The last laugh

 

It was a cold evening in New Jersey, and Saurabh sat in his small apartment, staring at his phone. The room, though warm, felt hollow, much like his life had become over the years. His wife had passed away some years ago, and his only son, busy with his tech start-up in California, rarely called. Saurabh couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a conversation longer than a few minutes.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He knew the voice on the other end would bring him comfort, even if just for a little while. He dialed.

“Hello, Saurabh! What a surprise!” Pradip’s voice burst through, warm and full of life.

Saurabh smiled faintly. “Hello, Pradip. Thought I’d check in and see how things are on your side of the world.”

“Oh, you called at the perfect time! We just finished a feast for Magh Bihu. You remember how it used to be, don’t you? The bonfire, the games, the food…”

Saurabh closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could almost smell the roasted rice cakes and hear the chatter of the villagers. It had been decades since he had experienced anything like that. In New Jersey, his winters were spent in silence, the snow falling outside his window a stark contrast to the warmth of his childhood.

“How’s everyone?” Saurabh asked, his voice softer now.

“Doing well, doing well,” Pradip said cheerfully. “My youngest daughter got married last month—it was a celebration like no other! The whole village came together. Even the old tailor pitched in, sewing outfits for half the guests. And, of course, the musicians played until dawn.”

Saurabh couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. Pradip’s life seemed so rich, so full. It wasn’t about wealth but about people—about being surrounded by those who cared, who showed up without being asked.

“You must be busy with your son,” Pradip said innocently. “How is he? Still in California?”

“Yes,” Saurabh replied, hesitating. “He’s doing well. Very busy with his start-up.”

“And what about you? How’s life there?”

Saurabh’s throat tightened. What could he say? That he spent his days fighting the silence? That he often called young Assamese families in New Jersey, hoping to feel a fraction of the connection he had once taken for granted? That even in their warmth, he felt like an outsider in their busy lives?

“It’s fine,” he said instead. “Different.”

Pradip laughed. “Different, of course. But don’t you miss the chaos? The noise? The people?”

“I do,” Saurabh admitted, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

“Then come visit,” Pradip said, his tone light but earnest. “We’ll sit by the river and talk about old times. You can stay as long as you like. The house is always open for you.”

Saurabh stayed silent, his heart heavy. The thought of returning to Assam filled him with a longing he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for years. It wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was about belonging. The West, for all its opportunities, had left him isolated. His success—once a source of pride—now felt hollow without someone to share it with.

“I’ll think about it,” he said softly.

“Do more than think,” Pradip replied with a laugh. “Life here isn’t going anywhere. And neither are we.”

After they hung up, Saurabh sat in the quiet of his apartment. The hum of the heater was the only sound, a stark contrast to the lively chaos Pradip had described. For years, he had convinced himself that he belonged here, in this land of opportunity and individualism. But what had it brought him in the end? A lifetime of achievements that now felt meaningless in the absence of connection.

His mind drifted to his wife. She had loved their life in New Jersey, but she had also loved Assam—the festivals, the people, the simplicity. Would she have wanted this for him? This empty apartment, this life of solitude? He didn’t think so.

For the first time in years, Saurabh allowed himself to imagine retiring in Assam. He pictured the fields, the tea stalls, the warm embraces of old friends. He thought of the bonfires and feasts, the sounds of laughter, and the knowledge that no one was ever truly alone.

As he stared out the window into the cold New Jersey night, a tear slipped down his cheek. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps happiness wasn’t something you found but something you returned to.

He made a decision then, not with words but with his heart. Assam wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling. And it was time to go home.