We saw him sitting in his room all alone and brooding over something. His room was adjacent to ours in Hotel Sea Breeze, facing the beach at Puri, where we, my wife and I, had gone on a holiday. He would not open his door and even the windows were half-closed, but we could see from above the curtains that he was sitting there like a statue, staring at the ceiling.

It seemed odd that somebody would go to a tourist resort and shut himself up the whole day instead of enjoying a stroll on the beach, a swim in the sea or seeing places of interest. Was he a fugitive hiding from the outside world, a disappointed lover about to take his own life or a burglar planning his next move? I was curious but an investigation early in the day would upset our plans of sightseeing and I preferred to do it later.

When we returned in the evening we had just half-an-hour left to check out and I told my wife to pack our bags while I went and talked to the stranger in the next room. He was sitting much the same as we saw in the morning; on hearing my gentle knock, he opened the door and ushered me in.

"So, you are curious to know why I spent the whole day sitting here? Well, if you have enough time I shall you; it is a long story." He continued, "I have not been able to overcome my feelings for my wife even though five years have passed since her death. During the ten years we were married, we used to come to this hotel on every wedding anniversary which falls on December 6th and if you care to see the calendar, it is the same day today. Even after her death, I continued to come here alone, on December 6th, sitting and thinking of her and not moving out. This gives me a sort of satisfaction, a sort of togetherness with her."

He paused for a long time, perhaps he forgot I was sitting opposite him.

"Sorry for the break," he said. "Both my daughters were small at the time of their mother's death. I married again, so that they could be looked after. I have never been close to my second wife, mentally or physically, though she has been taking care of my children well. The thought of my first wife stands as a barrier between us. I know, in her frustration, she has been seeing one of her old classmates, a bachelor, but I couldn't care less. I don't blame her for that. None can replace my first wife so far as I am concerned - the softness of her sari, the warmth of her body, the fragrance of her breath."

I told him my time was up and I had to go; I would come again some other year on December 6th and listen to the rest of the tale. I went to our room, we picked up the bags and left.

It was twenty years later that we visited Puri again. We had timed it such that we would be there on December 6th, and I would be able to see my friend and hear the rest of his story.

True to his word, he was there, sitting motionless and staring at the ceiling. He had grown old; instead of the young man we saw earlier, a grey-haired man was sitting there. He was glad when I intruded on his privacy again, it gave him a chance to unburden his thoughts.

"Many things happened after I saw you last," he said. "As soon as both my daughters graduated, my second wife left me and joined her lover. I must thank her for her sense of duty in getting the children well educated before she left. Both the girls are now happily married and settled in their new homes."

He paused again. "I don't feel lonely at all," he continued before I took leave of him. "The thought of my first wife sustains me."

When we left Puri at the end of the holiday, I had the satisfaction that the stranger's story had been completed. I also wondered whether I would have the same feelings for my wife after her death.