The Frame

It is a short story of a boy of his memory at Darjeeling trip during school trip with his love. And after 10 years he again went to darjeeling to spend his vocation.

 

The sheds of snow over the vines of fern shook its head near the American Umbrella. He was having his coffee, coated with the warmth of heater at the café area near the Mall. The yellow peeped houses down hill cuts were seeming to in a perfection. The row of bushes pointing across the narrow roads had already covered with the early darkness at the hill station. Temperature had already marked the coldest day of the month with possibly 5 degree Centigrade. A well needed vocation with the mass of recollected childhood memories.

 

It was the limelight of frost between the fruits of love. The school excursion. A few months of togetherness had thousands of mournful promises to believe. He got reminded of the Kuwait Parlour near the Gymkhana from where he gifted her a necklace. The box of happiness was his first gift with his pocket money. It was possibly the best memory in his higher school days. In an honest confession he had his group of victims in the castle on sand. On the shore of trust, she was the only candle with a shadow behind. Nevertheless, love was in the air. The school excursion of five days had a prolonged effect in repairing his sand castle into a ‘musgum’. The sun rise at the Tiger hill beside her was probably the best choice before existence. He was just holding her hands, a fine sight in her eyes, must be out of conclusion which one to choose as the best- her eyes or the beauty around. And she punched him on his back and walked near the coffee shop. It was a scheduled day, the group had to follow on for the next plan up to the zoo. Both of them were eagerly waiting for the evening to spend some time together at the Mall. The bench near the statue in the middle of the street beside the uphill stores with the narrow downhill pass had already been their favorite seats. The memory making had already been in their frames. Couple of pouts and funny stuffs were being their continuous shots.

 

He remembered her most loved Black Forest at the Glenary’s and the mug of hot chocolate at the Keventers. He looked into his bag, picked out few pieces of paper, almost decorated with each and every color and had his eyes onto it. It was one of her letters after they returned from the trip, describing each of the moments of innocence they shared. It was almost the scrappy story book which we had in our childhood days, detailed out each and every moment he made her smile. Often it grew salient with her simple words. Often it grew valor describing the late nights in the hotel corridors where they used to seek for meeting there at nights, might be recorded in the night vision of the security cams. Time was just passing through. It was almost half an hour about to nine. He stood up, moved towards the lift.

 

‘6^th floor’ and the room no. 14. He swiped his card. Tomorrow was 23^rd, a schedule for tiger hill. The tourism package had already arranged the cab. Alarm set at 4 AM. The room service was possibly knocking the door with Tum Yum Prawns with Kimchi Fried Rice. The day ended as well. Soon the dim light whispered the misery of memories. The facebook tagged him with the January memories, 10 years ago, of his school excursion, she smiling behind his pout face. He smiled. A popped up whatsapp, and he replied ‘Good night mom’.

 

The alarm was not snoozed at this time. He got ready with his bag. The only difference between today and the same day before 10 years was ‘SHE’ and the only reason to differ was the time. Last night, he had a better sleep. There was no desperation for this time to wait for others to sleep and to seek for the hotel corridor where she had been standing for a tight hug. Neither she was waiting down the hall at the ground floor near the car to check whether he had tightened his jacket well or not. Nor there were few escapes in holding her hands in the gatherings at the tiger hills in the beheaded darkness. The sun was about to rise. The orange contrast in the blooming spring of clouds cuddling between the golden peaks might had mesmerized each and everyone waiting over there. And a 400 iso low shuttered click- the smile which he had been missing for 10 years. He moved his eyes from the lens, and the ‘she’ was standing. And a broken promise deblurring the fogs behind the escape of the beheaded darkness, holding her husband’s hand. He, holding the lens behind, probably the fine sight in her eyes, must be out of conclusion which one to choose as the best- her eyes or the beauty around.

 

An owned memory knocking in steps of the pages of social site and a disowned reality framing into his lens. He although missed her craziness behind his pout this time but perhaps witnessed her smile in silence like the older times.  Raising both hands to the sides of his hood, he pushed it back just a little, but it was enough to blur his identity in her memories of school.

'Excuse me, mam' and he made his way out.