My Spring Sonata

 
"Phool hi phool khil uthhe mere paimane mein
Aap kya aaye bahaar aa gayi maikhane mein"
 
She was an effervescent ten-year-old prancing around in shorts and sneakers and he was a lonely 12 year old kid who drew cartoons when he was sad; and it was a beautiful spring afternoon on a sprawling school campus in eastern India. Beautiful for all the right reasons—the red earth, the blue skies, the swaying shimul, palash and sonajhuris, the quiet tranquility of the Khowai and the serene yet rhythmic flow of the Kopai… and yes, there was a tall and silent old Jaam tree that heard them both, absorbing her giggles and his sniffles. Only they did not know. 
She was the uptown metropolitan girl visiting her mother’s alma-mater while he was a local resident. Their mothers were contemporaries in college and only a chance meeting had brought their lives together. That spring afternoon, this little boy was tasked with the duty of showing her around Tagore’s land. She was more than excited to have such a guide.
Though with very few words between them, he took this task with utmost sincerity, and escorted her to all the tourist ‘must see’ locations throughout the day. By noon, their little feet were tired. When they finally reached a clearing by the river Kopai, it was late afternoon. She was hungry and somewhat tired of the silence that prevailed between them. She brought out a ham sandwich from her little box and offered him a bite. He took it from her, thanked her and began sketching again….she wondered if he didn’t like her, if he had even noticed her presence.   
An hour passed by and none of them spoke. She played with the grass, digging earth with her nails….making circles with the dried twigs and thought what life in a sleepy place like this could be like. He seemed unperturbed by her presence.
Evening was setting in and they decided to walk homewards. The path was smeared in a palette of crimson, scarlet and flaming bloom, heralding the season of life in a riot of colours. "I wish I had that flaming red branch of Palash, that one that is so full of flowers that you can hardly see the leaves, right there at the top," she said with a childlike obstinacy, not hoping in the least she would be heard and walked in silence towards the guest house. He escorted her till the wooden gate, said ‘goodnight’ and walked away. Her ‘thank you’ faded out in the darkness of the evening.
She was leaving homewards the next morning, back to the confines of an urban world when she found something on her car seat. It was a sketch of a little girl with curly hair falling across her face, smiling at a leaf of grass. Strewn on it was a handful of Palash….
Aap ke naam se taabindaa hai unwaan-e-hayaat
varnaa kuchh baat nahin thi mere afsaane mein