Twenty years passed. As I sat eating dinner with my husband and children, there was a knock on the door. My daughter told us that it was a woman, asking for me.
“Yes, may I help you?” I asked.
“Hello bibiji.” The manner had changed, but the voice was the same.
I did not know how to respond. I stared at her for a long time, before locking her in a tight embrace.
She was in town for a conference. She told us of how she “brought” the school to her, as she studied at home and passed her exams. She had started working at a small company, before slowly making her way up the career ladder.
Despite much beseeching, she refused to stay for the night. As she stood at the door to say goodbye, she rummaged in her briefcase for something.
“So tell me,” I asked teasingly, “is Salman Khan still your favourite hero?”
She finally found what she was looking for. She handed me a tattered book with a faded red cover, along with a pen.
“No,” she said, as the hint of a tear appeared in her eyes. “No, it’s you.”