Long Distance

Every now and then we forget the past. But the past is not be forgotten. It returns. Comes crawling back into our lives and thoughts at night. The loneliness of the present gets to you. The chilling cold of the present rattles the very person within- or does a person reside within?

And then we pick up the phone. Flip through diaries that haven't been used in five years. Scurry through the numerous telephone numbers- all with seven digits, add a "2" and the current telephone number pops up. Punch in a collect call number- and then your personal password. The password works. Now the important bit- that portion your dreams having been tugging- "011-91-the rest follows". A lady of age picks up the phone. How do you say who you are? "Dida, Bundai, a friend of your grandson...remember?" Memory. We remember obscure names, and people that have turned into ghosts. Ghosts have voices. I have a voice. Its changed over the years, but the core of it- the broken English, the Indian accent, the jumbled and confused sentence construction have not altered. I am still a fraction of what I was in High school. "Bundai!" An exclamation is necessary. We exchange information, and 5-year stories in five minutes. She gives me a number. My friend's cell phone. I dial, hesitantly, mind you. I have changed. He must have. So I think. The telephone rings, and Lattu picks up.

Its been about six years since we've got in touch.

Five years of our lives compressed into a hour long bag of conversation. They say, "Zindagi bahut choti hai, jina chahiye..." I say, "Are bhai, zindagi khamosh nahin hai, hum ek chupp guha mein kho gaye hain."

The long distance call ends. A renewed conversation begins...