Is it easy to forgive or forget?
That was the debate long time back in her moral science class. Forget, she’d argued, for she would never be able to forgive someone for the crime they committed. It was easier to forget. It was easier to get distracted by life, get busy, move on, succeed, and pretend that it never happened, never hurt.
Sonal looked into her coffee cup and observed the brown coffee stain on its inner sides and dregs at the bottom absently.
“Let’s meet for a cup of coffee,” Prakash had suggested casually. She’d agreed with alacrity, curiosity getting the better of her.
Five years was a long time! She had been curious as to how he’d fared in the time they had lost touch. Wanted to see where he had reached in his life.
Wanted to see whether their old magic still existed.
What magic? There had been no name or designation to it. It had been inadequately and cripplingly boxed in the framework of friendship. A framework whose boundaries were tested every day with yet another “moment”—a walk through the city that lasted for several hours without either of them noticing it; a conversation that lasted all night; a thrilling bike ride through the quiet night streets; long phone calls; intimate confessions… They were “just friends.”
Perhaps both of them had been cowards—too scared of rejection, too scared to disturb status quo. And yet, the anger had simmered and grown, fed by frustrated expectations, unsaid sentiments and a queer inability to talk about “it.” It had colored their friendship—usurped it. So much so that when they started drifting apart, there had been some malicious pleasure in being rude and remote.
When Prakash had gotten a job in Hyderabad, she had been the last person to know—so much had the chasm between them deepened. Their goodbyes had been stiff and awkward. Almost hostile.
She had forgotten Prakash—it was difficult in the beginning, but as the days passed, it became easy enough. He completely slipped her mind when she’d met Satish and eventually married him.
When Prakash had connected with her on Facebook a month ago, she hadn’t thought of him at all in the past two to three years.
And here she was. And there he was.
She looked at him. The same unruly hair, but now weaved with silver; the same tall frame, but now going slightly out of shape; the same sardonic half smile, but some new lines.
He met her gaze. “So what brought you to Pune?” he asked.
“I had a meeting with our IT vendor, who sits here, in our back office,” Sonal responded.
“And you said you will be here for a couple of days?” he enquired.
“Yes—I’ll be returning to Mumbai tomorrow evening,” she responded.
Pause.
Whatever she had imagined of their meeting, she hadn’t expected the awkwardness. This irrational reluctance to try.
“You like Pune?” she asked. Prakash had informed her that he’d moved there some eight months ago.
He shrugged. “It’s nice during winter,” he said.
She looked out through the glass wall of the coffee shop into the well lit bustling street. “It sure is pretty,” she observed.
“You didn’t move out of Mumbai at all?” he asked.
“Satish and I decided that we won’t be at home anywhere else,” she replied.
Another pause. This terrible inanity!
“How about you? Do you plan to come back?” she asked.
Prakash shook his head. “No, I don’t think I can handle it. One loses one’s soul in Mumbai,” he said.
Sonal raised her eyebrows. “I thought you liked the place,” she said.
“Never,” he said.
Sonal was taken aback. What about those endless prowling around the city that they had done, all those years ago? The restless exploring they had done almost every weekend?
“I met some incredible people there, but I never could settle down there,” he continued.
“You don’t seem settled even now,” Sonal said, the words out before she could control it.
He grinned. “Yeah, footloose and fancy free,” he commented.
“You like it?” she asked curiously.
“Do you like being married?” he asked.
What was this question? Why did he ask it? What did he expect? Sonal felt the old anger raising its ugly head in her chest.
“It’s great,” she said tightly.
“It suits you,” he said unexpectedly.
She laughed self-consciously. “You should try it then,” she murmured.
“I should,” he agreed.
She sighed. This conversation was not going anywhere. They had once shared an easy dialogue—an ability to talk about everything and nothing. Talk for hours. Talk un-self consciously, talk with great understanding, and talk with a great sense of bonding. What a contrast to this stilted, insipid interaction!
She made a show of looking at her watch. “I should be getting back. Have an early morning tomorrow,” she said, at her most professional.
“Really?” Prakash asked, looking sharply at her.
“Yes,” she collected her bag.
“How will you get back?” he asked.
“I will take an auto,” she replied.
“Where are you put up at?” he asked.
“At the O, Koregaon park,” she said.
“Oh then come, I’ll drop you. Not too far from here,” he said.
She frowned. “You sure?” she asked.
“Yes, no problem,” he said and got up.
She followed him out of the coffee shop to the parking lot of the mall. She drew up short when she realized he had a bike.
“Oh!” she said.
“I haven’t changed my ride,” he grinned.
“I—um…” she stammered.
“You are ok with riding on the bike right?” he asked, suddenly uncertain.
She didn’t know. She hadn’t ridden on one in years. Not since—not since she rode on his, all those years ago. None of her peers had bikes anymore—only one or two bikers, with their bikers clubs and rider manias. Not as means of urban transportation, but as a statement of individuality.
“Should I put you in an auto?” he asked, his frown deepening, seeing her hesitation.
She drew in a breath. “No, this is fine,” she said, feeling slightly light headed.
He wore his jacket and his helmet and swung his leg over the bike—she realized that she had not forgotten the ritual. Is it easy to forget?
He removed the stand, kick-started the bike, kicked the footrests out and brought the bike out of its parking. “Come,” he said.
She put her hands on his shoulders. She hadn’t forgotten the firmness and broadness of his shoulders. She also sat astride, behind him, leaving her hands on his shoulders.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
They set off. They encountered traffic as soon as they emerged from the mall. It continued for a while.
“Why is there so much traffic?” she complained.
“We are on the North Main Road, there’s bound to be traffic,” he responded.
“Take me for a ride,” she said suddenly, surprising herself.
“What?” he asked sounding equally surprised.
“A ride—show me your city. Show me Koregaon park. I see misty, tree lined lanes during my morning walks,” she said.
“You are crazy!” he said.
“Go go, I’m bored with this traffic!” she said recklessly.
She felt him sigh. He took a u-turn at the next signal. They entered the lane where the ashram was shortly. They drove through the police barricades, past the ashram and the hospital, reached the end of the street, turned left and got lost in the maze of the exclusive streets, lined with tall trees and mammoth gates concealing mansions. The dark streets were more or less deserted, except for one or two security guards.
The ride was chilly. Sonal shed the distance that had built up between them and leaned in, rested her forehead on his shoulder. The years fell by.
She drew in a breath and started talking. About everything—nothing.
Was it this easy to forgive?
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