A Love Story

I was shocked and amazed to discover, at nineteen, that I was in love with my best friend. It was so sudden, so unexpected. I’d known Nikhil since I was six, and we’d been classmates ever since. Nikhil was my best friend, my pal, my confidante, and it suddenly occurred to me that I could spend the rest of my life with him. More, I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I looked at him as I had, for so many years, and I could feel my heart thudding in my chest like never before, my nerves tingling, and the pumping of estrogens through my body. I couldn’t explain why or how, but just that he was the only one for me. 

The only thing left to do was to convince him that I was the only one for him too. Before that, I had to convince him I was a girl, no, not just a girl, a woman. I was his ‘buddy’, and that meant he had the license to shamelessly comment on other girls in front of me, not bother to behave him self, be a slob and not say pretty words just to impress me. In short, he treated me just like he treated his guy friends. I had to change that.

At nineteen, I looked upon myself as a young woman and not a teenage girl. I was stubborn, hard-headed, goal-oriented and I usually got what I wanted, with careful planning and operation. I sat down for a whole evening thinking about how to make him fall in love with me – how to ‘seduce’ him, I thought, with a smile. I imagined myself as one of those romance-novel heroines, and him as the playing-hard-to-get hero. I made a list of what all I could do to impress him. Being his pal, I knew all his likes and dislikes.

First, I tried poetry. I racked my brains and came with a sort of love poem titled ‘only you’. A few days ago, I would have snorted in disgust if I’d had to write something so mushy-mushy, but now, it only seemed romantic to me. I showed it to him one day, or more accurately, kept it on my table in clear view so he would see it when he came home to eat dinner (three times a week he ate at my house-he loved my mom’s cooking. Maybe I should learn how to cook his favourite dish?) . As I expected, he saw it and took it in his hand.

“Hey, shorty, what’s this?” he asked. He always teased me that I was a foot shorter than him.

“What’s what?” I asked innocently.

He read it in silence, and I watched him expectantly, like I used to watch my teacher correct my term papers. He let out a whistle.

“Wow! I didn’t know you could write like this.” My insides jumped with joy.

“Thanks,” I said. 

“Do you mind if I keep this?” he asked. Was he going to keep it under his pillow? Or frame it?

“Um, ok. But why?” I asked.

He grinned at me as he folded the paper and pocketed it. “There’s this first year girl in college I want to impress. You won’t mind if I say I wrote it, will you?”

Something deflated inside me like a balloon pricked with a pin. Strike one.

Okay, maybe the poem was a bad idea. I switched over to plan B. I nagged him into taking me to a romantic movie.

“Why in the world do you want to watch that stupid, sloppy movie?” he said.

“I like Shah Rukh,” I said, “and you can drool at Kajol.” I paused and then said, “I’ll buy the popcorn and coke.” That did it. He was a sucker for popcorn. Actually he was always ready for free food.

He shrugged and said, “Fine, meet me there at two o clock.” I restrained myself from giving him a hug. Patience, I told myself.

I rehearsed the plan in my mind. When the lights were off in the theatre, I could put my hand over his, he would stare at me, and I would say, “I love you.” The idea thrilled me. I spent an hour dressing up, carefully coordinating my accessories with my new blue skirt and bell-sleeved top, sneaking into my mom’s room and spraying her perfume on my wrists and over my dress. I reached there ten minutes earlier, and tried not to dance on my toes, looking around for him. He sauntered into the theatre, wearing a black shirt, his hair rumpled, with a goofy smile on his face. Funny how I’d never felt the urge to run my fingers through his hair before.

“Where’s the popcorn?” he asked, his single most important concern.

I gritted my teeth. He hadn’t even noticed my new dress. I shoved the popcorn into his hands. He sniffed the air, and frowned.

“What’s that smell?”

“Perfume,” I said.

“Perfume?” he laughed. “Since when did you start wearing perfume?”

I shut my eyes and willed myself not to swear in public. It will be better when the movie starts, I told myself.

On screen, Shah Rukh Khan looked fabulous as he danced with Kajol, but for once, I didn’t notice. I was too wound up, planning when and how to start. I never once looked in Nikhil’s direction, fearing I might blabber something.

You can do this, I told myself. Just tell him.

What if he said no? Another voice spoke in my head. Or worse, what if he laughed?

You won’t know unless you say it, the first voice replied.

Caught up in this tug-of-war in my head, I suddenly heard a low, rumbling sound. I looked around, and to my disgust, saw that he’d fallen asleep, snoring. I slapped my hand against my forehead, and fell back on my chair, depressed. So much for my plan B.

My anger lasted two days. I’d never been able to hold out against him more than that. He was so sincerely apologetic, I forgave him. But I was far from done with him. I fell back on the old ploy of reaching a man’s heart through his stomach. I planned all his favourite dishes, jotted down the recipes, bought candles, and invited him to dinner when my parents had gone for an evening show. I set the table and candles, and waited for him to come.

When the knock sounded on the door at seven o’ clock, I skipped all the way to the door. My bright smile faded when I opened the door and found Arjun along with him. Arjun was his guy friend, and they usually hung out together at the beach, playing football. I liked him, but at that moment I could have easily strangled him. I looked at Nikhil and he shrugged apologetically. “He was feeling bored so I brought him along. Hope you don’t mind.” I swallowed the disappointment and took them both inside.

“Wow, this looks great,” Arjun commented, as we went into the dining room. “Thank you,” I replied, trying not to sound as if I had a toothache.

They pounced on the food like street dogs, spilling food on the tablecloth, wiping their mouths carelessly with the napkins I’d carefully folded, and making guy jokes.

I smiled through gritted teeth and watched them discuss cricket. I couldn’t eat anything. I interrupted Arjun in the middle of a running commentary about some stupid cricket match and said sweetly, “Have you ever heard of the expression ‘three’s a crowd?’” He looked confused for a second, and then smiled and said, “That’s okay. We don’t mind you being with us.”

It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing the water in the jug all over him. Nikhil smiled, but sobered at once, seeing the expression on my face. I couldn’t wait for the evening to get over. Strike three.

I decided to give it one last shot. This time I went to the expert. My mom.

“Mom, my friend likes a guy. She wants him to pay more attention to her. What do you suppose she should do?”

My mom smiled and said, “Jealousy. Ask her to try making him jealous. Works all the time.”

“Thanks,” I said, turning to go. My mom waited for a second, and then asked, “So, who’s the guy you like?”

She never missed a trick. I laughed and ran away. I could always tell her later.

I decided to follow my mom’s advice. It was Valentine’s Day. One of my cousins had come home for the weekend, and I enlisted his help. Nikhil, me and a few of our other classmates usually met up on Saturdays and went to the beach. This time, I decided not to go.

“Why?” Nikhil asked, when I told him over the phone.

“I have a date,” I said, dramatically.

“Don’t be silly, you don’t date,” he said.

I pretended to be angry. “FYI, someone has asked me out, and I have said yes. I am going to the mall with him.”

“But you can’t just go traipsing off with someone you don’t know. It’s dangerous.” I was delighted to hear the angry edge to his voice.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, he’s Smita’s cousin, and I know he’s a decent guy. I’m entitled to do what I want, aren’t I?”

For a long time there was silence. I wanted him to say, ‘No, I won’t let you go out with anyone.’ I willed him to be angry enough with me to stop me from going. “Fine! Do whatever you want to do,” he said, and cut the call. I kept the phone down and left.

I was restless throughout the trip to mall. I kept looking behind my shoulder for Nikhil, much to my cousin’s exasperation, but he never turned up. After two hours, I sighed and gave up. What had I expected? To have him marching up to us and dragging me out? I blinked back the tears that came to my eyes.

My cousin must have noticed something for his expression softened, and he made me sit down at a café, and got me a cup of coffee.

“You’re in love with him?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “the jerk.”

He laughed and said, “Well, being a guy, I can give you a piece of advice.” I looked up at him.

He said, “First, stop trying to impress him. It works for a while, yeah, but if you really care about him, just let go. If he’s meant, he’ll come to you. If he isn’t, then there’s always someone else. But don’t spoil the friendship you have by trying to be someone you are not.” 

I hadn’t heard this kind of advice from anyone. And it made so much sense. I hugged my cousin, and thanked him. I went home feeling a weight had lifted from my chest. I went up to my room, and found a note on my bed.

It said, ‘I’m sorry. Will you be my Valentine? I love you.’ Below it was signed, ‘your best pal, Nikhil. P.S: you looked great that day at the theatre.’

I stood there, clutching the note in my hand, laughing and crying at the same time.

WEDDING WOES

(This article was published in the magazine New Woman in 2009)

I stared at my mom in dismay.

“You can’t do this to me,” I said.

“I’m sorry, dear, its just one of the things you have to put up with in life. Besides, all your aunts will be there and they want to see you.”

“If they want to see me they can always come home,” I grumbled.

My mom pretended not to notice. I stomped back to my room, muttering curses under my breath, and slammed the door behind.

I had to attend my ‘distant’ cousin’s wedding. Worse, I had to wear a sari! Give me jeans and a sweatshirt any day, but a sari? I’d be tripping and falling over it a dozen times before we even reached there. I sulked and pouted for a week before the wedding, behaving typically like a teenager, and not the twenty year old I was. My mom’s reaction to it was just two words. “Grow up.”

I don’t know why it irritated me more that she was right. Maybe being right all the time comes as a side-effect of gestation? If so I can’t wait to have children, so I could advice someone who’d at least listen to me. But if they are going to be anything like me, I doubt that.

Anyway, the whole marriage thing just freaks me out. At my age, marriage was akin to claustrophobia. I hate being told what to do or being dependent on anyone. Like most smart girls, I saw marriage as a lifetime imprisonment, a millstone around the neck, a violation of my freedom, etc etc. One-fourth of those who got married got divorced anyway, so what was the point? And arranged marriages are so archaic. The whole concept of marrying because of matching horoscopes seemed silly to me. I mean, what if the person you married was a chain smoker and you married him without knowing it? Or what if he snored in bed or frowned upon the books you loved or movies you liked watching? Or if you two have absolutely nothing in common to even talk about and are bound to each other for the rest of your lives? It would be like putting a scientist and a punk artist together. But I kept my thoughts to myself, so as not to give a heart-attack to my grandmother and aunts, who couldn’t wait to marry me off, like a particularly nasty cold they wanted to be rid of. Fat chance of that ever happening, I promised myself.

I was rudely woken up by my mom from a wonderful dream, involving me dancing in the rain with Shah Rukh Khan, at four o’ clock in the morning on Sunday. Which idiot ever decided to fix the wedding on a Sunday? My mom turned a deaf ear to all my whining and complaining, punctuated by yawning every few minutes, as she helped me put on the sari. I reflected on how it would take me two minutes to pull on a salwar as opposed to the twenty minutes it took to fold and twist and wrap the green sari around my body. If I ever got married, I had to wear a sari for every bloody occasion. Another excuse on my list of why-not-to-marry excuses.

I wore a pretty silver chain and small studs on my four-times-pierced ear lobes, which my grandmother always found as an excuse to criticize. I refused point-blank to wear the heavy gold necklace and the matching dangling earrings she took out from the locker. She gave a what-has-happened-to-the-girls-of-today sigh and kept it back safely in, advising me to wear it at least for my marriage, which I promised her I would. If I ever got married.

I slept through the drive in the car, and woke up with a jolt when it came to a halt in front of the marriage hall. I looked out the window. It was only 5 o clock in the morning. The sun hadn’t even come up yet! The last time I’d been awake this early was during my last semester exams.

“Take that frown off your face, and put on a bright smile, dear,” my mom said as she got out of the car. “Anyone would think we dragged you here in chains.” She looked lovely, despite her age, I admitted. Her chocolate brown colour sari swept around her like a ball gown, and made her look years younger.

I plastered a wide smile on my face and said, “Is this bright enough for you?”

She was not impressed one bit. “You are only making a fool of yourself,” she said in that maddening, mom’s-always-right tone again. My dad, dressed in a silk dhoti and a light brown shirt, gave a non-committal shrug, stifling a yawn, and took my mother’s hand as he led her in. He too would have preferred to spend the day lounging in the sofa, watching a cricket match. I knew he at least sympathized with me.

The smile on my face turned to a grimace as I was greeted by ear-splitting music that blared from the five-feet-tall speakers on either side as I entered. I stuffed my fingers in my ears till we passed the speakers, and then heaved a sigh of relief. Boy, if this was their way of welcoming people, there was going to be less of a crowd than at a Bangladesh vs. Netherlands cricket match on Indian turf.

Unfortunately, the hall was full of people, a parade of silks in all colours, and laughter and chatter flowing around despite the hour and the din of the music. I had to shade my eyes against the glare of the gold and diamonds flashing at the neck, chest and earlobes of each and every one. People greeted each other with enthusiasm, slapping each others backs, kissing and hugging as if they were meeting them after years, which was probably true. Marriages are the only occasions everyone turns up for. No one wants to pass up the offer of free food.

I smiled at everyone in general, and tried not to trip over my sari and high heels. My mom was swept off into the growing crowd, but not without a warning glance at me. Sheesh, I knew how to behave; I’m not a silly teenager. After greeting and chatting briefly with all my aunts and uncles, I found myself a secluded corner, and a cup of hot coffee, and decided to watch the going-ons from my vantage point. I told myself this was a lesson on human relations.

The whole hall was the scene of intense activity. The bride’s harassed-looking father hurried about, clutching his silk dhoti with one hand, welcoming everyone. The groom’s relatives swaggered about as if they owned the place. People bustled about, drinking coffee, exchanging pleasantries and idle chitchat, and at the dais, in the front, the groom sat with the priest, repeating chants after the former, looking very somber. Probably mourning the last few moments of his bachelorhood. The bride was still dressing up, I guessed.

The women looked happy, probably because they didn’t have to cook at least today, and the men looked happier, probably because they didn’t have to eat their wives’ meals today. The sheer number of relatives was overwhelming.

One lady, who looked like she was a contestant for the “biggest loser challenge”, ambushed me and claimed to be my third aunt’s sister’s husband’s cousin. She pinched my cheeks not-too-gently and commented that I reminded her of one of her uncle’s sister’s daughters. I very much wanted to tell her who or rather, what, she reminded me of, but I decided not to flap my gums. I was left rubbing my sore cheek as she waddled away, but my relief at her departure was short-lived as another one, who made the previous one look thin, wandered up to me and plowed on like a steam engine. I put on a fake smile and listened to her, nodding my head, like I used to do in college while pretending to listen to the lecturer. I interrupted her droning with a “that sounds fascinating, but I really should go. I want to help my mom with, er, the flowers.” She smiled and said, “of course, what a responsible girl you are.” I walked away, rolling my eyes.

I watched the ‘’ Kasi Yatra”, the swing ceremony, and the rest of the fanfare from a safe distance. I had nothing against the customs, of course, but I just wasn’t inclined to follow them myself.

Another thing that irritated me was that they all knew I was, according to them, of marriageable age. I was bombarded with some subtle, and some not-so-subtle hints about how I should start shopping for my wedding trousseau, learning how to cook, and how to show respect to elders, blah blah. The shopping I wouldn’t have minded, but as for the cooking, my culinary skills extended to making bread toast and frying eggs. I side-tracked all their questions as politely as I could manage, and slipped off to find a refuge before they started showing me photographs of ‘prospective grooms’, all of whom, they assured me, were either good looking, successful business executives, or big-muscled sports persons. Nowhere were the words ‘smart’, ‘understanding’ or ‘practical’ used. One of the women even claimed her son was shy and didn’t speak much to girls. I didn’t point out that I had seen the very man flirting with one of the serving girls in a corner of the kitchen.

I was just starting to get really bored when the crowd parted, and I saw a tall, handsome man in a black Sherwani, walking in from the door. He looked rather dashing, like one of those old-time heroes. I imagined him in a dark suit, at a club, saying “A vodka martini on the rocks, shaken, not stirred”, Bond style. The girl in me gave a long, appreciative whistle, and I tried not to drool. Finally, I told myself, this wedding is starting to look interesting. I took a step forward but someone brushed past me and I caught sight of a long mane of sleek black hair and a rich, peacock blue designer sari, before the woman launched herself on the guy, my guy, and hugged him hard enough to make me grit my teeth. He responded with equal fervour, laughing and hugging her. Strike out, I thought gloomily.

I decided I had had enough of this wedding, and was just about to find my mother and tell her I was leaving, when everyone began to get excited. The time had come for the grand finale-the tying of the ‘thaali’ around the bride’s neck. The image of a noose came to my mind, but I edged forward with the others, hoping to glimpse the momentous occasion.

I caught sight of the bride’s face as she sat patiently on her father’s lap, while her husband-to-be continued the chanting, according to the pujari’s instructions, holding the yellow thread in his hand. A kaleidoscope of emotions raced on her face, as she stared up at her man, and he, down at her. In that moment just before the pujari gave the signal to the drummers, they stared at each other, two individuals giving up all bonds to become one, to live together for the rest of their lives, to share joy, sorrow, and most importantly, their love. And that was what, it suddenly struck me, marriage was all about. Love. The love and the happiness they gave each other and to others. He smiled at her, a radiant smile, and she gave him one in return, while tears ran down her cheeks, as he tied the knot around her neck three times, to the loud beating of drums, signifying the union. Everyone cried, hugged and congratulated each other, and suddenly they all seemed closer to each other, the bond running through all of them clearly visible and strong. I saw my mother wipe a tear from her eye, and lay her head on dad’s shoulder, as if imagining my wedding. I couldn’t help the small lump in my throat.

Lunch was a noisy affair, but the food was great and finger-licking tasty. I laughed with my father as he made comments about how some people made kesari that tasted like mud, giving a surreptitious glance at my mom. My mother frowned at him, but I saw her lips twitch when he turned away. I was amused, but kept my mouth shut. I was really enjoying myself. I actually felt a twinge of regret the day had to come to an end.

My mom was surprised to see me smiling, genuinely, as we started to leave.

“So how did you find it?” she asked.

“Well, it was boring at first, but I think the idea of marriage is catching up to me after all. At least I managed to trip and fall only twice.”

My mom laughed. “Your grandmother will be so proud.”

I gave another smile as we settled down in the car. It had turned out to be quite an interesting day. And, best of all, I had finally managed to work up a conversation with the good looking guy I’d seen. He gave me his cell phone number and invited me to a cup of coffee. I sat back in the car, contented with the world.

Oh, and that girl I saw with him? She was his sister.

The wastrel

(A deviation from my usual humorous posts)

The first time he saw her was sometime in the middle of summer. She was walking down the road, a short woman, with a brown paper bag in her hand. She was smiling into space, her mind so occupied she didn’t notice the stares of the other people. Maybe they found the way she walked or her dreamy smile odd, but she didn’t glance twice at anyone.

He didn’t know what made him follow her, but he found himself trailing along after her, though careful to maintain a distance between the two of them. She didn’t turn back even once, though others looked at him, or rather, looked down upon him. No one approves of a wastrel, roaming around the streets, no matter that he was too young to live on the streets alone, with no home to go to. Some people even screwed up their noses, as if he smelt like garbage.

For once, he didn’t care as he followed the woman for what seemed like ages, till she stopped outside a small house. He halted, and watched as she rummaged in her bag for a key, opened the door, and to his disappointment, went in and shut the door. His hopes of getting some food were dashed, and he put his head down. He haunted the narrow alleys, scrounging for leftovers in the dustbin. He ate what he got, though it was disgusting. As night came, he curled up on a park bench opposite to the woman’s house and tried to sleep. He shivered in the cold night, but finally, exhaustion overtook him and he fell asleep. Life on the streets was not easy.

He got up early the next morning, the sun shining bright on his face, and stretched himself. His body felt stiff from having slept on the hard bench, but he’d gotten used to it. As he washed his face in the fountain, many people jogged or walked by. His stomach rumbled. He walked down the road to a small bakery, and looked up hopefully at the man opening the shutter. The man looked at him, and he saw pity in the man’s eyes. Then the man smiled at him, and took out a few slices of bread from the shelf and gave it to him. He pounced hungrily on it and ate with relish. The man watched him for a while, amused, and then shooed him away, saying his customers would be coming soon. He tried to show the man his thanks, but the latter shook his head. Feeling happy, he walked back to the park.

As he passed the house, he saw the door open and the woman come out. For the first time, she saw him, and paused. She came up to him and smiled down at him. She asked him his name, but he couldn’t reply. She understood that he couldn’t speak, and gave him another smile. After that, she walked away, leaving him staring at her till she turned around the corner.

The day turned out to be a disaster. He had the misfortune of getting into a fight with one of the street gangs because of the very silly reason that he didn’t have enough sense not to laugh at the leader, which didn’t go down well with his minions. What provoked them most was that he was smaller, and much younger. A few of the other waifs who lived on the streets like him, tried to help him, but in the end, they had to concede defeat. He limped back to the park, a cut above his left eye, and a gash in his chest and numerous wounds in other parts of his body. The thugs had shown no mercy, but he had the small satisfaction of having hurt the leader badly enough to leave a permanent scar.

He fell down heavily in front of the woman’s house, his body racked with pain. It was past sunset, and he lay there for a long time, with passers-by looking at him in pity, some shocked by the wounds, and some shaking their heads at him. But none of them lifted a finger to help him. His eyes closed, and he prayed he would die, if only to escape the hardship.

His ears suddenly caught voices and someone lifted him up. He opened one eye, his right one, and looked up at the woman’s kind face, her brown eyes full of pity as she carried him inside. Tears ran down his face, even as his wounds hurt. She spoke in a soothing voice and took him to the kitchen, and laid him on the huge table. She continued to speak softly as she took out bandages, cloth, and a glass bottle. She smiled at him and pressed cotton soaked in some liquid on the wound in his chest. He yelped and flinched but she held him down and wrapped the wound in bandage. She gave him some food and told him he could sleep on the sofa in the hall. Her kindness overwhelmed him, and he felt as happy as he had never felt in his life.

“Someone so young as you are shouldn’t be out on the streets alone. You might get killed. If you don’t have a home, you can stay here till you find one,” she told him.

From that day, he became a part of her life. She treated him like a friend sometimes, and sometimes like a son, but never made him feel like a stranger. He would walk with her everyday to the school where she worked and roam in the school’s huge ground. Some of the children would play with him, but some of them gave him disapproving looks, plainly knowing he didn’t belong there, while some ran away at his sight. He avoided the streets where he used to roam; he didn’t want to go back to that life ever again. Some kids thought it amusing to call him names as he couldn’t talk back, but every time he made threatening noises and glared at them, they would hurry away, crying for their mothers, leaving him laughing at them.

In the evenings, the woman and he would go for a walk in the park. She talked to him, and he listened intently, even though he couldn’t reply. She told him of her school, her likes and dislikes. She used to make him treats if he behaved properly and made him take a bath every day. In clean water. He felt like a new person. He understood why she enjoyed his company. They were both lonely.

“There isn’t enough love left in the world,” she would say. “People are in too much of a hurry to appreciate simple things in life.”

They would play with the Frisbee in the park and go for long walks along the beach. Seeing families together, laughing and playing, no longer made him sad. He was part of a family too.

Once, in a playful mood, he hid one of her shoes in the closet. He laughed to himself as she frantically searched for it, grumbling that it was getting late for school. She must have noticed him grinning, for she caught him by the ear and demanded if he’d taken it. He got it out from where he’d hidden it, but instead of giving it to her, he ran around the house with it, with her shouting and chasing him all over. In the end, they both fell on the floor, exhausted and laughing and his heart glowed with the love he felt for her.

He used to wander around the house, but it was a small one, with one bedroom, a kitchen, and a hall. Compared to the streets, it was heaven. There were no photographs and he wondered why she had never married or had a family. He couldn’t ask her even if he wanted to but sometimes, he saw her sitting on the sofa, staring into space, a sad look on her face. He did his best to keep her happy and she always smiled when he was around.

She was an odd person. She would giggle suddenly, for no reason, and then stop, realizing no one had said anything funny. Sometimes, she would just sit in a corner, doing nothing, till he nudged her, and she would jump, suddenly realizing she’d been staring at the same spot for a long time. She seemed to slip into those daydreams often and as the days went by, she became more and more silent. He grew worried but there was no other way to help her except to cheer her up and play with her. Sometimes, he could hear groan in pain at night. Maybe she was sick. He prayed nothing would happen to her.

The day came when his whole world came crashing down. He got up in the morning and was surprised to see the sun was up already and she hadn’t woken up yet. He went up to her room and saw her still in bed. He tried to wake her, but she didn’t move. Panic filled him as her hands fell limp when he tried to move them. He ran out the back door, which was not locked, to the next house where an old man lived. He tried to tell him something was wrong, and indicated that he come with him. The old man understood, and took his walking stick in his hand. Fear had him running, and the old man panted, trying to keep up with him. He came to a stop next to her bed, and looked at the old man, hoping he would be able to wake her. He watched as the old man opened her eyelid with his hand, and felt along her hand with his fingers, searching for something. He saw the man’s face go pale and knew something was wrong. The old man shook his head at him, and wiped away tears. It was then that it struck him. She was gone. Forever.

He had seen others die, of course. The other homeless creatures in the streets died of starvation, of the cold, but never before had he felt so terrible. She had some disease, they said, but he didn’t understand. For the first time in his life, he felt pain as he had never felt. To have received so much love in such a short time only to have the person cruelly ripped away from him, was agony beyond anything he had faced in the streets. For four days, he cried. He watched them bury her in the graveyard, a few streets away. People looked at him in sympathy but nothing anyone did could fill the gaping hole in his heart. He went everyday to her grave and would simply lie down on the cold stone, hoping to die, so he could be with her. The watchman would just look at him and shake his head, saying, “Stupid dog”, and walk away, leaving him to rest in peace.

The dinner

They ate dinner at the roadside diner that had been their usual haunt during their schooldays. Being back there brought back memories of the birthday treats, spilled coffee, and the laughter and gossip they had always shared. As they ate, she felt herself slipping into the easy rapport she always shared with him and found herself relaxing for a while.

"....and that tall, pretty girl who's dad owned a sugar factory, what was her name?" he was saying.

"Anita", she replied.

"Oh yeah" he smiled at the memory, " I was crazy about her once."

"As I recall, you were crazy about a different girl every single week."

"Yeah well, a guy's got his interests," he said stretching back and ordering dessert. Vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce and nuts. That hadn't changed either.

"You've grown up," she said. He smiled. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment. You always said that i was an immature-what were the exact words?"

"-self centered, girl-crazy moron" she finished.

"Yeah, that" he grinned sheepishly.

"So long since all that happened, yet seems just like yesterday when we were walking together down the road to school," she said, her eyes locking with his.

For a long time they stared at each other in silence, till she turned away, her heart thumping in her chest. No, she told herself, not now. He seemed to continue to stare at her so she pretended to be interested in what the couple at the nearby table was up to, while a storm of emotions raged inside her. She had loved him, ever since the first day he had pushed her in the puddle when they'd been seven years old, had loved him every day since then. But she, of all people, knew what it was like to throw her heart at him and expect him to love her back. He had always been good looking but who had expected his looks to grow with age? His maturity only seemed to accentuate the charm that always had girls falling at his feet.

"Do you remember the day we first met?" his voice brought her back to her senses.

She turned to look at him and saw that his face had grown serious.

She laughed, trying to ease the tension. "Oh yes, how can i forget? You pushed me in the puddle because I'd taken your favorite cricket bat."

He drew a deep breath and looked straight into her eyes.

"That was when I first fell in love with you....."

"I-what?" she blurted.

"I remember how cute you looked, all wet and angry. I-I fell for you right there," he said, his voice shaking a little.

"You can't-seriously-I mean," she blabbered, wondering if it was all a dream.

He just stared back at her, his heart beating wildly, and wished she wouldn't stare at him as if he'd just struck her.

"But-but what about all those girls, all that nonsense about you never falling in love?" she said, while inside she was jumping with joy.

"There's never been anyone like you," he said, making her already high spirits reach astronomical levels.......