Exactly a dozen years ago, a girl met a boy on all fool’s day and they fell in love. The rest as they say is a dozen years of history.

It was the 16th day after the Ides of March. She had come to work about an hour early today. Yesterday Hunterwali’s memo had reminded her that she would have to “temporarily” vacate her cubicle to the editor’s blue-eyed boy, who was arriving from the UK, to work on a ”research”, around mid day. And needless to say, she had to get on top of the deadline by late morning.

But all morning all she did was stare at the cursor blinking on the blank page, her mind restless and clouded.

Last evening had not gone well. First the memo from Hunterwali at work. The office had a conference room which could be made available to this “blue-eyed-boy” but Hunterwali had declined. She was to give up her cubicle and share space with Ranjana that was final.

And then, later in the night, came the call from a voice from a not-so-distant-past.

He was the last person she had expected to hear from. The phone rang just when she was about to settle down among her cushions on the window seat with The Fountainhead.

“Hello Fly,” had said the voice.

Wait, ‘Fly’? There was only one person she knew who would call her ‘Fly’. It had to be him. He had named her “Fly” at the University’s Photography Club. That was where she, the undergraduate, had met him, a senior from the Mechanical Engineering department. Because in those days she chased one desire, freezing flying kites on celluloid, with her father’s Canon. And his favourite was freezing portraits, so she called him “Mask”.

“Yes?”

“Fly, it’s me. How have you been?”

“Have been well but could be better… why did you call? It’s late … I’ll need to …”

“Don’t hang up, please! Was thinking about you today. So I thought of calling you.”

Her eyes had started stinging from the tears that had welled up. But yesterday she didn’t cry. The flashbacks had come in jumps and cuts. Him & her at the photography exhibitions, attending Mamata Shankar’s ballet at Kalamnadir, the meal at Flury’s, watching Diabolique, the farewell, the first kiss and a pretty Smriti in his portraits. Cut!

“But I’m not sure I have anything left to talk about. How is Smriti?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to see you…. where is work? I could come along around lunch…”

“But I don’t want to see you!”

That was the end of the call. She had regretted disconnecting the line later. But who knows, she thought, maybe this was better. The call, in an odd sort of way, had given her hope, but she didn’t want to give in. No. She had lived with a lot of questions for the last three years. Now she was too tired to seek answers. He was now a bleak spot in her mind. Yet, somewhere she did regret disconnecting the call.

And all through this morning, that was the tussle that her mind tried her heart get over with.

“Am I supposed to wait and wait and wait? And are you supposed to keep staring at the couple of lines of whatever you have written?” A laugh followed the jibe.

The ‘blue-eyed-boy’ was punctual, Hunterwali had mentioned. But she was in no mood to take anything without a fight today. Not anymore.

“As a matter of fact, yes! You see, you are taking over my computer and my cubicle for god knows how many days, so I am trying to make sure I finish my work before being so charitable towards you!” And she returned to the press release she was writing for a steel plant inauguration.

“Do you bite too?” came another jibe.

“I just might if you continue to hover over this cubicle. I should finish by lunch, see you then!”

“You know you will be standing outside this cubicle if I want you to… ” it was a chuckle this time.

“Try!” And she continued keying in the last paragraph of the boring press release.

” Sure, let me … hang on, is that a purple box kite?” genuine surprise had replaced the snigger. “Where did you find that?”

“Look, I need to finish this, so why don’t you fly it yourself! I took that picture in Maidan, an old Britisher was trying to fly it last Sunday.”

“Go ahead, finish what you are up to, I was just joking! Can I look at your Kites gallery in the mean time?” He pointed at the soft board behind her. She hadn’t stopped chasing the kites and pinned their frozen frame up on this wall. They were an escape into the open sky, she flew with them and looked down on creation through their eyes.

“This must be from China Town during New Year? And Petkati, mombati, mukhpora, chadiyal …. You have an amazing eye for these flying objects, I must say.” It sounded like genuine praise.

But she was not up for praise either.

“I’m done. You can take over. And you will not touch my photographs!” And with that she picked up her bag. She wanted to romance the afternoon with her camera and the kites on the terrace today. Alone. She wanted to get over the call from last evening. She had to stop asking why he had left her for Smriti. She had no intention to understand why he wanted to return to her again. She didn’t want him back, not anymore.

“Err, you know, just in case I have a problem on this computer? Do you mind leaving your number?”. She came back to her cubicle, at her kites and then at the face that asked her the question, for the first time.

She saw no harm in a boy in his late twenties with big ‘That 70′s Show’ glasses, ruffled hair, a pair of white and gray Slazenger, a black t-shirt and a back pack with a British Airways baggage tag. He seemed to care a lot less about her, specially after her acerbic outburst.

“It’s up on the wall, just under the picture of the box kite.” She pointed out. “You will find Ranjana in the next cubicle pretty helpful.”

And then she left for the day.

But the phone rang again, just after she had reached the terrace, at four. Ma called her from the first floor balcony, “It’s a call from your office, are you going to take it?”

“In a minute,” she was already on her way down the stairs.

“Hi! Its me, the Hunterwali’s blue-eyed-boy who has taken over your life.” Another chortle.

By now she was somewhat back to herself, the sky had helped her release her angst.

Now she remembered, “So you have been going through my planner I left there by mistake?” she sighed.

She had marked 31st March with a fluorescent blue and had written “Hunterwali’s blue-eyed-boy takes over my life, must arrive early to finish Steel release”

“No, I was trying to look for your number.” He sounded resigned.

“I said it is up there on my board. This is my home number, I don’t take office calls on this.”

“Hang on, I tried the mobile number. But it is unfortunately switched off!” Did he sound a little flustered, but why should she care.

“So why did you call?” She was impatient, the neighbourhood boys would soon be out with their kites … she had left the camera on its tripod on the terrace.

“I had turned off your comp to go out for lunch, now it needs a password to log in … so!” Yes, he did sound inpatient and flustered.

“It is ‘fly1975′. That is f – l – y – 1 – 9 – 7 – 5 . Anything else?”

“The entry under 1st April says, ‘come to office at 8:00, before B.E.B arrives & get B.O. write-up done.’ …”

“So?”

“No, I was just wondering … I could do the morning shift and you can get your comp back by say 10. Does that work?”

‘Why is he trying to be nice to me?’ she wondered. “No, thank you! You please come at your own time, I will be there at 8:00 and you will have my cubicle all to yourself by 11:00 as usual!” She did not regret putting down the phone.

Next morning she entered her office after pacifying a grumbling Gadadhar, who also had to come early and unlock the office to let her in. She had remembered to get him some piping singara from her neighbourhood shop. Yesterday she had manage to work out a deal of getting him singara for the rest of the fortnight or for as long as she needed to arrive at 8:00.

At 8:10 a.m. Gadadhar appeared and stood there looking at the kites.

She looked up, “What is it?”

“That phirang just walked in..”

“And what business does the phirang have at this …”

“I just thought that poor you will be slogging for two hours all by yourself, so I came in to keep you company. I live in the neighbourhood.” He was already standing at the door.

Gadadhar slowly withdrew. She turned to face him. He had changed into a white t-shirt today, his hair was neatly combed and the dorky glasses had been replaced by a sleek pair of carbon frames. She quickly moved her gaze away. Why did she find him attractive all of a sudden? He was the one who had caused all the confusion in her life.

“So, all these kites, why kites?” He lowered his tall frame into the other empty chair. “Why do you only take pictures of kites?”

“I find them fascinating, I love the colours, their patterns…” She tried to turn her attention to the press release she was working on today. He was breathing down her neck already, she had to finish fast and vacate the chair to him.

“Have you tried flying one?” He was holding the picture of a diamond kite she had taken on Sankranti, in Bombay, between his fingers.

She turned around to face him, “Look, I really need a couple of hours to finish my work, then you will have the whole day to admire the kites and fly them.”

“I just asked you whether you have tried flying one of them. Have you?”

“No.”

“You must. It is a wonderful feeling. Holding the thread between your fingers, feeling the tug of the wind, controlling the winged being from the ground …. It is exhilarating!”

She was almost through with her release. She looked up from the keyboard again. He was still looking at the kites. Did that disappoint her? Perhaps. She pushed the unruly lock of hair from her face to where it belonged. And finally she was at the end of her work.

“Can we go and grab some breakfast from somewhere?” He smiled.

“I thought you lived nearby. Didn’t you have breakfast before you left?”

“Umm, nah! I was getting late. I had to get here. So shall we? Eat breakfast?”

That was it, “Let me understand this! I am have come to office at an ungodly hour because you are doing some research with our editor Ashmita, I have to vacate my cubicle and make space for you. I am getting shoved around and now I am supposed to chaperon you around and get you breakfast!”

“What about the kochuri-aloo dam at the next door cafe? I still remember the last time I had it, though not for breakfast… we’ll discuss about only kites, I promise.”

She looked straight into his eyes, they were bright, warm and smiling. She fought with all her might to say ‘no’, something had gotten her tongue it seemed. She looked at the kites again.

“I didn’t have breakfast either, was in too much of a hurry to reach on time. But Ma has packed some sandwiches, you could have some, she always packs more than I can have.”

“Gada,” he called out. Gadadhar seemed to have been somewhere very close by. He appeared in a moment and asked, “Shall I get the tea and kochuri-aloo dam?”

And she found herself smiling, the smile spread from her lips, to her eyes and reached her heart and then she heard herself laughing with a man who she knew nothing about. But for once she didn’t care anymore. They were either which way going to discuss kites, that’s about it, promise.

And it all happened on All Fool’s Day. Though they took another month to decide that they wanted to get married. And by the end of the following month they were happily married.

And the rest as they say became history in a dozen years.

Image: by Kathi_b from sxc.hu

“International aid workers fear the final death toll could top 200,000. About 250,000 more were injured and 1.5-million left homeless in the wake of last week’s disaster.” – Business Day (2010/01/19)

It was a quiet Wednesday morning in Mumbai, on the 13th of January. And all I will remember of that day will be a 31 sec video that ran on a loop on YouTube, showing a girl holding her mobile and looking out of her terrace in disbelief as the city beneath her had suddenly disappeared under a thick cloud of dust. A voice kept breaking down in the background, “the world is coming to an end”. She didn’t realize how true her words were, that their world had actually come crashing down.

Very soon, news had started to filter in from the western hemisphere about an earthquake in the island nation of Haiti. The quake hadn’t lasted beyond 30 seconds and when it was over, the earthquake of magnitude 7.0 on the Richter scale, had forever changed the landscape and the lives of more than two million people who inhabit the poor island nation.

Slowly the first pictures started to come in. A gray cloud of dust rose out of the rubble of the dilapidated buildings in the capital city of Port-au-Prince. Smoke rose in the distance as fire seemed to have flared up from devastated houses. There was shock and pain written on every face as the people tried to understand what had hit them. The air was filling up with wails of pain, angry screams, desperate cries for help. People were still in a daze, their faces a dusty gray and bloodied faces, looking around trying to find loved ones, friends, relatives, calling out names, helpless in the disaster. The quake torn streets were slowly stirring into action as people started to move away chunks of cement while some dug at the wreckage with their bare hands with the hope of saving some who may still be alive under the debris. Some school children stood in a huddle unable to understand how to find their way home or whether their homes were still standing where they had left them in the morning. People carried away bloodied bodies of loved ones, friends, relatives. And all this while no help had arrived, no police, no paramedics, no firemen – everybody was on their own.

The city thus lying in shambles happened to be just 6 miles away from the epicenter of the quake. And from the time after the major quake shook the city, 33 aftershocks had trembled underneath the city up to Thursday morning.

Elsewhere, the police headquarters had been razed to the ground. The Presidential Palace lay flattened to the ground, the headquarters of the UN peacekeeping mission had simply collapsed to the ground; hospitals, schools and residential buildings had caved in, rolled down ravines or lay in heaps of masonry. In places entire neighbourhoods were sleeping on the streets.

By Wednesday the body count had started to rise.The world was rushing in with aid. But with the devastated city the whole infrastructure seemed to have collapsed. Major roads were cut off, the port was damaged beyond repair and airports remained disconnected.

“Getting rescue and emergency medical help to those who needed it was proving, in the words of UN spokeswoman Elisabeth Byrs, “a logistical nightmare” – The Independent (Sunday, 17 January 2010).

An earthquake of this scale is no doubt a major calamity but not unheard of. But given the state of Haiti – where people languish without proper medical facilities in normal times – the disaster has made death an easier option. This desperately poor country, politically unstable, struggles to sustain its people. The people live more in despair than in hope – fulfilling basic needs – food, better education and medical facilities, are distant dreams – dictator after dictator has thwarted expectations of good governance.

The 200 years of history of the nation bares witness to a people struggling to live on under dictatorship and political unrest. The UN and some other aid agencies struggled day in and day out to keep some semblance of sanity in the overall aura of hopelessness. But with last Tuesday’s earthquake, the whole country has once more been plunged into darkness. The increasing body count, makeshift hospitals in parks, trucks converted into ambulances, mass graves for the rapidly decomposing bodies, the imminent epidemic following such disasters are just some of the problems on the surface. Even a week later the people still await the daunting task of slowly rebuilding Haiti.

Image courtesy : Reuters and AP

The courtyard was tucked away at the end of the blind alley. As the hot summer Sun would start to tilt westward, the forever familiar faces would appear in the neighbourhood windows, calling out names, impatient to run out of the house. My name was also on that list, I now remember fondly, counted an equal among my peers. It was a mixed bunch, some of us tried to speak in Gujrati or Hindi to sound like them while they joked in Bengali. And by 4 o’clock in the afternoon the courtyard would be full of little voices laughing, joking, crying, fighting and more than anything running around with the wind in their hair.

Soon with the change of seasons the equation in the camaraderie among the little boys and the little girls, who were now in their adolescence and early teens, started to change. The girls and I started to wear plaits, grew quieter, took to giggling and chatting more with the sisterhood on the terrace while the boys continued with their backslapping brotherhood and loud, rowdy ways. Once in a while the playful backpackers, would yank at the shy plaits in mischief, not quite ready to understand why they had replaced the giggly ponytails .

And before the raging hormones could take control over the mind or the heart, some of us had to move on to other parts of the city. The moving away changed a lot. I moved away from the warm comfort of the familiar faces and moved into a colder para which offered more of acquaintances and less of friends. Once the initial barrage of ‘we all miss you’ letters had died down, I settled down for the occasional birthday or season’s greetings. And after a while, they too became rare. Time had come for the ‘blind alley and its gang’ to fade from my memory.

We have all gone through this phase when we trade one set of friends for another, retaining only the favourite few. These are the ones who we call, we keep in touch with and turn to both in despair and in glee. It happened to me as well, in some cases I was retained in address books and in others, I retained some of the old faces. So whether it was a fight, a breakup or a crush, whether it was to share grief or joy or simply to fight, we called each other or visited those close by. I accepted that with each move, from one alley to another, from school to college and then on to university, I would make new friends, and while some old friends would remain in my address book, some would fade.

The transition from an address book to the phonebook stored in a memory chip was not too difficult. And keeping in touch couldn’t get any better. Mobiles brought in a revolution that changed how we would ‘keep in touch’ henceforth. It suddenly brought back calling or texting to wish near and dear ones on various occasions into fashion. By this time I was also in another country, where mobile giants kept lowering call charges to kill competition. I spent hours creating messages for any given reason in any given season, Birthdays, Diwali, Durga Puja, Christmas, New Year and I know some significant few still remember my fervour and, as a result, the deluge in their inbox.

But it was early 2007 when an email landed in my new Gmail inbox. “Come, join me on Facebook” it said, sent by a dear friend who I couldn’t refuse. Earlier I would stay away from social networking sites, the likes of Orkut, because I found them a lonely place. Each name I had looked up returned the same message every time, “Sorry, the user you are looking for does not exist”.

Facebook was comforting in a strange way as I found a lot of my friends, my compatriots, there. And one day I found a curiously familiar face in my inbox with a question I had expected the least. The slightly balding, heavy-set face had a smile I knew from a forgotten time. He had left a message asking me where my plait had disappeared, a question relevant only if I was the same girl from the blind alley of his childhood.

And soon my friends’ list on Facebook started to fill up with old, smiling faces from across the world. All were faces with whom I had common roots, in the alley, in school or college, at the University campus. Some went back to the cities I had moved on to with my new life, to coffee mornings in a desert city, to hours of Arabic lessons, long days spent at work or a group of knowledge seekers quizzing into the night.

Without the new revolution called social networking, these faces would have faded and would have been pushed to the dark alleys of the mind with the old ones. The freckled boy, who yanked at my plait and had once hit me with a deuce ball lived in Australia with a smiling wife and two pretty daughters with pony tails. One of my best friends from school, whose number I had misplaced and who never called back, was a research scholar at UCLA, California. The lady who got her Omani driving license at one go now lived in Zurich. My American friend from the Arabic lessons at Polyglot Institute had finally married his Phillipino girlfriend.

Smiling faces with perfect holiday albums and picture perfect lives gave me hope. Facebook helped me connect with that part of my life that I had almost forgotten, friends with whom I had lost hope to reconnect. For nomads like us, like me, the fact that somebody from the past, distant or near, would remember, care to look up and connect gives a different high.