(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
In a moment she would hear the beeps of the security system, the garage door opening, car doors closing, her children's voices in the house. She applied lotion to her arms and legs, reached for peach-colored terrycloth robe that hung from a hook on the door. Her husband had given her the robe years ago, for a Christmas now long forgotten. This too she would have to give away, would have no use for where she was going. In such a humid climate it would take days for such a thick material to dry. She made a note to herself, to wash it well and donate it to the thrift shop. She didn't remember the year she had gotten the robe, didn't remember opening it, or her reaction. She knew only that it had been either Gogol or Sonia who had picked it out at one of the department stores at the mall, had wrapped it, even. That all her husband had done was to write his name and hers on the to-and-from tag. She didn't fault him for this. Such omissions of devotion, of affection, she knew now, did not matter in the end. She no long wondered what it might had been like to do what her children had done, to fall in love first rather than years later, to deliberate over a period of months or years and not a single afternoon, which was the time it taken for her and Ashoke to agree to wed. It was the image of their two names on the tag that she thought of, a tag that she had not bothered to save. It reminded her of their life together, of the unexpected life he, in choosing to marry her, had given her here, which she had refused for so many years to accept. And though she still didn't feel fully at home within these walls on Pemberton Road she knew that this was home nevertheless ; the world for which she was responsible, which she has created, which was every where around her, needing to be packed up, given away, thrown out bit by bit. She slipped her damp arms into the sleeves of the robe, tied the belt around her waist. It had always been a bit short on her on her, a size too small. Its warmth was a comfort all the same.
There was no one to greet Gogol on the platform when ha got off the train. He wondered if he was early, looked at his watch. Instead of getting into the station house he waited on a bench outside. The last of the passengers boarded, the train doors slid to a close. The conductors waved their signals to one another, the wheels rolled slowly, the compartments glided forward one by one.He watched his fellow passengers being greeted by their family members, lovers reunited with entangled arms, without a word. College students burdened by backpacks, returning from Christmas break. After a few minutes the platform was empty, as was the space the train had occupied. Now Gogol looked onto a field, some spindly trees against a cobalt twilight sky. He thought of calling home but decided he was content to sit and wait awhile longer. The cool air was pleasant on his face after his hours on the train. He'd slept most of the journey to Boston, the conductor poking him awake once they'd reached South Station, and he was the only person left in the compartment, the last to get off. He'd slept soundly, curled up on two seats, his book unread, using his overcoat as a blanket, pulled up to his chin.
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