The Return Ticket: Life on Hold

The Return Ticket: Life on Hold

The early morning arrived with the pale, yellow, faded rays of the sun, gradually becoming brighter and brighter as they pierced through the thick, damp morning mist of the plains. They cast long, golden shadows across the train compartment, bringing a sudden, unexpected hope of a bright and beautiful future ahead. I leaned my forehead against the cool, vibration-prone glass of the window, gazing intently outside to witness the rapidly passing green fields, the tall wild trees, the rugged mountain terrain, and the gracefully bended railway tracks. Through the dusty window glass from my passenger seat, the world outside was a moving canvas of a landscape I had sorely missed. It was carrying me back to my beloved hometown in the hills—a sanctuary I had been yearning for through many long, grueling years of self-imposed exile.

I had spent those endless, monotonous years working tirelessly in the cramped, noisy, and artificially lit stores of a bustling urban shopping mall. Day after day, I stood as a weary salesman, experiencing absolutely no professional growth, recognition, or promotion, even after obtaining my hard-earned graduation degree. Because our beautiful, secluded hills did not offer any viable employment opportunities for the educated youth, I had been forced by harsh economic circumstances to pack a single suitcase and leave my aging parents behind. I had to seek survival in the concrete, unforgiving wilderness of the distant city, even though it offered only survival and not a real life.

Part I: The Platform of Calmness

The long-distance train finally stopped at the New Jalpaiguri station at exactly six o'clock in the morning. It came to a halt with a sudden, violent, metallic jerk that reverberated through the entire carriage, signaling the end of my railway journey and the beginning of my ascent into the hills. I stood up, my knees stiff from the long journey, ready to take my very first steps onto the concrete platform with my heavy bags. My heart was instantly filled with a volatile mixture of nervous excitement and deep nostalgia. Despite the noise of the station, the general platform ambience somehow offered a profound sense of calmness and peace to my otherwise turbulent mind. I was breathing different air now; it was cooler, sharper, and smelled of the mountains waiting just beyond the horizon.

Even though the immediate surroundings were heavily crowded with hundreds of people rushing in every possible direction to reach their respective destinations, I felt a strange, detached peace. Porters in red shirts darted through the crowd, families called out to one another, and vendors cried out their wares. I started moving outside the exit gates along with the chaotic flow of humanity, making my way toward the open air, where I began actively searching for a shared taxi that would carry me up into the steep, winding mountain roads of my childhood.

Near the busy local taxi syndicate, the entire place was decorated and filled with different political parties' colorful flags, massive banners, and giant hoardings. The scene was striking; the election was clearly at its absolute peak, vibrating with an intense, unavoidable political energy. The early morning crowd was already incredibly active. Groups of men stood around holding newspapers in their calloused hands, loudly discussing the latest political alliances, gossiping, and sipping warm tea from small clay cups. The front page of the leading local newspaper featured a large, glossy image of the ruling party's leaders, and its bold headlines carried a lingering, provocative question written in clear letters: "Will the state witness Government Changes this time?"

"Darjeeling... Darjeeling...!! It's a first-turn taxi!" a man shouted loudly into the cool morning air, his voice cutting through the din of engines and chatter as he searched for his final passenger to complete his trip.

The driver was a tall man, seemingly in his mid-fifties, with a dark, deeply weathered complexion that spoke of a lifetime spent navigating these treacherous mountain roads under the harsh mountain sun. He walked directly towards me, squinting against the morning light, and asked in a gravelly but friendly voice, "Brother... Are you going to Darjeeling?"

I nodded with a quick, relieved yes. Without losing a single second, he grabbed my heavy luggage, effortlessly swung it onto the taxi's overhead metal carrier, secured it with a worn rope, and pointed me toward the very last seat near the window. I climbed inside and quickly realized I was the final passenger needed to fill the vehicle.

As soon as I sat down, the driver climbed into his seat and started the taxi with a loud roar of the exhaust. Suddenly, loud music blared from the taxi's custom-built music box. But it wasn't the sweet, familiar melody of the hills. Instead, it was the repetitive, rhythmic theme music of one particular political party's manifesto, filled with loud, booming slogans and a synchronized chorus acting as an advertisement. It played relentlessly, a sonic reminder of the region's climate, before the real Hindi nineties songs finally started playing later. Listening to the political slogans bouncing off the metal frame of the cab, I realized that the fever of elections was at its absolute peak in the hills.

Part II: Voices in the Shared Cabin

As the taxi slowly climbed higher, leaving the plains behind and winding into the green canopy of the mountains, the temperature began to drop. The conversation among the passengers and the driver began to flow, giving me a clear window into the minds of the people who actually lived here. There were different types of people inside our taxi, each carrying their own burdens, hopes, and disillusionments.

In the front seat at the window sat a quiet lady in her mid-fifties, her hands rough and stained from years of plucking tea leaves in the terraced gardens. She was a dedicated tea worker, and she spoke softly to the driver about her grievances regarding the tea factory management. Her voice trembled slightly as she revealed her daily wage: just rupees two hundred and eighty per day. I was shocked and deeply saddened to hear this heartbreaking revelation. It was an incredibly small, almost impossible amount to survive on in these modern times, especially with the rising cost of basic groceries. Yet, despite her hardships, she harbored a quiet, fragile optimism. She was hoping that after this crucial election, the newly elected government might actually see their miserable condition and legally hike their wages to a livable standard.

Later, from the second row of seats, an old man wearing thick spectacles, with a partially bald head and a scholarly air, joined the conversation. He started discussing the present deteriorating condition of Darjeeling, pointing out the ruling party's administrative inferiority and their deep-seated corruption issues. Hearing the precise vocabulary he used and the historical references he made, I predicted he must be a retired private school teacher.

A government school teacher would have likely remained silent; they would never go against the current government. For most government employees, it does not really matter who comes to power or who rules the state, as long as their salaries are credited into their bank accounts on time by the government treasury every single month. But this man had the raw, unfiltered anger of someone who had watched his homeland decay while the authorities turned a blind eye.

These critical lines instantly triggered the driver. He adjusted his rearview mirror, cleared his throat, and started to bark his own political philosophies into the cabin. His main complaints were practical and immediate: the poor maintenance of the national highways, the endless traffic jams that ate away his daily earnings, and the urgent need for proper bypass facilities to improve transportation.

Both the old teacher and the driver were individually hoping for a better future for the hills—a future with proper, systematic, and sustainable employment opportunities across different sectors. They wished for a future where their own children would get a fair chance to work in their own lands, enjoying warm foods and safe shelter, without having to leave for distant cities or foreign countries just to survive. As I listened to them, my heart ached. I was the very offspring they were talking about—the youth who had been forced to leave.

Part III: The Gathering Shadows at Home

After a long, exhausting five-hour journey of twists, turns, and rising altitudes, the taxi finally dropped me off. A short walk later, I was walking through the threshold of my childhood home. The familiar smell of woodsmoke and old timber greeted me, but it was overshadowed by a heavy, clinical sadness that seemed to hang in every corner of the house.

Soon, I was sitting on the edge of my father's old wooden bed, gently holding his fragile, trembling hands. He had become significantly weaker, much thinner, and incredibly pale compared to the last time I had seen him through the pixelated screen of our brief video calls. He was fast asleep under a heavy, worn blanket, his breathing shallow and uneven. I sat there in silence, not wanting to disturb his fragile rest, feeling a deep pang of guilt for having been away for so long.

Beside me, my mother was standing silently, holding a glass of water in her trembling hands. She looked at me, her eyes tired and sunken from sleepless nights, and asked me in a soft, whispering tone, "Please stay for a few more days after the election is over. There is no one else in this house to help me."

As she spoke, I could see silent tears slowly rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. She didn't say it out loud, but I knew what she was thinking: she feared that I would pack my bags, turn my back on them, and rush back to the chaotic city as soon as my civic duty was done. I squeezed my father's hand and assured her I wouldn't leave so quickly.

The next day, the town woke up to polling day. I walked to the local school booth to cast my fourth vote as a responsible citizen, determined to obey my father's solemn request. I remembered the words from our last video call, when he had used the last of his energy to urge me to return: "Look, son... There was a strict scrutiny last time for the citizens of India from the Central Government. Because our names were safely registered in the voter's list and we voted in the year 2000, we did not face any documentation issues now. So if you come and cast your vote today, your future generation will never face any legal problems or identity questions. So please, come home and give your vote."

At the time, I had hung up the call in sheer frustration, annoyed by what I saw as backward political paranoia. My father had been an active, dedicated member of one particular regional party. He had served them as an honest, incredibly loyal grassroots worker for thirty long years, until the party finally dissolved due to internal power struggles and massive corruption issues. It was later integrated into a larger political alliance. Now, when he was completely bedridden, paralyzed, and dying, not a single party leader or local committee member had bothered to visit our house or offer a single rupee of support when we needed it most.

Yet, as the election got under way, I pushed my cynicism aside. I stood in the queue, genuinely hoping that this time, my vote would go to the right candidate—someone who would actually bring change. The narrow roads outside the polling station were blocked with different vehicles passing by, decorated with flags and banners, transporting elderly voters and election duty officers.

While I was waiting in the long line, a local uncle from our village crept up behind me. He nudged my shoulder and whispered, "Bhai... I hope you know who to vote for? Your vote should go to this specific symbol. You know, the government is currently giving you one thousand rupees under the youth unemployment scheme, and after they win, they have promised to double it to two thousand. So... you understand what I mean, right?"

I looked at him, felt a wave of quiet disgust at how easily our people's futures were bought and sold for a few notes, and remained silent. I merely gave him a cold smirk and a polite, gentle nod before stepping forward to cast my ballot.

Part IV: The Silent Storm and Finality

After the polling booths closed, I stayed back for a few more days, just as I had promised my mother. Almost overnight, the entire town fell incredibly silent and calm, resembling the eerie stillness that settles over the ocean after a devastating storm. Slowly, the political flags were taken down, people started heading back to their daily jobs, the local shops reopened, and the market was once again filled with ordinary people buying their daily groceries. Everything looked completely normal, as if the high-stakes political battle of the previous week had never occurred. The high temperature of the election fever was rapidly dropping back to freezing cold.

Then came the day of the election results. The entire locality was buzzing with an anxious, electric excitement. Groups of old men holding hot tea cups were glued to the television set inside a tiny roadside stall, watching the live news anchors display the counting of votes and seat shares.

I was walking through the market, carrying a plastic bag filled with groceries and a strip of expensive medicines for my father. My mind was racing with a dozen different thoughts. I found myself daydreaming about a changed Darjeeling—a place where educated youths like myself wouldn't have to flee to metropolitan cities to work as underpaid retail staff. I imagined a life where we could find dignified office jobs, get married, build homes, and work collectively for the betterment of our own beautiful society, living a fulfilled, peaceful life close to our families.

Suddenly, my daydream was violently shattered by the deafening burst of firecrackers right outside the tea shop. At that exact microsecond, I felt the sharp, continuous vibration of my phone inside my jacket pocket.

Around me, a massive crowd erupted. People started shouting, cheering, throwing colored powder into the air, and dancing wildly to loud, celebratory music. The television screen in the tea shop confirmed the news: the ruling party had successfully retained its seat in our region with a massive majority.

My heart sank into my stomach. A wave of profound sadness washed over me. The winner was the exact same political party that had been ruling our hills for years, presiding over zero development, broken roads, stagnant wages, and no job opportunities. The people, driven by empty promises and small cash doles, had chosen the exact same rulers for another five years of the same miserable consequences.

But the political disappointment was nothing compared to the tragedy waiting for me. I pulled the vibrating phone from my pocket and answered. It was my mother. Through the receiver, her broken, hysterical sobbing cut through the sound of the celebrating crowds and the exploding firecrackers.

My father was gone. He had passed away quietly in his sleep while the town was busy counting votes.

The sound of my mother's grief completely shattered me. I felt the very earth beneath my feet slip away, and a cold, heavy numbness spread through my entire body. The cheering crowd around me became a blur of meaningless noise.

Aftermath: Leaving Once More

I had originally planned to stay for just a few days after the voting, but it took me two painful months to settle our family's affairs. We performed the final rites and the thirteen days of traditional mourning rituals for my father, welcoming relatives who offered shallow condolences and then returned to their own lives.

During those two months, I watched the hills closely. Nothing changed. The roads remained broken, the tea workers went back to plucking leaves for their measly two hundred and eighty rupees, and the political leaders vanished back into their distant offices, having secured their power for another term. The only real change was in our small wooden house, where our family of three had permanently shrunk to two.

The fragile hope I had carried with me when I first looked out of the train window had completely vanished, turning to ash along with my father's burning funeral pyre.

Now, my bags are packed once again. My return train ticket is booked, my eyes are moist with unshed tears, and all my illusions have been completely shattered. It is time for me to board the train and head back to the distant city—back to the crowded shopping mall, back to the salesman job, back to the life I never wanted.

I hold the train ticket in my hand—"Roshan Chettri," age 28. But the ink of my train status reveals the quiet truth of my existence: Waiting List. A life perpetually ticketed for a journey, yet forever kept on hold.

Original Story - Sahil Chettri

Address - Bijanbari, Darjeeling.

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