The summers I spent in Delhi, while growing up, bring back a lot of childhood memories. The long, hot days of summer meant that there was an endless supply of popsicles and ice-cream. Summer vacations in school meant that the mothers would have a hard time stopping their brats from going out to play in the burning-hot sun. The kids that we were, my brother and I mostly succeeded in sneaking out of the house when our mother was out of sight. Once out of the house, the afternoon would be spent cycling in the by lanes of Vasant Vihar. We would often call our neighborhood friends to join us for cycling or for a game of lagori or stop-and-party. As drenched in sweat and dirt as we could be, once home, the warning of facing our father’s ire was enough to scare us into discipline, while having to give a promise of staying indoors during the afternoon.
Growing up, Verma uncle, who was my father’s close friend, and his wife, Geet ma, came home very frequently. Geet ma was a favourite with all the kids who knew her. The kids fondly referred to her as Geet ma because she doted on every child like her own. Every time she would come home, she would heap me and my brother with the best kinds of chocolates. She regularly had NRI guests, at her place, who would gift her an assortment of international chocolates. My mother would often express her disappointment to her when she would spoil us with goodies. And the sweetheart that Geet ma was, she would tell my mother that kids were meant to be pampered. I often thought about what it would be like to have her as my mother. Although Verma uncle and Geet ma had a son, they had a special liking for daughters. Geet ma would often tell my mother, “The day Roshan gets married, I shall celebrate the homecoming of a daughter I never had.” Roshan was Geet ma’s son, who was one year older than me. Roshan and I went to the same school, but we never interacted much with each other back then. Roshan was a very shy kid, who preferred to stay in the company of his books. My family and I often visited the Verma household, which was just a stone’s throw away from our house, and every time I went there, Roshan used to be sitting in one corner of the drawing room and observing the ongoings, quietly. Verma uncle would often tease Roshan for being a pussy cat. “How will you woo a girl if you don't speak?” he would say, while asking him to be more social and outgoing. And I, like a curious onlooker, thoroughly enjoyed watching the father-son histrionics.
The onset of monsoons marked the beginning of a new academic year. Like most children, I would always get jitters thinking about who my teachers and classmates would be. Buying a new bag, school uniform, and textbooks, along with having to go through the rigmarole of waking up at 6:00 a.m. would rightly set the tone for the rest of the year. And like every year, the potholes never stopped reminding us of their presence. I laugh, to this day, when I think about how I used to wake up each morning praying to be told that the schools were closed due to heavy rains in the city. Geet ma always made it a point to invite us to her place for chai and pakoda during the rains. She would often send her driver with hot pakodas for me and Roshan during break time in school. Those were some rare times that Roshan and I interacted. He would come running to my class and ask my friends to tell me to come near the library. My friends would come up to me and tell “Your birdie, or should we say your lover, has asked you to meet him near the library. He says he wants to meet you right away.” I would get annoyed when my friends said this and chide them for linking us up. “His family and my family are friends. And that’s the only way I know him. You girls should stop thinking too much,” I would say in a fit of rage.
Daily, after coming back from school, I would go to my balcony and sip on a hot cup of coffee. I had always enjoyed the view of the city from my balcony. The cool, evening breeze combined with the refreshing smell of coffee was an instant energy booster. At times, my mother insisted on helping her out with the household chores. In Punjabi households, nothing can take the place of food. And if one dares to diet, then he/she becomes a social outcast. As a little child, if I made a fuss about eating, I would be told that animals loved eating the bones of skinny people, and if one did not look healthy, then there were chances that he/she would be eaten up by the animals. By the age of fourteen, I was able to cook quite a few things. I could also make Hyderabadi biryani with some help from my mother. I would, later, pack some of it and take it to school the next morning.
It was a Wednesday, and all the students were waiting for the history class to get over before the school break began. I was carrying Hyderabadi biryani in my tiffin, which I had prepared the previous night. I was getting all fidgety with my belongings during the lecture. Roshan and I had become good friends over the previous few months, and we had begun meeting quite regularly during the school break. Although my friends continued teasing me with him, I had maintained that there was nothing other than friendship between us. We had also decided to go home together since we lived very close by. As soon as the bell went, I took out my tiffin box and went to his classroom. Although it was usually me who spoke most of the times, he did speak once in a while.
“I don’t know why I’m like this. A lot of people think I’m happy being this way, but the truth is that I just cannot get myself to express my feelings. I think ten times before I say something,” Roshan suddenly exclaimed, while we were walking back home. I was stunned for a moment, wondering if I had said something inappropriate to evoke such a reaction. “Don’t worry, you haven't said anything wrong. It’s just that I’m fed up of myself for being so timid and introverted, and this is the way I end up venting out my frustration. There have been times when my friends have taken advantage by putting the blame for their wrong-doings on me,” he continued. It was the first time I saw Roshan baring his heart to me. I could see anger in his eyes. I felt a strong urge to extend emotional support to him and tell him that I found him to be perfect the way he was, but I held myself back thinking that it was too early for me to say something like that.
The monsoons in Delhi continued to cast their spell. I disliked stepping out of my house during the rains apart from the time that I went to school. Walking on muddy streets, which had puddles in every corner, never failed to shock me. My evenings would be spent reading books when I could not go out to cycle. It had been a few days since I last met Roshan. He had not been attending school for more than ten days. I tried asking my mother if she had spoken to Geet ma or knew of Roshan’s whereabouts, but to no avail. Once in a while, I met my neighbourhood friends in the evenings, and we would end up talking about our respective lives and activities, but, every now and then, I kept getting distracted thinking about where Roshan was. One evening I just decided that I would to go to his class during the school break and ask his friends where Roshan was.
The next day I woke up feeling a twitch in my eyes. My hands were numb and my heart was thumping. The light peeking into my room through every corner of the window that was uncovered. As much as I wanted to pull the blanket over my head and close my eyes till the specks of light made way for darkness, I could no longer keep myself in the dark about Roshan's whereabouts.
The city was dry as ever without rains. I reached my school trying to catch my breath. It was half past seven and I was already late for the school prayer. On my way to my class, I saw two of Roshan's classmates rush towards their class. My eyes keep stretching far to hoping to see Roshan standing outside his class flashing his trademark grin, but that remained a mere hope. I decided I would go to his class during the break hour.
The first half went by in a blur. I was barely able to get my thoughts to focus on what was going on in class. "Just one more class to go," I uttered with a sigh of relief, at the end of our English class. It was the sixth time I had glanced at my watch in a span of thirty minutes. I just wanted the next thirty minutes to somehow pass, before I could make my way to Roshan's class. Parina, who had been my best friend in school since we Class 1, didn't look very pleased. "What is really up with you? You have been distracted all this while. Are you in a hurry," she asked frantically. I gave a slight nod signifying I was just fine, before looking away to greet Mr Rao, our Social Science instructor. In our eight years of friendship, this was the quietest Parina and I had ever been with each other. Before the class ended, it was announced that everyone had to submit their completed Physics journal by the end of the last lecture in the lab. Everyone in my class went in a state of panic, and there were hushed whispers about how the school could give such a short deadline. Many decided to finish writing their journals as quickly as possible, during the break. I was left with two topics, but I couldn't care about it until I knew where Roshan was.
I soon rushed towards Roshan’s class. My heart started fluttering every time I thought through the possible reasons why he had been absent. I saw some of Roshan’s friends sitting in the class. I walked up to Krish, one of his close friends, and asked him about Roshan. One of boys sitting with his friend looked a little upset when he heard my question. Before I could make any inferences with his expression, Krish said that Roshan’s mother had met with a fatal accident a few days ago, in which she lost her life. Roshan, who was with his mother when they were walking down a street, saw his mother being hit by a car in full force. For a moment, I could not grasp what had been said by his friend. “Huh! This cannot be true. What are you even saying? I just met his mother the other day when she invited me to her house for chai and pakoda. You must have mistaken her for someone else. I’m talking about Roshan, the tall and fair boy who sits on the second bench,” I said in a state of despair. “Yes, even I’m talking about Roshan. It seems that watching the accident take place in front of his eyes left a deep impact on his mind. He is totally shocked and shattered. He and his father also tried to flow in some doctors from London but, by then, aunty had lost all chances of surviving,” his friend stated. I froze in my position. I kept staring at him, while telling myself “How I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop.” All I could feel within me, at that time, was guilt and remorse. I felt bad and sorry for not having mustered up the courage to tell Roshan that I found him perfect, and that I loved him the way he was. I felt the need to tell him all the possible things I had felt for him over the past few weeks. I wanted him to know that it was me who faced the inability to express my feelings ,for I didn't make my love known to him. I wish I had told everyone in my class that he was not just someone I knew because of our families. I just wanted him to know that I was there for him. Despite the raging and emotions I could experience, there was little I could do at the time. My hands were numb and, without giving any more reactioins, I took a step back and turned around, before Krish asked me, “But how do you know Roshan?” This time, as I surrendered to the bleak possibility of our happy future together, I, once again, replied, “We know each through our families.”
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