Chapter 1 Paragraph

With a whirlwind of emotions swirling in our hearts, the three of us newly recruited soldiers stood at the Patiala bus stand, clutching our meager belongings—20 rupees each, a black blanket rolled under our arms, and the weight of an uncertain future. Patiala was only the first leg of our journey; the iconic Punjab Mail would take us further, through the vast expanse of plains, to Manmad, and finally to the Ahmednagar training center. As we waited for the bus, I noticed a humble kiosk stacked with books and magazines. My eyes caught the cover of the December 1978 edition of Nagmani, its vibrant colors promising stories and poems that felt like a distant echo of home. I bought it instinctively, craving a tether to the familiar world of words I was leaving behind.

The train journey began with the rhythmic clatter of wheels and the soft rumble of distant conversations. I found solace on the upper berth, where I stretched out with my precious Nagmani. The pages brimmed with voices from different corners of life, but one poem by Pramindrajit caught me off guard. It was a hauntingly beautiful ode to his mother, every line imbued with the raw, unfiltered emotion of separation and longing. His words painted vivid pictures: a mother’s hands, calloused but tender, the scent of earth after rain mingled with her sweat, and the quiet resilience in her eyes.

As I read, the images took on a life of their own, merging with memories of my own mother. Her hands, too, bore the marks of endless toil, kneading dough or planting in our modest field. Her voice, soft yet firm, calling out my name in the evening light, seemed to echo through the clamor of the train. Before I knew it, tears welled up and spilled over, blurring the ink on the page. The hum of the train seemed to recede into the background as I sat with the poem's weight on my chest, my emotions spilling onto the dusty floor of the compartment.

Moved beyond words, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote to my mother. My hands trembled as I copied Pramindrajit’s poem, each line feeling like a shared heartbeat between us. I added my own words, telling her how the poem had unraveled something deep within me, how much I missed her, and how her unwavering presence had been my strength.

Later, I learned from her that when she received my letter, she had asked the neighbor’s daughter to read it aloud. As the girl’s voice faltered, both of them dissolved into tears, the poem and my words binding us in a moment of shared grief and unspoken love. For me, that journey marked the beginning of a new chapter, but in the quiet company of Nagmani, I found a piece of home to carry with me into the unfamiliar terrain of soldiering.