HMT

The port was crowded and noisy. The smell of the sea mixed with the fuel.Waves brushed against the side of the pier, soft and slow, almost as if they didn’t want anyone to leave. Harsh, a marine engineer, stood with a bag over his shoulder. He smiled, but his eyes carried a quiet sadness. “You ready for this?” Mani asked. Harsh laughed. “For cold winds and no sunlight? Not really. For the adventure? Always.” Both of them knew this trip was different. There would be no late calls, no random texts, no quick plans. Only months of silence. Harsh took something out of his bag and handed it to Mani. “Here. For you.” Mani unwrapped it. It was an old book — The Old Man and the Sea. “You wanted me to read this for years,” Mani said. “Now you have time,” Harsh smiled. “When you miss me, think of me like the old man — stubborn and far away.” They laughed, but the laughter felt heavy. The ship’s horn blew. Harsh hugged Mani tight, then walked up the ramp without looking back. ⸻ That evening, Mani sat alone in his living room. The book lay on the table. An ARR song played softly — 🎵.... Kaalam nam thozhan Mustafa...🎵 He went to the shelf, took down their bottle of black rum, and poured two glasses. One for him. One for the friend who wasn’t there. He stared at the empty chair for a long time. When the song ended, the room felt too quiet. He lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he whispered. Far away, on the ship, Harsh poured rum into a tin cup and raised it to the sea, listening to the waves. Mani’s phone beeped. A message appeared: “Entering no signal area. Cheers 111.” He read it again and again. Then he opened the book to page 111. Three one-rupee coins slipped out and clang softly on the table. A memory rushed back. They were schoolboys once, chasing a rumor: “If you collect three one-rupee coins with the letters H, M, and T, you can get an HMT watch.” For months, they searched everywhere — tea stalls, bus seats, shop counters, even their fathers’ pockets. They traded coins, argued over change, and celebrated every lucky find. Finally, one afternoon, they had them all — H, M, T. Excited, they ran to the watch shop, placed the coins on the counter, and said: “We want an HMT watch.” The shopkeeper picked up the coins, studied them carefully, then smiled kindly. “Boys, there is no such offer. These letters are mint marks. They only show where the coin was made.” The words hit them hard. Their dream broke in seconds. The shopkeeper pushed the coins back. “Keep them safe. You searched hard for these. That makes them special.” Outside, the two boys stood in the sunlight, disappointment slowly turning into laughter. Holding the coins, they made a promise: “One day, we’ll buy two HMT watches — same color, same style — and wear them together.” At present, Mani looked at his wrist. A brown leather HMT watch ticked softly. Far away, on the deck of a cold ship, Harsh wore the same watch. The seconds moved on. ———————- Some Years later One evening, there was a knock at Mani’s door. An old man in uniform stood there. “I was the captain of the ship Morning Midas,” he said quietly. The captain handed Mani a small folded note. In Harsh’s handwriting, it read: “Say 111 to my friend. He will understand.” Mani ran inside and pulled down the old book Harsh had once given him. He flipped quickly to page 111. A single line was marked, underlined in faded ink: “……no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished.” The captain said softly, “He was brave and saved many before the ship caught on fire and sank…” His eyes dropped in sadness. Mani’s breath caught. Tears fell onto his wrist. The HMT watch, which had ticked faithfully for years, had stopped suddenly. He pressed the book to his chest, the note still in his hand, the watch cold against his skin. And when the time comes, Harsh and Mani will meet Together again — perhaps somewhere beyond this world. Hereby, Gowtham