I always wanted to ask her whether she knew how I would react when she threw me and a friend out of English Class in our final year at school. Wanted to know if she somehow suspected that our being banished to the library would in fact have a soothing effort on our turbulent genes. Whether she had a hunch that by letting us go, she was indeed letting us free of the shackles of a syllabus based learning when in reality we were deserving of much wider horizons.

I always wanted to ask her. But didn’t.

And simply dedicated my English Literature prize to her…in my mind.

I met her several times after school and quite often in the last few years when my involvement with the choir in Hyderabad became a small yet significant part of my life. And discovered that she was called Lalli by her friends. And that I somehow couldn’t bring myself to address her as such and settled for a more formal Ma’am.

I always wanted to ask her. But didn’t.

But she never missed an opportunity to congratulate me, to wish me well. To tell me how proud she was of me and how she enjoyed listening to my voice, or reading my articles in the papers.

A few months back when I missed seeing her at a concert I had called her up to apologise but she was most forgiving and most concerned that she had heard about my not being well.

So I told her that I had something to ask of her. And she laughed and said that she was about to leave the next day for the US and that we could always take up the question on her return…in a few months.

She returned, yes…but the first I heard of it was when I heard that she was quite unwell. And just a day later I heard that she was no more. Her commas had become full stops.

I guess my question to her will have to wait. At least till I clear the lump in my throat and the blur in my sight.

Mrs. Lalita Christian R.I.P.