Farah

I entered Lucknow’s Royal Cafe after a lapse of twenty five years, and I headed straight, almost instinctively, to what had once been my favorite table near the bay window. It was occupied by a single person, a woman, who wasn't part of the crowd and chatter of the place, and was looking out of the window vaguely into the outer space. The restaurant appeared to be full to the brim, and I asked her if I could take the chair opposite her.

"Well, yes...... certainly," she said, with the first two words somewhat loud and reflexive, and the third, after a pause, soft and organized, as if I had startled her initially. She added with a smile, "But you look familiar!"

"So do you," I replied.

"You are, er .." she exclaimed.

"Yes. And you are Farah," I said.

She lit up as if a little spark in her was blown alive by a gust of wind, and said, "Let's celebrate this meeting with your favorite - coffee ice-cream and soda."

"You still remember my favorite things?" I asked her with some amazement.

"Yes. And also that I wasn't one of them."

"Well, Farah," I said somewhat defensively, "you are talking about a time in my life when I was distracted with concerns which were not redemptive, but their poetic logic was overwhelming. Anyway, it's been a long time, and you don't look quite the same. At least not your old breezy self."

"I do keep hearing about you. Doing some trouble shooting in the north-east, aren't you?"

"Going over my achievements gives me a sense of indulgent self-archaeology," I quipped.

"Your conceit has grown with years!" She laughed.

I loved her laughter. But this wasn't the laughter of olden days. I was quite taken up by the change in her personality and the poignancy of her eyes, something elemental like the darkening seas.

"If you had any blemishes, I don't remember them. If you wore a different color of sari everyday, I don't remember them. But I knew that you were not a type who would get married easily, dress up and sparkle for a man every evening to assure him that the romance of life hadn’t gone. Now I see a mixture of faith, endurance and sadness in your eyes so powerful that I must know the reason how and why it is so," I said with a measure of authority that she seemed to like.

"I carry both my happiness and grief like an incurable affliction," she said. Then she thought for a moment and continued, "I've spent the past twenty years in Kalimpong, managing a school, which I own through a strange quirk of destiny. My brother hasn't been well for some time, and that's why I'm here. I am feeling a bit lonesome and might tell you a little more about myself if you have the time for a walk along the Mall, to live once more the mellowness of an Awadh evening."

I did, and this is what she told me.

I arrived in Kalimpong after sunset, to the welcome of huge indistinct mountains against the last gray of the twilight and articulate breeze blowing through the pines. When I woke up in the morning, the autumn sunshine gave the Himalayas an unrecognizable look of splendor. The transformation from the evening before was like the hazy scene resolving itself into a crystal-clear image, defined in each detail, similar to what happens in the parallax focussing of a reflex camera.

I remembered the breakfast appointment with the Principal, dressed up hurriedly, and sent in a clipping of the advertisement in The Statesman stuck to an yellow rose with the girl who answered the door bell. It read: Gentleman in seventies unable to look after his own school desires correspondence with an educated, cultured, sensitive, and idealistic young lady, fond of children and teaching, who may ultimately take over the school if found suitable.A genial and distinguished looking old man emerged from the house on his crutches. He was well dressed in a navy blue blazer, gray trousers, maroon school tie, and dark brown Oxford shoes.