Beyond Time and Memory

BEYOND TIME AND MEMORY

His name was Roshan Lal.

There was something about him that reminded people of an army officer—quiet discipline, calm eyes, and a serious manner. He spoke little and never without reason. Yet the children of the neighbourhood knew another side of him. With them he was gentle, generous, almost fatherly. He often brought them small gifts—hockey sticks, balls, sweets—fulfilling their small wishes with quiet affection.

Very few people knew much about Roshan Lal. Most of what circulated about him was speculation.

He lived alone in an old house on the outskirts of Rishikesh, nestled in the Himalayan foothills, about ten kilometers from the main town. Dehradun lay another twenty kilometers beyond. Apart from a few native Garhwali families, most of the residents in the area were refugees—people displaced from Multan, Dera Ismail Khan, and other parts of the North Western Frontier Province after the Partition of India and the creation of Islamic Pakistan. They were people rebuilding their lives from ashes, carrying memories of homes they would never see again.

Most lived in rented houses. Roshan Lal, however, had somehow managed to purchase the modest house where he stayed.

This was the 1950s. The wounds of India’s partition were still fresh.

According to local hearsay, Roshan Lal had once lived in Peshawar. During the violence of Partition, he had lost his family—his elderly mother and his pregnant wife. Perhaps that explained the silence he carried within him. He moved through life like a solitary figure, speaking little and keeping to himself.

Only the children ever saw him smile.

Sometimes, at dusk, he could be seen standing on the roof of his house, playing a haunting melody on a bamboo flute while the fading light spread across the mountains. Once, a young boy glimpsed him cleaning a gun. That sight gave rise to new whispers: perhaps he kept it for protection, fearing another upheaval like the one that had already destroyed his life.

People said that in Peshawar he had been a successful businessman, inheriting a shop his grandfather had built from nothing.

Whatever the truth, Roshan Lal remained an enigma—his past hidden behind silence, his present unfolding quietly among strangers in a land that was still learning to feel like home.

He often brought treats for the children of the settlement. They greeted him with excitement whenever he appeared. To them, he was not a mysterious man at all. He was simply Roshan Uncle.

Near the settlement flowed a small river that eventually joined the sacred Ganga River. Along its banks lived the local Garhwali people, who survived mainly through farming. They grew vegetables and fruits, and every Wednesday evening the women would come down with baskets balanced on their heads, filled with fresh produce.

They gathered at a small open space known as the Haat.

Their vegetables sold quickly. People preferred them to the city produce because they were fresh and flavourful. For everything else, residents had to travel to the town market by horse-drawn carts known as tangas.

Roshan Lal was a familiar figure at the Wednesday Haat. He never missed it.

Among the vendors there was one woman everyone knew as Guru Ki Didi—meaning “Guru’s elder sister.” Very few people had actually seen this mysterious Guru, yet the name had stayed.

Guru Ki Didi never forgot to bring spinach.

“Sahib likes spinach very much,” she would say with a half-smile. “I must bring it for him.”

One Wednesday, however, there was no spinach in her basket.

Roshan Lal looked through her vegetables and his face fell slightly. She noticed at once.

“No spinach today, sir,” she said apologetically.

Roshan Lal chuckled. “I eat spinach to stay healthy. That’s my secret.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied quickly. “I’ll bring it for you tomorrow… just for you.”

And she did.

The next day, around noon, Guru Ki Didi arrived near his house carrying a small aluminium box. She asked a boy playing nearby where Roshan Lal lived. The boy led her to the house and shouted happily:

“Roshan Uncle! You have a guest!”

Roshan Lal opened the door, surprised.

“Guru Ki Didi? You?”

“I told you I’d bring spinach,” she said.

But instead of raw spinach leaves, she held out the aluminium box.

“I was late today,” she explained nervously. “So I cooked it for you… spinach curry and chapatis. I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

For a moment Roshan Lal did not know what to say.

Then he smiled.

“You didn’t have to go through so much trouble. Please, come inside.”

Though he lived alone, Roshan Lal had built a comfortable home over the years. On the veranda stood a small table and two chairs. His morning tea cup still rested there. Embarrassed, he quickly picked it up.

“I live alone,” he said. “Sometimes I lose track of things.”

This was the first time a woman had ever visited his house.

He gestured toward the chair. She hesitated, then quietly sat on the floor instead.

After a moment she said softly, “Please don’t call me Guru Ki Didi. The children here gave me that name. My real name is Laxmi.”

In recent months Roshan Lal had begun to feel a subtle change within himself. The weight of his past still lingered—the loss of his mother and wife had once filled him with anger against the world. But the innocence of the children and the simple warmth of the mountain people had slowly begun to soften that bitterness.

And now, the presence of Laxmi stirred something new—an energy he had not felt for years.

That afternoon he asked a question that had long been in his mind.

“Everyone calls you Guru Ki Didi… but I’ve never seen this, Guru. Where is he?”

The question caught her by surprise.

“Guru is my brother-in-law,” she replied quietly. “My husband’s younger brother. After my husband died, he stayed with me like my own brother. Now he works as a guard for an army officer in Dehradun.”

Roshan Lal nodded thoughtfully.

“If he ever visits, introduce me. I’d like to meet him.”

She smiled faintly.

That night Roshan Lal thought about the food she had brought. The taste was different from the rich Punjabi flavours he had grown up with. The chilly was stronger than he preferred.

But there was something else in it.

Care.

A warmth that only a home-cooked meal carried.

For the first time, he found himself waiting for the next Wednesday.

When the day arrived, he reached the Haat earlier than usual and bought far more vegetables than he needed. Even he was surprised by his own eagerness.

He complimented Laxmi for her cooking.

She only smiled shyly.

Their meetings slowly became a routine.

One day, however, Laxmi shared her worry: Guru had not visited for several months.

Roshan Lal suggested she travel to Dehradun to meet him. She remained silent.

He understood the reason.

It was not just the distance.

It was the money.

With sudden enthusiasm he said, “Come with me. I’ll take you to Dehradun.”

Her face lit up instantly.

“Can we go tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he replied. “There is a bus from Rishikesh.”

The next morning, she arrived early, carrying a small bundle of food for Guru.

They took a tanga to the town and then boarded a crowded bus to Dehradun.

But when they reached the officer’s house, they received disappointing news. The army major had been transferred to far away Assam, and Guru had gone with him.

The gatekeeper mentioned that Guru had written a letter to his sister before leaving.

That small hope was all they had.

They returned home quietly that evening.

After that day something in Laxmi changed.

She still came to the Haat, but her laughter had faded. Guru had been more than family to her—he had been a promise she had made to her late husband.

Days passed. No letter arrived.

Gradually she began to fall ill.

One Wednesday she did not come to the Haat.

When she missed the following week as well, Roshan Lal went to her village.

He found her lying on a cot inside a small hut, burning with fever. She had taken no medicine. A neighbour had given her herbal remedies, but little else could be done.

Roshan Lal gave her a tablet he had brought and sat quietly beside her.

While speaking with the neighbours he learned that she had not paid rent for months.

“How much does she owe?” he asked.

The landlord hesitated.

“Ten rupees.”

Roshan Lal placed the money in his hand without another word.

Just then a boy arrived running with an envelope.

“A letter has come!”

Roshan Lal opened it carefully.

It was from the army major.

The words struck him like a blow.

Guru had died of malaria soon after reaching Assam.

For a moment Roshan Lal closed his eyes.

Laxmi stirred weakly.

“Is it from Guru?” she asked.

Roshan Lal hesitated.

“Laxmi… life is a journey. People come and go.”

She looked at him steadily.

“He is gone… isn’t he?”

He nodded.

Tears rolled down her face.

“I have nothing left now,” she whispered.

Roshan Lal sat silently beside her for a long moment.

Then he spoke firmly.

“Pack your things.”

She looked at him in confusion.

“You are coming with me.”

A new chapter began.

Laxmi moved into Roshan Lal’s house. Slowly she recovered. Soon she began caring for the home with quiet devotion—cooking, cleaning, tending the garden.

The house came alive.

Roshan Lal himself changed as well.

He spent long hours reading books. In the evenings he sat by the Ganga listening to spiritual discourses. Gradually he began giving away many of his possessions to the poor.

Simplicity entered his life.

Meanwhile Laxmi transformed the unused room of the house into a small temple for Radha and Krishna. Every day she offered prayers.

One afternoon a neighbour joked, “Laxmi does everything for you. Why not make her your wife?”

Roshan Lal smiled gently.

“Not every relationship needs a name.”

Time passed.

One evening Roshan Lal called Laxmi into his room.

“I must leave for some important work,” he said quietly. “Will you manage the house?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied.

“I don’t know how long I will be gone. But you will not face any difficulty. My fiend Tribhuvan Joshi will send money regularly…I have all arrangements.”

He pointed to two photographs on the wall—one of an elderly woman and the other of a young bride.

“Light a lamp before these every evening.”

Laxmi folded her hands before the photographs.

To her they looked divine.

The next morning Roshan Lal left.

He did not look back.

At first the silence of the house felt unbearable. Every sound outside made Laxmi look toward the road.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks into months.

Gradually waiting became a part of her life.

Every morning she swept the courtyard.

Every evening she lit the lamp before the photographs.

“Sir may return any day,” she would whisper.

Years passed.

Neighbours tried to reason with her.

“No one knows where he went,” they said.

But Laxmi only smiled.

“He promised he would return.”

For her, Roshan Lal had become more than a man. He had become a symbol of faith itself.

“This house is a temple,” she would say quietly. “I am only its caretaker.”

Time continued its silent journey.

Her hair turned silver. Her body grew frail. Yet her routine never changed.

One afternoon she glanced into an old mirror and barely recognized herself.

“So many years…” she murmured.

She sat down near the temple doorway.

Outside, the breeze moved gently through the garden. The distant river flowed endlessly toward the Ganga River.

Suddenly she felt a presence.

Someone had entered the house.

It was Roshan Lal.

He looked exactly the same as she remembered—calm, gentle, with a quiet light in his eyes. After a moment, he said gently, " How are you, Laxmi?

She did not say anything. Words were not needed. Rosha Lal sat beside her. “Come. Laxmi...it's time…Close the doors of the world."

She looked at him with the same quiet trust she had always carried.

“Leave this body shell behind,” he whispered. “Leave behind the sorrows, the waiting, all of it.”

Laxmi nodded peacefully. Her breath grew softer, lighter. And, when she stood up, she saw her body still resting beside the temple door. Together they walked beyond the world of time and memory, beyond sorrow and longing, into the vast silence of infinite.