I had always been coy to express what I thought about the world, the people around me, the gods, the soft, relentless murmurs in my head, the heartless future—and still, they continued.
I was always given meticulous attention in everything I did, and it often weighed down my heart. Society seemed a swarm of bees, irritated by the susurrus winds of a monsoon night, whimpering all day long—until I reached my final destination.
That night had a charm. The streetlights glowed, reflecting in the rainfall. I was deprived of remembering the exact time when I ventured to the station; it was somewhere in the middle of July. I met the woman there. She was coy—a resplendent woman. I apologize to disappoint, but the depth of knowledge required to guess a woman's age seemed harder than solving my cousin's math.
The beauty shone through her face, which gave me a sense of relief to mull over the idea that I could guess her age. She was no more than thirty years old, yet I might be wrong in my assumption. I desired to speak with her—not because she was beautiful, but because my solitude rose higher than my blood pressure, which disappointed me, causing my blood pressure to rise again—higher than my solitude—an endless dubiety.
I pondered if she might embark to speak—a little gesture, a simple hello, a disappointed remark, or a humble embrace. But the coyness of the lady was a crime. I didn’t have enough words nor enough time, so I broke the silence and asked, “Are you going somewhere?”
“No, I’m wasting my time here,” she replied.
“Me too, ma’am,” I said, fearful of the circumstances I might face.
“Why do boys like you always tease girls for no reason?” she asked, her voice tinged with frustration.
“I apologize for the inconvenience, ma’am,” I added, leaving the place sooner.
The absurd part of my life was that I had never truly allowed my keen mind to grasp the simple idea of why I always fell into the same problem—one I dreamt up by overthinking. My mother had always repeated the exact same words: you are not smart enough to see the world by yourself, and even if you are smart, you can’t handle people with empathy, words, and silence. I understood a very simple fact—my mother was right.
The days melted into the dizziness of my mind, as if I were a man of words—yet forsaken by everyone but myself. The people around me, dissembling as innocent and merciful to mankind, always chided me during my absence but showed a shower of appreciation when I manifested myself before them.
I had never imagined that I would meet the girl again at the same spot, in the same environment, and with the same temper unveiled last time.
“Ma’am,” I whispered in her ear, sweat rolling down my face, fearing that she might slap me this time.
“You again,” she said. Her words seemed different than before.
“I didn’t mean to disappoint you last time. I never tease girls,” I insisted, clearing my intention.
Thus, a long conversation glided that day, at the same time—half past six. A ferocious liquid of adrenaline still rushes through me whenever the clock shows me the time, as my exhausted heart is seduced to go there. The saddest aspect of my life was that I never thought it necessary to ask the reason for her arrival at the station. She often asked me why I sat there before her arrival—but I repeated for two days with unwavering patience that I came there to pass my time, as I was in a serious condition where solitude caused more pain than inflicting poison into the body through an unprescribed injection.
“I understand,” she replied, describing the story of her life, which not only shook me but also overwhelmed me with the shabbiness of life—something people usually fail to see just by looking at a face.
She was a thirty-year-old woman. It was a matter of suspicion that she articulated the story to a stranger quite serendipitously. But life resurfaced unexpected scenarios sometimes, and this time, a wild serendipity occurred.
She ran an orphan school. I should never have classified it as a school where students received education simply because they had no parents. The situation was quite different. She said the students were not orphans, yet they were orphaned. They were boys and girls whose parents didn’t usually care—not about their education, nor only their education, but about every aspect of their lives. I wondered how parents could be so cruel, but she ascertained that this was all too common in rural areas.
She desired to complete the story, and I, being a silent listener, yearned to hear her—but the train arrived sooner than usual. I wanted to ask why she had come here, to my own hometown, and where she lived—but she left, assuring me that she would meet me on Monday at half past six. My eyes were exhausted from contemplating the long time I would need to wait to unmask the remaining story, which hadn’t even begun yet.
Upon returning from the station, I shared the incident with my mother, but she remained silent—probably contemplating the idea that I was the dumbest son in the world. The days slowed down—as though time had stopped or was slowly elapsing. But on Monday, after finishing my lunch, I reached the station as fast as my legs could carry me—even horses might have been ashamed of being slower than me that day.
I waited eagerly for the moment to ask her name, address, the location of the orphan school, and many other things that might seem overwhelming in written words. Though she failed to keep her promise, I had made up my mind to chide her for disobeying her own command—“Meet me at half past six.” But something awkward happened: she didn’t come. The promise had been broken.
Actually, it wasn’t just about the promise; I thought some unforeseen circumstance might have befallen her. So, I waited until eleven at night and then returned home—with rebukes floating through the empty air.
I didn’t sleep that night, meditating on the conversation we had previously. I knew she must come, for a promise once made is hard to break—especially for someone generous like her. So, I returned to the station the next day and waited all day long. Evening slipped quietly into the trees, but she never showed her face.
For two weeks straight, I kept going to the station, but she didn’t arrive. My mother insisted she would never come—and that I should let her go and focus on my career.
I found someone with whom the stories I had long hesitated to share with the world became easier to speak—because she was a beautiful woman. Not in her looks, though she was beautiful indeed, but in her kindness—beyond what my words could express. But time, being an invisible poison, had conducted something bizarre for me.
Two weeks passed, and I had almost forgotten that someone—the girl I once knew—existed. “For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,” I thought. I was sitting at the station when the Rajdhani Express rushed in and stopped before my eyes. At a distance, a girl, veiled in gossamer clothes, approached me and said, “Remember me?”
We had been talking to each other for two days—every day, at half past six, I felt it.
She was she! I knew she was she. “I knew you’d come,” I declared.
“I didn’t know I’d been coming here every day, waiting for you,” she said.
“I didn’t come, because I thought you’d forgotten me—and we’d never meet again,” I replied.
“Take this, I have to go soon. I have medical check-ups,” she said, handing me a letter wrapped in a black envelope. She left before I could prolong the conversation.
I opened the envelope, and in black ink was written:
“I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t tell you before. I won’t live long. I’m fine now, but my body will deteriorate sooner or later.
I want you never to come here again—at least not at half past six. I don’t want to see you.
You are the bravest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Don’t be too innocent, that’s all.
We’ll both die—I will die soon, and you’ll be the latter.
Our two days of conversation brought me joy. I listened to you without judgment, and you did the same for me. So don’t worry. I don’t want to prolong our conversation, because sooner or later, I’ll be gone.
Yours,
Silly-Willy”
I never visited the station at half past six again. I had no desire to ask the questions—her name, address, the location of the orphan school, or anything else. I was twenty the last time I met her. Six years have passed since then. She has probably found peace—a stranger to me now. I feel optimistic that I, too, will find my peace in this world, if not forever.
At night, when I often visited the station, some unknown, incessant whispering overwhelmed me. I often talked to the air until someone shook me—and I returned to my present state.
I couldn’t believe that six years had passed and everything had changed. No one believed my story—not my mother, my friends, my teachers, my enemies, nor my false relatives.
To them, I was dumb. Indeed, I was dumb. But to her, I was a man of words.
I wished she would be with me—that we would stay together, propose to each other, marry, and live like a man of words—to my mother, my friends, my teachers, my enemies, and my false relatives.
But I was not only dumb—my life was dumb.
Every day, when the clock scornfully murmurs half past six in my ears, I weep, I cry, I shed tears—but I never go to the station.
Because we’ll meet again, at some unknown station, soon… if something I never believed in exists.
