By Pijus Ash
Kindness is a virtue in every religion. But for a decade, I’ve been chased by a single, unsettling act of kindness. It returns whenever I see a remote train station at sunset, or a quiet backyard touched by green. Sometimes, even in a glimpse of flowers laid on stone.
It began during a month-long training in the Netherlands in June 2015.
Days were spent in Hilversum; my nights, in the sleepy town of Bussum.
The journey from Kolkata to Amsterdam had blurred into airport queues and cross-continent menus. All I craved was rest. Bussum seemed to offer it.
The town was near empty when I arrived—just a few locals cycling away from the platform. I followed an early-arrival email and made my way to a small hotel tucked into a quiet street. A kind young man named Erick checked me in.
My room was on the second floor, at the back. It was hot, and I was drained. After a light dinner, I collapsed into sleep.
Then came the noise.
A low, grinding sound—like stone dragged against stone. Dull but insistent.
It came from just below my window. My water bottle was empty. The sound, unrelenting.
I got up and drew the curtain. My room overlooked a moonlit field. A quick check on my phone confirmed what my gut had already whispered: it was the Bussum graveyard.
I couldn’t stay in the room. I slipped into the hallway, mind spiralling.
Then I saw her.
A woman in a white uniform stood at the far end, carrying folded linen. She appeared just when I needed her — arms full of linen, and something like calm. She walked toward me with a curious smile.
“Hi, what happened?” she asked.
Too shaken for pleasantries, I got to the point. “There’s a noise from the backyard. I can’t sleep.”
“Oh, is there? Let me see.”
She stepped into the room and looked out the window with an odd indifference. Then she quietly closed the blinds and adjusted the air conditioning. The noise stopped instantly.
As if she had flipped a switch.
She placed a bottle of water on the table and turned to leave. “Everyone will be sleeping now,” she said. “You should try to as well.”
Kind lady, I murmured.
The next morning, I went to the reception. “The laundry shouldn’t make that much noise at night,” I said, describing the sound and the woman.
Erick looked puzzled. “The laundry shuts down by 4 p.m. And there’s no machine that could make such a noise, let alone carry a bottle to your room.” He hesitated. “We don’t have night staff. No janitor. No night housekeeping.”
I didn’t trust Erick a hundred percent. So, I checked.
Went to the kitchen, laundry, housekeeping corner—she wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere.
A housekeeping roster hung on the wall. I stared at it for a long time.
Erick was right.
I stayed for three weeks but asked for a room at the front. The noise of the road was better than that sound from the graveyard.
But it’s not the grinding or the cemetery that keeps returning.
It’s her.
Even now, when I pass a tiny station with a green patch beside it, the same question returns—Who was she?
Someone who took pity on a weary traveller in the middle of a ritual not meant for me?
Did she silence the stones… just for me?
I never found answers in Bussum. I don’t have them now.
But when the memory returns, I still see her—curious smile, arms full of white linen—like someone quietly closing a door so you can sleep.
A kindness that stayed.
A kindness that chases.
Pijus Ash, a Kolkata-based journalist and writer, publishes in Space Ink, Newsclick, and more. He enjoys grayscale photography and listens closely to silence when away from the page.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles
Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International
Borderless 