A story without an end

Clouds play chiaroscuro with the hills, kids play hop scotch. Mist covers the valleys beneath, a thick white wall erases all. That was Darjeeling, a decade back. Daaju gets me a steaming hot cup of tea.

Cha, shaab.

I am huddling myself into a ball, hood tight on the head. The tea warms my insides. I light a cigarette. Dark clouds force the mall into frenetic activity. Quick last minute deals and ponies trotting back to their shelters.

A girl, shivering in the cold, emerges from the mist and hurriedly enters the tea shack. She is in a red pullover and jeans. And asks for a cup of tea. I can see her companions across the road, buying woolens.

Quite cold, I say.
Yeah, and it’s going to rain, she says, looking at the ashen sky.
You’re from Calcutta?
Yes, and you?
Calcutta.

An uneasy pause follows. I think hard what to say next. I remember rainy days in Calcutta. Moss green walls. The Lake, full to its brim. And I remember my days in Ranchi. The small black hills and the lolling heath-like wastelands. All covered in mist. Pullover sleeves stretched over fingers, even as the lazy game of cricket continues.

But I just say, the tea’s good. She nods, blowing into the cup.

The sky opens up and cold raindrops spear the hills. Everybody scampers for shelter. Kids playing hop-scotch disappear up the road. The shack has an asbestos roofing and the sound is deafening. In seconds, I can see streams rushing down towards the Keventers lane and giant conifers swaying in the distance. And I see this unknown person, fugue like, half hidden in the charcoal smoke of the shack, cupping the hot cup of tea.

I feel a strange kind of bonding with her: consigned to a small shack in some remote magical land, while the elements play out their part outside.

I say, with the glory of a poet in spate, Time stretches when it rains.

She smiles. And I happen to see a copy of The Catcher in the Rye popping out of her bag. My mind is almost made. I love it when it rains. I love it when clouds hang low and play with tree tops.

The next half an hour, contrary to what I had just said, flies. We talk about Salinger, cult novels, Beatles, smell of old books, getting lost in nowhere… We talked with our eyes, our breath. My smiles, her giggles…

The dream is jolted by grating cries from the other side of the road. Her friends; they are frantically calling her. The rain is holding up a bit. The hills on the far side are clearer now. She pays the daju. I am frozen. I need to say something but I cannot. She smiles at me. Says, bye.

I manage to mumble, Can we meet? Later?
We are leaving in half an hour, say says.
In Calcutta, I mean. I am getting desperate.
Where?
Park Street crossing. Next Saturday. Five in the evening. I rattle out as if there was no tomorrow.

Her friends’ cries are getting raucous. She smiles, and runs across the road…

I light another cigarette.