The Girl from Mulki

 The Girl from Mulki

“We meet to depart and we depart to meet again.” — Rabindranath Tagore

Meeting

It was September 1965. I was eighteen, fresh out of my B.Sc., and had just joined a one-year B.Ed. program at a college in Mysore. I came from a modest family — my father had left before I was born, and my mother raised me alone. A Jesuit principal at my college had always encouraged me, and his guidance brought me to this new chapter of life.

In my first week at college, we were divided into four sadans (houses). During the first cultural event, I performed a little mimicry on stage. Then she walked in — a young girl from Mulki, near Mangalore, who sang a patriotic song with a voice so pure it left the room silent. I didn’t know her name yet, but I was captivated.

Later, we were both elected as secretary and joint secretary of our house. Soon, I began calling her Thangi — “younger sister” in Kannada — and she called me Anna. Though not related by birth, it felt as if I had finally found the sister I never had.

Bonding

Our bond grew naturally. One afternoon, as we sat in the open canteen, three first-year girls ran across the grounds, frightened by a senior student following them. Thangi ran straight to me, terrified. “Anna, this man is following me,” she said. I promised to keep watch over her and make sure she felt safe.

We began exchanging handwritten notes through the library. I can’t recall every word, but we wrote about life, studies, and small joys. She once told me I reminded her of a dear friend from her village — perhaps that’s why she felt so comfortable with me. For me, those letters were treasures.

On weekends, I would bring her cherries from a shop near the bus stand. She’d wait for me with a smile. Her hostel warden liked me but gave gentle warnings — as if to say, “Be careful.”

A Quiet Year

We shared a friendship that was noticed on campus. Some friends were envious, and a few peers disapproved of our closeness. But for me, this bond was sacred. We spent that year laughing, helping each other, and finding comfort in a connection that felt rare and irreplaceable.

She introduced me to her family, and I wrote to them, explaining my affection as a brotherly bond. One of her family members once quoted the Bhagavad Gita to remind me that attachment can lead to frustration — advice I only fully understood years later.

Parting

The year ended too quickly. After I left college, I waited eagerly for her letters, but they became rare and eventually stopped. She had once donated a sari for my mother, a gesture that felt like a curtain falling on something precious.

At our convocation, I met her again. She asked me to destroy all the letters she had written. I did, a decision I have regretted ever since.

The Long Wait

I built a life — studied psychology, became a teacher and leader, authored books, and raised a family. I have been blessed with love, respect, and accomplishments.

Yet something was always missing. My Thangi.

Over the years, I tried to reconnect through letters, phone calls, and even visits to her hometown. Each attempt was met with silence or polite rebuffs. Friends and family suggested that some campus gossip may have influenced her feelings, but I will never know the full story.

Dreams

Even today, decades later, I dream of her. I walk toward her hostel; she has just left. I reach her village; she has moved away. In every dream, she is always just beyond reach.

Reflections

Some say we carry connections from past lives. Perhaps that explains why, fifty years later, she still walks through my dreams.

We meet to depart. And sometimes, we spend a lifetime trying to meet again.

Maybe in another life, we will.

Note for readers: Names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy. This story is a true reflection of one of the most meaningful friendships of my life.