The last rites
The people, those sneering “bhadraloks” watched and concluded that they shouldn’t meddle in a brawl between “two groups of anti-socials”.
The plane was full of tourists flying from Delhi to Jaipur, a popular vacation spot in India.
My eyes were riveted on one passenger in particular: demure smile, twinkling eyes, auburn hair, bright blue scarf. When the plane landed, she walked from one end of the tiny airport to the other, as if searching for someone.
As she passed me, I noticed her anxious look and asked, “Is anything wrong?”
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A car was supposed to pick her up, she said, but it wasn’t there, and she couldn’t remember the name of her hotel. She was clearly disconcerted. I told her she could come to my hotel and make some calls: there were only three main hotels in town.
It turned out we were staying in the same one, and we had dinner that night. I found out she was from Germany and would return there after her vacation.
Eight months later I was in Frankfurt for a conference and had a free evening, so I called her. She picked me up from my hotel, and we had dinner at her place. I ended up staying the night.
After I returned home to India, we phoned and wrote each other often. Her photograph had the pride of place on my desk: the smile, the auburn hair, the scarf.
But over time the distance and demands of work took their toll, and the relationship languished.
Five years later I missed a connection at a London airport and ordered an espresso while I waited. I looked up from the first sip to see a pair of twinkling eyes and auburn hair. It was her.
We hugged, and she told me she worked in England now. I abandoned my flight and took her to my favorite Westminster restaurant.
Over dessert, I asked, “Do you ever wear scarves anymore?” She searched in her bag, found a scarf, and placed it around her neck. The same bright blue scarf.
I could have wept.
The writer is a Washington-based international development advisor and had worked with the World Bank. He can be reached at mnandy@gmail.com
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