I sat on the rough, uneven ground near the edge of our fields, staring at the railway tracks cutting through the horizon. The shimmering heat rising from the tracks blurred my view, making the distant trains look like mirages. They sped past, carrying passengers I could only dream of being one day—people going places, doing things, making something of their lives. My dusty chappals lay discarded nearby, and the coarse soil pressed against my bare feet.
The smell of damp earth mingled with the pungent scent of cow dung wafting from a nearby shed. A light breeze rustled the dry leaves of the banyan tree, offering momentary relief from the unrelenting sun. I picked up a small stone and tossed it at a crow cawing obnoxiously on the fence.
"That crow probably thinks I'm as useless as the scarecrow next to it. Birds mocking me now? What's next—buffaloes offering life advice?"
I shook my head and looked back at the tracks. What would it be like to be on one of those trains? To leave behind this life of endless monotony and constraints?
My thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of Omi's whistling. He was strolling toward me, his lanky frame silhouetted against the sun. Omi's grin was as wide as ever, his teeth slightly crooked but endearing in a way. He wore his trademark blue shirt—faded and a size too big—paired with trousers that looked like they had survived a war.
"Eshan, bhai, still daydreaming about trains?" he teased, plopping down beside me without waiting for an invitation.
I smirked. "Better than daydreaming about Shalini from the next village, which I'm sure you've been doing."
Omi gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. "How dare you accuse me of such scandalous behavior? I am a man of dignity and focus!"
"Right. And I'm the next Prime Minister."
Omi's laughter filled the air, but his expression sobered quickly as he leaned closer. "You know, someone from Karandi village made it big in Mumbai," he said, his voice tinged with awe.
I raised an eyebrow. "Big? Like what, selling vada pav on Marine Drive?"
"No, yaar. He's running some software company now. Owns a car, a house... even has servants. Can you imagine that? A servant for every little thing. 'Chai laao, paani laao.' What a life, huh?"
I let out a low whistle, not because I believed him entirely, but because the thought was enticing. A life where I didn't have to plow fields or milk cows. A life where I didn't have to wake up at dawn to the sound of Maa yelling about the cost of fertilizers.
"But how does someone like us even get there?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Simple," Omi said, puffing out his chest like he'd cracked the code to life. "You go to the city, find a job, and work hard. Look at me—I'm planning to leave this place soon."
"Planning, huh?" I snorted. "You can't even leave your house without your Amma asking for a full itinerary."
Omi rolled his eyes. "Details, Eshan. Details. Point is, it's possible. You just have to want it badly enough."
His words stirred something in me—a mix of hope and irritation. Did I want it badly enough? Or was I too tied down by fear, family expectations, and my own self-doubt?
Omi's optimism annoyed me, but it also fascinated me. He had this uncanny ability to see possibilities where I only saw obstacles. Maybe that's why we got along. He balanced out my cautious nature, while I grounded his overly ambitious plans.
"Anyway, what are you doing sitting here all day?" Omi asked, gesturing at the fields around us.
"Thinking," I replied.
"Thinking or sulking?"
"Same thing," I muttered.
Omi sighed dramatically and stood up, brushing the dust off his trousers. "One day, Eshan, you'll thank me for all the motivational speeches I give you. Until then, enjoy your sulking."
He walked away, whistling some old Bollywood tune, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
I leaned back against the tree trunk, closing my eyes. Omi made it sound so simple, but it wasn't. Leaving wasn't just about packing a bag and hopping on a train. It was about leaving behind everything—family, responsibilities, and the safety of familiarity.
"And what if I fail? What if I end up back here, worse off than before? Maa would never let me hear the end of it. 'Beta, city wale tumhare jaise gawaaron ko nahi samajhte.' (Son, city people don't understand bumpkins like you.)"
Still, the thought of staying here forever felt suffocating. This wasn't the life I wanted. I didn't know what life I wanted, exactly, but it wasn't this.
That night, as I lay on my charpoy staring at the cracked ceiling, the faint hum of crickets filled the air. Omi's words replayed in my mind: "You just have to want it badly enough."
Maybe I did. Maybe I wanted it more than I realized.
The ceiling fan creaked noisily above me, and the smell of burnt kerosene from the lantern lingered in the room. For the first time, I felt something other than frustration. I felt a spark—small and fragile, but there.
"I have to find a way out," I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible.
And just like that, the decision began to take root. I didn't know how or when, but I knew one thing for sure: I couldn't stay here forever.
"Step one: Convince Maa without her throwing the belan at me. Step two: Actually figure out what the hell I'm doing. Easy, right? No big deal."