Seven years of marriage were enough to attune them to each other’s energy rhythms; Ratan, an early bird while wife Meeta observed owlish hours. He would be winding down at dinner time when she would go amber, ready to turn green as night fell.
**
“I missed my walk today. What’s the time?” he looked across the table at his wife before glancing at the ticking wall clock, “Nine! You’ll do two rounds; I might be flat out when you return” was his response.
**
**
Slipping swiftly into her jogging gear, she let herself out into the dark, “Please don’t latch up. There is lightning outside, I might cut it short.”
**
“It is an odd night to step out,” the husband frowned. He had driven home under an overcast sky, the breeze was angry and twigs danced on the car bonnet. The rain gods had not made up their mind! But the campus was safe, two guards at either gates, he decided to turn in. “She is carrying her mobile phone in any case,” he was not one to fret.
**
Ratan began his nightly ritual. He approached the refrigerator to fetch a water bottle for his bedstead. A printed sheet under the smiley magnet caught his eye. It looked new. A security alert! Strange, he thought. Meeta must have missed it; the helper had likely not brought it up either. This was a secure cantonment; what could this say? He plucked the single leaf and ambled to the study, not unduly unconcerned. The clap of thunder and falling water bothered him more.
**
Pushing the typed notice under the lamp, he reached for the switch. Three emotions hit him like a truck; a cocktail of fear, concern and incredulity. I don’t believe this, he muttered, reaching for his phone. There was no answer! He redialed, willing her to pick up. “Should I call the guardroom, ring for the helper or set out myself,” he debated, beginning to feel surreal.
**
“Yes sir, Madam walked past gate number two some twenty minutes ago,” the soldier reported from his post.
**
Ratan made a dash for the garage. The rainstorm had gathered force and silver blue streaked the carbon skies above. He swung onto the road, headlights blazing, unsure if she had taken her regular path. An asphyxiating emotion began to overtake him as he drove past gate number two for the third time. There was no sign of her.
**
A grown, GPS-ed, Facebooked, credit rated, PIN coded mother of two vanished into thin air that harrowing night.
For years he ached with the mystery of her disappearance.
**
When it hurt too much, he would pull out the phone they had found lying in the grass by the road that day, about two hundred meters from the guardroom. He would jab the voice recorder fearfully and listen, heart in mouth, to her last recording, “I feel spooked, all by myself on this stretch. The trees make a restless archway, as far as the eyes go, leaves fluttering with dread at the doom to come. There is a muddy wetness, the wind slaps my limbs. I feel alone. Wait! What is that coming round the corner? Bikes! Hooded riders; three it appears? They could be youngsters visiting a friend except that there is a menacing stillness in their approach. I’d better head home.”
**
The several static seconds that followed was not unlike Ratan’s own mind, silently hissing with questions.
Meeta was a writer and often dictated stories as she walked. Maybe, this time the story had dictated to her, how it would end..
**
The author is a Resource Center-in-charge at the Junior Wing of Air Force Bal Bharati School. A teacher with a background and training in media, she has worked in advertising, public relations, documentary film making and feature journalism. Her interest lies in the role of motivation, an all-round exposure and multiculturalism in education. A regular contributor to the ‘Teacher Plus” magazine and a blogger with a keen interest in the evolving social dynamics and their influence on young people, she maintains a blog at http://confessionsofanambitiousmother.blogspot.in/