Writers Jam

Time travel is real. I remember standing right in the middle of that bridge with you. There was a pond beneath us, where ducks and fish swim; they made a sound of their own, conversing with one another. You are tall, you know that. I had to tilt my head a little upwards to catch you gazing right at me through your black-rimmed glasses. It is raining today, and the air smells strangely sweet, just how it did that breezy evening on the bridge. The fragrance pushes me to travel back in time, and here I am, back at the bridge, you standing beside me, me looking at the pond, just to catch you admiring me strangely, like no one has ever done. You’re a geek, you know. I am too. We like that about each other.

God, I hated you so much for always being perfect with your stories. Do you remember? The story of the mortician. You said you met a man in the crowded general berth of the train, who asked you to guess his profession. You failed, and he said he’s a mortician. He buried around 3-4 bodies each day, with a team of 3-4 men. You looked at me, straight in the eyes, so soft; the strings of the puppet of my attention were tied to your fingers. You said, “The man told me he worked in both, the cemetery and the kabristan. He said that he finds no difference in humans after death; all seem the same, common corpses. What makes the point to mind it?” I blinked, awestruck. An involuntary smile on my face, followed by a cheeky one on yours. You tell me those stories because you know I’ll like them, don’t you? We walked down the bridge, out of the park, while we were talking about our lives. Yours is set in a remote village, and mine is about being a city girl. How were we brought up so far from one another, just to end up like each other? You were a long-lost friend, so familiar and comforting while interesting. Like a character from a Ruskin Bond book. I often recall the anecdote of Aalok. Let me help you remember; hold my hand, and I’ll take you through the story. You used to sit on the threshold of your house in the village, intentionally during the time kids come home from school. You used to call them and ask them to sit and study, saying that you’ll tutor them. To create a rapport, you asked a child his name. “Aalok,” he replied. You proceeded to ask him whether he knows the meaning of his name, and he said no. You said, “Your name means light.” Bewildered, his friend listening to the conversation asks you, “If his name means light, why isn’t he lit up?” You told me this, we chuckled together, and you said, “That’s the reason why I love conversing with kids. They are creative, and they help broaden your imagination.” That’s the thing about you; you learn from everyone you encounter. You’re good, you’re so good. And you must barely think about me, with the same wonder I think about you. To my surprise, I don’t mind. May I stay in this past more? I don’t wish to travel back any time soon.

The end to that day is still imprinted in my photographic memory. We strolled together with the aim of finally bidding goodbye when you paused in a quiet corner to turn and look at me. You slipped your right hand into your overcoat and took out a small and petite book. You handed it to me, saying it’s a gift for me. I felt shy, for the thoughtfulness as well as not having any gift for you. But you looked so happy when I held it in my arms safely, close to me. While leaving, you helped me catch a rickshaw. I sat in, preparing to say bye to you. You bent down, peeking into the rickshaw through the opening, and asked for my hand. I held yours, like princesses do, my hand above and your hand gently and protectively below. You grazed your thumb on my palm and said, “Read the book.” I nodded yes, and we smiled at each other, just when you said bye and I said, “See you!” because I wanted to see you. My heart thumping and mind racing slowed down when I found myself on my own.

The next morning, I opened the book with the intention to start reading it. To my surprise, I found a note on the first page. In the note you called me beautiful. That I am as beautiful as a dew that sits on the leaf of a plant. You said the book changed your life and asked me to accept this gift, for it is all the wealth you behold. I sighed. I felt so loved, even while we’re friends; we’re friends, I know. I’d stay within the bitter limit of our friendship when I say—

I realize time travel is real, for each time I open the book, I travel back to the day we stood together on the bridge.