It was a summer evening. I was sitting in a cafeteria at the back of ………..Street. It was the part of the city where the famous …………University and ……………College were situated. Book stalls, cafeteria, vendors selling old books on the footpaths, small shops providing Xerox and printing facilities- all these were strewn over the numerous back streets and alleys of this old part of the city. Smell of old and new books mingled with the smell of freshly fried snacks. Chatter of students and vendors mixed with the sound of vehicles moving slowly through the crowded streets and the twitter of birds returning to their nests on the numerous trees scattered all over the place.

The cafeteria where I sat was situated in an alley at the back of ………..College. It was one of those rare places where good quality snacks were available at reasonable prices and therefore, drew over large crowd of students. It was always crowded and noisy and always smelled delicious.

I was sitting as usual at a corner of the far end of the long room. By the side of the table there was a small window through which the last rays of fading sunlight filtered into the room and fell on my books scattered on the table in front of me. I was alone with my own thoughts, when suddenly, a voice jarred my reverie and made me turn back and look for its source.

At a table at my back sat a group of four to five people talking among themselves. It seemed that their conversation had suddenly turned towards argument and one of them was stating some opinion in a strong and resentful voice.

This person was a girl of around my age. In the mellow afternoon light her soft features seemed to be glowing, unreal. For a fleeting moment I could not take my eyes off her. Then I forced myself to look down and turn around.

The boys and girls at the table had fallen silent. “I must have made them feel awkward!” I thought. I took up my books from the table. I was going to leave anyway.

A boy stood up from his chair and came over to me. He was a bit older than the other boys and girls sitting at that table. “Hello!” he said, stretching out his hand towards me. “I’m Borde. Liam Borde. Why don’t you join us? We are just chilling over here.”

My eyes fell on the girl from before and I saw she was looking at me, too, smiling apologetically.

That smile drew me to their table.

Thus, began our story of bonding over snacks, coffee and talks; more and more talks. It became our custom to meet there every Friday evening and spend the whole evening chatting and arguing over anything and everything on earth. Those were my precious moments. Those were my moments with Alma…

Yes, Alma was this girl. The reason I joined this group. She was of my age but started school at a younger age and managed to finish college already, while I was still in my last year at college. She was a freelance copy writer working for small advertising agencies, a budding poet much admired within her small literary circle and more than anything, a spirited playful person who preferred living her life on her own terms. I was bedazzled by her clarity of mind and soaked myself in the warmth of her presence. I had not yet thought of anything else beyond this.

Every Friday, after our little gathering was over, I used to walk Alma to the nearby Metro station. We walked the streets which by then were silent and desolate, the day’s hustle and bustle long melted in the darkness of night.

We used to walk side by side, talking in lowered voices, as if afraid of sending ripples over the silence that had settled around us like dark cold water. Sometimes I had a strong urge to hold her hand in mine but stifled the idea in that instant. How could I ever do that?

My hands! Rough, calloused hands which looked horrible with blackened nails and the skin around them broken, frayed!

My hands bore the mark of my stigma. The long years I had spent in reform and rehabilitation centres as a juvenile delinquent; years when I went through harsh training to learn some useful trade. Any thought of those days still made me shudder. Those days were long gone by. Still, I bore the stigma in my soul; in my body; in my hands!

I could not bear the thought of touching Alma with my impure hands; could not think of bringing her into the mess of a life that I was living through. Alma, I could only adore her from a distance, nothing more.

One of the boys in our group was a movie freak. It was not just any movie, but those weird movies which people called thought-provoking. In his little room we would gather around his computer and watch them.

He had been fascinated by a Korean movie bearing a strange name- Bungee Jumping on Their Own or something like that. He said that it was a critically acclaimed movie with a good plot. So he arranged for us to watch this movie in his room.

We watched the movie in silence. It was a strange tale of love and reincarnation. The heavy sense of tragedy made me feel suffocated.

In the silence of night I walked the street towards the Metro station with Alma by my side. She was silent all the way which was quite contrary to her natural self. I was afraid of breaking the silence and walked along.

We arrived at the Metro station. We stood together at the head of the flight of stairs that ran down to the underground station.

It looked so dark down there!

Alma looked at me. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Lolo?” She asked.

I did not know what to say. I had never thought of wasting my time over fancy philosophical or spiritual ideas. I never had so much time to waste in the first place.

I did not say anything. She said good bye and walked down the stairs slowly. It seemed the earth swallowed her gradually.

That was the last time that I saw her.

She did not come to our gathering the next Friday. Such a thing had never happened before.

I started to look for her. I started to ask her friends about her.

But no one could tell much about her. I gathered the address of her lodging. The owner of the house could only inform me that she had left in a hurry after receiving a letter from her home, not saying anything about if she was going to return soon or not.

I hang about with the group of her friends. So many Fridays came and went away. But she did not return.

It was as if the earth had really swallowed her!

How painful it is to wait for someone who has left without saying a word!

In the shadows of evening I walk the streets alone; the streets that we had walked together so many years ago.

Under the long bank of shadow, the crows cry, as if asking someone to come home, but no one answers.

It is only me who has thrown away the days of his youth; only me who has been left crying for so long.