Until the Reseeing

There are few things in life that bring greater joy than hearing from old friends. It’s all the more wonderful when the call arrives when one is least expecting it. More often than not, it is followed by a momentary pinching of one’s conscience- the fact that I could have been the one making this call to the other after what seems like ages- but it’s soon forgotten as long lost friends rejoice by engaging in fabulous conversation reminiscent of the good times of yore.

The beginning of any vacation is the time when I am subjected to a barrage of phone calls/text messages/online pings/wall updates about prospective reunions. A few such reminders from selected friends are the cue for me to get the message across to a few other selected friends. A jolly little group is thus assembled together, and everybody ends up having a jolly good time.

Nothing beats turning the clock back in style like this. The new developments in each person’s life serve to amaze and astound just as much as the fact that they have essentially changed little serves to bring about an inexplicable sense of pride and happiness. During such times, the participants seem to hear a voice deep within telling them it is such rare communions that they so cherish and live for.

I try tempting fate to delay the inevitable parting hour, but it always does arrive- never in a hurry, but just about in time. When friends bid farewell for the umpteenth time to go their separate ways, it is with an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about the future. We might never meet again. But as long as the body breathes and the soul endures, we can never rule out another crossing of paths, which will again be a most precious thing despite the subduing action the elapsing years would have on sentimentality.

*

I hadn’t bargained on receiving news of the imminent visit of a former Master Baster so completely out of the blue. Having made my peace with the fact that I will never hear from or see him again, or even hear from or see someone who has heard from or seen him, this sudden arrival was like the coming back to life of Michael Jackson. Apparently, miracles do happen once in a while.

I joined with him at one of the habitually crowded Metro stations, from where we travelled to our favourite book-store in Delhi. It was incredible seeing that charismatic face again after so long, and listening to the trademark aphorisms that once enlivened bakar sessions aplenty in Azad and elsewhere. If only for a couple of hours, I felt as if he had never left- as if he were still the brilliant Ed-in-C everybody admired, and me, the starry-eyed fresher who listened in awe and sometimes revulsion to the elder I so desperately wanted to emulate but knew deep within I never would. 

For his reputation as the best read man I have ever known, he came up with surprisingly few book recommendations this time- nevertheless, he did mention quite a few obscure authors that I duly made note of. The conversation throughout intrigued me more than it used to before, but it also told me that Dela hadn’t changed much.

When it was time to say goodbye, and Dela assured me it’s for real this time- unlike the previous occasions- a bizarre sadness engulfed me. A sadness that could have absolutely been avoided had I refused to meet him at all. I am only glad that despite the final handshakes and the nod of terminality, some part of me still believed that this farewell will prove to be yet another false dawn. And despite what Ramana Murty says, belief trumps hope.