In his dying moments, he had called her.
I swear that it was not I who had dialled her number. He did it on his own. He probably had a premonition, the fact that he was going to breathe his last. I was busy in office, working on the action plan for the next financial year. By the time I reached him, he was gone.
As I rushed to where he lay alone, moments flashed before my eyes.
Those aimless walks across the streets of Kolkata, our city. Standing on the banks of the Ganges at Princep Ghat to embrace that first break of dawn- the first day of the year- where the first pale red rays of the sun touched us like the first hesitant kiss of a newly wed.
His expressive, once talkative face was a veil of deathly grey, his sleek shape unresponsive to my touch. I shook him. Hoping against hope that he’d suddenly wake up with a start.
Those pictures of violent landscapes, of intrepid faces, of diamond dew drops reflecting a hundred suns. Those drives so far away. That gaping in awe at the first sight of the Himalayan expressway. Those songs of myriad tunes.Those long text messages.
And the missed calls. Especially the missed calls.
I shook him again. It is during times such as these that you keep reason aside and want to believe. Till the time Time tells you to believe in reason again.
“Adios old friend” I sighed, as I prepared myself to bid my trusted companion, my friend, my first smartphone adieu.