Short Story : The Return

Drishti slept badly and woke before the weak winter sunlight would meander about her Heidelberg University hostel. Instead of waiting for her alarm, she got up, showered, dressed, drank a cup of black coffee she barely got used to, and packed her suitcase. She waited for the call from her travel agent.

She had decided the previous night to do the inevitable, to return to India for the Christmas break, a decision that would mean a break in her research work, money lost on unnecessary travel, mostly of the swallowing of her pride when she goes back to her aunt. Why would you remain at this time of the year alone in that bone-chilling place. Come back home and return to German after the new year break. Drishti would bite her aunt every time she went German. But last night, she let her have it the way her tongue allowed.

The aunt was right after all. Drishti saw how everyone at the university, anyone she knew went home for Christmas. Even Sandra Bicker, her mentor who was going to take her to the Mercedes-Benz museum for design workshops, had change of plans. That she would choose Yoga Vacations in Lakshadweep was a surprise. Everyone seemed to be following the moon, sailing eastwards, leaving her alone in this beautiful, historic city flooded with visitors from all planets. The Mannheimer strasse filled up and the Christmas market at MarktPlaz was a carnival.

Through the window, she would watch the early morning joggers along the Neckar. She had fewer acquaintances outside the university, and she felt embarrassed about her German (the language, of course). All this while, she got as far as “bitte” and “danke schon” and a smattering of syllables wrapped with her smile.

Through the window she also got used to watching a stranger, an old man on a torn leather jacket, smoking many times a day, gripping the cigarette with his shivering left hand. She once spotted the man at the Aldi. She smiled but immediately admonished herself. He saw through her as if in a trance.

She was getting used to the silence. Outside of the class, she remained focussed on her research, submerged in bed and books. She went out mostly for the hot nutella-topped pancakes at the Hauptbanhof. Her taste buds lead her to the Indian restaurant near the castle and she lapped up the daal soup. She wouldn’t go again, after the lady told her, “Here we don’t serve water on the table. Order a bottle if you need. Okay?”

She missed home, yet she was hopeful in staying put. But she was not ready when the hostel concierge reminded her about reduced services during Christmas. The petite girl handed out a card with a smile, “This is the emergency contact number in case the building is on fire. If unattended, please leave a message. Someone will call you back immediately after Christmas”.

Any other chance of surviving the lonely winter break in Germany? Shy and inert, she had declined Shreya’s invitation to join her on a week long trip to Salzburg. She decided she would finish Papillon in one go, to get buried in more books. After the first fifty pages, she got depressed by the hero’s prospect at the solitary Columbian prison. She promised to return to the pages of his escape after the new year. Not now, not in this state of mind.

She had one final option. She searched the bags, the shelf, the other suitcase. Profound was her relief when she stumbled upon the notebook. She glanced through the names and numbers and searched for “Shyam uncle”. Aunt had spoken highly of her cousin settled in Dresden. It would be a five-hour train journey. Drishti schemed to bribe him and his family with the last bottle of aunt’s home-made lemon pickles. Maybe they would take her in during the holidays.

She rang him, and in the first few seconds it was clear she need not bother booking train tickets. “No problem, uncle. Happy New Year!”

Outside, the silence was total. The stranger-smoker-man-friend arrived. As he smoked away his morning blues, she felt his presence. His company.

The day went on. The bridge on the river was buzzing with cars. A big beast of a bird spread its wings, descending to the waters. The lights and reflections of the cars and the boats and the birds traced lines on her glass-top table, merging and blurring. A moment so pure it didn’t slide into a meaning.

When she opened the window, the phone rang, its ignored monotones regressing to the buzz outside.

Drishti returned to Papillon.