First published by Hindustan Times on December 18, 1995.
The relationship had found its essence as we spent a fortnight in close proximity. We were poles apart in too many different ways to discern the elements that forged the bond. Yet, Sonu’s effusiveness had permeated my reserve leaving me more and more unsatiated as the relationship progressed. When it was time to part, I found myself without a gift, and barely half-an-hour for her departure. Finally, packing a few of my old writings, I had elicited a wave of warmth. She clutched it tightly to wave out; a chill descending on me as the train chugged away.
All that had been a long time ago. We had wafted with the breeze, its whiffs carrying us thousands of miles apart. It was close to her birthday now and I was incarcerated at a remote post along the Indo-Tibet border by the severe winter. The snow had kept piling up. Communications with the base was mandatory for me to move down to the nearest town and a choose a gift.
The clock kept ticking as the snowflakes drifted down to my post, aggravating my restlessness.
Next week, perilously close to her birthday, the snowfall petered out. By about midday, I could track the mail patrol trekking up at a crawl. Here was an opportunity to at least pack a gift across. Back in my bunker, I searched for anything suitable. The first glance offered no clue. A closer scrutiny permitted no glimmer of hope. Finally, I rummaged through all my belongings, only to draw a blank.
The patrol was to move down the next morning. At night, I picked up a pen to send the only gift I could muster – a birthday note. Settling down, I reached out involuntarily to re-enact a ritual that I had repeated so often as I have written: press the play button of my music system to start the one cassette that has always accompanied my endeavours.
The tape had run, maybe, a thousand times, and as the first notes filled the bunker, I knew what I would gift even if I had the whole town at my feet. Next morning, handing over the cassette to the patrol, I set it out on its course for the first lap of its long journey to Sonu.
A week after her birthday, I got my chance to go down to the base. Another six hours at the wheels and by the time I was at a telephone booth in the first sleepy town nestled in those hills, it was close to midnight. The telephone rang at the other end.
She must be stretching an arm across the quilt drowsily; dragging the receiver close slowly. And, just then the familiar notes of that same music floated over the line to my ears.
“Thank God! It’s still playing, Sonu!” I whispered.
“It will. Always.” She was smiling.
- SK Chatterji
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