Rishabh looked down at the picture he held in his hand and then at the bustling market in front of him. He was contemplating on who to ask when he spotted an old man in his eighties walking towards him with a bag in his hand. He decided to ask him.
"Janaab, do you know where I could find this woman?" He asked the man.
The old man stopped and looked at the grayscale picture of an ephemeral beauty with an equally handsome man by her side. After studying it for a minute or two, he smiled showing his teeth that were rotten by the habit of chewing paan excessively.
"Of course I know her. Who doesn't know Bibijaan." He said, " But tell me, how did you get your hands on such an old photo of hers?"
Rishabh sighed-' how will he be able to explain it to this man? '
" I found it in the attic of my room. Thirsty for adventure, I decided to look for this woman." He finally said, deciding this will be the lie he would go with.
"And how did you know you will find her here only?" The old man asked, suspicious of the young man that stood in front of him.
"The station's name is painted on the wall behind the couple." Rishabh smilingly pointed out.
The old man checked the photo once again and smiled. " Apologies Sahab, this old age makes me suspicious of everybody. The woman you are looking for lives in the house set on that hill."
Rishabh stared at the house the old man pointed at. It was quite far so he couldn't make out its design or its color. Its silhouette just showed it as a house. He sighed. 'It was going to be a long walk.'
"Thank you", he said.
" You should be careful though", the old man warned," She is kind of crazy."
"Crazy?" Rishabh asked, his interest piqued.
" Yes, Crazy." The old man replied, relishing the interest the young man was giving him. He carefully looked around for potential eavesdroppers and then lowered his voice to a conspirational whisper, " People say she was a victim of an epic but tragic tale of love, a love story, unlike Laila-Majnu. Since then, she calls herself a widow although she has never married."
The old man then moved closer and said, "They say she even wears SINDOOR! Anyway, what am I to do with her woe. Better get going. Salaam."
As the old man walked away, Rishabh once again looked up at the house and smiled. At last, he would get the truth he traveled so far for.
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The kettle gave a whistle as Meera walked into the kitchen. She switched off the stove and wrapping a towel on the bare steel handle, lifted the kettle and poured the tea in a cup.
Slowly, she made her way to the rocking chair near the window and sat on it. She sipped her tea and lovingly looked at the two birds chirping on a branch of her Camrakh tree that stood tall in her backyard.
When she finished her tea, she slowly made her way to the kitchen sink and started washing the kettle and the cup.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. It startled her. 'Who could it be?' The doorbell rang again.
"Coming!" She said loudly as wiped her hands.' Who could it be?' She was still wondering when she opened the door a chink so as to view the guest without him looking into the house.
"Ji? " She asked the young man who stood in front of her door, her eyes going wide as she stared at the painstakingly familiar face.
"Hi!" The man said." I am Rishabh. You may not know me but I know you. Your name is Meera, right? Meera Bhandarkar?"
Meera was still wondering-' Did she know him? No, she definitely did not. How could she when she hasn't stepped outside her house in ages? But then, how does he know her name? He must have googled her! But how will Google have anything about her? The only new technologies in her house were a TV set and a telephone! Internet? She barely knew anything about it!'
"I don't know you. Please be on your way."
As she was about to close the door, Rishabh leaped and held it in his hand, while also jamming it with his foot.
"Please hear me out. I do know you. Look at this picture and tell me if it isn't you and I will be on my way."
"Slide it under the door when I close it." She grunted, trying to outstrength the man and close the door." If it would be me I will open the door else slide it back to you!"
Rishabh let go of the door and as it closed, he bent down and slid the snapshot through the bottom of the door.
Meera leaned against the door and breathed heavily. Suddenly a picture slid through the door and got stuck in one of her slippers. She knelt down and picked it up.
Rishabh stood outside waiting for the door to open, waiting for the woman to recognize herself. After a minute or two, the picture slid out through the door. He was surprised! ' It wasn't her?! But isn't she Meera Bhandarkar!'
Dejected, as Rishabh turned around to leave, the door kicked opened.
The old woman came outside, her eyes moistened with tears. " It is me!" She said. " I am Meera Bhandarkar. Do come in."
Rishabh turned back to look at the woman who stood there with gleaming eyes full of tears that proudly flowed down her face. A smile slowly touched his lips as he stared at her.
Meera swallowed the pain that the stranger's picture had unearthed from deep within her heart and said," Do come in. I apologize for my earlier behavior."
As he followed behind her, Meera's mind screamed not to let the man inside for he may break her, the way his lookalike had done, ages ago. As he sat on the coriaceous sofa that adorned her living room, all the while beaming with a strange joy that emanated from his face, her heart reassured her that she was right to let him come inside for this strange visit from this mysterious stranger will help her find closure and close the chapter that was still open, wounding her heart every day.
"Chai or Coffee?" Meera asked, putting aside her thoughts and being a good host. 'Atithi Devo Bhava', a principle her father had taught her that she still believed in.
"Just water, thank you." He replied courteously.
Meera went into the kitchen to get him a glass of water while Rishabh looked around and noted his surroundings.
It was one of those old homes with a fireplace that the English had left behind on the Indian soil. The only things that could be called of the modern era was a telephone and television.
While he was looking at the grand vermilion curtain that hung near the window, Meera came in and placed a glass of water on the table while sitting on the single sofa beside him.
" How did you get this photo?" Without any causeries, Meera came straight to the point.
" I found it in the attic of my newly bought house. Something about it irked me, made me want to learn more about it. It gave me and my mind an excuse to take a break from the mundane life and set on a journey to find the story behind it," Rishabh answered after sipping some water.
Nursing the rim of the glass, he took a sharp breath and decided to ask the question that was gnawing his insides, "When I was looking for you, an old man told me that you haven't married and still call yourself a widow. Can you tell me why is it so ?"
"You must be talking to Ramesh. He is a flibbertigibbet who gabbles a lot." Meera said with a huff. " The story behind it marked an epoch in my life. It's personal, but since you brought me the picture that brings back those forgotten memories, I think I owe you that story for your troubles. The story that I so badly want to forget. The 1960 London Love of my life."
Rishabh sat with bated breath as the woman in front of him started her anecdote, a tale which he was warned had no eucatastrophe.
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