The Unplanned Reunion

Aparna recognised the laugh before she recognised the person. It came from the auto beside hers at a Koramangala signal, familiar enough to pull an old college corridor straight into a weekday evening.

She turned her head and saw Rohan, her former classmate, holding a folder and looking considerably more employed than he had during their final-year project.

“Rohan?”

He looked across, paused, and grinned.

“Aparna!”

Both autos were properly stopped. Both friends remained seated. Their drivers received a brief, excited introduction to a relationship neither had requested information about.

“How long?” Rohan asked.

“Years.”

“You’re in Bengaluru?”

“Clearly.”

They laughed. The signal changed before either could improve the quality of the questions. The drivers moved normally, and the reunion ended after approximately twenty seconds of excellent recognition and limited information.

Aparna smiled to herself. She had meant to contact Rohan several times after college, then lost track through job changes and the ordinary accumulation of tasks that made old friendships feel more distant than they actually were.

At the next signal, his auto happened to stop nearby again.

“Part two,” he said.

“Current job?” she asked.

He gave a short answer. She gave hers. Both expressed surprise in the way people do when a person once known for missing morning lectures now manages responsibilities involving other adults.

Again, the light changed. Again, they stopped speaking and let the road have their attention. Neither asked a driver to stay alongside the other vehicle. Nostalgia was not a valid reason to reorganise traffic.

Aparna’s driver, Basheer, smiled while safely stopped later.

“Good friend?”

“Old friend. We keep meaning to meet.”

“Today meeting in instalments.”

She laughed. It was a precise description.

Rohan’s route separated from hers after another junction. Before it did, they exchanged a quick farewell gesture. Aparna did not try to dictate a phone number over the street. She could message through the contact she still had once her own journey reached an appropriate pause.

As a passenger, she sent a short note later: Nice to meet you for a total of forty seconds. Coffee properly sometime?

Rohan replied that he was nearby for an errand and could meet at a café later if it suited her. They checked their plans, chose a place with practical access, and made clear arrangements without turning either driver’s route into a surprise group project.

An hour later, they sat across a table with coffee. The conversation continued without a countdown on a traffic light.

Rohan had kept one old group photograph on his laptop, taken on a day everybody looked certain that adulthood would involve fewer confusing deadlines. Aparna remembered it immediately. They compared memories and discovered that several details had improved through retelling. Neither insisted on correcting every version. Some stories simply needed the people in them to meet again and laugh at the same old problem.

They talked about college, mutual friends, work and the strange discovery that everybody seemed to have become somebody’s responsible person. Rohan admitted he still sometimes dreamed about the unfinished project presentation. Aparna reminded him that it had been finished, mostly by the two people who had answered his calls.

He accepted the historical correction and paid for the coffee as a small, extremely delayed contribution.

Before leaving, they arranged another meeting with enough detail that it had a chance of existing outside a vague promise. Neither needed to make every friendship into a calendar exercise, but one useful date helped.

At home, Aparna told her sister about the reunion.

“Traffic again?” her sister asked.

“Yes. Briefly effective at social coordination.”

“Will you rely on it next time?”

Aparna shook her head.

“We’re trying a table. Longer speaking window.”

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.