After sixteen long years, standing by the window one final time in the chilly New York morning, Miss Arundhati Debbarman mentally prepared herself—she was returning to her own soil today. Ever since booking the Air India ticket, every single day had carried in her heart a melody of indescribable joy mingled with an unknown anxiety.
Though she was forty-seven, no one could possibly guess her age by looking at her. Her face still looked the same—most would not place her beyond thirty.
At five feet five inches, her perfectly slender figure radiated an astonishing aura of beauty—a grace so timeless that it was clear time had touched her but never defeated her. Her skin remained soft and luminous, like a rose ripened in sunlight.
Her fair, rose-tinted complexion, the elegant way she draped a sari, her gaze at once grave and tender, the faint bindi on her forehead, the delicate line of kohl around her eyes, and the subtle rose tint on her lips—all combined to form the unmistakable imprint of a mature woman's beauty: a presence both sweet and refined.
Her voice was soft, measured, and her face always carried a gentle smile capable of making even the weariness of a long journey feel forgotten.
Yet after all those years of wandering, a shadow of pain lingered in Miss Arundhati's eyes—not from physical exhaustion, but from the absence of her son. She had left her ten-year-old boy in the care of his heartless businessman father and gone to America—for no reason other than her own self-interest.
The man who had promised her the love her husband never gave had caused her to abandon not only her husband but also her innocent child.
Her husband, Arindam Banerjee, was a well-known businessman, but their marriage had been a poisonous cage—devoid of respect, devoid of love, corroded by mutual hatred. He was so consumed by suspicion because his wife was extraordinarily beautiful that he would sometimes even deny his own son during their fiercest arguments, saying, "Is that boy really mine? He doesn't look anything like me at all."
In truth, Arundhati was breathtakingly beautiful—God seemed to have bestowed all the world's beauty upon her alone. Anurag, too, had grown up strikingly handsome, inheriting his mother's looks.
Arindam Banerjee, though wealthy, was utterly unattractive. That disparity made him feel perpetually small in his wife's presence. He lived in constant suspicion. Hearing other men praise his wife's beauty only fueled his burning jealousy. He was convinced she was having an affair.
His behavior became so harsh that Mrs. Arundhati suffered from a profound lack of love. In the end, she truly fell in love with another man and left her husband.
Arundhati had realized that living as a wife meant murdering her own happiness. Determined, she chose the path of divorce. Ignoring intense social pressure and the condemnation of relatives, she left for America with her lover—leaving her ailing son in the custody of his ruthless father.
Miss Arundhati knew that God would never forgive her for what she had done. She had deprived a child of his mother's love at the very age when it was most essential. Because of her actions, that little boy had suffered from depression in his tender years.
She considered herself a terribly bad "mother." Yet, no matter what, she loved her child—after all, she was still his mother.
When the flight landed at Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport, she looked out the window at the glittering lights of Kolkata breaking through the clouds, and tears filled her eyes. As she pulled her luggage down the aisle, her heart trembled—would Anurag recognize her? He had grown up. Did he still long to rest his head in his mother's lap?
After clearing immigration and collecting her bags, she stepped out, her eyes searching everywhere for a familiar face.
But she knew she had no right to search for him, no right to hear the word "Ma" from his lips again.
The heart-wrenching sobs she had suppressed at the airport the day she left for foreign shores now poured out inside her chest as overwhelming grief.
In her mind, Arundhati whispered,
"Anurag, forgive me, my son… I was your mother, yet I could not be one for you."
Outside the arrivals gate, a white car waited. A tall, broad-shouldered young man in a black coat approached politely and said,
"Madam, I am Abhishek. From today, I am your personal bodyguard. Mr. Chakraborty sent me to receive you."
---
Sitting in the back seat, Arundhati gazed out the window. The city of light and shadow welcomed her, yet the one for whom she had returned felt distant, almost incomprehensible.
With a heart full of pain, Miss Arundhati whispered to herself,
"Anurag, my child, are you angry with me? Every day I thought I would return, touch your head, hold you in my arms once more."
In the front seat, Abhishek spoke on the phone as the car slowly navigated Kolkata's traffic—
while in the back, a mother continued searching for her son, for the little boy lost in the gaps of time, the one who had once cried out to her,
"Ma, don't leave me behind…"
*******
Upon reaching her luxurious Salt Lake flat, Arundhati Debbarman let out a deep, heavy sigh. Beyond the vast glass window lay the night of Kolkata, wrapped in its dense mystery of light and shadow. But that light brought her no joy—her mind raced elsewhere, toward someone else.
She sat on the sofa, poured water into a glass, and took a few sips. Abhishek was organizing her belongings in the next room. Arundhati thought—this return was not merely for corporate expansion. Launching the India branch of her perfume brand, L'Essence D'Arundhati, was only a pretext. It was truly a symbol: of coming back, of searching, of begging forgiveness.
She opened her laptop. A strange determination shone in her eyes. The first task—find Anurag. Years ago she had glimpsed his Facebook profile once, but it vanished soon after. This time she had to locate him, no matter what.
She opened the website of a private investigation agency—"Truthline Investigations."
Using her own identity, she submitted a request with her son's name, date of birth, and school details. An automated reply arrived instantly:
"Our representative will contact you within the next 24 hours."
The next morning, as she prepared for a brand meeting—dressed in an off-white chiffon sari, a pearl chain around her neck, and the familiar soft fragrance of her signature perfume—Abhishek appeared at the door.
"Ma'am, someone from Truthline is here to meet you."
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Send them in," she said quietly.
A poised, middle-aged woman entered and introduced herself:
"I am Nandini Sen, Senior Investigator at Truthline."
Arundhati asked for help in finding her son. Nandini took notes and said,
"Locating your son shouldn't be too difficult, Ma'am. But if you want his life to remain undisturbed, I need the full truth—why you left him, and exactly what you want now."
Arundhati remained silent for a moment. Then, softly, she said,
"I only want to see him. Just once. I won't ask him to call me 'Ma.' I just want to ask—'Are you well?'"
Nandini nodded.
"I'll begin the search. But please prepare yourself mentally, Ma'am. The boy is grown now—his feelings have changed too."
Arundhati looked toward the window and said,
"I know… but can a mother ever give up hope?"
After that, Nandini set to work. Arundhati handled office tasks every day, attended press conferences for the perfume brand, finalized locations for new showrooms—yet every night, the innocent little face haunted her eyes:
"Ma, don't leave me behind…"
To be continued...