ONCE UPON A TIME.........by RoshanC

          From writing sketchbook journal and then stories, this time I felt a strange urge to write something about myself. What’s even better is to start with some childhood memories, for they fade away unless you have some strings attached. My compilations one day would be incomplete without my jocular anecdotes from my vibrant childhood. So, here’s a tete a tete to all that I could recall and share. It’s even a tribute to all my childhood friends (my partners in crime), the classmates from whom I borrowed trousers (more than once), and my neighbors back home.
          The facts have been (beautifully) embedded here in alphabetical order as per its occurrence related to the calendar year.

                            “If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older”

I. SuSu…the piss!!!

          My younger brother was a rooster (not practically though); perched at the highest platform at the edge of our house, facing down towards the clustered neighborhood, he had to crow every morning, not "cock-a-doodle-doo" but always “Roshan wet the bed again (make it atleast thrice)”. Oh how I wish he was dumb. Or how I wished it was at least on alternate days. But no, it had to happen every day. When children at my age, feeble limbs flattering all day would retire to bed into sound sleep, I managed to dream too. The most un-acceptable dream one could imagine of, in my case, I used to be visiting the “loo” almost every day, punctually for years and almost at the same time. What happens next is obvious. And my brother had this certain enmity with me, the first thing he did in the morning was to check my bed and head towards his dais.

                                                   
          The hot topic in the morning as I woke up used to be the MAP (the one I made on the bed the previous night) and which country it closely resembled. Served duel purposes here, poking me and the other, polish my geography. I never had my bedroom secrets, the entire neighborhood shared it. I think we were deficit of doctors then and I don’t think we can have a specialist to it. Homemade remedies were also suggestions like “tie his little…….” Sometimes I wished I could actually do it but myself (on a lighter note).

                                     When I was one, It had just begun.

                                     When I was two, It was nearly new.

                                     When I was three, It started flowing free.

                                     When I was four, It was much much more.

                                     When I was five, I could literally dive.

                                      But as I was Six, I had to fix!!!

          And it happened exactly at six. I was visiting my Aunt in Darjeeling and on her suggestion we went to a temple there, known for its strange belief to “cut-links” with anything unwanted, which also includes “Wives” (you should take me seriously here guys).
I forgot the last map I made, most probably at my Aunt’s place, but my Geography is immensely polished!!!

II. Shit! It’s Millet…

          The Year 1988 and I was in the 1st standard. Like I said, don’t go by my age. I was definitely ahead of my age in ways more than one. My Dad enjoyed his “millet-beer”, a special homemade ethnic alcoholic beverage popularly known as “chang” in Tibet, Sikkim and other neighboring States. Large quantities of “chang” used to be stored at home for his daily consumption which he normally shared with his friends over fried meat-balls and pickles. And I never missed an opportunity to grab a handful at the slightest twitch of an eye, rush towards some secluded place and upon finishing, come back for more. I liked it dry. It had a flavor which would any day lock horns with musk and the “CH3CH2OH” in it gave me a good night sleep.
          The next day at school I had a bad stomach. My English until then was stuck at the alphabets and “Miss, may I go to the toilet?” seemed to me the longest sentence ever. The other thing that added to my woe was my half pant with suspenders. Seeing the door of the classroom ajar and paying no heed to the class teacher I marathon’d towards the toilet, my hands still fighting to get the suspenders loose. I didn’t succeed much there. I crashed. The teacher who until then was running behind me seemed nowhere to be seen, much obviously. I was all yellow. My “poop” had millet all the way from my classroom door up to the washroom.
          The only one left who could give my back a helping hand in the washroom was my elder brother (who was also my senior in school), which he obliged just as the Principle was around. I knew by then that later it would be his legs that would be doing the honor. My teacher borrowed some trouser from a hosteler, which obviously had to be a girl (the school only had girls hostel) and coincidentally, its color too was yellow.
         " I overheard the Principle that day saying to my brother;” What does your brother eat at home?”

III. Being Bhandari

The Year 1988 and I was around six and a few months.
          The flamboyant 2nd Chief Minister of Sikkim (former) Mr.N.B Bhandari. Unlike the Bollywood flick “I am Kalam”, I had practically seen Mr. Bhandari on his various motorcade and foot-visits in and around our village. Apart from his great sense of dressing, neatly combed hair, he was a crowd-puller. People flocked at the slightest sight and along with silk “khada”; the smell of marigold from the garlands mystified the air. People came to him and he gestured back with clasped hands. The other reason surely was the packed food he distributed after every such visit.
          Weekends those days were running in the neighborhood, marbles jingling in the pocket, dusty clothes, and the neighbor’s sugarcane. And I was much of the pathfinder mostly on such mischievous jaunt. At any day I had not less that fifteen guys at my back and what we could end-up into need not be mentioned here. One such weekend, I decided to be Bhandari, just for a day…
          At around seven on a Sunday morning I had my bath. My fellow partners of crime had already assembled at my place. An elderly brother obliged to get me ready for my grand day. I had already convinced my Dad on a “safari suit.” While my hair was soaked in thick coconut oil and combed into fine perfection, my mates got hold of some plastic carry bags, red and white in color, replicating the flag of Mr. Bhandari’s party. I was ready for the march and my mates were done with the marching code and the slogans, also not to forget to mention the plastic flags. The march had to start from the main road towards the bazaar, covering the “dak-bungalow” then towards the new market area and back to the starting point. One two three…
N.B Bhandari zindabaad                    (long live N.B Bhandari)
(Zindabaad) 2                                   (long live) 2
Garib ko neeta ayo hai                      (the savior of poor has come)
(Ayo hai) 2                                       (has come) 2
          Standing at the center of the group, clasped hand, two friends on my sides replicating bodyguards, we circled the entire stretch with serious onlookers ranging from village elderly men, women and children alike. The mock drill even managed to gather some crowd with few more children joining us. The plastic flags waving up against the wind making rickety sound, the huge uproar from my friends shouting at the peak of their larynx and the stroke of my hand in the gesture of a “Namaste” towards both sides all along the route, we covered all of these products the first time without any problems and with absolute flawless perfection. The onlookers must have laughed their stomachs out but I had just done it. It was my day…
          I may not necessarily remember all the face(s) that joined me that day, and I don’t want to remember any of those onlookers (I might freak out seeing them on my marriage party), what I do remember is the day in itself…the day I became Bhandari…

IV. No hair…No Shoes…No Tie.

          1993 and I was in the Sixth Standard. As earlier, every weekend had something in the box. This time it was no different, only that my partner in crime was none other but my elder brother. He was some two years elder to me, enough to give him the confidence that he was mastering some trades, though always not good. This particular Sunday, I badly needed a haircut. But more than me, my brother was keen to play with scissors. My village didn’t have a barber, which was a seasonal post, occupied when schools re-opened after the long winter breaks and lying vacant for most part of the year. It was either the Dad’s who had to do the honor, or like in my case, elder brother. And thus it started.
          After successfully sneaking out the pair of new scissors from home, we went to a nearby secluded place which had a tap for water and loads of bushes. And behind the bushes the scissors did its magic. I humbly laid my back on the soil, wavering only to his instructions and a tiny mirror quietly perched on my lap. He started with the left side above my ear. Done with the spot, he inquired if it looked good. The mirror gave a nice impression, I was convinced. Now, the right side. Here’s where he spoiled the broth. Since he had to match the haircut on my left lobe, he overdid the right one, so much so that my scalps were visible and my hair made those horizontal lines very commonly called “Apache cut.” He was not finished yet. Seeing the twitch in my eye which had already started changing color from brown to red, he obliged to work on my left one, ultimately make it a pair of Apache’s. My eyes had by now started to make tiny balls of tears and he too lost his humor. The only and the only option now was the “Gandhi” cut, which meant I was to carry a full moon over the top of my head until the next solar eclipse. It was a bad decision. The blade he got was some cheap fake replica with “lopaz” (the original one sounds Topaz) inscribed on it and the tap had only enough water to sprinkle my hair. The tiresome job left me wailing like a woman in the maternity ward and I was losing my baby here.
         The next day left me in a big dilemma before leaving for school. I found my school shoe torn at the tip which covers my toe. The cobblers post was vacant all through the season. I quickly bandaged my toe and poured some red ink over it faking it into a bad wound. So, my uniform that day was reduced to a pair of slippers minus the tie. In the school assembly that morning, even a penguin’s eye would have drawn attention for I was the shortest guy in my class (which made me stand in the first row) practically right under the Principles nose.
                                          
          The Principle humbly adjured me to join her at the dais. As I made my way up, the whole school chuckled at the sight in front of them (and the bandage on my toe only added fuel to the fire) as the Principle spoke;” Look at this boy. No hair, No shoes, No Tie.”
         What followed next was a huge guffaw…..

V. The Black Nose:

          Somewhere above I mentioned marbles jingling in the pocket. Remember? Marble games were a craze those days before Microsoft gave birth to “Xbox” or Sony adopted “PSP”. I could slaughter a pig for a bagful. The day I lost the game, I would retire to my bed like a poor husband who just got into one with his wife (pun intended). The day I won, I was the German Hitler, the Indian Gandhi family, Chinese Hu Jintao or the Korean Kim Jong-II. Every day after school we would retire to our usual playground for some game of marble. Gender was never an issue, neither color of the skin -so far you had the “balls.”
          I had my own way of playing. I would sit on the floor, crawl, creep, funky moves, even cry at times to make my way to victory. I also remember times when I used to exchange fists along the way, many a times leaving me black-n-blue if not purple. Before hitting the miniature spherical balls, I used to apply some tiny amount of saliva (better known as “spit”) on my palm and rub it on the soil. This would give me extra grip to hold the balls tightly (this shitty thing is sounding funny here!!!) and hit my opponent’s. Almost at the same time I had to work on my nose which flowed like the “Niagara”. I wished I had the hands of our Indian Goddesses. A powerful stroke of the same muddy hand over the nose would randomly squatter the direction of the flow hitherto, also leaving my nose painted black (which I seriously ignored).
                                                         
          When I used to get back home hungry and jubilant (rarely) my Mom somehow never failed to notice the extra thing I came home with. She would point at my face and say; “Look, the cat is back home.”

VI. Jurassic Park

          Jurassic park released to pack theaters in the summers of ’93. A year after, in ’94 an incident followed that made me tag it as the most remembered movie in my lifetime. A blockbuster, what one would rightfully say?
          As I grew up and started playing with alphabets, my numerical were on their dwindling days. Algebra was just an animal to me similar to the Zebra but with different stokes of color and LCM was “Lal Chand Mukhia”, a friends Dad. After some distinct red marks smeared all over my quarterly report card, Dad enrolled me for tuition classes for mathematics; along with my younger brother (he was even worst). MR. Gupta, the teacher was always on time. Those two hours with him were like days spent in hell if only he had horns and fangs.
          One such day we found the door to our tuition room locked. Sir had gone somewhere and there was huge commotion as to whether he would turn up or no. We prayed for the latter. And there were others too, some bunch of twenty or odd students. Among them was a junior from my school who came towards me and whispered the words that my ears almost stood up like those of rabbits. He invited me for a movie right away at a neighbor’s place, they were just been back from a holiday trip down south and managed to grab a hand on the VCR on Jurassic Park. Dinosaurs were new to me and anything large fascinates me. I didn’t think twice, moreover I dragged my little brother along, for he would be handy on our return back home. Off we went to the Jurassic Park.
                                                 
          Mr.Gupta had arrived almost immediately as we left. And since we stayed more than our stipulated time away from home, Dad had sent our maid to inquire. She went back home with the message from our teacher that we didn’t even turn up for the classes.
          The movie ran a good 127mins. By the time we were done, we were a good one hour behind our time and minus classes. As we dragged our way back home, it was pitch dark outside and we pretty well knew what awaited back home. My only solace here was my brother, for I knew Dad would pity him and we might even end up getting scot-free with some mere scolding. We were wrong…
          Dad was still in the living room and the light from the television flickering through the window gave me a cold chill. The air smelled different, Dad was never awake this late, never. I gestured my brother to take the backdoor right across the store room. He was to lead from then on. The back door was not bolted and I ran bats eye on the store room. I found a thin, long bamboo stick right across the room, strangely on sight. My brother glared at me, I told him to break it and throw it out, for it was the same stick which might later be kissing and caressing our anatomy rather randomly. That was the biggest mistake of the day (bigger than sneaking out for a movie).
          We had made enough noise by then to catch Dad’s attraction. My eyes were perched on my Mom, who sat right next to my Dad, her eyes now fixed at us. My second solace (I thought). “Where were you this late?” she inquired. She overtook Dad and it was a good signal. Wrong Again!!! I pinched my brother so hard that he almost lost his balance and started blubbering...” Sir...Sir didn’t come…..so we…..” Where were you this late?” This time it was Dad and my heart almost skipped a beat. Another word and I would have wet my pant for sure. He got up and went out to the other room. I sighed a big relief and also swallowed some gallon of air. Now I could handle Mom. Reading her expressionless face I made the move; “Sir didn’t turn up today so we went to a friend’s place to watch Jurassic Park.” I hardly stoppedthought). “Where were you this late?” she inquired. She overtook Dad and it was a good signal. Wrong Again!!! I pinched my brother so hard that he almost lost his balance and started blubbering...” Sir...Sir didn’t come…..so we…..” Where were you this late?” This time it was Dad and my heart almost skipped a beat. Another word and I would have wet my pant for sure. He got up and went out to the other room. I sighed a big relief and also swallowed some gallon of air. Now I could handle Mom. Reading her expressionless face I made the move; “Sir didn’t turn up today so we went to a friend’s place to watch Jurassic Park.” I hardly stopped for air in-between. She started inquiring more and then I became my real self. The next three minutes and I unfolded the melodrama in the best possible way until the scene came where the man had to shoot the Dinosaur. “ And he pointed his gun right on the head of the beast to fire, but it was actually the tail he was pointing to, the head of the beast was right behind………….” I turned back and found my Dad standing right there, with what seemed to me the largest firewood piece in his hand ready to strike at any moment. Bang!!! The blow came right on my back all through my spinal cord and the next moment I was on the floor. My brother took the second. Then third, fourth…and I slowly lost the count. At one point I managed to crawl under the bed only to be dragged back by my legs and the count still went on. I was literally bad in maths. I also noticed that after some time, the blows down-poured frequently on me, the reason being my half-broken brother had managed to make his way out of the house while I was being dragged out from under the bed. My bad. My dilapidated body managed to make its last, but successful attempt to make my way past the door and out into the dark. My eyes had just seen a dinosaur in flesh and blood.
                        
          We were still too young to venture alone in the dark. All we could do was a mere 100 meters from home, a place used to stock firewood for the chilly winters and also our hiding joint. My brother was already there when I reached. He was holding his middle finger which had a small cut and sobbing. I held my hand on his mouth lest he made any noise. I had lost sensation on my back, on my limbs; in fact I was all numb. My bones felt cracked into hundred places and I doubted if I could even walk properly for days. A little later my eyes locked with my brothers’ and we almost chuckled. We did it more than once and I still do it today when I remember that day.
          The whole night we stayed outside, sleeping on the wooden chairs in my Dad’s office in the next building (we gate crashed).
          Did you just say Jurassic Park???

A FAIRYTALE……………short story by RoshanC

Part I (My story)
Sitting outside the shop in our silent village, covering topics that ranged from politics, unemployment, girls and family, we almost never got tired. The days were like any previous day, the same bunch of childhood friends and the same topics. I was just back home from my studies, winter vacation saw a gush of students returning back to this silent hamlet, for there was two months of home stay, having very less to do. Vacation here meant two months of practical home stay, so, an evening-meeting place was a legendary event we carried on from where our seniors left it. Outside the shop of a friend, there was a small wooden bench enough to rest five mature asses, the remaining lot had an option to choose whatever remained in and around, which mostly was the cemented floor, overturned buckets and the salt-sacks and so on. This particular spot was bifurcated into two halves, the mornings were for the village elderly who gathered for the same purpose that we did (not sure whether the "girls" were included) and they would disperse lazily to some pre-confined location for their daily dose of card game. And the second half in the evening was ours. Both the generation never crossed each other and this practice went on for years, and, somehow carried forward by our juniors at present.
We used to call it the “Unemployed Bench". And quite strangely, the name sticks to its meaning. An employed individual hardly got any chance to rest his back here. It was always us, either students or someone who's been job hunting for ages. The most worth thing commenting here is the topic that we covered. Everything that happened or was happening or was to happen started and later, would end in this particular bench. Your academic results, the harvest, the current scores in the recently concluded football match, the neighbors daughter who eloped with a driver, the swollen cheeks with your father's fingerprint embarked on them, pockets flaunting what's new in the market, sharing potato chips, cracking the latest jokes, mimicry, chilled bottles of beer(this used to be the late night inclusion) you name it...and the most important, or rather the closing ceremony almost every day concluded with someone's (new) Love Story. This was the topic that got the maximum number of ears. Love letters were the only modes of communication between two emotional fools, and, the carrier/messenger (mediator/letter-boy) was the only trustworthy figure during the time.
Hindi was not the language of the masses. But I remember a friend of mine whose "love letter" got leaked out to the public (the benchers) once. He humbly obliged to discuss the content of the letter with us at one such gathering. The funniest part was he wrote the letter in Hindi. When we inquired, he not only explained that he found it easy to pour his emotions in the national language on paper, the letter was nothing but dialogues picked from all the romantic movies that he had come across till that day. No doubt he was replied back in the same dialect. The Benchers burst out in laughter, many like me got stomach cramps too and this guy later went on to become the "hottest" member during our regime. Certainly this is just a peep into the world of the then "Benchers".
Such was the charm of this bench. Today, many of my friends would sure be able to relate to these bench (ing) days. For me, this bench reminds me of something else too. And the story I'm sharing with you all now, was just another story till some time, but now, I think it's nothing less than what they call a "Fairytale".
She came to the shop that day and was accompanied by her younger sister. She surely had a new face, for I had never seen her before. We Benchers were already at our favorite spot, right in front of the entrance and supposedly were early that day. What a galore of eyes that day, we had a new topic. As she went in, we did what we always did, starting whispering, but you know how guys whisper, and it’s always audible. Among the questions that were shot that moment at unknown directions, one obviously was: “Who’s she"? She the eldest daughter of......prompt came the reply and many bit their tongue. My eyes were tinkling, swallowed a gallon of spit and kept mum for a long time. The next thing we did was to wait for her to pronounce back from her secluded hidden sight to rush back home....and we did that. For we had plenty to talk that day and obviously only after she left. No-one could risk being audible then. Many eyes nearly popped off as she left, but sadly it was her back that we were staring at, hardly anyone saw her face, I did have a sneak peek and that was enough for the day.
Later that day, at the same spot, I went inside the shop to talk to the owner friend. He was my age and we shared a good rapport. I confined on him as he was jammed with information’s regarding our village, solely because he got a taste of both the halves of the benchers, the oldies as well as us. He read me much faster than I could imagine, and the next moment I was asking him for a pen. As he handed me a new ink pen I inquired whether he could provide me with a used one, for I only needed it once I said. The pen was worth Rs 4 at the time with a pump to drill ink at its back. Even the ink was the used one at his shop and I got a page from a small notebook on his desk, which he used to write his daily chores on.
That was my last proposal letter (how we used to like this word!!!). The anxiety that it carried of a YES or NO was the sweetest part of writing one. And of all the letters I had written for my friends till then, I hugely trusted my journal (which I proudly still do)The next thing was the delivery part. Keeping in mind the family she came from and also the village that I grew up in, I could never risk my chance of trusting a mediator or a "postman”. Either it had to be me or only me. In my village, the loudest you can do is fart. And you are considered lucky is no-one heard you. Words spread here like forest fire; for ours was a village that had persons nicknamed after television news channels (keeping in view the swiftness with which they caught with the news in and around). But luck had something for me this time too. I got my "postman" who would never tell anyone in the entire universe about my illicit desires even if he wished to. This small chap was dumb ("dumb" as in MUTE)He was born with the deficit only for the sole purpose to be my postman (that's what I think now). He was small, maybe 11 or all of 12 and was from the same village that she was from (she stayed a kilometer from my place) and used to frequent the shop where I used to pamper him. He got a chance to repay my good deeds and I became a master in disguise.
That was the very next day (it was a Wednesday) when, armed with a dumb weapon (my Mute friend) and spirit high on my hair-tip I marched towards her house. Her place was on the roadside and thus easily accessible. There was a small hairpin bent on the road above her house which could hide me from sight. There in the midday sun, I was to wait for her until she made it out. Remember, since she had no clue, I had to be patient. And above all, this dumb little friend of mine had no idea what the hell was going on all this while. This was my planning: Her mom was a teacher in a nearby school and she would be out of the house by 9 am. Her dad was serving the Government and I already got word that he had left early in the morning (this I managed to get from the mouth of a friend who saw him driving early).Playing safe and managing ample time in between, I made it to her place. I couldn't afford to take chances here and I left no stones unturned. And out she indeed came. Handing the letter on my new-found friend's hand, I just gestured him pointing at her and the letter. Trust me this guy was mute but very smart. He ran with the letter towards her and I too ran towards home as soon as I saw her getting it. I thought I would never see her again. I had dared to put my hand inside a tiger's den and I knew the TIGER very nicely (pun intended).
The following day I got her reply but rather a strange one. She had intended to see me. Not only my heart skipped a beat, horror stories ruined my entire day and freaked my night out. I had started it and intended to end it too. I took a shortcut that day, went through a jungle trail above her house and met her at her garage. That was the first day I met her and she had a complete questionnaire ready for me. I literally felt I gave an exam that day, and I still remember murmuring that I liked her eyes the most(that too was part of the questionnaire).And I repeated this for many years from then.
We started seeing each other from then, but time was very harsh on us right from the beginning. We tried to make the best out of the little time we had, she'd make excuses to visit the shop and I used to follow her footsteps on the way back home. We used to hold each others hand and make out for whatever time we managed every day. Sometimes it would be days without seeing each other. And quoting a small village, unlike any other place, such things like Love had literally no place in the society. We were committing a crime, rather boldly. There was always the fear of getting caught and we indeed ran into many people including her uncle. She was bold and would never mind holding my hand in public. This gave me enough courage to start seeing her near the shops and we soon were the topics for many. I started skipping my benching and guys did spoke about me, not only spoke, some also warned me to play it safe. I never paid heed to all that, it was my time and I wanted to live in it.
She was beautiful! To me she always seemed taller than the average girls; her fair skin almost glowed radiant in the midday sun. Her hands were soft like fur and her eyes seemed like the petals of rose carved with precision, small but amazingly beautiful. She had the innocence of a bird and equally gifted voice. Since she was a little chubby, her cheeks made hundred dimples without a slightest effort as she smiled. She smelled like the autumn fragrance as the breeze whisked pass her and her silence between the lines made my heart skip-a-beat. She was of valor and she was far more precious than jewels...
Spring came and the schools reopened. She left. I could never figure out that a few hundred kilometers of natural boundaries could be so strong to keep two hearts apart for so long. Those were tough days for me. I never had enough resources to keep track on what and where she might be, but it couldn't stop the slightest chance for me to see her. I didn't have someone to carry my letters to her, and posting one would jeopardize her in reasons more than one. She stayed in a hostel with her friends and I was still home counting days to see her again. I had memorized every holiday on her school calendar but was never sure whether she would return to the village or visit elsewhere. There were times when I used to see her family car drive pass me and it brought immense joy to be hoping to see her somewhere in-between those figures. But I never saw her. And once I planned to try my luck visiting her hostel. It didn’t matter to me if she saw me, but I had to see her. For two days I stayed in the same building on the ground floor occupied by my friend's family but didn't quite get to see her. Two days I stared up at her hostel hoping she might show up, but I still wonder if things had to be that harsh on me. I returned back home and never got a chance to go back to see her again. We just lost contact. It sounds so simple, but we both lost it.
Nineteen months from then, I heard that she was in a far-off town preparing for her final exams. The news came to me from an unknown source, but that very moment wiped off all the years I was waiting for her. Like an innocent child, the desire to meet her was still afresh in me. I had to break out the silence inside me, growing within me each and every month, season and year. All I had was the name of the Institute that she had enrolled herself for the winter crash-course and that was enough for me. I had a friend in that town and the next moment I was on my way. I had very less window then, with no cell phones and telephones the luxury of the rich (the towers hardly gave signals to say the whole "HELLO"). I just went to his place and did meet my friend. I was embarked there for three good days. He knew the address and we reached there. The Institute offered four classes each day and to find out her schedule was tough. Here too I didn't ask any of the students just in case wrong messages regarding her crops-up. So, for two days, I was in front of the building, sneaking off from a distance towards every student that made their way out.
I saw her on the third day. I still have it in my eyes...right here in my eyes. She was never so beautiful, had lost considerable amount of weight only to look prettier, the white t-shirt matching her fair skin and her soft gentle hands holding a long notebook. She was accompanied by a guy and both were all smiles as they walked. My friend made a gesture pointing at her and I was all smiles. It was only when he pinch me hard that I knocked back to senses. I did go ahead and meet her, all I could muster was to drop a small “Hi!” and “how are you doing”. She acknowledged back and said she had to leave, her eyes all over the young guy standing next to her.
That was it, the last word she spoke to me was," I need to go."And mine was even shorter...."OK".

Part II (Her story)
She went to the hostel with a very heavy heart. It was a new school for her, new place and fresh faces everywhere. She was lucky to have few of her friends from her previous school to confide on. And she did share everything with them. When she shared our story with them, they didn’t believe in a single word she said. She was in Love and was all praises. The very little time she shared with me filled her life with such immense joy that her happiness seemed surreal to her friends. They even went ahead to say that such a boy never existed. It was not me here to take the credit, but such was the bond that we shared. She was lonely in the crowd and used to weep her eyes off for days. Everyday her eyes were transfixed on the vehicles passing by hoping that I might show up some day. She always waited for my letters which never reached her. She would even go ahead to wave at people who resembled me the slightest. Hope was something that she carried for a very long time. The hope of her love coming back to her all over again.
Time flew and she lost it. She had to carry on; she was like any other girl, young and vulnerable. She deserved her share of happiness, someone to be with her, to cuddle her up in every step of life, to be her support and a shoulder she could lean on. But she always carried a heavy heart at the slightest thought of me and even after years, hoped that someday she would get a chance to speak her heart to me. But she never had the slightest idea that this would take almost a whole decade……..until she spoke to me one fine day…..
Part III (Our Story)
Love letters have paved way to social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter. Cell Phones are now the prominent weapon of the general mass. “Postman” is nothing but employees with no work in the postal departments and we would never require the “messengers” with whom we put our life at stake. It was one such networking site where I met her. Not to forget to mention here that I was always trying to track her all these years (might sound a little “stalker” type here). We had a formal chat once and both sides failed to crack the nut. The second instance created a much broader platform for us to open up with both sides ending up asking; “What actually went wrong between us?” This time we had all channels to be in touch, that’s when she spoke my mind;” I think we were born a little ahead of our time”. She was right. How we wished that things were as simple as now, the society has changed, technology and everything. But we still lost it…somewhere in-between.
It’s been a decade now since we first met. But somehow it only seems like yesterday. We spoke for hours that day and shared both sides of our story. Her voice had changed and it took me some good minutes to accept that, she still smiled at my tiny jokes and I’m sure those dimples might still be prominent. The things we shared, the moments we had, the hits and misses, everything‘s so afresh in our heart. It was not just an ordinary anecdote we shared, it was somewhat beyond all that. Today, time’s changed and we feel we still have our chances, the faith in ourselves and the courage that we can make up for all that we’ve lost and also the courage to stand for ourselves and face the world. But, the question that lies here today is;” Are we going to give it a try?” I had this running in my head long after we hung up the phone and I’m sure she too thinks the same. Our priority has changed in all these years, but it’s surprising to find that we still connect to from where we left it. Is this some kind of a signal? Would it be the best thing to do? Only time can tell us and time is all that we have now between us…
I will see her again, only this time I won’t hesitate to tell her that I came all the way to see her and only her………..