A Boy in the City of Silchar
The sun was just beginning to rise over the mist-covered hills of Jalalpur as Suman stood by the small wooden window in his family’s modest home in Tarapur. His eyes gazed out over the sprawling tea gardens that stretched far into the distance, their lush green rows glistening with morning dew. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of freshly plucked leaves, and the sound of birds greeting the dawn echoed in the valley. Tarapur was a village like no other, nestled deep in the hills of Assam, where time seemed to move slower, and the rhythm of life was defined by the harvest cycle of the tea gardens.
Suman had grown up in this world, where the earth seemed to speak in whispers, and the wind carried stories of generations before him. His family had worked the tea gardens for as long as anyone could remember. The soil was in their blood, and the rhythm of picking tea leaves, sorting them, and carrying them to the processing factories was as familiar to him as breathing. It was a simple, humble life — one that he had never questioned until recently.
He had heard stories from the older workers at the tea garden, stories of faraway places like Silchar — a city bustling with life, where opportunities seemed endless, where the roads were paved with dreams. The tales were always whispered in awe, and though he loved his home, the thought of a life beyond the tea fields filled Suman with an insatiable curiosity. Silchar was not a distant fantasy, though; it was a real place, just a few hours away by bus, but it might as well have been a different world. To Suman, it represented everything that Tarapur was not — bright, fast, and full of the promise of change.
That very morning, his father, Raghav, came home after a long day at the estate office, a serious expression on his face. He was a man of few words, but his silence spoke volumes, and Suman could tell that something important was about to be said.
“Suman,” Raghav began, his voice gravelly from years of hard labor, “I have something to tell you. There’s an opportunity in Silchar. A shop owner there is looking for someone to work for him. They need someone who understands the tea trade — someone from the hills.”
Suman’s heart skipped a beat. “Silchar?” he whispered, almost not believing the words.
“Yes, Silchar. It’s time you see something more than this. We’ve always worked the fields, and it’s good work, but you have dreams, don’t you? I see it in your eyes.” Raghav paused, looking at his son with a mixture of pride and concern. “I want you to go. It’s time to learn what else is out there.”
Suman stood frozen, the weight of his father’s words settling in his chest. For as long as he could remember, his world had been the tea gardens of Jalalpur. His family had worked here, and his ancestors before them. The thought of leaving the only life he had known was daunting, but the idea of Silchar, with its city lights, its fast pace, and its promises of change, felt like an entirely new world. Could he leave the familiar comfort of Tarapur for a life unknown? Could he step away from the soil he loved so much and enter a place where everything seemed alien?
His mother, Pramila, who had overheard their conversation, came into the room, her hands still damp from washing dishes. She looked at Suman with a softness that only a mother could carry, her eyes full of love and silent worry. “Suman, you must do this,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You must see for yourself what lies beyond these hills. But remember, no matter where you go, Tarapur is your home. These hills will always be your foundation.”
The next day, with a heavy heart, Suman packed his belongings into a small bag. His mother had wrapped some food for him — simple things like rice, a small jar of chutney, and a few tea leaves from their garden — to take along for the journey. His father handed him a few hundred rupees, and with that, Suman left the only place he had ever known.
The bus ride to Silchar was long and bumpy, the roads winding through the hills, cutting through dense forests and mist-filled valleys. Suman watched the landscape change as they descended from the hills, the air growing warmer and thicker, the trees fewer as the city approached. The journey was an uncomfortable one, but it was also a journey of discovery — a journey towards the unknown.
As the bus finally pulled into the bustling bus station in Silchar, Suman’s heart raced. The city was nothing like the quiet peace of Tarapur. The noise, the crowded streets, the honking cars, and the swirl of people moving in all directions overwhelmed him. Silchar was a living organism — fast, chaotic, and alive. Buildings towered over him, and the dust and heat of the city seemed to press in from all sides. Suman had never seen so many people in one place. The city was full of faces, each one more unfamiliar than the last.
A rickshaw driver offered him a ride, and after a short negotiation, Suman climbed into the rickshaw, clutching his small bag tightly. They drove through the narrow streets, passing busy markets, crowded shops, and towering buildings. Everything was moving at a speed that felt impossible to keep up with. Silchar, he realized, was a place where time was measured in fast beats and hurried steps, not the slow rhythm of the tea gardens. The city felt alien to him, but it was also intoxicating in its own way.
He reached his destination — a small shop located at the corner of a busy street. The sign read “Barua’s Tea & Snacks”, and it seemed like an ordinary enough place, with a few tables outside where people sat and drank tea. Inside, the shop was cramped, with shelves filled with various jars of tea leaves, snacks, and small trinkets. The air smelled of warm tea and fried food, and the chatter of customers created a constant hum.
The shop owner, Mr. Barua, was a short, stout man with a thick Assamese accent. He greeted Suman with a nod and a smile. “You are from the hills, aren’t you?” he asked, his eyes taking in Suman’s weathered clothes and calloused hands.
“Yes, sir. From Tarapur. I’ve come to work here.”
“Good,” Mr. Barua said, rubbing his hands together. “I need someone who knows tea. You’ll learn fast, and in time, you’ll become a part of this city. Don’t worry, it will take some getting used to, but you’ll adjust.”
Suman started working the very next day. At first, he was overwhelmed by the pace. The customers were quick, the orders were constant, and there was always something that needed to be done. But as the days passed, he began to find a rhythm. He knew the tea, after all, and the preparation of it felt like home. The work wasn’t all that different from the tea gardens in Tarapur, but the environment was completely new. The people were different too — fast-talking, impatient, but also kind in their own way. Slowly, Suman started to find his place.
One evening, after his shift, he was sitting outside the shop when an older man walked by. He looked at Suman for a moment before stopping. “You’re from the hills, aren’t you?” the man asked, his voice gravelly.
“Yes, sir. From Tarapur.”
“I was born there,” the man said with a soft smile. “I left many years ago, but I can never forget the hills. They are a part of me.”
The man introduced himself as Biman, a former tea worker who had moved to Silchar years ago. Over cups of tea, Biman shared his own journey with Suman. He had left the hills seeking a better life, but the city, with its bright lights and promises, had never fully embraced him. “The city will take a part of you,” Biman warned. “But you must never forget the hills. They are what keep you grounded.”
Suman listened intently, feeling an odd sense of comfort in the stranger’s words. He had been afraid that Silchar would swallow him whole, but Biman’s words gave him a sense of peace. The city was loud, chaotic, and full of promises, but there was a part of him that would always belong to Tarapur — to the tea gardens, to the river, to the quiet hills that had shaped him.
As weeks turned into months, Suman grew more comfortable in Silchar. He learned how to navigate the city’s busy streets, how to speak faster, how to adapt. But even as he changed, something within him remained. Tarapur was always there, in the way he drank his tea, in the way he saw the world. And though the city offered him opportunities, the hills remained a piece of his heart, a constant reminder of where he came from.
One day, as he walked through the streets of Silchar, Suman stopped at a small bridge overlooking a busy intersection. He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, he imagined the hills of Tarapur — the tea gardens, the quiet mornings, the sound of the river flowing gently in the background. The city around him continued to hum with its fast pace, but in that moment, he understood something. Silchar, for all its chaos, had become a part of him. But Tarapur, with its simplicity and its deep connection to the earth, would always be home.
And so, Suman stood there, a boy who had left the hills for the city, but in his heart, he carried both worlds with him — a boy in the city of Silchar, but forever rooted in the hills of Tarapur.
