Evening Musings

( Written on a restless night… to be continued on another restless night :D )

We were thought to be too young to understand what ‘love’ was. We were barely attaining the age of self-consciousness. I was 12 then, she was 11. That was when she left our locality, our town, and our country altogether. Her family had migrated to the land of opportunities - USA. Her father was far-sighted and ambitious. And bold at accepting risks. When he sensed the opportunity to migrate to the land of freedom, he hopped in not minding to undermine even his dignity. There was a call for men from the third world to work at construction sites in New York State as labourers, that’s how I understood. He applied for, though he was an M.Com and working as a teacher in a government high school; a good paying job that time, and a respectable one indeed as always was.

Days never passed by without a nostalgia – about the days we had spent together. She was an early riser and always got ready for school early. When she came to our house, which was just two doors away from hers, on her way to school I would still be on bed enjoying the remnants of the midnight dreams, and half-asleep. She would sometimes, and later on most of the days, cajole me to go along with her since she felt lonely without a company. The school was just 2 kilometres away; a walking distance in those days’ standard. The ‘very rich’ only could afford school van that time. After school, she would wait for me near the school gate since I was always late; completing the half-done marble games with friends during the school recess.

I had stolen few marbles from her, and she had caught me red-handed twice. The second time, she shouted at me unforgivingly, “The worst son of a devil.” But the next day we were on our way to school together again.

She came back to our town last week, on a month-long visit. Now I worked as a clerk in our town’s statistical department. She came back as an internee of The Washington Post. The last time I heard about her was when her mother rang up my mom a few moons ago. She had told my mom her daughter was pursuing a journalism course from Yale University. I had heard from her cousin that she came back to write about the nuances of life in her place of birth, the story being commissioned by The Washington Post. About the intricacies and exigencies, the struggle and the laughter, and the beauty of poverty to entice the rich western readers – I and her cousin had presumed.

Our old school had invited her for the school annual function, ‘to be seated high on the stage on the left side of the Principal’ I told myself. Of course she was a proud by-product of the school. ‘And I, the one who used to steal her marbles, am just a failure in life personified’ I told myself once again. Mysteriously, I too was among the invited few. ‘Is it just for showcasing the opposite side of success when they glorify an old student of her wonderful accomplishment?’ I could not foretell myself this time. The contrast would have been visibly apparent, and an ‘eye opener’ to the curious students.

#1st posted in Facebook on 7th July, 2014