A traveller's diary : The Himalayas & Tungnath

A trek to Tungnath, the world's loftiest sanctuary at 4,000 meters dedicated to god Shiva, had been a decade-long echo in my heart, a silent promise finally finding its resonance. It was a whisper from the glacial source of the Ganges, a beckoning from the stoic embrace of the Himalayas, a vibration from the ancient hum of the Adi Yogi himself. Seven of my colleagues, fellow dreamers who dared to weave possibilities even amidst the financial yearend's workload, joined this unfolding reality. Life, I've come to understand, is akin to a river, its currents shifting between serene stretches and turbulent rapids. We navigate not through frantic paddling against the flow, but through the contemplative act of choosing our quiet eddies.

Beneath a Bangalore sun that felt like a benediction, my departure began. First destination is New Delhi. A subtle current of grace seemed to guide my steps. A kind Uber driver, an unexpected bloom in the city's concrete expanse, smoothed the initial moments. At the airport, the simple comfort of khichdi and the cool solace of buttermilk felt like the rediscovery of a cherished childhood trinket. Then, a flight upgrade, a gentle nudge from the cosmos, as if the very stars were aligning for this inner journey.

Rishikesh, a place that holds me with the familiarity of an old melody, always calls me back. Twenty years of returning, each visit a new verse in a lengthening poem. Though fresh waves of young adventurers now carve their own narratives in its swirling rapids, the ancient spirit of the place, a steady, grounding drumbeat, endures. The night bus from New Delhi ISBT to Rishikesh was a slow, unfolding dream, followed by the rugged embrace of a 4x4 ascending towards Chopta. Rudraprayag, the confluence where two rivers, like two distinct lives, merge into the singular flow of the Ganges, offered a potent metaphor for unity. Rishikesh, the very gateway to Himalayan silence, cleansed the soul like a plunge into a frigid mountain stream. The air, thick with a palpable holiness, the river's ceaseless whisper, the mountains' silent, watchful gaze – all spoke of a deeper, more profound truth.

The landscape began its slow transformation, verdant hills gradually giving way to the majestic, snow-crowned peaks. "Might be," someone mused, regarding the ascent to the highest temple. But after such a journey inward, I craved certainty. And yes, Tungnath was our destination. Along the winding path, we paused at Omkareshwar, the winter abode of the deities, a gentle reminder that even the divine bows to the rhythm of the seasons. To fall in love is an essential human experience, and its object matters little – be it towering mountains, the boundless ocean, the hushed wisdom of a forest, the silent purity of snow, or the intricate tapestry of nature itself. The weather, a master storyteller, narrated tales in the language of chill, deepening cold, and an intense, biting frost. The mountain people, their lives etched with the indelible lines of hardship, yet their smiles bloomed as brightly as the tenacious mountain wildflowers, a testament to an indomitable resilience. Life, I mused, is a mountain path, often steep and winding, but punctuated by moments of breathtaking, soul-stirring beauty.

The climb to Tungnath proved a more arduous undertaking than imagined. Seven kilometers, a seemingly modest distance, but the thin, high-altitude air lay upon us like a heavy, invisible cloak, making each step a conscious effort. Then, the silent revelation of snow, an endless white expanse, followed by the distant glint of the temple roof, a beacon in the vastness. Physical discomfort receded, eclipsed by a yearning as ancient as the mountains themselves. The temple, though its doors were closed for the season, pulsed with an undeniable spiritual magnetism. Finding a quiet corner, embraced by the boundless blue of the sky, the silent sentinels of snow-draped mountains, and the weathered wisdom of ancient stones, two hours dissolved like the morning mist. The descent to Chopta was a gradual return to the world below. Trekking, in its essence, is a communion with solitude, yet the boisterous crowds encountered on the path to Tungnath had, for a time, diminished its quiet charm. Disappointment flickered briefly, but the return journey, painted with the hues of a mesmerizing sunset, gifted me the solitude I had sought.

The following day, our path led us to Deoria Tal, a pristine lake mirroring ancient narratives whispered from the Mahabharata, a tranquil interlude. We bypassed the energetic rapids of Rishikesh, choosing Deoria Tal, a soothing balm for a travel-weary heart. Trekking, I realized, is a form of moving meditation, a rejuvenating therapy for the soul. If possible, I silently urged, let the digital clamor of phones recede into silence. Solitude and loneliness, I pondered, are distinct states, one a fertile ground for introspection, the other a barren landscape of disconnection. Fortune smiled upon us; the heavens were a flawless canvas of blue. The lake, a flawless mirror, reflected not just the sky, but a breathtaking 300° panorama of giants. Chaukhamba, Nilkantha, Bandarpunch, the Kedar Range, and Kalanag stood sentinel, their snow-dusted peaks piercing the horizon. I found a spot on the shore, the silence broken only by the gentle lapping of water, and surrendered to the vista. For nearly an hour, my gaze remained tethered to the Kedar Range. So tangible in the crisp air, yet separated by a mere twenty miles – a poignant reminder of life's inherent nearness and farness, the dreams that shimmer just beyond our grasp. A silent promise bloomed within me: I will return. Soon.

The air itself felt different here, a pure elixir that seeped into weary lungs, invigorating not just the body, but the very essence of being. Surrounded by such serene grandeur, a quiet alchemy occurred, a subtle recalibration of the spirit. It was a reminder that sometimes, the most profound journeys are not about conquering distances, but about finding those pockets of stillness where the soul can breathe and remember its own vastness. There is a bittersweet truth about moments of profound joy – their ephemeral nature. And so, the mountains receded, and the concrete jungle reasserted its presence, the relentless rhythm of people, clients, business, and the imperative of numbers. This, too, is an inseparable thread in the tapestry of life. 

I've heard the yearning for perpetual escape into nature, but perhaps the true wisdom lies in finding a delicate balance between the two. The journey concluded, a brief chapter etched with the indelible ink of memory, scented with the crisp fragrance of the high mountains, and resonating with the quiet echo of the divine. It was, ultimately, a return to the self, a silent dialogue with the soul, leaving behind a profound sense of peace, of belonging to something larger, of a quiet, unshakable joy. And lingering still is a sense of wonder, a deep, abiding awe, and a gentle, lasting touch of the sacred, a whisper of something more, something beyond the reach of words, something that resonated deep within – a quiet, profound knowing.

The weight of days, a suffocating blanket of obligations and the gnawing fear of missing out, often casts life into a stagnant stillness. In those moments, the soul whispers for respite, a quiet peeling away from the clamor. The answer, I've come to believe, doesn't lie in frantic outward searching, but in the gentle art of pausing, a retreat that reconnects us to the quiet wisdom within. And what a profound paradox it is that the deliberate slowing of a trek, the measured rhythm of footfall on earth, stills not just the body but the very torrent of the mind. Where then are the rapid-fire calculations, the urgent strategic pronouncements of the everyday? Lost in the hushed reverence of no signal, no electricity, only the expansive embrace of peace. Trekking, in its unhurried grace, becomes a tender reintroduction to the self.

NMMT AC-123

The sweltering Mumbai heat hung heavy in the air at the Powai bus stop, a tangible reminder of the city’s relentless pace and the daily grind it demanded of its inhabitants. Life in Mumbai was a constant hustle, a relentless race against time and resources, where every rupee counted and every moment was precious. Rajan, waiting for his usual 123 (Tata hospital to Borivali) NMMT AC bus, found his attention drawn to a family nearby. A man and woman, both seemingly in their mid thirties, stood with two children – a girl around twelve and a boisterous boy of eight or nine. Their simple clothes and weary expressions spoke of a life of hard work and limited means. The lines etched on the father’s face spoke of countless nights spent worrying about providing for his family, of the silent battles fought against rising prices and shrinking opportunities.

The little boy, perched on his father’s lap, was fixated on the gleaming AC buses that pulled up. 

“Baba, AC bus! AC bus!” he’d chant, his eyes wide with wonder. 

The father, his face etched with a mixture of love and helplessness, would gently try to distract him. “Beta, these buses are for office babus,” he’d say, or “Look, there’s a red bus! Let’s go on that one!” But the boy was insistent, his small voice echoing in the humid air. The father’s love for his children wasn’t expressed in grand gestures or flowery words; it was woven into the fabric of his everyday actions – the way he held his son close, the gentle touch of his hand on his daughter’s hair, the quiet determination in his eyes to provide for them, no matter the cost.

Rajan, usually oblivious to his surroundings during his commute, found himself captivated by this quiet drama unfolding before him. He even missed his own bus, so engrossed was he. He overheard the father hesitantly ask a fellow passenger about the AC bus fare for a 14-15-km journey. The man’s face fell as he listened to the reply. Probably 3x a normal bus. He pulled out a handful of crumpled notes and counted them, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. He turned to his wife and quietly explained that they couldn’t all afford the AC bus. He suggested she take the next one with their son, while he and their daughter would take a regular bus.

The boy, sensing a change in plans, began to wail. “No! I want to go with Baba!” 

The father knelt down, his eyes brimming with affection. “Beta,” he said softly, his voice laced with a gentle lie, “Baba has an allergy to AC. It makes me sneeze a lot. I’ll be much better in the normal bus. We’ll meet you there, okay?” 

The boy, though still a little hesitant, finally nodded, his desire for the cool comfort of the AC outweighing his reluctance to leave his father.

As the next AC bus arrived, the father carefully handed most of his remaining money to his wife, his eyes meeting hers in a silent exchange of love and shared hardship. “See you soon,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. As the mother and son boarded, the father stood on the pavement, waving until the bus pulled away. A single tear escaped his eye, tracing a path down his weathered cheek. He quickly wiped it away, hoping no one had noticed. It was a tear not just of sacrifice, but of the deep, unspoken love a father carries in his heart, a love that often goes unsaid but is always felt.

Rajan, witnessing this poignant scene, felt a lump form in his throat. The raw, selfless love of a father, willing to sacrifice his own comfort and endure the scorching heat for his child’s happiness, was a powerful sight. He murmured to himself, “One truly understands the worth of a father only when one becomes one.”

Years later, Rajan, now a father himself, often recalled that day at the Powai bus stop. He remembered the father’s quiet dignity, his gentle lies, and the single tear that spoke volumes of his love. And he understood, with a depth he hadn’t before, the immeasurable sacrifices a father makes, often unseen and unspoken, for the well-being of his children. He often wondered about that family, hoping that life had been kind to them. He imagined the boy, now a young man, perhaps remembering that day, understanding the depth of his father’s love, and feeling a surge of gratitude. The memory, though tinged with sadness, ultimately brought a warm, nostalgic feeling, a reminder of the enduring power of a father’s love, a love that transcended heat, fares, and even fabricated allergies...

The Traveler, Oasis and the Mirage (Part - III)

The setting sun cast long shadows across the familiar canteen, painting the walls in hues of gold and amber. It was their spot, the one where campus gossip had christened them "the simple couple." Chinmoy leaned against a chipped table, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. 

"Remember this place, Naina? Our place."

Naina’s smile was tinged with nostalgia. "Those days feel like a lifetime ago."

"Speaking of lifetimes," Chinmoy chuckled, "I have to thank you for the countless boxes of sweets and sev. I always knew they were from home, smuggled in through Thebdi and Nitish. Their elaborate cover stories – Nitish claiming orange sweets were a Chennai delicacy, Suruchi insisting her Jodhpur family had a sudden penchant for Nagpur’s Sansarchand Mithaiwale – were hilariously transparent."

Naina laughed, a genuine sound he’d missed. "Impressed by your deduction skills, Mr. Logical Chinu. Though, I must admit, I knew about the reports and slides you made for me these past two years."

Chinmoy feigned shock. "Thebdi’s loose lips strike again! I’ll have her hide."

"Please," Naina rolled her eyes. "I just checked the file properties. ‘Chinu’ as the author, or the auth code pgpm523 – not exactly subtle."

"Smart girl," Chinmoy conceded. "No wonder that MNC hospital snapped you up for their HR department."

"Sarcasm detected," Naina retorted, a playful glint in her eyes.

Just then, Suruchi burst into the canteen, her usual whirlwind of energy. "You two finally talking! Naina, come on! Warden’s clearance, packing, the cab’s almost here!"

The next hour was a blur of hurried goodbyes and frantic luggage loading. The cab driver, impatient and harried, barked about extra charges for the overflowing bags. The sky, mirroring their emotions, was a heavy, bruised grey. As Chinmoy helped load the last suitcase, he felt a strange hollowness settle in his chest.

Suruchi, ever the affectionate one, gave him a warm hug. "Thanks for all the amazing cultural nights, Chinu! I’m going to miss you, dude. All the best!"

"Love you, Di," Chinmoy replied, a genuine warmth spreading through him. "I promise, no more ‘Thebdi’.”

Naina’s goodbye was more restrained. "Thanks, Chinu. Even with the misunderstandings, you were always there."

Chinmoy’s voice was low, sincere. "I’m sorry, Naina. For everything. Especially… that day."

"It’s okay, Chinu,” she said softly. “Bye.”

As the cab pulled away, Chinmoy retreated to a nearby bench, the same one where they’d shared countless conversations, late-night study sessions, and stolen glances. A strange, unfamiliar ache settled in his heart.

Then, the cab stopped just down the road. Naina stepped out. Chinmoy’s heart leaped. He rushed towards her, confusion etched on his face. “What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

Naina’s eyes were searching, earnest. “Chinu, for years, I’ve wanted to ask you… why do you hate me so much?”

Chinmoy’s breath caught. “I… I never hated you.”

“Then what was it?” she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Tell me!”

“Nothing,” he mumbled, unable to articulate the tangled mess of feelings inside him.

“Nothing?” Naina’s voice cracked. “Great. Wonderful.”

“Naina, you have to go,” he urged, his voice tight. “You’ll miss your train.”

“Right,” she whispered. “I have to go...I need to”

She stepped closer, her eyes locking with his. Then, she did something he hadn’t expected. She hugged him, a brief, desperate embrace. “Chinu,” she murmured against his chest, “you never understood me.”

She pulled away, got back into the cab, and it finally drove away, disappearing down the road.

The sun, now sinking below the horizon, painted the campus in soft hues of rose and gold. A cool breeze swept across the grounds. Chinmoy stood there, alone, the echo of Naina’s words ringing in his ears. He looked up at the vast expanse of the sky, as if searching for an answer written among the clouds. A single tear traced a path down his cheek. As the last rays faded, Chinmoy sat down, the warmth of the day still lingering in the air. He closed his eyes, and in the quietude, he could almost hear the echoes of laughter, the rustle of papers, and the soft murmur of their voices, a timeless symphony of their shared past.

He whispered, the words barely audible, carried away by the gentle wind: “I love you, Naina.”

Hazel (Part - II)

The aroma of roasted coffee beans hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort in the now-renovated café. The chipped wooden tables of their youth had been replaced with sleek, modern ones, but the corner booth, their corner, remained. Chinmoy and Sumona, their faces etched with the passage of time, sat facing each other, the years melting away with each shared glance.

Sumona’s laughter, though a little softer, still held the same infectious quality. Chinmoy, a few more lines etched around his eyes, still possessed that quiet intensity that had always drawn her in. The years had sanded down some of the youthful exuberance, replacing it with a quiet understanding, a shared history that needed no words. The silence that followed Chinmoy’s heartfelt words wasn’t awkward, but rather a comfortable pause, a shared understanding that transcended spoken language. Sumona’s eyes, still holding that captivating blend of hazel and green, softened.

"Remember that time we spilled an entire latte on Mr. Majumdar?" Sumona chuckled, the memory bringing a genuine smile to her face. Chinmoy laughed, the sound rusty at first, then blossoming into a warm rumble. "And he blamed it on the ghost of the old owner! We were terrible."

"You always did have a way with words, Chins," she said, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "Even now, you manage to make a simple pair of eyes sound like a grand adventure."

Chinmoy chuckled, a self-deprecating shake of his head. "Just trying to live up to the writer title, Summs. Though, I suppose, some things never change."

A comfortable silence fell between them again, punctuated only by the clinking of cups and the murmur of other patrons. It was a silence filled with unspoken memories, shared laughter, and a deep, abiding respect. The years had changed them, shaped them into the people they were today, but the core of their connection remained untouched.

"Remember that time we tried to write a play together?" Sumona suddenly asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It was supposed to be a tragic love story, but it ended up being a comedy of errors."

Chinmoy laughed, the memory vivid in his mind. "And you insisted on casting me as the romantic lead, even though I couldn’t deliver a line without cracking up."

"You know," he began, his voice soft, "I never did tell you what your eyes reminded me of that day."

Sumona raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. "Oh? And what was that?"

He paused, searching for the right words. "They reminded me of…home. A place I always knew I could return to, even if I never actually did."

A flicker of understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken feelings that had lingered between them for so long. It wasn't regret that filled the air, but a quiet acceptance, a recognition of the path not taken, and a deep appreciation for the friendship that had endured.

 

They spent the next hour reminiscing, revisiting old haunts and forgotten jokes, the years between them fading into insignificance. The unspoken “what ifs” lingered in the air, but they didn’t dwell on them. The past was a tapestry of shared experiences, a foundation for the present.

As the afternoon drew to a close, a sense of quiet understanding settled between them. There was no need for grand pronouncements or promises. Their connection was etched in time, a bond of friendship that had weathered the storms of life.

"It was good to see you, Summs," Chinmoy said, his voice sincere. "It feels like no time has passed at all."

Sumona nodded, her eyes glistening slightly. "You too, Chins. It really does."

A brief, comfortable hug sealed their reunion. As they parted ways, a unspoken agreement hung in the air: this wasn’t goodbye, but rather a “until next time.” It might be five years, or perhaps even longer, before their paths crossed again in person. But the bond they shared, the mutual respect, love, and care, would continue to exist, a quiet constant in their lives. The borrowed eyes, the shared laughter, the unspoken understanding – these were the treasures they carried away, a testament to a friendship that transcended time and distance. They were friends, forever connected by a shared history and a deep, abiding affection, a connection that needed no constant reaffirmation, just the quiet knowledge that it existed, strong and true. The café, once a symbol of youthful dreams, now became a monument to a friendship that had stood the test of time, a poignant reminder that some connections, like the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, linger long after the last drop has been savoured.

The Rain (Part - II)

Years spun by, a decade etching itself onto Chinmoy’s soul, not in lines of hardship, but in the subtle nuances of wisdom and quiet strength. Mumbai, the city of relentless motion and hidden corners of grace, had been his proving ground. The early years, following that rain-soaked new year’s eve, weren't defined by financial struggle. Chinmoy had always held his own in the corporate world; worrying about his next meal was never his burden. His struggle was internal, a gnawing uncertainty about the future, a persistent echo of the past that clouded his present. It was a lack of clarity, a sense of being adrift, not on a sea of poverty, but on a vast, uncharted ocean of self-discovery.

He’d chased promotions and projects with a driven focus, not out of necessity, but as a distraction, a way to outrun the ghosts of what might have been. He worked late nights, not to make ends meet, but to silence the internal monologue that replayed memories like old film reels, grainy and bittersweet. He remembered countless nights staring out at the city lights, a million tiny beacons mirroring the confusion within him. The rain, always the rain, would fall, a familiar soundtrack to his restless nights, a constant reminder of that pivotal new year’s eve.

Yet, even in the midst of this internal turmoil, his small notebook remained his constant companion. It wasn't a record of hardship, but a chronicle of his inner landscape, a place where he could wrestle with his doubts, his fears, and his hopes. He wrote about the city’s vibrant tapestry, the fleeting connections with strangers, the moments of unexpected beauty that pierced through the urban grime. He wrote about the lingering ache of the past, the questions that haunted him, the “what ifs” that lingered like shadows. And slowly, painstakingly, through the act of writing, a sense of clarity began to emerge.

Time, as it always does, began its gentle work of healing. The sharp edges of memory softened, the sting of regret dulled. The ghosts of the past began to fade into the background, no longer demanding center stage. Chinmoy realized that the clarity he’d been seeking wasn't a destination, but a process, a gradual unfolding of understanding that came with time and experience.

The contrast between then and now was striking, not in terms of material possessions, but in the quiet transformation within him. The restless energy had given way to a sense of calm, the internal noise replaced by a quiet hum of contentment. He understood now that the past, with all its complexities and uncertainties, had played its part in shaping him into the person he was today. The “what ifs” no longer haunted him; they were simply chapters in a story that had led him to this present moment.

One evening, years after that transformative new year’s eve, Chinmoy found himself drawn back to the office lawn. The streetlight still flickered, a comforting reminder of the past. He didn’t make paper boats this time. He simply sat on the damp grass, the cool night air a welcome embrace. He looked up at the sky, a vast canvas dotted with distant stars. He thought of the young man who had once been so lost, so unsure, and smiled. 

He understood now that everything, even the periods of confusion and doubt, had happened for a reason. Everything happens for good. It was a simple truth, a quiet revelation that brought him a profound sense of peace. He had finally found the clarity he had been searching for, not in some grand revelation, but in the quiet acceptance of the journey itself. It wasn't about forgetting the past, but about integrating it into the present, weaving it into the tapestry of his life. 

He had let go of what “should” have been and embraced what is. That, he realized, was the essence of life, a continuous unfolding, a constant dance between memory and hope.

The Missing Link

"Am I missing something?" 

Chinmoy muttered, the question a restless echo in his mind. It was the third time in an hour, a persistent hum beneath the rising panic. His 9:30 AM flight to Mumbai loomed, the clock ticking relentlessly towards 7:30. In Kolkata, summoning a ride at the eleventh hour was akin to chasing a mirage. Two ride-hailing apps had already flashed the dreaded “jabona” (won’t go), leaving him stranded.

Then, a beacon of hope: one of Kolkata’s iconic yellow ambassador taxis, its paint faded like a well-loved photograph, crawled into view.

“Dada! Airport jaabe?” (Brother, will you go to the airport?), Chinmoy blurted, practically diving into the back before the driver could even respond.

A sly grin spread across the driver’s face. “Tinso ponchas taka lagbe.” (350 rupees).

Chinmoy recoiled. “What?! The airport is barely four kilometers! The meter fare is 80-85 rupees. This is daylight robbery! You should just go and hold up a bank! I’ll give you 100, not a paisa more.” He made to get out.

“Meter cholchhe na,” the driver countered, his voice softening slightly. “Duesho taka din, aar kono kotha noy. Deal!” (The meter’s not working. Give me 200, and that’s my final offer. Deal!)

Chinmoy glanced at his watch. 7:50. Arguing over 100 rupees wasn’t worth missing his flight. 

“Fine,” he sighed, sinking back into the worn seat. 

“200 it is. But turn on the meter anyway. I want to see the actual fare.”

The driver gave him a skeptical look, but nodded and flicked the meter on.

Chinmoy’s internal monologue resumed. What is it? What am I forgetting? He rummaged through his backpack and carry-on, checking for his passport, wallet, boarding pass. Everything seemed to be there.

Midway through the journey, the driver pointed to the meter. “Dekhoon dada, apni bolchhilen airport 4 km door. Meter ki bolchhe dekhoon… pray 5 km chole eschhi aar ekhono 2 km baaki. Ae taxi ta amar shob diner byapar, ami tomake mithhe kotha keno bolbo?” (Sir, you said the airport was 4 km. Look at the meter – we’ve already gone almost 5, and there are still 2 to go. I drive this route every day. Why would I lie?)

Chinmoy conceded, “Okay, my mistake. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you what I promised.”

They arrived at the airport at 8:45. Perfect timing. The meter read 165 rupees, but Chinmoy handed over 200, thanked the driver, and hurried towards Gate A7.

“Ek minute dada! Ekhane ekhane!” Chinmoy heard the driver calling after him. Now what? Is he going to ask for more after all?

“Dada, apni headphone gari te chhere diechhen. Taratari korle erokom i hobe… ekhon jaan, noyto flight miss hoe jaabe.” (Sir, you left your headphones in the car. When you rush like this, you forget things. Go now, or you’ll miss your flight.)

Chinmoy plugged in the earphones and a beautiful track was on…”Stay gone”; a masterpiece by Jimmy Wayne…

 

I found piece of mind I'm feeling good again

I'm on the other side

Back among the living

Ain't a cloud in the sky

All my tears have been cried

And I can finally say…

I know everything's gonna be okay

If you just stay gone…

 

He smiled as now he realised what was missing... :)

 

 

The Traveler, Oasis and the Mirage (Part - II)

Chinmoy reached at C-505. 

Suruchi: Hey..hi. 

C: Where is aunty? Let’s go and have lunch together. 

S: She had been waiting for you since morning. A while ago mom left for a relative’s place. She would be back by 5.  

 C: Hmm. Am also not that hungry. Let’s open the sweet box. ☺ 

Suruchi : Yeah. By the way, it is with Naina. But are you sure that you do not want to meet Naina?

C: Hmm…ooo…ok. Is she here?

S: She is inside. Go and talk to her…finally!

Chinmoy went in. Naina was busy in packing her books. She gave a fleeting look at him, ignored and then again kept herself busy in packing. Oh! What an arrogant girl! Chinmoy thought.

 

C: Hi Naina. Hmm…came to know that you are leaving tonight. And yeah...Congratulations for your job. Initial posting will be at Bangalore right? Cool yaar! Umm…I mean that place is cool. The weather is good too. Also the people are! I mean to say that…that…ok…leave it. How’s Duggu doing? (Her brother) oops! How are your parents? Are they coming to pick you up today?

 

Naina: Mr. Enough! Can’t you see how messy the place is? Are you going to help me with packing and yes…stop conducting my stress interview.

 

C: Yes, yes...sorry for asking too many questions at a time. No problem. Give me that carton…No, that bigger one and some tape. Let me pack the books first. 

 

It almost took 3 hrs to pack the entire things. There was a pin-drop silence. Even Suruchi wanted to say something but Naina gave her a glare. So she dared not to speak!

 

C: I guess everything is done. Cool! I already have booked a cab to drop both of you at the railway station. Girls, get ready, the cab would be here by 7.30 pm. 

N: Ok. Anything else?

C: No…yes, the sweets. The packet that Suru’s mom brought. She mentioned that it’s with you.

N: It’s there on my study table. Pick that while you leave.

C: Naina…we have enough time for tea. Can we go to canteen as I don’t know when and where we would meet up next. 

N: Ok. You go ahead, let me take a shower; would join you in 15 mins.