Debt of Roots

The night before signing the appointment letter felt unusually long to Arun. He read his father's letter over and over. But by morning, a reasoning of his own had formed in his mind for the decision — if he let this opportunity slip, it might never come a second time in his life.

He signed. A classmate placed a hand on his shoulder and said—

— "Congratulations. From today, you're the luckiest among us."

Arun smiled. But beneath that smile lay a quiet unease he could not yet name.

On his very first day at the company, he was placed on a major project under a senior scientist. His name was Richard. Close to sixty in age, but with the enthusiasm of youth in his eyes.

— "Arun, welcome. Here, we don't work by the clock — we work by results."

Arun nodded in agreement. Within the first few weeks, he understood that the rhythm of life here was entirely different. Coming in at eight in the morning, leaving at ten at night — that seemed to be the ordinary rule.

One day Richard called him over and said—

— "There's something in you that most people don't have — patience. Where did you learn it?"

Arun smiled a little and said—

— "My father was a teacher. He used to say — a crop harvested in haste yields fewer grains."

Richard laughed and nodded—

— "Your father must be a very wise man. Do you speak with him regularly?"

Hearing the question, Arun faltered for a moment. It took him time to recall when he had last spoken with his father at length.

— "Yes... I mean, once a week, perhaps."

Richard said nothing, only glanced at him once over his glasses. There was no judgment in that look, but something inside Arun stirred uneasily.

The pressure of work grew day by day. New projects, new presentations, new colleagues — together, life became like a speeding train, one where there was no time even to glance out the window.

Even the time to call home now had to be carved out by careful reckoning. One day, Mira Devi said on the phone—

— "Your voice sounds so tired somehow."

— "Just a bit more work pressure, Ma. I'm fine."

Mira Devi said nothing more. She only said—

— "Take care of yourself."

After hanging up, Arun sat quietly for a while. Then he opened his laptop again and immersed himself in work. Month after month went on this way — his success kept growing, but alongside it, an invisible distance was growing too, one that Arun still could not quite grasp.

At the company's year-end annual event, he was given the "Young Researcher of the Year" honor. Standing on stage amid the applause, Arun suddenly remembered that small ceremony on the school grounds, where the people of his village had bid him farewell. Both scenes were joyful, but one had been filled with the people closest to him, and the other held only applause.

"Success places a person in the light, but standing beneath that very light, one often cannot see one's own shadow."

In the village, preparations for Durga Puja had already begun. Every year, this was the time Arun would go home. This year, for the first time, he was not going. A crucial phase of the project was underway; taking leave was not possible.

The day before the Puja, Mira Devi lit a lamp in the prayer room and sat there for a long while. As soon as Anantababu came and stood beside her, she said—

— "This is the first Puja he isn't home for."

Anantababu said in a calm voice—

— "He has his work. He's grown up, and his responsibilities have grown with him."

Mira Devi nodded, but tears glistened at the corners of her eyes.

— "I know. And yet, a mother's heart doesn't understand reason."

On the night of the Puja, Arun appeared on a video call for a few minutes. Office lights behind him, papers scattered across the desk.

— "Ma, I'm so sorry. I'm right in the middle of work here."

Mira Devi smiled and said—

— "It's alright, son, just seeing your face is enough."

After the call ended, silence settled over the room. His younger sister's daughter, who every year danced to the dhak's rhythm alongside Arun-da, asked this time too—

— "Won't Arun-dada come?"

Mira Devi only smiled and gave no answer.

Meanwhile, abroad, Arun's life had grown even faster-paced. After the project's success, he was given charge of leading a small team. New responsibility, new pressure. Staying up late working had now become the rule.

A colleague, Priya — who also lived far from her own country — said one day over lunch—

— "How long has it been since you've gone home?"

— "Almost two years."

Priya smiled a little and said—

— "I used to think work was everything too, at first. Then one day I understood — however big the project, parents don't wait on it, they simply love. That isn't like a project deadline."

Her words lodged in Arun's mind. That night, he spent a long while looking at old photographs — beneath the school's banyan tree with his father, the laddus made by his mother's hands, that last embrace at the airport.

He decided he would go home on his next leave. But right at that moment, a new project proposal arrived, one that could be a major turning point in his career. The deadline for deciding was only a week.

He was torn. On one side, his promise to return home; on the other, a great opportunity in life. He opened his diary and read his father's old line again—

"Knowledge will make you great, but humility will give you a place in people's hearts."

He let out a sigh. He told himself that once he finished this one project, he would leave everything and go home. But he did not yet know that, in life, the list of "just this one time" sometimes never ends.

It was deep into a winter night. Arun was still at the office, preparing the new project's presentation for the next day. Suddenly his phone rang. On the screen appeared — "Home."

Seeing a call at such a late hour, his heart lurched. As soon as he answered, an anxious voice from a neighboring uncle came from the other end—

— "Arun, your father has suddenly fallen ill. He's been taken to the hospital."

In an instant, the world around Arun went still. The laptop in his hands, the presentation slides, tomorrow's meeting — everything suddenly felt meaningless.

— "Where's Ma? Is she alright?"

— "She's at the hospital too. Don't worry, the doctor is looking after him."

With trembling hands, Arun called his mother. After several rings, Mira Devi answered. Her voice was broken.

— "Son, don't worry. The doctor says he's stable now."

— "Ma, what happened all of a sudden?"

— "He suddenly collapsed with chest pain. He's alright now, but the doctor says he needs rest for some time."

After hanging up, Arun paced the room for a long time. A thousand thoughts in his head. Tomorrow's presentation, the remaining work his team depended on, and on the other side, news of his father's illness — everything pressed down on his chest at once.

In the morning, he went to the office and told Richard everything.

— "I need a few weeks of leave. My father is ill."

Richard remained silent for a moment. Then he said—

— "I know your absence at this moment in the project will be hard for the team. But Arun — no project is bigger than a father. Go."

Arun looked at him with grateful eyes. Richard added—

— "Remember, the day you first came here, you told me your father had taught you patience. Today is the time to be beside that very man."

Arun's hands trembled as he booked his ticket. In two years, he had not gone home even once. Now that he was going, it was for a reason he had never wished for.

Sitting on the plane, gazing out the window, he thought — how many times had he told himself, "I'll go once I finish this one task." And yet life's work never truly ends; only time runs out.

He remembered his father's last words at the airport—

"When you come back, let it not only be your suitcase that's full, but your heart too."

He closed his eyes. In his heart, he made only one prayer — he wanted to see his father well, and to hear, once more, those familiar, slow, gentle words in his voice.

The plane landed on home soil on a foggy morning. Arun, bag slung over his shoulder, strode forward quickly. Leaving the airport, he got into a taxi and rushed straight to the hospital.

As soon as he entered the hospital corridor, he saw Mira Devi from a distance — the end of her sari drawn over her head, sitting on a bench, waiting. As soon as she saw Arun, she rose to her feet.

— "Son! You've come!"

Arun ran and embraced his mother. Tears filled both their eyes.

— "How is Father, Ma?"

— "Much better now. The doctor says the danger has passed. He only needs rest."

Entering the cabin, Arun saw his father lying in bed, his body somewhat weak, but with that familiar calm look still in his eyes. Seeing Arun, a faint smile appeared on Anantababu's face.

— "You've come?"

Arun's throat tightened.

— "Father... I've come far too late."

Anantababu slowly extended his hand. Arun took it and sat down beside the bed.

— "You're not late, son. You came at exactly the moment you were needed."

Arun lowered his head and said—

— "For two years I didn't come to see you. I was so caught up in work, projects, promotions. Today I understand — none of it means anything without you two."

Anantababu remained silent for a moment. Then he said slowly—

— "I never blame you. Every generation must walk its own path, build its own world. Just remember — however far the road goes, it's important to look back now and then."

Sitting beside them, Mira Devi wiped her eyes. Arun took his mother's hand too.

— "I won't stay away this long anymore, Ma. I'll talk with you at length on the phone at least once a month. I'll come at least once a year."

Mira Devi smiled faintly and said—

— "Just keep the promise."

For the next several days, Arun devoted himself entirely to caring for his father. After returning home from the hospital, he sat with his father in the courtyard every morning, drinking tea, and in the evenings they talked of the old days.

One day Anantababu asked—

— "What happened to your new project? You did take leave to come here."

Arun laughed and said—

— "The project hasn't stopped, Father. My team has taken care of it. And I've understood — the world doesn't stop without me, but without you and Ma, my world is incomplete."

Anantababu placed a hand on his son's head.

"It is only when a person understands that distance can be not just geography, but a matter of the heart too, that they truly grow up."

That evening, sitting in the courtyard, Arun asked himself a question for the first time — would he truly go back to that busy city, or would he search for a way to stay here, close to this very soil?

The last day of leave drew near. On the night before he was to leave, Arun could not sleep. Again and again he felt that leaving this soil, this courtyard, these people, to return to that busy city, did not feel right.

At dawn, he went to his father's room. Anantababu had just sat up, his body much healthier than before.

— "Father, I want to say something."

— "Go on."

— "I'm thinking, once I finish the project, I'll come back — here, home. Maybe I'll work in the city, but I'll come home at least once a month. And after some time, perhaps I'll find work that also does something for the people of this country."

Anantababu remained silent for a moment. Then he said slowly—

— "Arun, I never wanted you to shrink your own dreams just for our sake. If staying there gives you the chance to do something good, do that too. But yes — wherever you are, don't forget your own roots. However sweet the fruit, if it forgets its roots, a bitter taste lingers at the end."

Mira Devi had been standing at the door, listening to it all. She came forward and said—

— "We only want you to be well, and not to forget us. The rest is your life, your decision."

Arun took both their hands together.

— "I promise, from now on, however busy I may be, I will always make time for you. And the day I understand that distance is swallowing our relationship whole, I will leave everything and come back."

Before heading to the airport, he went beneath that old banyan tree at the school. He rested his hand on the tree's trunk and stood there for a while. A thousand childhood memories seemed to rise up in his mind all at once.

On the flight back, Arun opened his diary. On a fresh page, he wrote—

"Success is not a destination, but a journey. And on that journey, if I do not carry my own roots with me, however far I reach, I will lose the very road back home."

In the first two parts of this book, we watched a boy grow up, race down the road of success, and fight to reclaim moments lost along the way. In the next chapter of his life, how Arun balances his new life with his old promises, and how his dream of doing something for the people of his village takes real shape — that journey awaits in the part to come.