As It Were

 

As It Were

She was once my student. Once upon a time, I was her tutor. Since those days of youth, I hadn’t seen her—nor had I thought of her, not even once.

Then, after many a year, she appeared online. On WhatsApp. The name stopped me. For a moment, I couldn’t place her. When I did, I was surprised—and delighted.

We exchanged messages, relived the past. Sometimes day after day. Sometimes once or twice a week. She was now married, with a grown-up daughter. From the snapshots she sent, I recognized her. Her face bore the marks of age, but the same innocent curiosity and bubbliness remained.

Eventually, she revealed that she had had a crush on me in those days—and that she was crushed when I vanished from my hometown one fine day. She had tried to trace my whereabouts, but to no avail.

It was by a pleasant accident, she said, that she spotted me online. When I responded, she felt happy.

Charmed by her candour and barely disguised coquettishness, I began to feel intimate. Past middle age, yet fond of women’s company, I started to flirt. A word or two slipped in between conversations. Harmless, I told myself.

She was sportive enough to indulge me. I sent small gifts—not costly, but suggestive. She accepted them, though with reluctance.

Then she started sending me songs sung by her. Old movie songs of which I was always fond. Her tremulous voice — half-natural and half-trained — captivated me. As I listened to them, I felt myself living in the world of my youth.

That was when I resolved to meet her. In person. Though she had warned me not to visit her at any time. But I couldn’t help myself.

With GPS for my aid, I located her house.
It was deserted. The garden was choked with weeds. A creeper of jasmine had sealed the front door.

A passer-by—perhaps a neighbour—paused and said, “No one lives here anymore. It’s been abandoned for long.”

Crestfallen, I walked down the road toward the taxi stand.

A couple passed me, sharing an unfurled umbrella. The woman laughed suddenly—a sound like crystal shattering on stone—and turned her face toward me.

It was she.

Then the man beside her looked at me.

And it was I.

I stood rooted to the spot, oblivious to the traffic rushing past.