THE MEETING PLACE

“So, any kind of feeling for her in any corner of your heart, now?” I
was asked.

“Mild Limerence,” I replied.

We were good friends back then, as we are now. It all started when I
met her for the first time that evening...

It was raining that evening. I was waiting for her to arrive and it had
been more than two to three hours of waiting. My excitement was
diminishing with time, so I put the gift aside and was lying on one of
the benches, in a few minutes.

There was an announcement for her train to arrive on another

platform which was quite far from where I was. I got up, all of a
sudden, took the gift and hurried towards the foot-over-bridge
despite of the stumbling and regaining of my balance both mental and
physical.

In no time, I was on the platform where her train was about to

arrive. “Purushottam Express, 9 hours late” as mentioned in the
announcement, it was.

The sudden rain had created an ethereal atmosphere at the station,

making me feel quite relieved from the stress. Apart from the chill
and shiver running down my spine, it felt as if the nature was
plotting, making arrangements for us at the meeting place.
I knew I was getting poetic.

The train entered slowly and there was I, at the platform,

desperately looking out for her. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder
while searching her through the windows outside the compartment.
I turned around to find her, standing in front of me. I wondered
while looking at her, waiting my breath to return back to normal.

“I am so sorry! The train went late and… You shouldn’t have been
waiting for such long hours…” I looked at her carefully as she came
closer.

“Are you alright?” she enquired tucking her hair behind an ear. That
was when I noticed how her hair blew in the breeze and wisps of
black gently stroked her face.

I was not alright and it was her damn fault. But when a young girl
asks a guy if he is all right, he can never admit he is not.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said, flexing my palms.

“Can you please accept a small gift?” I asked nervously, extending my

hands along with the gift towards her.

Maybe I was seeing a female of around my age that was interacting

with me, after a long time or something, but I thought she was
pretty. She was wheat-complexioned, leaving me mesmerized by her
large doe-shaped eyes dancing with mirth in them. And the whole
just-out-of-the-bed look blew me.

“And why all this gifting stuff?” she said, bringing me back to reality.

“Just wanted to make it memorable,” I replied.

“Gifts mean nothing, Rick. It is the feelings and the moments that
count. No need to spend money on such futile gifts,” she said. I
appreciated the way she said it, despite of make me feel cut into
pieces.

What followed was a sheepish grin on her face when she opened the
gift to find a Teddy-On-Spring key ring and a Cadbury chocolate.

“I love chocolates!” she exclaimed.

“I hoped so,” I said, proud that I didn’t fail to make her happy.

“And thanks for the key ring as well. I’ll keep it safe” she said.

I was about to say something when I noticed someone emerging all of

a sudden from nowhere, the reason behind our conversation and
moment getting ruined. It was her mother.

“What is it beta? Why are you taking so long when the train is about
to depart and your Papa is asking for you? I told him that you might
have been using the washroom. Now come along before it turns out to
be pretty awkward,” said her mother. Every guy has a fear of
meeting his girl’s parents. Apparently there’s a scientific term for it-
soceraphobia.

“Mom, I want you to meet Rick, a good friend of mine from

Facebook,” she said.

Her mother looked at me. She paused for a second before saying
hello.

“Hello Rick,” her mother said in an extra friendly way as if to

compensate for the doubts of a few seconds ago.

“Good to meet you ma’am,” I said with my hands folded in a Namaste,

my insecurities forcing me to say “ma’am”.

“Rick what?” she said. Indians have to know your last name to place
you.

“Rick Chatterjee,” I said.

“Ah, Bengali…” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” I replied, familiar with the upcoming question. Her

mother didn’t answer.
“Come on, Mom. Let’s go,” she broke the awkward silence. They
excused themselves and sidled off. She smiled at me. I smiled back
at her, trying my best to fit in.

I walked them to the compartment door where her mother left her
and moved inside towards her father, to check if he had started
searching them out, after warning her daughter to join them in,
quickly.

She stood up at the door, “You liked my Mom?”

I nodded. You can’t say you didn’t like someone’s parents.

“Good. Now go before my parents start getting ideas.”

Ideas? What Ideas? I wanted to ask her.

The train whistled and started to move slowly. I waved at her. She
waved back at me. I couldn’t do anything but look away or else she
would have noticed the tears welled up in my eyes. I shook my head
and smiled. The train had taken pace, making her face become blurry,
and soon, she faded.

She’s the only one that knows me, and I can’t live without her.

And I was left, just I like I am now. Lost and lonely.

Guess I was wrong, the more you love people, the weaker you are. It
was time that I developed enough strength to make every possible
way for living fine, in this large and ruthless world.

There are things some people can never understand. There’s no point
telling them.