seat. This time, I didn’t wish to bring one home.
- ইসরাত জাহান ইভাhttps://www.thepapyrus.org/author/%e0%a6%87%e0%a6%b8%e0%a6%b0%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%a4-%e0%a6%9c%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%b9%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%a8-%e0%a6%87%e0%a6%ad%e0%a6%be/
- ইসরাত জাহান ইভাhttps://www.thepapyrus.org/author/%e0%a6%87%e0%a6%b8%e0%a6%b0%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%a4-%e0%a6%9c%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%b9%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%a8-%e0%a6%87%e0%a6%ad%e0%a6%be/
- ইসরাত জাহান ইভাhttps://www.thepapyrus.org/author/%e0%a6%87%e0%a6%b8%e0%a6%b0%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%a4-%e0%a6%9c%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%b9%e0%a6%be%e0%a6%a8-%e0%a6%87%e0%a6%ad%e0%a6%be/
