With the Bengal Winds

As I took a step out to my terminal into the vast open airport ramp at Kathmandu's Tribhuvan International Airport, a wave of wind hit me. These winds: fresh to me but not so new. The smell brought by these winds, its waft hits me. I inhale the fresh breeze of my dear Bengal Winds. A cold night. Equally foggy. Over and above these winds, they put the final nails in the coffin. I want to feel these winds. I put my hand bag on top of my suitcase, take off my black leather jackets. As I feel the premonitions of wind about to hit me, I close my eyes and for once let these wind flow through my t shirt. For once I let these winds enter me, like it used to a long long time ago.

"Anamol, what you doin' here boy ? Ghar na janne," I'm quickly taken back from my thoughts. It's my high school English teacher, Prakash sir. Three facts about him: first he has a great sense of humor, second he brings Shakespeare's and Orwell's stories to life, and third he's the best English teacher of my country.

"Janne sir, my mom will pick me in few minutes." I say instantly.

"Ahh okay." He says as he grabs his pen drive he'd forgotten a lecture ago.

I shift my attention back to the windows. The vast Valley of Kathmandu looking at me. It's mountains like a fort covering a kingdom. And the houses, from mini dots at the horizon to those just near my building: like army men guarding the valley. The evening golden hour and it's rays kissing my skin. My classroom: glowing due to sun beams. And to top it off, an airplane flying every five minutes right through my window at the Tribhuvan International Airport.

"You like the sunset, don't you?" I'm taken back. Again.

"It's not just the setting sun sir. It's the lives around me. These crows flying, the people flying in that plane, the dog in the terrace enjoying with her master, and oh look, a dog barking down there in the street… It's these lives sir. They overwhelm me." I say to him.

With a brief pause I say, "How independent they are. How two barking creatures are unaware of each other. As if… as if all lives exists together but wouldn't change a fact if they didn't."

A dwarf silence. And quickly so, I hear footsteps ripping that silence. As he comes near me, the golden light, they touch his skin too. I notice his brown face and white shirt turning yellow.

A gust of air hits us.

"Anamol, fold your cuffs, close your eyes and feel this one." he says. I do as he says. Few seconds after, I feel a gale of air touching my face. I feel my untucked shirt wavering like a flag. I feel the air entering through my elbows onto my chest. With my peripheral senses I notice my teacher is enjoying this breeze more than me. There we were, a teacher and a student enjoying the Spring sunset at room 904, from Ninth stories of Global School of Science.

"This is the Bengal winds, Anamol. The first breeze of this season. These breezes originate at the Bay of Bengal, travel through the rough terrains of India and East Nepal and hence, reach here: to yours' and mine skin." He says.

"And Anamol, do you know what I like in this view, in these breezes?" I look at him as he opens up.

"These breezes, the sunrays, those people down there on the streets and the ones' in that flight flying: None of them know how far the journey is, none of them really know where they are going." A brief pause. I sense a sadness piling up in his face.

"And the matter of Irony? You're no exception to that either.

You're here enjoying this view. You're here enjoying this building. But soon, you'll be gone. Shashreek, Shambhab, Jagriti, Manushi… they were all here. Students close my hearts. All brilliant minds like yourself. All gone." He takes a long gasp.

With a smile he points towards few moving cars, few walking men, few buses on the route and says, "My student must be here somewhere. In these moving dots."

"Then I'll be a breeze too, sir," I whispered, more to the glass than to him. "Just another 'moving dot' carrying the scent of this room to wherever I land next."

He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth quirked upward—a silent Shakespearian nod to the inevitable.

Below us, the streetlights began to flicker on, like a second set of stars grounded in the dust. I pulled my jacket back on and gathered my bags. As I turned to leave Room 904, a final gust swept through the open frame, pushing gently against my back as if to say, Go. I stepped out of the classroom and toward my plane.

I wasn't just leaving. I was being exhaled into the world.

Dots of lights is seen as my flight takes off through the runway. The take off feels heavy. Every inch of my body wants the ground. It wants itself in its own soil. Every inch my spirit wants the sky. It wants to flow. Like the Bengal winds. For once it overlooks 20 years of his life. For once it looks out of the window and finds he's on a journey. For once he knows he needs to strike on a teacher's and a student's skin, far away from his homeland.