The Bench

Slowly, as effortlessly as my body could let me, I got off the road and rolled on the footpath.

The only thing that I saw was the iron leg of a bench. All that I was aware about was a throbbing headache and something warm running down my cheek. I staggered, struggled and sat on the bench. Oddly, the pain began to suddenly subside. The wound was the evidence of a fight… well, not technically. It wasn’t a fight… it was something else. In fact, I could hardly put my finger on that incident which gave me that gash. And the more I thought about it, the more it parted ways from my memory. I was now completely blank on how I got the wound. The pain confirmed its presence.

I had never been to this side of the state, let alone to the town of Khapargalli, let alone to Cain Church. I think I was on a vacation with my wife and children, but they now seemed like a dream that betrays memory at dawn. However, the bench felt oddly familiar. I had been there before, I had sat on this bench before. Memories of me reading a Marathi book or a newspaper on that bench were flooding my head to a delirium. From where I saw, the places, the faces bore familiarity and everything, everyone surprised me. The poeple were differenly dressed, I had only seen these clothes in period movies of pre-independence ear. There were no cars, no tar on the roads. A little boy of no more than 7 placed a whhite cup of tea in my hand, winked and stretched his hand as if he was asking for something. I knew what that meant, I wasn’t supposed to know it. I had never seen that boy. I reached out to my pocket and gave him a piece of peanut chikki. How it came there was beyond my thinking!

“Toh aala ahey,” the boy dropped the chikki and screamed in marathi. “Janardan parat aala ahey!” (Janardan has returned)

This was the first time ever that I had visited Cain Church. Have I mentioned this before? My face was that of a stranger and I knew it, but THEY didn’t. They looked at me with love, compassion and that immense, innocent want, as if seeking answers to the queries in their mind. They gathered around me, ruffled my hair, touched my arms and face. “Janardan,” they said. “You came? You’re really here!” I recognized their voices. Chimaji Appa, Kesaribhau Pant and Nilima Godse. I know not how these names came to my head, but their faces smiled when I looked at them. And I recognized Sarita, yet I had never seen here before in my life. She was garbed in traditional Maharashtrian 9-yard saree, beautiful as ever. She smiled and invited me to hold her hand. I recognized her bangles, I remember gifting the green bangles to her. A memory around those bangles was building in my head. I had kissed her forehead after gifting her those glass bangles. She had prepared “Banana Sheera” that afternoon. It was a memory of a life that I hadn’t lived. She called out to me in that familiar, silver voice that gripped my heart with extreme kindness.

The pain of my wound granted complete forgiveness.

I got up from the bench to reach out to her hand, and all vanished. They vanished! Everythhing dissappeared. There was someone beautiful standing in traditional Maharashtrian saree who was calling out to me. I couldn’t recollect her name, but she seemed familiar. There were others around me, friends and family, but not anymore. All that remained in front of me was this huge Cain Church monument, and someone was tugging at my sleeve. My son was asking me if I was alright and if I was hurt too bad. “Can you hear me?” Rui was speaking, her voice heavy with concern, rubbing my shoulder with her palm. I was looking at her through what seemed like a smoke screen. The jingle of her green glass bangles was trying hard to make me recover.

I stepped forward and a piece of peanut chikki crunched under my foot.