The Glance

The Glance                                                    

Papia Ray

 No matter what, my steps would inevitably lead me to the park and to the bench under the gulmohur tree.

           It reminded me of special times and I could not bring upon myself to sit on it, so instead I passed by it giving it a sideways glance, like a salute, and then proceeded to sit by the pond which was thankfully free of memories. I would spend some time there reading, checking mails  or just counting the blooms. Ever since the pandemic it had remained almost deserted. I was perhaps the most regular visitor.

           One evening, right from the gates I spotted someone sitting on it. As I walked slowly towards it I saw a gentleman sitting upright, still as a statue, looking straight in front of him, his hands resting on a stick that stood between his knees.  A white cricket cap covered his head. He wore goggles and he had a nice blue mask spread right across his face which in a way made me conscious about mine which I had pulled down to my chin.  As I passed him slowly I wondered if he was blind. He seemed like a figure cut out in stone, oblivious of the world.

I  sat down by the pool to admire  the lilies. Something did not feel right. Was it that I did not like someone sitting on my special bench? It had been my favourite place to read on winter afternoons, until he had joined. And now, I couldn’t even bear to sit on it. After all these years, something in me still clung to those days,--- why, I could not answer. Maybe because of its abrupt end--- I remember how I used to wait---.  The address he had enquired about had surprised me because it had been a disputed property and no one ever lived there, the owner having died abroad some ten years back. When I asked about it he had kept quiet. I had known he was different. Introvert, cautious---he hadn’t revealed his own name but I had guessed the reason. When I called him Mr. Stranger he didn’t seem to mind. The memory of those fleeting days was fading now, only my visits to the park kept it alive. And why did I keep coming back? Was I hoping to see him again?      

The man continued to sit on the bench.

After a lot of hesitation he had decided to occupy it. It held special memories for him too. The last time he had shared its space was with Lalima. Lalima. What exuberance, what vivacity that girl had----what quick intelligence---she had been like a breath of fresh air that had given him a taste of a different kind of life other than the intense nervous excitement that he was used to as part of his job. Meeting her had been pure destiny. Right here. He had stopped to ask her about an address which had proved to be a wrong tip-off. She had directed him. The next day he had seen her again on the bench reading and he had interrupted to thank her. And so it had continued. The meetings. The light- hearted talks and as dusk fell, the partings. No talk of the morrow but they would find each other under the gulmohur tree on the bench. It had been against all codes of conduct. He had defied authority. He had risked his job to continue this friendship. Allowed it to flourish----.  Until one day he thought she had guessed his identity. And immediately  he had stopped coming. Just like that.

Another covert assignment had brought him back again. Much against his will he found himself in the same vicinity of the town. After four years of unexplained silence he could not resist  entering that same little park---the lily pond park as he remembered calling it.  The gulmohur tree was there, its outstretched branches green with new leaves. In a month it would be a flaming orange as he knew from experience. Perhaps the memory of those beautiful days had urged him to revisit the same place. Perhaps even catch a sight of her. Lalima.  He spoke the name under his breath. Would she come today? Maybe she would or maybe she wouldn’t. He whispered a prayer---God just once more---just one close glimpse of  her would be enough to last a lifetime.

           Then he felt, rather than saw her coming. A thrill ran through his veins. There she was--- he saw her from the corner of his eyes---she was coming, coming right up to him, a breezy kind of walk----what if she spoke? He would disguise his voice, or just ignore, he was good at that--- but, she did not pause and kept on walking, passing him by, glancing sideways, a slow glance laden with friendly curiosity. Likewise, he took in her appearance, storing the image in a remote corner of his heart. It required an iron will to remain  still. To be silent. To restrain himself from calling out her name. He was thankful for the mask and the goggles. They hid his face. He could not repeat the mistake he had committed earlier. He could not put her in danger. She must not recognize him. He would leave as quietly as he had come once she had settled near the pond. He watched her wandering away to the pool and sit down on the grass. He heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed. He saw that instead of a book she seemed content counting the flowers. What was she thinking? He would have given anything to know her thoughts. The sun was about to set and it was time for him to move.

A few minutes at the pond and I felt eyes on me. It could have been anyone but I turned to look towards the bench.  He was getting up. A tall, well built physique stood outlined in the setting sun before slowly moving away---walking away---. No stick.

As I gazed at him I gasped in disbelief---there was something about the walk. It was so familiar---where had I seen it? And then sudden realization---of course it was him. Should I call out? No, no it  wouldn’t be right, because he hadn’t. Of course his stick was a sham, just another accessory to fool me. As if I would be fooled. My mind raced and a whole lot of thoughts and questions coiled and uncoiled in my head. He had reached the gates. I wanted to call out to him. Why hadn’t he? As the answer hit me like a sudden splash of cold water I sat rooted to the spot gazing dumbly at his retreating figure.