We meet every ten years. It’s strange, but so are most things. The first time we met was when I was 15. I was coming back home from school. Tenth boards were around the corner and our school had made it mandatory for everyone to attend the extra classes. During these last few months before the boards, it used to get late, and we would usually reach home by six in the evening. That day, after the extra class, I stayed back at school with a couple of my friends to play basketball. I wasn’t any good at it, but my friends and I collectively felt the need to wind down for a few minutes before heading back home. In fact, we didn’t even have the energy to ‘play’ basketball. We were just aiming the ball at the basket from half-court, hoping it would go in. It didn’t. After many unsuccessful attempts, we decided to go home. The adrenaline rush we thought we would get by playing basketball was slowly getting replaced by the fear of reaching home late.
It was getting dark. Except for a peon or two, there was nobody at the school either. I didn’t even have the energy to go get my bag from my classroom. The classroom was on the fourth floor. My friends had left. I was already cursing myself for not getting my bag to the basketball court. Why am I so stupid? Everyone got their bags, what the fuck was I doing? After five long minutes of climbing the stairs, I reached the fourth floor. I walked towards the end of the corridor, where my classroom was. As I was walking, something felt off. And then it hit me. All the classrooms were full of students. How is it possible? The classes got over at five-thirty. Must be some other sections. I walked on. I reached my classroom, and from the window, I saw that my class too was full of students. Except for me, everyone was present in the class. But other than this, something else was strange too. There was no sound. I couldn't hear anything. Or touch. It was as if someone is playing the recording of my day on an 8k (or whatever the resolution of eyes is) projector and had kept the sound off.
I ran in fear. As fast as I could. And that’s when I bumped into a man. He was in his early thirties probably. I had never seen him before. Thick beard. Glasses. But I kept running. The corridor seemed to grow in length. I bumped into that man again. I kept running. Bumped one more time. Still ran. I must have run a few kilometers before realising that I was stuck in a loop. I had to stop running after a while, to catch my breath. I hesitantly looked at the man, who was standing right behind me. “I want to go home”, I said. “You will be home in a few minutes, don’t worry”, the man said. I don’t know this man, but something felt right about his voice. You know, how some people have that calming sort of voice, the one which conveys how good their heart is. That was the kind of voice he had. Comforting. “Please, I wanna go home now”, I said again. I was scared. “Do you wanna talk?”, he asked again. No, I said. “Okay then, I will meet you again in ten years”, he said and vanished. Everything came back to normal. I ran all the way to my home.
For the next ten years, I kept coming back to this incident. Who was this man? Why was I running in circles? On most days, I’d snap out of this spiral by convincing myself that it was all a hallucination. But my heart knew, it wasn’t. It was real. Everything about that man was real. By the time, I finished college and was three years into my first job, I had forgotten about him. Not completely forgotten, but you know, how when your close one dies, and after a few years, your brain gives you the strength to remember them only when you want to? Because otherwise, you will go insane? That kind of forgotten. I’d think about him now and then, but only when I wanted to. And then one day, I was going home from work and I met this man again.
I was at Andheri station, waiting for my train. It was crowded. He came and stood near me. It took me a second to recognise him. He looked exactly the same. “You again?”, I said, without looking him in the eye. “Yes, it’s been ten years”, he said. I had almost forgotten how comforting his voice was. “Am I in that magical loop again?”, I asked, a bit worried. “Only if you want to be”, he said. “Nope. Don’t want that at all”, I said. We boarded the train together. After a few minutes of silence, he asked the same question, “So, do you wanna talk?”. I didn’t know what to talk about. So I started telling him about my day, then my week, then the past year, and then everything that had happened to me since I last met him. He listened to me patiently, and sometimes, even laughed at my jokes. He even showed interest by asking questions in between. “And then?” “That must have been terrifying” “What did your boss say?” “Hahaha”. It felt good. I felt good. Somebody was listening to me. The train was about to arrive at my station. “So, see you ten years later then?”, I asked him. He nodded. “Do you mind telling me who you are?”, I asked again. I was about to get down. “Does it matter?”, he said smilingly and vanished again. I too had a smile on my face. Does it?
A lot happened in the next ten years. I was doing quite well professionally. In my early thirties, I had shifted to London permanently. Old friendships died, and a few new ones bloomed. I felt happy with all the success. I wasn’t. But I felt. And what you feel is all that matters. At least, that’s what I used to think back then. But one thing was constant, I was more than keen to meet that man again. I had not told about him to anyone. I’d remember him every time I’d pass a milestone in my personal or professional life. “I’ve gotta share this with him”. “I’d love to see what he thinks about this.” “2 more months before I turn 35”. “I wonder where’ll he meet me?” “Can he come to London?”. I was now getting desperate just to talk to him. And he too tested my patience. One day before my thirty-sixth birthday, when I had lost all hopes of ever seeing him again, I spotted him outside my apartment. I was watering my plants at the window, and I felt this gaze upon me. I looked outside and there he was, sitting on the bench right outside my house. It felt like he had been sitting there for quite a long time. I waved enthusiastically. “Hi”, I shouted. I asked him to come up. “Good to see you”, he shouted back. I went down to greet him. But by the time I reached downstairs, he had vanished. I ran a couple of blocks looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t sleep that night. I felt betrayed.
I had been saving up so many stories for him, which I had shared with no one. “How can he just walk away?”. I spent the next few days in anger and the next few months convincing myself that the man isn’t real. But my heart knew he was real. It was all real and he had just ghosted me. A year or so later, one fine evening under the influence of some substances, all the stories that I wanted to tell him, I narrated them to myself. I just needed someone to listen to them. So, I became the listener. Goodbye, man. So long, and thank you for all the fish.
The next ten years were good too. On my forty-third birthday, I decided to retire. I had earned enough for this lifetime. I bought a place in a small village in Italy and settled there. I had stopped thinking about the man. Once every couple of years, I’d narrate life’s all milestones to myself. Honestly, after a while, the milestones don’t feel like milestones. They feel like all the other stones that life has to offer. Nothing special.
I am forty-seven now. My days are spent gardening and reading. I try to write but most days I don’t feel like writing. It’s too taxing. I’d rather read. Most of the good things have already been written. It’s all about finding the right books. A couple of months back, the man showed up. And he has been staying with me since. The irony is I now have nothing worth sharing with him. So we don’t talk much. We just play basketball. Extra classes are over. Life’s good. Or that’s what I feel. And what I feel is all that matters.
Woah
What you feel all matter’s