Kajol used to be our neighbor once.
We studied in the same class. We played together from childhood. We came and went freely to each other's homes. A natural camaraderie grew between us. Living so close, growing up together, we drew near to each other's hearts as well.
I used to call Kajol 'Lata' with affection.
Like a creeping vine, she had quietly entwined herself with my soul. I had fallen in love with her, but I never spoke of that love openly.
Perhaps this was the trouble with being so natural together. Things that come easily can't be spoken easily. Words get stuck. What if Kajol took it the wrong way?
And so, gradually, we arrived at the threshold of youth. In Kajol's bower, the cuckoo of spring was calling; and in my heart's youth, only the intoxicating breeze of March.
I don't know how, on one of those intoxicated days, I found myself asking Kajol, "Lata, have you ever loved anyone?"
Kajol suddenly lifted her kohl-dark eyes and looked at me sideways. Then she said, "Yes, I love all of you, don't I? Don't you?" I said, "No, not like that. Not that kind of love. Don't you love someone special in a special way? Someone who's your own? Someone your heart chooses?"
In a simple tone she said, "Look, I don't think any person loves another specific person. We love an ideal. However much someone resembles our imagined ideal, that's how much we feel they belong to us."
Hearing this, I was stunned with amazement. How extraordinary—where had this girl been hiding inside that dark-eyed body! This girl knew so much.
I said, "So, have you found that ideal of yours in anyone?"
Kajol said, "Me? The ideal I love—maybe it can never be found. Or maybe it can, who knows? Take you, for instance. You love me, but have you ever said—Lata, when you have no one left, when all the melodies are lost, at least come to me then. At least I'll be there for you. Have you ever said that?"
Then many days passed. In time's turning, much in life changes, people change, and so does the world.
Kajol's father got transferred somewhere, I don't know where.
That was long ago. But even today, when I think of anyone in solitude, only one face floats up in my mind's window—Kajol's face. I still can't forget that monsoon evening.
Yet I never could understand Kajol. Why didn't she say anything before leaving, or send any word even after going—that remains unknown. Where she is today, how she is, whether she's even alive—I don't know. Yet once I thought I knew Kajol. That I knew everything about her.
How strange! How much do we really know of people, how much can we truly understand! The person we find close to us, with their tender and ever-changing heart—our scope for knowing them completely isn't limited to those narrow bounds; that knowing isn't all of them, isn't their end. Beyond the borders of daily knowledge, perhaps the unknown sky is far vaster. People thus remain forever unknown; unknown and unfamiliar.