A story without an end - II

Another meeting, another place…

That was Calcutta, not the distant Kolkata then. Walking down the Park Street on a steamy wet August...Moulin Rouge and The Park... the Oxford Bookstore... the discount basement. Chilled beer and beef steak at Olympia..

What now? __ said, sipping Foster's. The finals were over. And a blank future ahead. Studies were that comfortable cocoon.

I took the last piece of morsel in, and...

Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain...

__ hated impromptu espousals of poetry.

It was indeed a rainy day in Calcutta. Late April. When all of a sudden the sky gets pregnant with rain clouds. And for days the humidity reaches astounding levels. Squelchy underfoot and the acrid odour of perspiration.

__'s technicolour umbrella was the brightest spot in the whole of Park Street as the neons hadn't come on. We walked down in contemplation.

We are going nowhere, she said, visibly miffed.

I looked up at the sky – it was dark and cumuly -- and just about managed to avoid stepping on a poodle.

I was avoiding another confrontation.


The somnolence of park Street gave way to commotion when we reached the Mallickbazar crossing. It was time to part. I wanted to say something. Did I? The No. 234 arrived before I could think of anything to say. There it is, I said. And __ vanished into the crowded bus.

For quite some time I stood there. Lit a cigarette. Time seemed to be stretching on. Till, I felt a sharp drop on my shoulder. I looked up -- the clouds were already bursting. Rains again. Why the hell does it rain so much? Tiny rivulets were already taking shape, the crows were ruffly wet and the sewer hole bubbling. Now -- pieces of shit burst out as if they were waiting for redemption. And the coming was heralded with a crack of lightning.

I took shelter under an umbrella shop. Ali and Sons. Estd 1954. We do repair jobs also. All black huge umbrellas. Virtual canopies. Not like __'s technicolour one, which she bought in Nepal.

I stood there as the clouds burst and raindrops danced on the washed-off road. A maze of umbrellas passing by in a hazy blur and buses spraying up the poodle waters. Crows cawing in pandemonium.

My eyes were suddenly locked on to a woman standing in front of me. No. Wait. Do I know her? Yes I do. A few strands of hair sticking to the shoulder... the water turning the green blouse into a darker shade at places. A bit of soggy petticoat sticking out near the toes. The finely crafted stilletos half-submerged in water.

Have I seen you somewhere? I could feel the rush inside me.

She turned. She looking more than her age as she was in a sari. She had high cheekbones and sported a large bindi. She hadn't changed much, I thought.

Hey! __! She let out a startled cry in that husky voice of hers.

The Ali & Sons owner, with not much to do, was observing the chance encounter -- a smile perched somewhere near the corner of his lips. So were the others who had taken shelter from the rain there.

__! I never knew you were in Cal?

Well…Here I am! I said. As usual, her in-your-face demeanour was making me squirm. From the corner of my eyes I could see the Ali & Sons crowd watching us. I stopped a taxi and we got in…