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The Address Book

Rita held an old address book with a marbled beige and maroon border and the impression of pressed wild flowers on its front cover in her hands. She had found it while cleaning up a loft where she'd stored the belongings she no longer used in cardboard boxes. Initially, she'd used beer boxes that she'd got from a shop she often went to but when she began to be asked where she'd got them, she decided that it would be safer to start using other boxes instead, even if it was just to avoid the questions.

The Middle Ages may have been long over, but that didn't stop wagging tongues from drawing uncomfortable inferences and she saw no reason to give them any more room for speculation than was necessary; not because she was intent on conforming to social rules but simply because she knew from experience that it was tiring to have to keep listening to what people thought if one didn't conform to them.

She hadn't seen the address book for years. The corners had frayed and the pages had yellowed slightly. Some of the entries inside that had been made with pencil were almost invisible. She'd bought the book in the last year of school, filled it up with the names and addresses of all her friends in those last few weeks of frenzied activity before the final school leaving examination, and had then promptly forgotten all about it. She'd kept in touch with her friends after school but she hadn't needed the address book to do that. Rita knew all their phone numbers by heart.

Over time she and her friends went into different lines of work. It hadn't taken long before she began to keep in touch with only a handful of them. She hadn't intentionally shut anyone out; it was just the way that it had happened. They, like her, were too busy to keep track of each other's lives.

She hardly ever thought of them. After school ambition had driven her to pursue degrees, a career, large pay packets: all the things that kept her life busy. Almost all of them had done the same. The old address book in her hands changed things though. She couldn't help but think of all her old school friends with their names in a list she held in her hands.

She leaned back in against the wall of the deep windowsill where she was sitting and began to leaf though the pages. The windowsill had been done up as a small cream-coloured sofa with a pale pink lace curtain pulled back on one side. Fur Elise was playing in the background. She had found it while looking for a CD of the Ninth Symphony. The piece was played too often. The telephone enquiry put it on while leaving its customers on hold; cars played it while reversing, doorbells often mimicked a bar or two, the list is almost endless but she still loved it.

Rita let the music wash over her as the names in the old address book brought back memories. She didn't want to remember all of them but she didn't stop till she reached one particular name: Megha. She, Megha and another girl had been best friends in school but Megha had died in a traffic accident a few weeks after they had taken their final exams and left a gaping hole in the trio.

She remembered how the first time Megha had come over to her house, she had decided that she wanted to learn how to play "something" on the piano. She had no idea of what she wanted to learn and Fur Elise was the only "easy" piece that Rita could think of. Megha played the right hand. Rita played the left. It didn't sound fantastic but it was recognisable. They decided that that was all that mattered – as long as one wasn't fiddling around with a violin.

That was one thing Rita had always loved about the piano: no matter how badly it was played, it never gave anyone a headache. She couldn't play it anymore – although she remembered the notes, her fingers had lost their dexterity – but that didn't matter much to her.

After Megha's death, Vishakha, the third member of their trio had rung her up to inform her of it. She hadn't known what to say, so she stuck to an antiquated phrase, saying, 'Megha is no longer with us.' Rita hadn't understood it, probably because she didn't want to and had asked if Megha had left town. Vishakha had had to spell it out to her.

After that, the two of them had hardly spoken at all. Neither of them knew how to deal with Megha's death and they had both felt awkward in each other's presence. Soon enough, they had begun to do everything possible to avoid those painful encounters and whatever little news they had of each other was from mutual friends. It didn't take long for both their pipelines of information to dry up though as fewer and fewer of the old gang kept in touch with each other. Neither of them knew anything about the other's life.

Vishakha's old phone number was in the address book that Rita held. She thought of calling up the family home (where she was sure Vishakha's parents still lived) and finding out what had become of her old friend but halfway through dialling the number, she stopped and put the receiver down.

She realised that she didn't want to know the answer. Megha would always remain young and exuberant in her mind. Rita wanted Vishakha to do the same. She didn't want to risk having to observe the ravages of time in her old friend's eyes. The last time they had spoken to each other, they had been confident of the future with the arrogance that only youth can extend. They had had their dreams and Rita couldn't bear the thought that Vishakha's plans may have been thwarted. It definitely wasn't a thought that she wanted to confirm, and she was almost certain that that was just what she would do if she rang her up.

Rita held on to the old address book for a few moments longer reliving old memories and then with a soft regretful sigh, she tossed it into the bin and went back to work. Beethoven played on the background. She didn't listen to it.