A Friend I'm Proud to Know

Short story from the collection, ' A Mirage Called Emotion'

                           We were classmates but not best friends. I belonged to a gang of rather loud and noisy juveniles while Meena belonged to what we had dubbed as the ‘boring group.’ This was the time when mournful Pat Boone sang on Hit Parade and the young energetic Cliff Richards and the sexy gyrating Elvis the Pelvis were the rage of youth world over. The boring group liked mushy stuff, wept copiously watching Sangam where a heavily made up heroine was courted by two portly men while we enjoyed Blindfold and Guns of Navarone. During holidays we wrote long letters to one another much to the amazement of our parents who had seen little of this penmanship either in our school work or in our weekly letters home. I don’t recall getting a single letter from Meena and have a vague memory of a rather delicate and emotional girl who loved to ride wearing fitting jodhpurs and boots and spent hours in front of the dormitory mirror brushing her wavy black hair to a burnished sheen.

                        The gang kept in touch after school and the voluminous missives continued with erratic frequency. Some of us had enrolled in the same college and lived in the hostel on campus. College had settled into a steady rhythm when I thought I saw Meena entering the main gates. I quite forgot the incident till Prema remarked during the lunch hour, ‘You remember Meena from the boring group. She’s here in college as a day pupil, and in my English department. Poor thing, she spoke of all of us getting together. Wonder how she landed up here as a day scholar?’ The conversation then jumped to some other more pressing matter and we forgot Meena.

                       A few days later at dinner Prema once again mentioned Meena and said they had talked briefly and we were all to meet during the morning break the next day for cokes at the college canteen. We got together and over cokes and samosas received a full account of Meena’s life from the time she had left school six months back. So engrossed were we in hearing her story that we missed two classes and were pulled up by our department heads.

           Soon after leaving school Meena’s father had passed away in a sudden and dramatic manner. He had gone to Lucknow on business from Bombay and was discovered in the first class train compartment, cold and lifeless. Nothing was stolen or missing but it became a messy police affair with post mortem and statements. Meena and her mother had to go to a small district town in Madhya Pradesh for claiming the body and completing the paper work. The entire experience had rattled the mother who had turned belligerent and quarrelsome with all the officials and lawyers and it was left to Meena to take charge of the affair and set matters right. Back in Bombay their solicitor had bleak news as he apprised them of the numerous litigations regarding the business and their property and a large part of their money that was tied in bank guarantees for their business. During this turbulent time some of their tenants in Bombay had tried to dispose of their tenanted portions, leaving Meena and her mother no choice but to file several civil suits in order to keep control of their own home.

             Meena’s mother decided that it would be best for them to move to a calmer location and get away from the highly charged atmosphere of Bombay. They had rented a small place very close to the college, and with a couple of servants from Bombay were living a saner quieter life. Meena insisted we visit her home that weekend for lunch. Uncharacteristically she ended by remarking. ‘I am so glad that all of us are here together. It makes this new place more bearable and after the pain of the last few months I feel more cheerful.’ 

          There had been no ‘us’ before but the lure of home food so generously offered and our natural sympathy for the hard knocks Meena had had to bear made us rather gentle with her. We visited her home not just that Saturday but every Saturday thereafter and that became a ritual whether we spent the whole afternoon or left after having a delicious meal. The four of us from the hostel had Meena’s mother included as one of our local guardians and therefore we had no difficulty in making the Saturday visit. We would be careful of our manners and not try to wolf down the delicately spiced mince kebabs, the tender chicken curry, steaming hot paratha or phulkas flimsier than a pashmina or the fragrant jeera pulao cooked in basmati rice and ghee. This spread was always followed by a beautifully presented desert like a lemon soufflé, caramel custard or a baked pudding rich with cake and nuts. Meena’s mother was a gracious host and the table would be set with fine napery, sparkling crystal and attractive cut flowers. We took all this in without comment, concentrating on the food and etiquette and bolting out to catch the Saturday matinee in the 70 mm cinema across the house. Several times we urged Meena to join us but her mother always refused for her. ‘You carry on dears; Meena has a lot of work to attend to her father’s papers and business. She has to learn everything as she will inherit all this when she turns twenty one.’

         Meena had started looking very attractive and had lost the sickly look that she had when we were at school. She had a quick enquiring expression and a very sweet smile, her posture was erect and graceful from all those years of sitting astride the horses and her black wavy hair sparkled in the sunlight. She wore well matched kurta’s and churidars that spoke of taste and expense but there was never anything loud or brash that drew attention. She had made some new friends and often we would pass each other in the corridor between classes and exchange a quick smile. These friends were not part of our Saturday luncheons and we were glad that our little circle was not infiltrated. Honestly we were rather a self absorbed and clannish lot but Meena was very perceptive. I like to believe that Meena too looked forward to our Saturday lunches, associating herself with our foolish opinionated conversations and banter with more kinship than with the great business edifice that awaited her in Bombay.

                   Over the years we had scraps of news of Meena, as her name always cropped up in our recollections of that ghastly first year of college. Over time we would reminisce with great fondness about Meena and her mother along with those weekly visits to her lovely home, the elegance and style of the furnishings and most of all the exquisite meals prepared with care and served with great style. Looking back we all realized that we had absorbed much more than we had been conscious of at that time and it was our first introduction to graceful living. Sadly the business empire had been closed, Meena

remained single and mother and daughter continued to move the civil courts to claim back their beautiful building struggling to make ends meet.

                 I last saw Meena by chance at the Railway station. I had gone with my husband and two girls to receive an elderly aunt and was busy trying to keep the girls from fidgeting or warding off flies. I hated coming to this place but protocol and respect for the elderly demanded that I be present and the girls loved the din. The train finally pulled in and we moved towards the air-conditioned coaches. The aunt and bags were safely collected and a porter recruited for carrying the luggage. My husband was haggling with the porter and vaguely I glanced around when I espied Meena alighting from a three tier coach. It was a surprise and admonishing the girls not to stir I quickly went up to her.

          She was still slim and the wavy hair was glossy but grey. A pair of spectacles perched on her nose, a large handbag hung over one arm. She was wearing a pretty but much faded salwar kurta with the dupatta flung over her shoulders like a cape. I went up to her, smiled and hugged. ‘Wow Meena this is a surprise. What brings you here?’

         Meena was startled and took a minute to place me and then smiled so sweetly. ‘Hi, Mother and I are off to visit the big temple and have to change trains. We can’t seem to get hold of a porter and Mother is fretting. Oh, here she is.’

         Mother had appeared at the compartment entrance looking frail and old. She was wearing a cotton sari badly crumpled after the journey. Meena tried to tell her who I was but she was busy trying to call for a porter. I grabbed hold of one and had him move the two heavy bags out of the compartment. They were going to the waiting rooms to sit the few hours before the next connection. My family was signalling wildly and asking me to return. I shook hands with Meena’s mother and gave Meena a brief hug. ‘Here is my phone number Meena, call me if you need anything. Now I must go. Bye.’

              Shouldering my way back to my family, I looked back and saw Meena and her mother were in a heated argument with the porter who was making some aggressive gestures, I half turned to go back to them but my husband was frowning furiously and I wished to avoid a scene later at home.

            Gentle, well brought Meena was a gallant figure that morning and I felt a queer stab in my heart to see the two ladies fending for themselves with such quiet dignity that was unmistakably gracious. I have always wished I had told them how much I had come to appreciate their grace and hospitality all those years ago even in the midst of their adversity and trying situation. I have ever since thought of Meena as my very dear friend as it seemed to make me a better person.