"One cigarette," he said with his usual stern voice. I knew he would ask for one, so I always keep one ready.
"Here you go," I passed him his cigarette and held my lighter to light it. He nodded his head in appreciation and started to leave. He never says much — maybe that's his attitude, or maybe he just doesn't talk much.
He took a seat on the railway bench next to my shop. His usual spot — like it's kind of reserved for him for years.
Sometimes I wonder why he always brings flowers with him. Maybe someday I should ask Mrs. Ahuja about this. Mrs. Ahuja is a sweet and kind lady who runs a small flower shop just a few shops away from mine. Maybe that old lady would tell me something about him. Anyway, I didn't have anything to do with this. I moved my focus back to reading my newspaper.
I fell asleep while reading the newspaper on my chair — my arms folded and my head slightly tilted down. Then a loud honk of a train woke me up. It was the 5:15 local that goes to the main city. The train doors were closing. I saw a girl chasing the train in an attempt to get onboard, but she was already late. The train left right in front of her eyes. I could sense disappointment on her face as the next train would arrive after 35 minutes. She took a seat on the railway bench near my shop.
The girl gave a small look at the guy seated on the other end of the bench. There he was, smoking. She cleared her throat. She said softly, "Excuse me, you can't smoke here. This is a public place."
He ignored her and continued to smoke. She removed her book from her bag and started to scribble.
The silence was soon filled with the sound of her scribbling — the friction of the pencil on the rough brown papers from her notebook reminded me of my childhood.
I stepped out of my shop and asked her if she needed something since she missed her train.
"No, I am good. Thanks for asking," she said with kindness in her tone. I wanted to ask her if she would sketch my wife's photo, but I was feeling hesitant.
"Uncle, is there something I can help you with?" At this point, I asked her about my wife's sketch.
"I would love to sketch your wife," she said with a wide smile. She was a kind and generous girl.
I put my hand in my shirt pocket and gave her a photo of my wife.
"Aww, she is so pretty," she said.
I knew my wife was beautiful, but hearing some random stranger compliment her was a very happy moment for me.
"Even if she is no more, I still fall for her every day," I said with a little excitement in my voice.
After a few minutes of scribbling, she gave me a sketch of my wife.
"Uncle, here is your pretty woman. Have a look."
My eyes were a little wet with tears and mesmerizing memories of her.
"Thank you so much," I said, wiping my eyes and smiling at her. "I will keep this close to my heart. Always."
"Here, take this — for making a sketch of my wife." I gave her my pen, the one my grandfather gave me when I was 17. A 1938 model made in England. Always close to my heart.
"No uncle, I can't keep this. I made your wife's sketch because she is really beautiful. And for making beautiful sketches, I don't need any rewards. You liked it, and that is my reward."
However, when I kept insisting, she finally agreed to take the pen. When I left for my shop, she again started to scribble in her notebook.
The guy seated on the other end got up and started to leave the place. As he got up, he didn't notice — but a letter slipped from his jacket.
The girl, busy in her scribbling, didn't notice at first. But after a few moments, her gaze fell on the letter on the bench.
She picked up the letter and saw her name written on it — "To Ananya."
Her name written on the letter made her curious. She opened the letter and read it:
---
To Ananya,
I hope you are fine. Just writing this letter to let you know that your pet cat is now mom to 3 kittens. And all of them are so beautiful. I still remember the day when you gave me your pet to take care of.
I named them Daisy, Chubby, and Snowbell.
Every day I wait for you. I hope to see you soon. Wish you luck.
As she read, a small smile spread across her face. But then confusion set in.
"I never had a cat…" she whispered to herself.
She looked up and scanned the platform.
There he was — the man with the cigarette and the flowers — walking away, disappearing into the evening.
She packed her notebook and took her bag, walking after him. "Hey!"
He stopped in his path and turned around to see who was calling him. There she was — our Ananya — holding the letter with her name.
"I think you dropped this letter," she said in a gentle voice.
The guy checked his pockets and found that the letter was missing. He took it from her and nodded in appreciation.
As he never speaks much, I was finding him a bit egoistic at this point. At least he should have thanked her.
Ananya was curious about her name on the letter, so out of curiosity — before he could leave again — she said, "The letter! You have written to Ananya, right?"
He didn't say anything, just waited for her to finish so he could leave. After a moment of silence:
"I am Ananya. When I found this letter, I thought someone had written it to me. But when I read it, I realized it's for your Ananya."
Still no expression on his face.
"I'm sorry I read your letter. My name was written on it, so…"
Before she could complete her sentence, he started to walk away saying, "Thank you."
At this point, I was watching him disappear into the evening, leaving the girl alone on the platform.
I shared a look with her — a gentle smile, pointing to the sketch she made of my wife. With a simple smile, she nodded and took her seat on the bench by my shop.
"How rude," she whispered to herself.
I placed the sketch beside my wife's photo behind the counter — right where the sunlight falls every morning.
That girl made something priceless for me today.
A moment from yesterday… brought to life with pencil strokes.
As the platform emptied and the sky turned a little darker, I glanced once more at the bench.
The cigarette smoke had long faded, but the questions hung in the air like ghosts.
Who was his Ananya?
Maybe I'll ask Mrs. Ahuja tomorrow.
Or maybe I won't.
Some mysteries are sweeter when left unanswered.