This story could not have been written but for a phone call I received last week. I’ll come to the caller later.

Suffice to say that it triggered off memories of a hilarious fortnight in the autumn of that year (can’t remember which one) when India and Pakistan went to war with each other.

It did not last long, but there was plenty of excitement in our small town, set off by a rumour that enemy parachutists were landing in force in the ravine below Pasi Tibba.

The road to this ravine led past my dwelling, and one afternoon I was amazed to see the town’s constabulary, followed by hundreds of concerned citizens (armed mostly with hockey sticks) taking the trail down to the little stream where I usually went bird watching.

The parachutes turned out to be bedsheets from a nearby school, spread out to dry by the dhobis who lived on the opposite hill. After days of incessant rain, the sun had come out, and the dhobis had finally got a chance to dry the school bedsheets on the verdant hillside.

From afar they did look a bit like open parachutes. In times of crisis, its wonderful what the imagination will do.
There were also blackouts. It’s hard for a hill-station to black itself out, but we did our best.

Two or three respectable people were arrested for using their torches to find their way home in the dark. And of course nothing could be done about the lights on the next mountain, as the people there did not even know there was a war on. They did not have radio or television or even electricity. They used kerosene lamps or lit bonfires!

We had a smart young set in Mussoorie in those days, mostly college students who had also been to convent schools, and some of them decided it would be a good idea to put on a show - an old-fashioned theatrical extravaganza - to raise funds for the war effort.

And they thought it would be a good idea to rope me in, as I was the only writer living in Mussoorie in the innocent times. I was thirty-one, and I’d never been a college student, but they felt I was the right person to direct a one-act play in English. This was to be the centre-piece of the show.

I forget the name of the play. It was one of those drawing-room situation comedies popular from the 1920s, inspired by such successes as Charley’s Aunt and Tones of Money. Anyway, we went into morning rehearsals at Hakman’s, one of the older hotels, where there was a proper stage and a hall large enough to seat at least two hundred spectators.

The participants were full of enthusiasm, and rehearsals went along quite smoothly. They were an engaging bunch of young people - Guttoo, the intellectual among them; Ravi, a schoolteacher; Gita, a tiny ball of fire; Neena, a heavy-footed Bharatanatyam exponent; Nellie, daughter of a nurse; Chameli, who was in-charge of make-up (she worked in a local beauty saloon); Raju, who served in the bar and was also our prompter; and a host of others, some of whom would sing and dance before and after our one-act play.

The performance was well attended, Ravi having rounded up a number of students from the local school; and the lights were working, although we had to cover all doors, windows and exists with blankets to maintain the regulatory black-out.

But the stage was old and rickety, and things began to go wrong during Neena’s dance number when, after a dazzling pirouette she began stamping her feet and promptly went through the floorboards. Well, to be precise, her lower half went through, while the rest of her remained above board and visible to the audience.

The schoolboys cheered, the curtain came down, and we rescued Neena, who had to be sent to the civil hospital with a sprained ankle. Mussoorie’s only civilian war casualty.

There was a hold-up, but before the audience could get too restless the curtain went up on our play, a tea-party scene which opened with Guttoo pouring out tea for everyone.

Unfortunately, our stage manager had forgotten to put any tea in the pot, and poor Guttoo looked terribly put out as he went from cup to cup, pouring invisible tea. “Damn. What happened to the tea?” muttered Guttoo, a line which was not in the script. “Never mind,” said Gita, playing opposite him and keeping her cool. “I prefer my milk without tea,” and proceeded to pour herself a cup milk.

After this, everyone began to fluff their lines and our prompter had a busy time. Unfortunately he’d helped himself to a couple of rums at the bar, so that, whenever one of the actors faltered, he’d call out the correct words in a stentorian voice which could be heard all over the hall. Soon there was more prompting than acting, and the audience began joining in with dialogue of their own.

Finally, to my great relief, the curtain came down - to thunderous applause. It went up again, and the cast stepped forward to take a bow. Our prompter, who was also curtain-puller, released the ropes prematurely, and the curtain came down with a rush, one of the sandbags hitting poor Guttoo on the head. He has never fully recovered from the blow.

The lights, which had been behaving all evening, now failed us, and we had a real black-out. There was consternation and chaos, with everyone searching for exits that did not exist. In the midst of this confusion, someone - it must have been a girl, judging from the overpowering scent of jasmine that clung to her - put her arms around me and kissed me full on the lips. When the lights came on again, she had vanished.
Who had kissed me in the dark?

As no one came forward to admit to the deed, I could only make wild guesses. But it had been a very sweet kiss, and I would have been only too happy to return it had I known its ownership. I could hardly go up to each of the girls and kiss them in the hope of reciprocation. Afterall, it might even have been someone from the audience.

Anyway, our concert did raise a few hundred rupees for the war effort. By the time we sent the money to the right authorities, the war was over. Hopefully the authorities saw to it that the money was put to good use.

We went our various ways, and although that kiss lingered in my memory, it gradually became a distant, fading memory, and as the years passed it went out of my head altogether. Until the other day, almost forty years later...

“Phone for you,” announced Gautam, my seven-year-old secretary. “Boy or girl? man or woman?” “Don’t know, deep voice like my teachers but it says you know her.”

“Ask her name.” Gautam asked.

“She’s Nellie and she’s speaking from Bareilly.”

“Nellie from Bareilly?” I was intrigued. I took the phone.

“Hello,” I said “I’m Bonda from Golconda.”

“Then you must be wealthy now.” Her voice was certainly husky. “But don’t you remember me? Nellie? I acted in that play of yours, up in Mussoorie a long time ago.”

“Of course, I remember now.” I was remembering. “You had a small part, the maid servant I think. You were very pretty. You had dark, sultry eyes and a lovely figure.”

“I still have a good figure.”

“I’m glad to hear that, because I don’t. But what made you ring me after all these years.”

“Well, I was thinking of you. I’ve often thought about you. You were much older than me, but I liked you. After that show, when the lights went out, I came up to you and kissed you. And then I ran away.”

“So it was you who kissed me. I’ve often wondered. But why did you run away? I would have returned the kiss. More than once!”

“I was very nervous, I thought you’d be angry.”

“Well, I suppose it’s too late now. You must be happily married with lots of children.”

“Husband left me. Children grew up, went away.”

“It must be lonely for you.”

“I have lots of dogs.”

“How many?”

“About thirty.”

“Thirty dogs! Do you run a kennel club?”

“No, they are all strays. I run a dog shelter.”

“Well, that’s very good of you.”

“You must come and see it sometime, come to Bareilly. Stay with me. You like dogs, don’t you?”

“Er-yah, of course. Man’s best friend, the dog. But thirty are a lot of dogs to have about the house.”

“I have lots of space.”

“I’m sure... Well, Nellie, if ever I’m in Bareilly I’ll come to see you. And I’m glad you phoned and cleared up the mystery of that kiss. It was a lovely kiss and I’ll always remember it.”

We said our goodbyes and I promised to visit her some day. A trip to Bareilly to return a kiss might seen a bit far-fetched, but I’ve done better things in my life. It’s those dogs that worry me. I can imagine them snapping at my heels as I attempt to approach their mistress. Dogs can be very possessive. They might even have driven off her husband...

“Who was that on the phone?” asked Gautam breaking in on my reverie.

“Just an old friend.”

“Very old?”

“Extremely.”

“Dada’s very old girl friend. Are you going to see her?”

“I’ll think about it.”

And I’m still thinking about it. And about those dogs. But bliss it was to be in Mussoorie forty years ago, when Nellie kissed me in the dark.

Some memories are best left untouched.