Ansh looked out of his window seat. He could see the gathering grey war clouds. Somewhere behind those clouds were enemy planes, lingering drones waiting to engage him or evade him. On the other side of the aisle, a middle-aged lady was reciting her nauseous prayers. Out from her side of the window, were snowy clouds carrying civilian planes bound for homes everywhere in his country.
He thought of floating out of the flight, over the western sky and seeing everything usual. The desert and the farms, the tense communal situation across the panorama, the bright IPL match lights glowing in one of the cities.
More often than not, his thoughts placed him elsewhere from his location. From a cosy ambience, 31,000 ft. above the border of Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh, he drifted to 2010, in a shadowy basement in Delhi’s Mukherjee Nagar.
As expected, the class chairs facing the teacher were full, so he sat close to the door on one of the three vacant seats. He had to bend towards the right and direct his vision through a narrow gap between the pillar and the wall, to see his teacher.
Thankfully, to ease his effort she shifted back a little. That was the first acknowledgement of one of the other. He smiled in thanks without voicing it. Ansh liked his class and now this new seat. He started entering the class late, excusing himself from his friends who used to save a seat for him, because he ‘had some work’ everyday, before he joined them.
Pranita usually came late because she had other classes. A valid reason, unlike Ansh’s. He was good at answering questions, especially, those on current affairs and international relations. She was impressed. That didn’t skip his notice, making his stomach flutterier by the day.
One day, he couldn’t attend the class so he fell back on his notes. But she was a meticulous note-taker and thus, the first words were exchanged.
The man next seat, started a monologue on the how the neighbouring country must be punished. He went red during his speech, seeking validation from time to time from his neighbours. To his disappointment, Ansh did not even harbour a look at him, let alone nod in agreement.
Gradually, the book borrowing became a regular affair. Ironically, to able to talk to her, he had to skip class and miss seeing her. Then, new day of seeking her notes which seemed perfect. He liked how she never missed anything.
And everyday she attended, she did not budge from her seat, perhaps expecting him to come and seat next to her. Curiously, that seat remained empty most days.
The captain announced of turbulent weather, but he was again deep in recollection to make anything of it.
It was the last day of the class but there was no development other than regular borrowing of notes. She could be lost forever in the thousands of civil services aspirants. Yet he couldn’t dare ask her anything. There was nothing to talk about. Neither did she go out of the way to initiate any talk.
‘Hey! Listen. So, I am having a hard time placing some of the words from your notes. I left some blank places wherever I couldn’t figure out the same. So, ahm…, could you share your number please, so I can fill out those gaps as and when they come up for revision?’ It came out of nowhere.
Two ‘so’ in one sentence! He was kicking himself internally, knowing it was a miserable attempt.
But she obliged and he couldn’t believe it. And there it was! The magical combination of 10 digits which will lead straight to her voice any day he sought to communicate with her.
He left the class in a hurry, saving himself from further goof-ups. As he climbed up the basement out onto the street, he hazarded a look back, and quickly turned again. She was walking towards him. Racing heart-beats. Maybe she changed her mind about the number!
The setting sun advanced action time. The flight had a turbulent landing procedure. His demeanour was calm, almost resigned. Maybe that is why he was chosen for the mission.
‘Are you from Delhi?’
‘No.’ (No! Only ‘no’! Elaborate your answer stupid. You don’t deserve to clear the civil services.)
‘So, what is your other optional?’, finally he musters a sensible question.
‘Economics. How about you?’
‘History.’
‘Hiiistory!’ She seemed to be let down.
‘Why? Why that reaction? I like history.’
‘No, just that, you don’t seem like a person from that subject background.’
‘You are correct. I come from an engineering background.’
‘I thought so. That is more in alignment with your ….’
‘But I love the humanities.’
‘What about you. How come economics?’
‘Oh, that’s my graduation subject.’
‘From Delhi?’
‘Yes. LSR. I mean…’
‘I know what it stands for? There is a running joke in my family that I know Delhi more than my place.’
Pranita smiles her most comfortable smile so far.
‘Okay, I need to get into this book shop.’ She stopped and gestured towards a shop. It was too late to say, ‘I would like to go there too.’
He almost cried out, ‘Why? Keep walking.’
‘Oh, okay! See you around...’
As he remembered her ‘bye’, he realized he might have forgotten her face. It has been fifteen years. She might be ….
An IPS officer, dead in Covid pandemic, left the country, married one of the typical torturers? Perhaps all of these or none of these. This is India. You live in the fault lines between radicality and orthodoxy, progress and regress, liberty and subjugation.
Or she could be at the next baggage counter at the Delhi airport having reached the same conclusions as he did, and neither would ever know.
He had sent a solitary message on that number, a couple of months after that last class. She had responded with a kind message.
From 2010, he went to 2014, seeing her unseen face somewhere on Facebook. From there he shifted to a few hours before the present.
On the ground, he was driving over a bridge which seem to fly towards the horizon. A sun dropping down a grey patch of clouds, like a ball of shit falling through a grey underwear string.
His spirits soared. The evening sky bathed his town in milky golden rays and a wonderful not too hot, not too cold weather prevailed. His phone was abuzz with informal chatter among his squadron on their chat group. It wasn’t worth checking, he decided, until, the call came.
As he boarded the plane for Delhi, his father asked him to be very careful and communicate, however briefly he could. The most obvious of advises but these things have to be stated.
His thoughts gathered in the present about a breaking news coming in from the front.
He soaked it all in. There was no fear in his system. The war seemed a trivial concern when put up against missed chances, forsaken rendezvouses and lost dreams.
Upon landing, he saw Delhi was the same even after many years. Only, the people and contexts were new.
Once upon a time, the city made his heart leap. Tonight, it had a melancholy appeal. Everything from his past here had gone up in a whiff of smoke.
The places where he spent time in thrill, ambition, laughter and love; all distant concerns now.
From being a city of mehfils to being a city of djinns. From a Delhi of celebration and hope, to a Delhi of shadow and mystery. From a Delhi of Pranita to a Delhi of ….
No sooner does he step into the evening air, expecting nothing and everything, than someone calls out his name.
He looks out for the voice and resigns himself to the present.
Prashant, I really love the way you pen down your thoughts. So often, similar reflections cross my mind too. Just that I am too lazy and over time, it’s become a kind of inertia that’s surprisingly hard to overcome.As someone who knows you well, it’s a joy to see how authentically you express yourself through your writing. I can literally visualize the situations you describe.
ReplyDeleteAlso, I noticed that you’ve used a Grok image. Nicely done.
If I am able to encourage you to write through my writing, I would be happy. And as I have mentioned elsewhere, I try my best to be sincere in what I feel and express. Thank you for your observations. They mean a lot to me.
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