Seven years of a good marriage is enough for a couple to develop
telepathic connection. So attuned can you get to each other’s energy rhythms, it
is possible to be together and alone at the same time. Ratan was an early to
bed, early to rise disciplined professional while wife Meeta kept owlish hours
for her creative output. On most days, he would be winding down about dinner
time just as she would be going amber, ready to turn green as night fell.
“I missed my morning walk today. What’s the time? I could swing it even
now” Ratan glanced at the ticking clock right behind her on the wall, “Nine, it
says! You’ll do your usual two rounds I suppose. I might be flat out when you
return" he forewarned her.
“Not to worry, I better grab the moment” Meeta trotted towards her bed
room busily. Slipping into her jogging gear, she let herself out into the windy
dark, “Please don’t latch the front door by mistake Ratan. I hear lightning outside
and I might cut the stroll short.”
"It is a flaky kind of night to step out,” the husband called after
her. He had driven home under an overcast sky, the breeze was angry and
twigs had danced on his car bonnet. The rain gods hadn’t made up their minds
yet! “Our campus is quite safe though with the two guards at either gate” he
decided to turn in. “She is carrying her mobile phone in any case,” he was not
one to fret.
Placing thoughts of his wife aside for the moment, Ratan began his
nightly ritual. He approached the refrigerator to fetch a water bottle for his
bedstead. A printed sheet under the Chinese magnet caught his eye. It looked fresh.
The type style was bold. A security alert! Strange, he thought. Meeta must have
missed it; the helper had likely received it and placed it under the magnet,
having forgotten all about it during the day’s events.
Intrigued by the unusual heading, Ratan plucked the single leaf and
ambled to the silent study. He was not unduly concerned. This was a secure
cantonment, what threat could the security people be warning them about? The clap of thunder and falling water bothered
him more.
Pushing the typed notice under the lamp, he reached for the switch. His
chest felt it had been hit by a train. He
nearly fell back in horror then dived for his phone, pressing the quick dial
with a trembling hand. There was no answer! He redialled, willing her to pick
up. “This can’t be happening!” he dialled the guard room. “Yes sir, Madam
walked past gate number two some twenty minutes ago,” the soldier reported from
his post.
Ratan made a dash for the garage. Meeta took fifteen minutes to cover
one loop, she was five minutes late. The water would have slowed her down, she
was not carrying an umbrella. The rainstorm had gathered force and silver blue
streaks were propagating in the carbon skies above. He pulled onto the
road, headlights blazing, wipers at maximum speed, unsure if she had taken her
regular path. An asphyxiating emotion had begun to weigh him down as he drove
past gate number two for the third time. There was no sign of her. He parked
his vehicle, alighted, raised his face to the downpour and howled her name. The
phone circuit went berserk with the neighbourhood up, alerts were sent out, there
was shock and alarm.
A grown, GPS-ed, facebooked, credit rated, emailed, PIN ed mother of two
had vanished into thin air that harrowing night. No sign of her. He
fractured in the head and heart with ache at the mystery of her disappearance.
For him, there was no closure, ever.
When the hurt became unbearable, he would pull out the phone they had
found lying in the grass by the road that day, about two
hundred meters from the guardroom. He would jab the voice recorder
fearfully and listen, heart in mouth, to her last recording, “This stretch
feels spooky somehow. Maybe I should head back home. But wait, the trees make
such a picturesque archway as far as the eyes go. The leaves are spinning in a
vortex. There is a muddy wetness, the wind slaps my limbs. I feel very alone.
What is that coming round the corner? Motor bikes, in this weather? The riders
are hooded, there seem three. They could be youngsters visiting a friend except
that there is something menacing in their approach. They seem to be slowing
down.”
Several seconds of static followed not unlike Ratan’s own mind, silently
hissing with questions.
Meeta was a writer and often dictated stories as she walked. Was this
for real?
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