I was a mediocre student—one who never failed, but also one who never achieved the dazzling heights. I was always in the middle, squeezed in between the brilliant and the dumb ones. Neither smart, nor dull. It was in the summer of 1999 that she came to our school as a new enrollment in the eighth grade. Our class teacher introduced her to the rest of the class as she stood idle while her fingers played with the edge of her skirt as she lowered her gaze to the floor. The teacher further said that she was originally from Darjeeling and that she had come to town with her parents, following her father’s transfer. ‘Niharika’ was the name the teacher uttered when he introduced her. Until then, I was sitting with my eyes staring down, my fingers covering my forehead. And as soon as I heard the teacher utter her name, which I found exotic, I looked up and threw a glance at her. She was beautiful. I kept looking at her until she

walked across several benches and came and sat in the row next to mine. And after all these years, I remember every single thing that happened between us after the day she first came to our class.

She was a little introverted, a little reticent like me, and it did not surprise me that she had few friends in the class. She talked only when spoken to or when she had to speak out of obligation. She was not the type who would approach people and talk with them just for the sake of talking or befriending a stranger. As she used to sit in front of my row, I had the privilege of observing her activities in class. As I myself was her replica, in being an introvert, we did not speak for the first two weeks. It was she who first found a reason to speak with me. Her ball-point pen betrayed her in the middle of a lecture and out of desperation, or so it seemed, she turned around, toward me, and gestured to ask if I had an extra pen. I rummaged through the pockets of my school bag, found one and gave it to her. Almost immediately, I realised that the pen was not in good condition and that it spilled ink occasionally. She was already scribbling in her copy, and as it was already too late, I dropped the idea about warning her about the pen’s condition. And it was only after the teacher had left the class that she turned back and showed her fingers, laced with blue ink. I feared that

she might be angry; but surprisingly, she had a smile planted on her face. With the next teacher already inside the class, all I could manage was a stifled apology.

“I am extremely sorry. I couldn’t tell you about the pen’s condition earlier,” I made a formal apology after the class was over.

“Oh, never mind. Looks like Holi has arrived earlier,” she quipped.

I didn’t know that she, an introvert, had such a sense of humour. Only then did I come to know

that the place she was staying at was near my place and that she, too, walked the same path I treaded on my way to school.

“We live in my father’s quarters, provided by the office,” she said. Her father worked in an INGO in town.

Then onwards, we came to the school and returned together. Our camaraderie, which I loved, had slowly started to grab our schoolmates’ attention, fueling jealousy in some, and amazement in others. My friends, especially the boys, teased me, which of course I ignored. We talked little while at school, aware of the people around us, for we did not want to be an everyday-topic. However, while we two were alone, like when we went to or returned from school, we opened up. She talked about her childhood days in Darjeeling and her friends over there. She even recounted one tale about how she went for a week of vacation with her family to Rajasthan when all the academic institutions were closed because of the Gorkhaland movement in the hills of Darjeeling.

“To be honest, I don’t even know what the Gorkhaland movement is for,” she said. I too didn’t know what it was for then. All I knew was that the people of Darjeeling were demanding a separate state.

And one day, while we were returning from school early in the afternoon, as it was a Friday, I asked her, almost casually, if she was interested in going for a movie with me. To my surprise, she readily agreed. And, without even changing our school uniform, we went for a movie, a recently released Bollywood romantic flick. And the only thing I remember today is not the film or its plot, but the fact that she had, for the first time, held my hands, in the darkness inside the cinema hall. The other thing I now remember is how we emerged from the hall, our hands still clasped tight, our faces blushed. I also remember a light peck, my first kiss, which she left on my cheeks, later in the day when we were heading home.

And after all these years, as I stand in front of the window of my house, looking at the rain, I recollect all those memories of those two years. Soon after completing the tenth grade, she left the town along with her family, as her father was transferred to another town, leaving me and our slowly growing companionship behind. The bud was snapped even before it had developed into a flower. The day she left town, it rained—not heavy, but a continuous drizzle throughout the day. Misty eyed, I watched her depart, from the balcony. And even to this day, whenever it drizzles, or when I listen to the dying sound of a van’s engine, I remember that rainy day when she disappeared from town. And later on, from my life.