In Blossom Today...

Rohit glanced at his watch hands glowing in the dim light of the platform and clutched his bag nervously. Even at one in the morning the sound of the approaching train miraculously transformed the station from its soporific state to a bee-hive of activity. Porters yelled, lights came on, makeshift food stalls cranked up their ovens and carts and trolleys full of luggage were wheeled past at breakneck speed. Rohit was glad to see the train approach for ever since his father’s untimely death a few days back he yearned to go back to the anonymity and solitude of hostel life; the incessant phone calls and visits from relatives, the endless rituals and the disingenuous words of sympathy from distant relatives were getting all too much for him. The train was his passport to freedom.

Once Rohit had clambered aboard and found his berth he quickly dozed off lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the train and the exhaustion of the past few days. Only when a American accented female voice whispered into his ear, “Sorry I need to sit. Can you move your leg a bit?” did Rohit awaken with a start. Irritably rubbing his eyes he stared at the culprit in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the window. Her salwar-kammez contrasted oddly with her fair skin; blonde hair loosely tied in a bun, slightly loose black rimmed spectacles which she kept pushing up to keep in place. To Rohit she seemed incongruously out of place--A lone foreign woman in a train wearing a salwar-kammez--certainly not the usual stereotype of a western backpacker out on a discovery of exotic India Rohit thought, his interest kindled.

“Hi, I’m Cathy, and I’m really sorry for waking you up but I really needed to sit down since I had the upper berth”, she said flashing a smile. Rohit introduced himself wondering where he had seen the smile before. It was a reassuring, calming smile of a person at ease with herself; a smile that belied her age and made her appear older that she actually was. Rohit was instantly smitten. Before long they started chatting and Cathy told her that she was just of college from New York, working with a volunteer organization involved in setting up literacy programs across villages India. She was just returning to Delhi from a field trip to the south of India before heading off to the villages of north India again. Rohit found himself enjoying her company after the stifling atmosphere at home the past few days. Cathy expressed her condolences on hearing about his loss but thankfully left it at that. They talked about shared interests, movies, books and of course about her experiences in India. Rohit’s question about what made her leave a comfortable life in the States to serving the poorest of the poor in a third world country was met with an enigmatic smile that only made him more curious. At the morning stretched on his emotional catharsis continued and Rohit felt strangely drawn to her; a kindred spirit whom he could bare his soul to. On hearing that Rohit loved to read she brought out a hardcover book from her bag, scribbled something on the flyleaf and gifted it to him. It was a book from her favorite author she said--‘The Grapes of Wrath’ by John Steinbeck. Her ready ‘Do-as-I-say’ smile deterred Rohit from protesting and he found himself dutifully tucking the book into his bag.

By early afternoon as the train slowed down as it neared the outskirts of Delhi, they exchanged email addresses promising to keep in touch. Rohit helped Cathy get her luggage down at Delhi railway station and before he could realize it, she had said her goodbye, that self-assured smile never for once leaving her face. Rohit longed to follow her but she had melted away in the crowd as quickly as she had appeared and Rohit was left gripping his bag wondering what might have been.

Rohit all but forgot about Cathy once he was back to the daily grind of hostel life. A few weeks later when clearing his bag he came across the book that Cathy had gifted him and so reminded of her decided to send her an email. After he had finished typing and hit the ‘Send’ button a news headline caught his eye and he clicked on the link and started reading:

American national killed in communal flare-up

Lucknow, Oct 10 (PTI): Reports are coming in that an American national, Cathy Martin working with a volunteer non-profit organization has been killed in a communal flare-up in the village of Naushahar about 70 kilometers from here. Eye-witness accounts mention that the attack took place around 11 in the night yesterday when the hut she was sleeping in was burnt down by a mob. Communal tensions have been on the rise in the village over a disputed property and prima facie evidence suggests this might be a case of mistaken identity. A police team has reached the spot and a team of officials from the American Embassy in Delhi are en route to the spot as well…

Rohit stopped reading, ran to his bed where he had kept the book and opened it. Inside scrawled in curly feminine handwriting were the words:

 

In blossom today, then scattered;

Life is so like a delicate flower.

How can one expect the fragrance to last forever?

Take Care,

Cathy Martin.