November Air

By Pijus Ash

We love success stories. We celebrate them, share them, and post them online.
Failures? Not so much. The small wounds of life — we hide them. As if they never existed.
But life isn’t made of victories alone. It’s stitched together with failures, imperfections, detours.
This is one such story. Not fiction. Not fantasy. You can decide what it is.

Debraj Goswami, Time Out of Mind, 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 60x48 inches. 
Image description: A bare-branched tree dominates a cube-like space open to a blue sky above. Its branches are heavy with honeycombs; bees swarm on either side and a Pileated Woodpecker perches on the left side of the tree trunk. The monumental figure of Rodin’s “Thinker” is housed in the trunk. On the left, emerging from the wall, an upside-down faucet spews flames instead of water. Bees that venture too close fly away with their wings on fire as flames leap up from the scorched ground.

1. The Call

November 2016 — Ede, Netherlands

I was in the town of Ede, a small Dutch habitat known for bicycles and bland life. I had received a fellowship to study intercultural communication at a local university of applied sciences. Three months, an exam, and then back home — to Kolkata. Maybe a small research project later, but nothing extravagant. 

That was the plan. One may call it bland. Yes, it was.

I had never been a front-row student. I preferred textbooks on my table a few weeks before exams, just enough to dodge any disaster. But Ede was a bit exception. Journalism had been my profession for years, so I liked the subject. The readings didn’t feel like a burden — I spent hours in the library, happily chasing context and connections.

By mid-November, I was preparing for the final exam. And then came a distraction — Paris.

A friend offered a chance, though slim as a papercut, to visit the Charlie Hebdo office. It had been nearly two years since the 2015 attack that shook the world. Twelve people killed: editors, cartoonists, writers. I remember the outrage, the marches, the slogans — Je suis Charlie. As a journalist, the opportunity to step into that space was impossible to ignore.

That friend, an artist living in Paris, may have spoken with someone from Charlie Hebdo. There was no guarantee, only an indication. Security was still tight. Visitors rarely get warm welcomes.
“Ninety-nine percent chance it won’t happen,” he said. But that one percent? I couldn’t resist.

Even if the meeting didn’t work out, it would still be Paris. Who needs a reason to walk by the Seine or lose time in old bookstores? My daughter had just started pottery lessons in Kolkata, and I thought I might bring her a pottery-kit from there.

A train would have been faster and more comfortable, from Amsterdam Centraal to Gare du Nord, Paris. But costly as well. The fellowship covered my study needs, but others — travel, food, accommodation — I paid out of pocket. Since my stay in the Netherlands was nearing its end, my savings had nearly run out. I checked the coach price. Yes, cheaper than dinner for two in Ede — only twenty euros.

2. The Man

The bus left from Duivendrecht, a suburb outside Amsterdam. I had to catch a 5 a.m. train from Ede-Wageningen station to make it on time. November in the Netherlands isn’t terribly cold, but it’s wet. That morning, a light rain blurred the station lights. Still, I made it.

At Duivendrecht, the exit gate refused to accept my train ticket. It was soaked; its magnetic strip wasn’t readable. The platform emptied. A cleaning man I’d seen earlier was gone. I stood alone, holding my small bag in hand.

Then a man approached. Rough beard, mismatched jacket, eyes a little too tired for the early hour. He gestured: rub the ticket on a dry patch of your shirt. I did. It worked. The gate beeped, and I passed through.

“How did you know?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I live outside the station. Seen others do it.”

I thanked him. He smiled faintly. “No thanks needed. Got a cigarette?”

We walked together for a while. He told me his story — not everything, just enough.

He had come from Paris, couldn’t stay there any longer. Now he was drifting around the Netherlands. He slept in the park. Hid from the police. Lived in daylight shadows.

What a coincidence. He had walked away from Paris. I was heading toward it.

Both of us were non-Europeans. Another difference: I had a passport. He didn’t.

That piece of paper, with its blue cover and stamped pages, decided who had the right to stay. Who moved freely, who didn’t. Who lived on the map, and who floated outside it.

3. The Bus

I boarded the bus. Eight hours to Paris. The bus would drop us at Gallieni, a station just outside Paris’s Boulevard Périphérique — the circular road that girdles the city. My seat was on the aisle. Across from me sat a young man, olive skin, back-combed hair, the kind you see in southern Europe. At first glance, he might pass as Italian or Spanish. But the closer I looked, the clearer it became — he was like me, from the East.

He noticed me too. I was checking the ticket and my passport. He smiled. “You Indian? Very good. I am Abidi, going to Paris.”

He pulled a dark blue suitcase from beneath the seat and stowed it above our heads. Then he stood, restless, as if he had something in mind. But just then, the bus slowed — border check.

At that time, Europe was nervous. The immigration crisis was still raw. Policemen boarded; their guns slung casually. “English or Dutch?” one asked. I handed him my blue Indian passport without saying a word. He matched the photo, nodded, moved on.

Abidi watched too. As the officer approached, he quietly slid back into his seat, like a wave retreating before it breaks.

After checking everyone’s documents, the police asked one man to step off. No drama, no noise. The door closed. We continued.

My thoughts drifted to a short story I’d read — Bus#99, by Yemeni writer Y. Al-Bagi. An old lady and her grandson board a bus for a long journey. They spot a man seated ahead. The boy insists it’s his Uncle Sameer. The grandmother, after a moment, agrees. Sameer had left home years ago.
Now, here he is, sharing their journey, in the same bus. They decide not to interrupt him. “We’ll surprise him when we arrive,” she says.

Sameer suddenly stood up, told the driver to stop. He’s forgotten something. He gets off, walks away.

The boy notices Sameer left his suitcase behind. He struggles to bring it to his seat. It’s heavy. Inside, a faint ticking sound is heard. Then silence.

The old lady cradles the bag in her lap, as if she were holding her son.

As the story echoed in my head, I watched Abidi again. He was near the driver, hands gesturing. The engine muffled their voices. The bus slowed.

Was he asking to get off?

His suitcase — still above, in luggage rack.

Then, calmly, he returned. He glanced at me, smiled, said a soft “Bye” to the young woman beside him. He pulled down his suitcase and stepped off.

4. The Destination

The bus doors closed behind him. No one said anything. We moved toward Gallieni.

As the bus picked up speed again, I leaned back.

Through the window, France rushed past like a forgotten dream.

I just saw a man departing into the cold November air. But that cold air is warmer than the chill I just had in my spine. November air — I still don’t know if it’s cold or warm.

It may be cold, or warmed by the ink on a passport.

Maybe by law. Maybe by fear.

Sometimes, a stranger is just passing through.

Sometimes, the air tells you — a bag is just a bag. Sometimes, it isn’t.

But still — somewhere between Ede and Paris, between fellow human beings — something passed, unseen but understood.

I kept going, toward a world I thought I knew.

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Pijus Ash is a writer and researcher based in Kolkata with over two decades in journalism. His work weaves through storytelling, cross-border cultural ties, Ramakrishna-Vedanta movement and  literary history. His writing has appeared in The Space Ink, Newsclick, Udbodhan, and elsewhere, and has been supported by residencies in the Czech Republic and the UK. Off the page, he captures the world in grayscale and listens closely to silence.

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Debraj Goswami (b. 1973, Serampore, West Bengal), lives and works in Baroda, Gujarat. He earned his BFA at Rabindra Bharati University, Kolkata, and his MFA at MSU, Baroda. Debraj received a Charles Wallace India Trust fellowship to visit and work in the UK (2001), and has since mounted three solo exhibitions of his work in New Delhi and Mumbai. He has participated in numerous group exhibitions across India and abroad, notably at: Emerging India, presented by Art Alive Gallery and SA Fine Arts, London (2007); 6th Bharat Bhavan International Print Biennale, Bhopal (2004); and the 4th Egyptian International Print Triennale held at the Palace of Art and the Centre of Arts in Gezira, the Art Gallery of the Cairo Opera House, and Museum of Fine Art in Alexandria, Egypt (2003). His work is included in Fn-Fn : Figurative Non-Figurative Narration : Auctions of Indian Modern & Contemporary Paintings and Books, by Nevill Tuli, Osian's; Connoisseurs of Art, 2003. For info and images, please visit: https://www.instagram.com/debrajgraphicarts  

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