The Red Scarf

The train to Jhira was almost empty when Ravi boarded. Two train tickets fluttered in his hands. He slipped into his place and patted the seat beside him.

"There you go, Sunita", he murmured, setting her favourite red scarf. The train started, making the city slowly blurred behind them.

"Do you remember how we went Jhira, the last time? " Ravi chuckled. "It was more fun when the kids also joined".

Ravi turned to the window. The clouds rolled up as if it is going to rain heavily. The birds were flying hard to reach their nests before the rain.The rhythm of train matched the beat of memories.

As they passed an old factory, he was excited and asked Sunita if she remember their road trip. "You 've always said, everything tastes better, when you earn them. He didn't forget to mention she was right as well. "Even now, I believe the ladoos and jalebis we had, from the factory tasted tasted as heaven just because we earned it". The factory workers shouldn't hear!" he chuckled.

Her scarf shifted as the train curved.Ravi adjusted it with slow, careful hands- as it might crumble if held too tightly.

It was her favourite one - the red scarf, deep and vivid, the colour of ripe guavas and old temple walls. He could almost hear her: "Not too bright, Ravi. It's bold. There is a difference."

He smiled faintly. "You wore it the day we first came to Jhira", he said softly. "Remember? You ran down the hill like you were sixteen again".

Lunch came. Ravi refused the vendor. "We packed food, didn't we?, he said quietly. "Your biriyani would've won medals."

In the afternoon light, he took out an old diary of her. Pages were filled with uneven writing, little sketches, torn tickets, dried flowers, etc.

One page pierced into his eyes: "One day we'll go back to Jhira and sit under the bougainvilla again". He read it twice and folded it shut, tightly holding a wooden box he had.

When they arrived Jhira, the air was colder, slower. It hadn't changed, even after a decade. He made his way through narrow lanes, greeting the curious stares with quiet nods.

At the edge of the village, past the temple, beneath a lone bougainvilla, Ravi stopped.

He sat slowly, knees stiff with age and something heavier. From his bag, Ravi took out a small wooden box, its edges smoothened from being held too often, too tightly. He unwrapped it carefully, cloth by cloth.

Her favourite red scarf was folded in his lap. He lifted it, pressing it once to his lips, then kept it gently at the base of the tree.

"You made it", he whispered. "We made it."

He dug a small hollow beneath the tree. Not deep. Not wide. Just enough. His fingers trembled as he placed the box inside it, then covered it with earth, brushing it smooth.

The wind stired - that same soft hush she always said.

He sat there for a long while, saying nothing.

When he stood again, the red scarf remained at the base of the tree, swaying gently in the breeze. A mark of presence; of love; of a life not forgotten

There were no tears. "No farewell." Just a silence full of memories.

Just two tickets - one tucked away in his shirt's pocket, the other buried beneath the tree.

He walked back through the village as the sun began to set, along with her memories.