‘Pos-tomatic-thess’, she repeated after me. I laughed, and lifted her up. She laughed too, and shrieked as I twirled her around. ‘Faster, Ricky, faster!’ She giggled. I had sprained my back while lugging my trunks into the garage that morning, and winced as it caught on. Annie urged me on, and I stopped after giving her another spin.
‘So, that is what you have- pos-tomatic-thess?’
I sighed, and smiled. She caught her breath, and looked at me as searchingly as an eight-year old could.
‘Important people say so, honey.’
‘Can you catch it?’
I laughed again, and resumed walking. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
She skipped ahead, and stopped and scratched her head, ‘I think you’re alright Ricky. Mama says if you’re sick when you get a fever. Do you have a fever?’
I put my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt. February was waning, but there was a chill in the air. Annie’s hands were gloved-hell, she looked prepped for an expedition to the North Pole. ‘Not even a runny nose’, and dramatically snorted at her.
She laughed again, pausing only when she tripped over a stone. I caught her before touchdown.
‘Careful, doll’, but she skipped on ahead. I swung her back from one shoulder to another.
The school building was surrounded by children of all ages. The youngest were those most excited about getting in. The older ones idled around in groups of threes and fours. There were goodbyes everywhere. As always, I wondered why only the youngest got the most affectionate ones. Everyone needs reassurance of return and reunion.
I bent down and she gave me a kiss on my cheek. Her tiny lips felt warm against my stubble.
‘Be nice, stay safe, and finish your lunch alright?’
You will come back to pick me up?’
I nodded and smiled. Saw a middle-aged woman looking at us, and quickly avert her eyes away. Annie held her arms up, expecting another twirl, to which I obliged.
The walk back was going to be lonely, and I didn’t handle solitude very well.
The chill cut through me again. Voices faded away as I walked further from the school. Home wasn’t far by the main road, but I decided to get some masala tea from a place I liked.
Gajodhar Chadda, the 70-something chaiwallah claimed to have served in the army himself- the 69th Jat Regiment. He had identified me as a military guy the first time I had visited the shop, and immediately started addressing me as ‘brother’, and looked at me to back up oft-repeated stories of his glory days to anyone who cared to listen. Mostly I didn’t mind- he was a well-meaning if slightly pompous chap and probably the only person in town I could call a friend.
‘Ricky bhai! Kaise ho?’ he left his perpetually brewing tea-kettle and came forward to hug me. I smiled weakly.
