NEW DELHI/DECEMBER 6 She was the last person in Delhi he talked to, half an hour before midnight, before they got to him in Gaya on November 27. For three days after that, she says, her hand, virtually on its own, would go to the redial button with his mobile number.

Today, she sits in her one-room windowless, rented flat in the crammed Jia Sarai area—appropriately behind IIT Delhi—saying she doesn’t want to cry because that would be a ‘‘dishonour to his ideals.’’

Rashmi is a tough woman.

This 28-year-old from Dehra Dun (she didn’t want her last name to be used) has nothing to do with IIT, nothing to do with the National Highway Authority of India. But she had a lot to do with Dubey’s life and his vision—as a close friend, they exchanged ideas, talked about the past and the future.

Today, she has for company his letters, in Hindi and English, a few photographs and a past marked by his vision for the future.

Since the day The Sunday Express exposed how Dubey had been killed after he blew the whistle and the Government didn’t honour his request for secrecy, Rashmi says she has been reading responses from all over the world for comfort. ‘‘I will give you mine, too,’’ she says, ‘‘can you include it?’’

Her house, at the end of a small bylane lined with one-room sets and coaching centres, is the same house where Dubey lived for five years when he was with the Ministry of Road Transport and Highways. It’s in this city that they first met five years ago at an ABVP programme where they both pledged to promote education...

‘‘He was a man in a hurry. His oft-repeated line was that when I die, I should be able to make a mark so that I am remembered,’’ says Rashmi. ‘‘He never thought about small things, always had big ideas, larger plans.’’

His words weren’t empty—there was a plan. Despite his low government salary of about Rs 20,000, he had decided to set up Needh (Nest), an NGO to teach destitute children. ‘‘He had told us to be ready for this as after the NHAI project, he would go abroad, do his consultancy and earn enough to support the NGO,’’ she says.

He was obsessed with the idea, she says, of helping children from poor families compete against elite public-school graduates in the same exam—because that’s what he did for and at IIT. ‘‘On his Delhi trips, he would hold free tuition classes every evening and once a week go to a slum to teach. He persuaded at least four reluctant fathers to sell off a piece of land to educate their children. He had even convinced his father to spend less time at the chemist’s shop and work towards starting a teaching centre.’’

At a more personal level, besides his two younger sisters who he had brought to Delhi to study—they live next door—he had also taken up additional responsibility of keeping his two nephews in Koderma to send them to a good school there.

His priorities were clearly different. For example, the last time he was here, instead of paying his LIC premium, he spent money becoming a lifelong member of Engineer’s Association of India. ‘‘He said he did not want to plan for when he was dead. There were things he wanted to do now,’’ she says.

Why would anybody want to kill somebody like that? ‘‘He used to write letters relentlessly because he could never tolerate corruption and constantly said he was going to stop the waste of public money,’’ says Rashmi.

From December 1, he was to join back at Koderma from Gaya where he had actually cut his teeth a year ago. ‘‘We knew it was dangerous but he kept saying he wanted to work on that project because he wanted to see it finish and it was being run by the World Bank. And that he wanted to experience an international agency’s style of working,’’ she says. ‘‘I want to tell his story because he kept insisting that he wanted to see that corruption is weeded out from the system. I want that if his story comes out, somebody somewhere will take action.”

She says she was totally dependent on him — in fact, he used to underline all her notes, make summaries of books for her and for months sit in the canteen waiting for her to finish the day’s quota of reading.

‘‘But in spite of his tough veneer, he was a normal person, loved playing with children and cracking jokes,’’ she recalls pointing to a sheaf of newspaper clips from which falls out an ad that reads: ‘‘Five reasons why a scooter is better than a boyfriend.’’ Dubey marked it ‘‘very very important.’’

The last day he was in Delhi a month ago, he spent taking Rashmi and her parents sightseeing in Delhi. ‘‘I wanted to talk to him about something important but he said that this was a priority. By the time we came back, it was late and I never talked to him about those things,’’ she said.

‘‘If only mobile phones had not been invented, I would have had many more letters from him in the recent past,’’ she said.

The letters she has speak his mind and heart:

My conscience is my biggest virtue, my wealthiest treasure and my best guide or friend. I always do what my conscience tells or compels me to do. I want to keep this candle of humanity ever glowing in my heart.’’ — Satyendra Dubey, in a handwritten letter to his friend, four months before he was killed. Then there are two which seem prescient:

Na mujhko yaad rakhna

na mera kaam yaad rakhna,

bas itni dua hai

ki paigam yaad rakhna

(Don’t remember me or my work, just one request, remember my message.)

And the last one:

Jab doobo bhi to itne sukoon se doobo

ki aas paas ki leheron ko bhi pata na lage