She woke up to the
sound of the alarm clock, searched for her hair-clip from under her pillow,
tied her hair in a loose bun and set out for the daily household chores. Sleep
still lingered on in her eyes making it appear redder than on other days.
Yesterday had been a long day at office, followed by a late night office party
and therefore she couldn’t get enough sleep.
The calendar reminded
her that there was a parent-teachers’ meeting today at Sneha’s school. Sneha,
her daughter, fifteen now has always held a good academic record much like her
mother and was polite and shy in nature. Her teachers never had much complain
against her. Meera knew that Sameer, her husband, wouldn’t be able to make it
to Sneha’s school today. He’d have to
leave for Kochi today and therefore the responsibility of attending the meeting
was on Meera.
Meera sat with her
morning coffee and the newspaper at the table quickly scanning through all the
headlines, when one news article particularly caught her attention. ‘Naxalite
leader injured but escapes being caught by the police…’- it said. The news
chilled her spine. The Naxalite leader was none other than Niladitya Roy, the
boy who had made her heart skip a beat during her college days…that boy with
whom she had often imagined life together…that boy who had broken her heart
because he chose his dedication to his work above her. Life had been terribly
hard after the break-up. Her academics suffered a setback as she could not
concentrate on her studies. She still remembered those sleepless nights, when
her pillow would be wet with her tears and those long sessions with the
psychiatrist. But then life had gradually moved on, as her parents had said it
would. She had got a job for herself, got married (albeit her parents had
chosen a husband for her), had a child and was raising her in the best possible
way she could. In the initial years of her marriage she had often wondered how
she would react if she ever came across him. She had often struggled with her
own mind in trying to forget him and be happy in her married life, as she had
promised to her parents. But the human mind works in strange ways, forgetting
things that it should remember and remembering things that it would rather
forget.
Meera wanted to call
him up. She still had his phone number but there were very little chances that
he would still retain the same number for twenty-six years. And, moreover, what
would Sameer and Sneha think of her if they ever came to know about it? No, she
wasn’t supposed to call him up.
Meera finished her
coffee and kept down the newspaper and was just about to get started with her
household works when suddenly her phone started to ring. She checked it. It was
Nilanjana, her college friend. She picked up the phone and started chatting
with her. They talked about their good old college days, their families, their
careers and then just when Meera was about to disconnect the line, Nilanjana
asked,’ Meera, do you still remember Nil da?’An awkward silence followed. Meera
didn’t know what to say. Nilanjana continued,’…you might remember that I was
his cousin…’ Meera had almost forgotten the fact. ‘…he got seriously injured
while trying to escape the police and has lost an arm but somehow he managed to
escape. He is now at Pishi’s place. He wants to meet you. I think you remember the
address, if not I can text it to you…’ No answer came from Meera. ‘Meera? Can
you hear me?’ inquired Nilanjana. Meera disconnected the call.
‘Why now? What now?’ thought
Meera as the whole world seemed blurred in her teary eyes. She was surprised to
find that even after so many years this boy, now a man, could again set her
heart amidst a whirlwind of emotions.
Sameer left for his work at
ten in the morning. He would be back from Kochi almost after a week. Meera had
taken a leave from her office that day because the parents-teachers’ meeting
was scheduled at twelve in the afternoon. The meeting went well and while
returning Meera dropped Sneha off at the Indian Dance Academy for her dance
classes. Watching Sneha had always been a pleasure to her eyes and therefore
she would often remain present at Sneha’s dance classes, watching her learn.
But today something troubled her. She thought of driving back home. Sneha could
board a bus to return home, she was a big girl now, Meera thought.
On her way back, something
(she didn’t know what exactly) forced Meera to drive to Niladitya’s Pishi’s
(aunt) place. She knew the address; she had been there many times before. She
still remembered all those Narus(sweets) Pishi used to make for her whenever
Niladitya and Meera paid a visit to her. Pishi had always told her that she
would make the perfect wife for Nil. Meera had always blushed at the
thought.
Her car stopped before the
gate of the once well painted double-storeyed building. The beautiful flower
garden that the house once boasted was now gone. Long wild grass had filled up
the place making it appear rather haunted. She wouldn’t have recognized the
building had she not remembered the house number. She went in and knocked at
the door. Pishi opened it. It took her a while to recognize that it was Meera.
‘Come in, my dear’, she said in her usual soft and familiar voice. Pishi led
her to Niladitya’s room and left them alone on the pretext that she’ll fetch
them something to eat.
Meera stood still. She was
looking at him, while he lay on his bed with his right hand bandaged that had
been cut off from the elbows. He looked much different now, his eyes has lost
its lustre, his hair had grown white. She didn’t know what to say. The cracks
in her heart which she thought had mended with time had started to show again.
Each second seemed a constant struggle to fight back the tears. Meera had
turned back to leave when Niladitya stopped her. ‘Meera, do you still remember
that poem, the one which you used to recite to me so often?’ asked Niladitya.
Meera didn’t turn back. Poetry
was a brilliant way to convey your feelings or thoughts for someone, she had
always thought. She was good at reciting poems and had won several prizes at it
but had given it up when she broke up with him.
‘Chaigo ami
tomarey chai, tomai ami chai’, continued Niladitya reciting one of her favorite
Bengali poems
‘Ei
kothatai shodai mone bolte jeno pai
R ja kichu bashonate, ghure berai dine rate
Miththa,
she shob miththa
O go tomai
ami chai…’
Tears rolled down her cheek. She
didn’t turn back. Instead, she headed towards the door. His words held no more
meaning for her… or did it?
