Cycling swiftly down under the canopy of Gulmohars on sweaty March afternoons, stopping by at the roadside vendors to gulp glasses-after-glasses of iced Badam-Milk so ostentatiously laced with exactly 3 or 4 strands of keshar, ogling at and fervently commenting about the girls walking the roads, cracking jokes mostly upheld as immoral and improper by the parents and sometimes, very sometimes marveling at the very intriguing football-like structure of Buckminster Fullerenes interspersed with imitations of the very funny and equally grotesque stammer of our Organic Chemistry Ma'm (who allegedly used to dye her hair black every morning before coming to school).
These are the memories that still persist and indefatigably refuse to stop knocking my door, apart from of course her memories.
She, whose name was Rimi Khanna; she, who was more than a classmate; she, whose stunning long and dark tresses and pristine fair complexion garnered her attention from one and all; she, who I loved; she, who assured me of her love; and she, who I had seen holding hands with a friend of mine, and thus cruelly murder all my love for her.
The urge to run away from the girl who I had so madly loved, far off and for ever, had been so compelling I agreed to leave the country for higher education. The degrees, the hard-earned scrolls-of-honor helped me turn my back on the country where I will never cease to belong, where I will never be not-waited-for, and.... where I will never return nonetheless, I vowed.
Today I am grey and almost what people would mockingly call past-his-prime..... My wife Prerna died 11 years back while delivering to this world our only child, my sweet daughter Nisha. People urged me to remarry but I was left too broken and shattered to even consider the rather-offensive suggestion. Also, the rather fast clip at which this whirlwind called life engulfed me left me with no time but lots of time to work and slog, rise higher and higher every waking moment, so high that I ceased to be a man and gradually metamorphosed into a zombie, no feelings, no emotions, no heart and no needs. Nisha is in a residential set-up in Kentucky. She gets to meet me once every month, when I make it a point to flood her with gifts, hoping to redeem myself, relieve myself of the guilt of being such a failure as a father.
My uncle is on his death-bed, thus at least lending me an irrefutable beckoning from the homeland. My country still looks the same, feels the same and smells the same. The unbeatable invite of the nativeland, ohhhh, I feel so at-home.
It almost looks like the unparalleled and unexpected happiness of seeing his nephew with him has brought my uncle back from the jaws of death. He is convalescing against all odds, and into the green of health yet again. What wonders human presence can create. What tragedies human absence can!
My schoolmate, long-lost friend Shirish who chose to stay back in this country, like so many others, took me to the inauguration of a book the last day. The plot, he tells me, deals with a childhood pair in love, but who have to stay away from each other the rest of their lives due to a rather trivial misunderstanding. I enquired the name of the author. He calmly replies "Miss Rimi Khanna."
Such is life.
