Chapter 2: Guilt, Duty, and the Return Journey

My Chacha ji and Chachi ji's cries came through the phone in broken sobs, nearly fainting with worry.

Their voices trembled, on the verge of breaking. In the background, I heard the shrill whistle of a pressure cooker, the TV blaring some daily soap—life moving on, even as ours paused in crisis. Chachi ji’s words tumbled out in a rush, as if the world would end before she finished. "Rohan, beta, Amit ka accident ho gaya! Sab kuch khatam ho gaya!"

"Rohan, your cousin’s had a road accident! He’s on the way to the hospital—quick, ask for leave from your office and go!"

Her urgency made my heart beat faster. I pictured her clutching her dupatta, eyes red from crying, dialing my number again and again, hands shaking, mind blank with worry.

"The doctor said the injuries are serious, one leg probably can’t be saved—hurry!"

Her words hung in the air, heavier than any truth I’d known. The word 'amputation' echoed in my head, as if fate was determined to repeat the same story.

"Rohan, are you listening to me?"

Chacha ji’s voice was cracked, raw, pleading. I heard him swallow, trying to control his panic. Somewhere, a neighbour called out to ask if everything was alright, but Chacha ji only shooed them away.

My mind went blank as memories from my previous life surged like a tidal wave.

My head spun. Blood, ambulance sirens, hospital corridors lined with anxious faces, my mother’s hands folded in silent prayer, the taste of cold hospital chai—all rushed back in a moment. I closed my eyes, gripping the phone until my knuckles whitened.

The pain of dying still lingered, my breath quickened, and cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

It was as if the world itself had turned hostile. The seat beneath me felt hard, the chatter of other passengers faded. I wiped my brow with the edge of my blue-bordered handkerchief—one my mother still ironed for me.

"Rohan, Rohan, say something!"

Their panic cut through my trance. The family WhatsApp group pinged—Mausi, Mami, even our cousin from Kanpur. Everyone wanted to know: what would I do now?

"You only have this one brother, Amit! What’s more important, work or your brother? If anything happens to your brother, I’ll hold you responsible!"

The classic guilt trip. In every Indian home, the weight of responsibility lands on the one who seems most able. Chachi ji’s voice cracked, her words turning to sobs. “Humari izzat ka kya hoga, beta? Yeh sab tum par hai.”

I took a deep breath.

The compartment air was thick with the scent of sweat and chai. I closed my eyes, steadying myself. I had to act quickly, not just for Amit, but for everyone. This was my family—no matter how much pain they gave me, I was still one of them.

"Chacha ji, Chachi ji? What happened to Amit?"

I forced my voice to sound calm, as if I had everything under control, though my insides were churning.

"I’m on a business trip out of town. Even if I rush back now, I won’t make it in time."

Silence. I knew they wouldn’t accept it. Distance, in Indian families, is never an excuse. But I had to tell them the truth. The guilt pressed on me like Lucknow’s humid summer.

"Kya bol rahe ho, Rohan? Signal bilkul nahi aa raha, hello? Sunai nahi de raha hai…"

Their words faded into static. I imagined them holding the phone up for network, cursing the mobile tower as if it alone caused all our tragedies.

I hung up and immediately switched my phone to airplane mode.

My heart thudded. Silence, finally. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, the train rocking gently beneath me.

Then I booked a Shatabdi ticket to the neighbouring state online, applied for leave from my office, and boarded the train at once.

Fingers trembling, I tapped furiously at my phone, fighting the IRCTC app. Miraculously, a seat was available. I stuffed my laptop in my bag, called my boss with a feeble excuse, and rushed to the station. The smell of samosas and chai on the platform brought a strange comfort. Outside the window, fields blurred past, and a chaiwala’s call drifted into the compartment, mixing with the faint smell of diesel and samosas. As the train pulled out, I watched the city slip away, feeling the weight of my family’s fate riding with me.