The gust of wind tugged at her hair and while she pushed away the strands whipping against her eyes, the sheaf of paper loosened from her grasp and fell to the ground. She picked them up one by one and handed them to the little kids. The children loved their "didimoni". They clamoured around her vying for her attention. Amidst the din she heard me calling out her name. She looked up startled. Her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise and then her eyes lit up with unconcealed happiness as she finally recognised me. " Akash ", she screamed and with quick steps bounded up the rickety stairs to where I stood. She just stopped short of flinging her arms around me and gave me the cursory peck as she usually did. The way she used to do it in collage making me the butt of wisecracks. But I never cared and nor did she.
She was Anuradha Banerjee, we called her Annie. She was my senior at
IRMA. Men, boys, fell for her warmth, her captivating smile, and her daredevilry. She rode her yamaha to collage and often wore backless blouses with gypsy skirts. She smoked "bidis". And hung with the guys. She was every boy’s dream date, sexy, with no hang-ups. Bindas, the low maintenance sorts. She was as comfortable in a roadside "dabha", as in a five star hotel.
Annie and I became friends and soon we graduated from being " just friends" to being more than just friends. Collage days were an endless chain of presentations, seminars, exams, debates, lectures, and workshops. Still we found time to argue, to fight, to make love, to smoke pot, to get drunk, to get stoned and to cram up a day before the exams were due. These were the best days of our lives; we knew we were the chosen few who would land with the best paying jobs in the corporate sector. "The world is ours to rule preppies", Annie would sagely say amidst rings of smoke in the hashish laden room resonating with the music of the Dylan and Baez (her favourites) and we all would agree. Oh! The joys of being young, free and rich. Of not having to bother where the next meal would come from. Who cared what happened in the backyard and the North East in particular, which was as distant as Mars. Who cared when by the end of the term we would have fat paychecks in our pockets.
By the time the session was over offers were pouring in, Annie got the best offers but she refused each and every one of them. There had been a change in Annie ever since she returned from her last trip to Darjeeling. She started reading extensively about the North East and had become distant and aloof; something seemed to be nagging her. Soon the dam broke. A day prior to our graduating, she informed me that she was leaving for some godforsaken corner in the North East - Kalimgpong. She was needed there and she intended to take up teaching assignment there. Knowing Annie I kept my cool. She was not going to change her decisions. However, I thought she would change, once the charm of social work wore off. The social butterfly that she was, she couldn’t manage without the privatations for long. She would come back. But here I was wrong. Annie never came back.
So here I was in the god-forsaken corner of Kalimgpong. A year had passed since we graduated from IRMA. Annie has changed a lot. She looked a lot younger since we met last, albeit a little worn out. Her eyes however retained the steely resolve of the IRMA days. And it sparkled behind those huge grandma glasses. I regretted, the fact that she seemed at home amongst the kids in tattered clothes, runny noses and with lice in their head . Her attire has changed; gone were the itsy bitsy boho stuff; she now wore a saree. A cheap cotton faded saree. Her hair is in an untidy bun. I smiled when I saw that she was still obsessed with the danglers. It was a standing joke in collage that Annie could blow up her entire paycheck on danglers; she never seemed to get enough of them.
I have in my pocket an appointment letter from O & A. But I knew that she wouldn’t accept the offer now, so it stayed in my pocket. She told me about her work, the difficulties she faced. The BODO movement was at its peak. I didn’t like the idea of her staying there for long. She was an alien face, her Bengali features easily noticeable in the crowd. I told her so. She laughed the dismissive laugh of hers when she wanted to prove her point. " Akash", I am teaching their children to grow up to be collectors, so why would they harm me anyway". It was pointless arguing with her, so I didn’t pursue matters further." Take care Annie, and if ever you feel the need to come back, let me know. I will have the best offers lined for you once again." That was all that I could manage to say.
"I will, and thanks for turning up", her voice was calm and yet somehow sad. She looked at me one long moment as if somehow memorizing my face and keeping a picture of it somewhere in the deepest recess of her memory. I felt an urge to return back to the safe confines of my hotel in Darjeeling. It was getting dark, transport would be a problem and above all I didn’t belong here.
I bid her farewell; she never looked back, though I hoped she would. A least one last time. She just faded into the dusk, a slight figure surrounded by her children all talking non-stop. She was happy. And that was the last time I would see her. I went back to my work in Delhi, found a wife finally. Shuttling between cities, nations, and continents and involved as I was in the humdrum of everyday life, I soon forgot about Annie. Then one day I came across an obituary. Written in the smallest font, it was a two-row obituary reserved for someone not in the least important in the back pages of the newspaper. Anuradha Banerjee an IRMA gold medallist killed in crossfire. She took bullets while shielding a child.
So I came back to Kalimpong, the second time. There were no appointment letters in my pocket, but I had carnations, Annie;s favourite flowers. I placed it on the dewy green grass near the market- side There is a hustle bustle as children, the cute little hill kids with runny noses and pink frosted cheeks play a "ringa -ringa" while their mothers engage in their never ending haggling with the greengrocers. Cycle, cabs all ply about all around making a cacophony. But it must have lonely and quiet when Annie died...