Whoever says people die? Sometimes, they are kept alive in the written word.
There’s nothing unusual about sunsets on a December evening; except, there was everything unusual about this specific one.
It was a December evening and the sun was setting. He had told me we’ll eat lunch together, so I was in his office, getting some work done.
He walked in minutes before sunset, with his lunchbox and asked me, “Bata kya khayegi; kya order karu canteen se? [Tell me what you’ll eat; what should I order from the canteen?].”
I got up from the table I was working on, sat next to him on the sofa with my lunchbox, and said, “Nothing from the canteen, sir, I have my lunch.”
He looked up from his phone, surprised, “You haven’t had lunch yet?” Opening the lunchbox I told him, you said we’ll eat together, so I was waiting for you. I shrugged like it’s the most natural thing to do in the world, and added, “Plus, if I don’t eat my lunch, mom will have my hide.”
“And mine would have my hide.” I snorted.
He set aside his phone, looked at his watch he wore all the time, and asked, “What’s for early dinner then?”
“Stone cold mangodi ki sabji,” I replied, “can you get this heated in the canteen microwave?”
He called them to ask and ordered a cup of chai for himself and asked me, “Yashi?”
“Nothing sir”
“Coffee?”
“No.”
I am the only person, I think, who would say not to his offer of buying me a chai or coffee.
One samosa and one chai, he told the canteen dude and looked at me meaningfully. “They can’t heat sabji in the microwave, so I ordered a samosa,” he told me happily.
I smiled and said, “Does ma’am know you’re having oily food?”
He sighed and said cold sabji doesn’t make a good companion with a cold chapati, Yashi. I laughed.
We settled in a comfortable silence until chai and samosa were delivered. Then I asked, “I never asked you how Delhi was. What did you do?” And we launched into a conversation about Delhi, its unforgiving heat, his wedding, his wedding reception, the controversy around the latter two — basically caught up with everything we’d been up to since … April.
Mostly him — he had quite many stories to tell.
That’s when I asked the question that had me curious for a while now, “What happened to you? The other day, why were you so sick that you went home?” I, forever a diplomat.
He paused. And told me his life story. Congenital. Heart. Harsh years. Him.
Months ago, in the fresh light of morning sun, I’d told him about mine.
Months later, in the rarely candescent light of setting sun he shared his.
Whoever says bonds are made in blood? Sometimes bonds are made in rooms with gold-pink windows and grey corners, a subtle scent of tea wafting in the air, punctuated with rhythmic silence.
Whoever says you have to touch to hold hands? Sometimes you hold hands and you don’t even know it; but in your heart, you feel it.
Whoever says people die? Sometimes, they are kept alive in a written word.
