Magic Pockets

She left just as the school bell rang at three o'clock sharp, without saying goodbye. Who in the world would not say goodbye to her best friend? Sometimes Aanya drove me crazy.

As Aanya walked out the open gates beyond which parents stood to fetch their children, I was reminded of her mother. So alive, so vibrant and tangible, not at all like the figment of imagination that sudden death had rendered her to. I remember the day it happened. We had a history test. Aanya loved history, whether it was the battle of Bastille or the Versailles pact, she could give you a verbatim account of these unimportant important events. I often relied on her so I could copy her answers. I did not mind cheating, but I wondered if she would mind showing, “Nah,” she said, “I think of it as my share of social service.” So we had our own historic pact, she let me look over her history paper and I helped her with geography. She could not read a trail map to save her life.

But when she did not show up on that day, I was pissed off. Sweat started to pour down my back. The Bombay monsoon was in full throttle and I was sure that she was just late. But the exam started and she was nowhere in sight. I could hardly remember anything and spent most of my time really upset with her. I also knew she would not miss a history test for anything in the world. The two hours passed by and I was sure I would fail this one. But a sense of uneasiness continued on, well past the test. When I went home, I tried calling Aanya but her home phone number said, in deep monotone, “All lines on this route are busy. Please try after sometime.” Damn it, must be the phone lines again, I would kill to see them work through an entire monsoon.

My mother returned home from the club that afternoon at five o'clock. She played Rummy with the ladies every Friday. She wore a turquoise top over some blue jeans. Her layered hair flowed over her shoulders, her makeup was perfectly balanced. I always wished I would grow up to be as beautiful as her. But her face was forlorn. She rushed in the door and gave me a long hug, I tried to escape her tight embrace but her grip was the tightest it had ever been.

“Darling,” she said, “I have some disturbing news.” She paused there as if she were considering whether to tell me or not. “Aanya's mother passed away today. That's why she was not in school.”

“What? How can that be?”

I had just seen her two days ago, picking up Aanya at school. Sometimes I was jealous, because my mother worked and was not able to be there every single day to pick me up.

“She had an accident. She was hit by a truck and she died instantly. They tried to revive her at the hospital but it was too late.”

“No Mummy, no!” I screamed. “What will be of Aanya now?”

Even mommy had no answers for some questions. I cuddled with my mother and fell asleep in her arms for the night. I could not go to school the next day.

Aanya was not at school for several days. My mother said she had been over to her house for condolences but I could not make myself go. And then one day, I saw her in class, she was half her size and her eyes had puffy bags under them, during class her eyes would wander in a haze and during recess she curiously read the dictionary. She had always loved reading the dictionary.

All the other children stared at her with puppy faces, they gave her cards and the teachers looked out for her. But I knew how hard it had been for Aanya to stand out, she always wanted to blend in. So I had chosen to act as normal as I could without denying the fact that my best friend had just been through the biggest loss of her life. Soon the puppy faces faded and everyone moved on with their lives and Aanya did because she had to. That's when her rushing home began. 

I wished we could play together after school again, I wished she could come home with me, or take swimming lessons at the club. She never came on school road trips or stayed for after school art classes. So that day when she left in a rush, I decided to follow her.

Among vendors, rickshaws and animals, Aanya hurried toward the bus stop to catch her red bus number 84. A small crowd waited for the glorious double decker, a remnant gift from the British to our city. When it arrived, everyone boarded, one by one; Aanya waited patiently and let the bus go. I saw her giggling from my mother’s tinted car window. “Shall we offer her a ride?” my mother asked. “ No,” I said. I never interrupted Aanya.

She started walking. I asked my mother to follow her in our car. “Oh please,” I begged, “make sure she does not see us.” Aanya would kill me if she found out, but I had to do it. Her stride was leisurely under the yoke of her backpack and under the expansive canopy of the Peepal trees on the avenue by the sea. She took a break at the promenade, brought her walkman. She then opened up her lunch box and dug into the remains. Raw mangoes, thin uneven slices with a dash of salt.

After about twenty minutes she reached her apartment building near the fishing village of Chuim. The smell of fish always permeated her home. Moss had turned the stone walls green. The water tank where we used to play was now covered with post monsoon snails and earthworms. Spider webs formed meticulously by the stairwell. The external water pipes, orange with rust. Stray cats meowed in hungry elation right outside her ground floor apartment. Squirming by her feet in packs, “Later,” she promised, “there will be fish curry.” Her mother had loved these cats. She unlocked her home quickly, threw the backpack on the floor and shut the door tight. There was homework to do that day and curry to make. Her father would be back in a few hours. 

The next day, I wanted to ask her if she made curry. Who shopped for the fish? Had she done that the day before? Or had her father? Did she wash dishes? Or did they have help? Could I help in anyway? And then I thought, what help could I be, I didn't even know how to cut an onion.

On our way to the canteen at recess, Aanya dug her hands into the deep pockets of her school uniform and pulled out ten rupee notes that happened to be there, by accident, she claimed. We called them magic pockets, because they often produced wishful treats for us.

“How about some Coca Cola?” she asked with sparkling eyes.

“You bet,” I said



We shared a glass bottle sitting on the ledge overlooking the playground. Our legs dangling, not touching the pavement yet. She laughed so hard at all my silly jokes with a rippling laughter that bounced in the air, like a butterfly. And I knew better than to tell her that I finally knew where she got the money from.