The Toothpick

The canteen at South Block doesn’t smell like college. No burnt Maggi, no cutting chai in small glasses. Here it’s filtered coffee, linen napkins, and quiet AC hum. IAS officers eat next to IFS officers, and nobody looks up from their phones.

 “Arjun?”  I looked up from my thali.  Same eyes. Different liner. Salwar, the colour of Delhi winter — dull blue, gold border. Hair longer than I remembered, straight down past her waist like it used to be when she’d refuse to tie it up “because you like it open.” 

“Meera.”  Fifteen years. Not a call, not a text, not a mutual friend’s wedding. We deleted each other better than the government deletes old files.  We did the drama. You haven’t changed. You have. French cut suits you. Your hair is still long. Lies and truths in the same sentence. 

She is here for thirty minutes. Waiting for someone. So I Ordered. Paneer for her, fish curry for me. Old habits.

I think: This is the girl I once followed to Bhusawal. College would shut for 25 days, and the thought of 25 days without her felt like a prison sentence. So I’d book a ticket to Bhusawal, sit with her for those ten hours of the journey. All the time holding her hand and looking into her eyes. We always used to book side lower and upper berths, so that we could get some privacy. His father used to come to pick her up at the station. She would leave, without even looking back! How can she, when she is with her father? I used to take the first available train back to Pune. Twenty hours of travel for ten hours of her. I was insane. 

She thinks: My whole day started with his voice. I’d lie in bed, awake at 6:50, staring at the hostel ceiling, waiting for the phone to ring at 7:00. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Only then would I get up. If he called late, my whole day felt off-rhythm.

I think: She was never on time. Fifteen minutes minimum, outside the girls’ hostel. But I’d use that time. Plan what stupid joke would make her do that sheepish laugh — head tilted, one hand covering her mouth. I lived for that laugh. 

The rice was finished. I looked around for the waiter. Old reflex. 

She thinks: He’s looking for a toothpick. He always does. Perfect teeth, not one gap, but after every meal — pata nahi kya fas gaya hai. I used to scold him. You’ll make gaps, stupid. Then one day in the second year, he came with a whole box of them. “Keep it”, he said. “Eateries don’t have good ones. You have a purse. It’s full of treasure anyway. Add one more.” I’d rolled my eyes. 

Before the waiter reached us, she unzipped her purse. Big leather tote, Ministry-grade. From the side pocket, she pulled out a flat plastic box. Floss picks and toothpicks, the fancy kind from FabIndia. She slid one across the table. 

I think: Oh my god. She kept it. Fifteen years. Three cities, two jobs, one life, I know nothing about — and she still carries toothpicks. For me? Does she take it out at night, run her thumb over the box and go back to FC Road, to the canteen where we split one cold coffee? Does she miss that boy who rode 20 hours for 10 hours of her time? Is this her way of keeping me in a place no one else can see? 

“Arjun? Hey.” A hand on my shoulder.  I turned. Tall man, my age, ministry ID card, same lanyard as mine.

“You’re in MEA too? I’m Vikram, Commerce Desk. You’re…?”  “Policy Planning,” I said. Automatic. 

Meera smiled, the way she used to when she’d solved a professor’s question before anyone else. “Vikram, this is Arjun. College senior. I came to pick you up — car’s still at the workshop, remember?”  Vikram nodded at me, then at her. “You’re on time. Just finished lunch. We’ll make the 4:10 show.”  She picked up her bag. “Bye, Arjun. Good seeing you.”  She left, without even looking back! 

Two steps away, I heard him, casual, like he was asking for the salt.  “Jaan, toothpick dena. Something’s stuck. I’m itching to use it.”  She didn’t break stride. Handed him one from the same box.  The AC was still humming. My fish curry was cold.  So that’s why the toothpicks were in her purse.

Not for the boy who rode to Bhusawal.

Not for the 7 AM phone calls.

Not for FC Road. 

For the man she picks up from work.

For the 4:10 show.

For her present. Her future.  I put the toothpick down. Didn’t need it.

Some things aren’t stuck in your teeth.

They’re stuck in your years.  And sometimes, the purse you thought was holding your memory…

is just holding someone else’s habit.