The Meeting

Love Short Story – The Meeting

I looked at the overcast sky.

A brief glance at my wristwatch informed me that it was almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon; but the information didn’t have any impact on the sky above. It had been the same since morning, preventing the tiniest possible ray to drop onto earth. The only thing that Sun managed to send on this part of the world was a gloomy light, barely to make things visible.

The narrow-gauge train that dropped me on this small, almost deserted platform blew its whistle and started to drag itself in a monotonous sound. The smell of burning coal invaded my nostrils. I stepped away from the train and started to walk in the direction of exit. A years-old, faded signboard containing the word ‘Exit’ marked the way. I was not familiar to this place; but I needed no assistance; I knew my destination very well; the letter that I received yesterday at Shimla described the path very well.

I smiled unconsciously; a deep, sad smile. I smiled thinking of where I was going, and the person I would meet there. As a matter of fact, I was going to meet Julie Andrews; my ex-fiancé; the only woman in the world, except my mother, whom I loved.

From a rational perspective, I should never have accepted the invitation that I received last evening, when the room-service boy knocked at my door and handed me an envelope. After I opened that and looked at the sender of the letter, my world stopped for a while; and then it started to rush backwards. I remembered days that now seems to be from a fairytale story, or from my past life maybe. I tried to tear the invitation letter but my hands trembled. And possibly in a complete misjudgement of decision, I headed out today for the place mentioned.

It was only ten minutes walk down the road when I reached ‘Augustine’s Place’. Meanwhile the sky darkened more. A shower was expected any moment. I considered myself lucky that I could spare myself from getting drenched.

The two-storey building stood amidst a population of pine and cedar trees. Though bearing signs of time all over it, still it was evident that the building carries the signature of its tasteful creator. I stopped once at the gate; then walked towards the main door.

The door opened as soon as I reached the porch. She was there. At the first sight, I couldn’t help but notice her resemblance to the house; old, yet beautiful. Time had left its marks, but her smile remained the same. I suddenly felt a lump at my throat.

‘Come in’, she said.

I staggered myself into the hall. In a corner fireplace was burning. The room was warm and comfortable. I sat on a chair near the fireplace. She disappeared for a moment and returned with a cup of smoking hot tea. She handed me the cup and sat on a stool nearby.

‘How is it?’ she asked as I took the first sip.

‘It’s nice’ was my reply.

I took couple of sips. She remained silent. It seemed that she was searching for words to make a conversation. Finally I started.

‘So, now tell me, why did you ask me to come here?’

She looked at me. A faint smile appeared on her face; ‘You haven’t forgiven me. Don’t you?’

I lowered my gaze. ‘There is no point discussing this’, I said, ‘not after so many years’.

‘That doesn’t answer my question’, she said slowly.

The anger caged inside me for years recoiled. A sudden burst of emotion took over me.

‘No’, I said, my voice became louder; ‘if you want an answer, then this is it. And tell me, should I forgive you after what you did to me? We were in love, and we made promises.  I went to Delhi in search of a job, to secure our future. I promised to come back on time and you promised to wait for me. I kept my promise, but you didn’t. Do you have any idea how I felt, when I came back and came to know that you had already married some rich fellow and went away? I was shattered; my world turned upside down. And even today I haven’t completely recovered from it’.

She didn’t say anything; but in the dim light of fireplace I noticed tears rolling down her cheek. I realized I went too far. I shouldn’t have done that. There is no point in making this argument today.

‘I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to hurt you’, I said in an ashamed voice.

She took some time to compose herself. A killing silence took over the hall.

‘I understand how much you were hurt’, she said finally,’ but trust me, it was not my fault. My husband was an influential person. First, he helped my debt-ridden father with money. My father considered him someone godlike. Then he pulled my father into his evil plan to get me. He convinced him that he was the perfect groom one can found. Initially they tried to convince me to marry him; but I became adamant. Finally one night, my father sedated me. When I woke up, I found myself here. He told me I was his wife. I tried to fight him, but he was strong in every mortal power. Later I found that they had forged my signature on marriage registry papers and bribed the registrar. My marriage was a legal one on paper. My husband put me here as someone puts a bird in a cage. There were guards around the house so that I cannot escape. I was not allowed to meet anyone from outside. Even they never allowed my father to meet me once. Since the day, I have been here, spending life of a prisoner’.

She stopped. The killing silence returned. The lump at my throat seemed too heavy for me. I regretted for putting baseless allegations upon her; I regretted for holding hatred towards her for last ten years. I couldn’t find enough courage to look straight at her eyes.

I broke the silence first, ‘Where are they? Your husband and his accompany?’

For the first time she seemed cheerful. ‘They are gone. They don’t come here anymore. They have lost interest in me’, her voice was upbeat as a schoolgirl.

I gathered the last bit of courage left in me and looked at her.’ I know it’s late; but maybe not too late. Can’t we give ourselves a second chance?’

Her face saddened, ‘No, it’s too late for me to do that; but not for you. I know you haven’t married. Please make a last promise to me that you’ll find a girl soon and will get married. Trust me; I’ll be very happy for you on that day.’

‘I can’t make that promise’, I said firmly, ‘and you know that. Either it’ll be you or no one else.’ I placed my hand inside my jacket and pulled out a red rose, ‘it’s for you’, I said.

She took it from me and her lost cheer returned.  She looked at it happily, ‘Thank you so much’.

It was getting late for me. I had a train to catch. I bid her goodbye and stepped outside the door. It was pitch dark outside. The only light available was the occasional lightning. I carefully stepped down from the porch and started to walk in long strides towards the main gate. At that moment lightning occurred and I noticed a protruding stone beside the path. I looked at it curiously; there was something scribbled on it. On the next lightning occurrence I could read it:

Julie Augustine

(1979-2002)

In front of the gravestone a rose was lying. Though in the darkness it was difficult to tell its color, but I knew for sure that it was red.

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