But then…just then…damn! Since I was yelling at the cab driver looking back…I did not see where I was going with racing bicycle. Before I could see the threat I hit a brick compound wall, and bounced off to bang my head on a lamp post. When I fell down, I must have done so in quite an odd position to break my ankle. Few moments passed by before I could realize what just happened. Then, I tried to get up but could not. Rain was pouring. Street was deserted. I was lying down in pain. My badly damaged cycle was resting on me. As I was repeatedly trying to get up, I heard a familiar voice asking “are you ok?” The tone of her voice was so caring that I almost broke down in tears. Of course, it was Sweta who was standing there by me. I did not say a word. I was miserable and badly hurt. Continuously falling rain drops were quick in diluting my blood but the mud-water still looked pink. She lent her hand to assist me stand up. I humped a couple of steps and leaned against the wall. I looked at her, and there she was looking at me completely drenched. She would blink to facilitate the rainwater carelessly running down messing up her neatly tied black hair. Her father came out to see where did his daughter go in the rain. Then, many other people gather around me staring as if I asked them a tough question answer of which they don’t know. Her father took me to the hospital. I had plaster on to repair my ankle for six unfortunate weeks. I did not go to school during that time. When I went back to school I was a bit changed boy. I still did not fall for Sweta but I was sensitive toward her. Should I like her? I used to ask myself a lot, though. One day, I asked her “how did you recognize me that rainy evening?” I knew she came out for me. She replied, “I did not know who it was. I just saw someone riding a bicycle hit the wall and bounce off pretty bad. That’s why I ran out to see if the person was ok…and it was you...” she smiled a bit then asked”…where were you heading?..” I knew she knew the answer. However, that conversation gave me the answer I was looking for. That evening she did not come out for me. So, no special obligation exists toward her for me to honor. It was a relief, I must say. Nevertheless, I never teased her with L word -never again. I also started to keep my friends from bothering her. They started to call me “langadiko poi”, which used to infuriate me. I guess, I realized how insensitive it is to call someone a “Langada/i” when I myself was one albeit temporarily. I liked Sweta, and kept on doing so, but did not love her. I did not like her to the extent that I wanted to have her. We were friends. I occasionally used to visit her house. Her father was a great man. I owed a lot to him for taking me to the hospital that fateful evening. What happened to Sristi? Who knows? Well, I do. She married a doctor, who took off with a hooker a few years later. All the time when we were crazy about her she did not care for any of us. So, I secured tragedy in love with her. Time moved on. ----