Heart And Soul: Strangers on a path

A brief encounter with a stranger has lingered in the writer's mind for some time. — Magnific

 

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Some experiences are so surreal that they strike you like biting into a cardamom pod in a kesari.

A fortnight ago, I was engrossed in an afternoon excursion visiting a few pharmacies looking for a vitamin that had been out of stock recently. Most did not have it, owing to the Iran-US war and the ever-escalating price of pharmaceuticals.

I got lucky during my final pit-stop, where, a kind pharmacist handed me a strip of leftover samples. It felt like a small, unexpected win. I took it and turned towards the door.That’s when I saw her.

An elderly aunty, clad in a cotton saree was walking in with her daughter. She looked typically traditional, handkerchief in one hand, gently lifting the pleats of her saree in another.

Her small face looked tired, but her hair was woven into a neat braid and a clump of jasmines held to it by black hair clips.

Beneath her large glasses was the presence of a kind face, stained by years of turmeric-paste facials. A glimmering nose stud graced the crease of her left nostril curve, her features further complemented by a large pottu and heavy jewellery. The daughter moved ahead, brisk, purposeful. The aunty followed more slowly. I stepped aside to let her pass.

As she drew level with me, she looked up – really looked, and smiled. Not politely, not absent-mindedly, but with a kind of recognition that startled me. I smiled back, unsure. For a brief second I wondered if we knew each other.

She passed me, then turned slightly and said, “You look like my son.”

I smiled again, feeling a little awkward now, though as an Indian I am aware that there are seven look-alikes of oneself existing at some corner of the earth in each lifetime. She repeated it, as if confirming it for herself. I stood still, searching for words.

Then she reached out, cupped the sharp end of my chin in her hand, so gently, so familiarly – as though she was gathering something invisible from me. She drew her hand back towards her lips and kissed it.

It was such an intimate, instinctive gesture that I didn’t know how to respond. I just smiled and said, “All will be well, aunty.”

She nodded, a thin smile appearing on her face. And then I left. But, it hasn’t left me.

Who is her son? What is his name? Is he nearby, or far away? Is he well? Is he even still here?

I don’t know what to make of it. The incident lasted only seconds, yet it felt like stepping briefly into someone else’s life, into a space where love had been waiting and simply found the nearest shape it could recognise.

I walked out with the free sample in my hand, but something else stayed with me, something softer, heavier, and harder to name. I reckon, these kinds of encounters are hard to shake off. Probably they are not meant to be, but they linger on – like the cardamom in the kesari you’ve bitten into. It says something about how recognition and longing can surface in the most ordinary places, and how, for a brief second, you’ve stood in for something deeply loved.