Boy-meets-girl 5: Your Place or Mine?

“We have the power to transform ourselves!”

Although these words were uttered by a pretty girl in a sexy little black number which highlighted her perky breasts, shapely shoulders and slender legs, Roshan wanted to throttle her. Not because he particularly disagreed with her statement in the larger sense, but because he didn’t want to hear what was inevitably about to follow.

The girl was evidently insensitive to his murderous thoughts. She leaned across the fancy little bar table in the fancy dance club that, in a short time, had become “the” place for the young, restless and happening of the city, going for the kill. “You should realize that your body is your temple,” she said, her voice charmingly straining over the gazillion decibels of hip-hop music blasting the eardrums of the patrons.

Roshan was momentarily distracted by the quantity of her décolletage that came into sharp focus with her movement. His thoughts about her body at that moment were not pious.

But the girl obviously didn’t know to leave well alone. She sipped at the fancy furled straw of her fancy cocktail delicately, eyeing him speculatively through her mascaraed lashes. He looked back at her, his face expressionless, feeling a sinking sense of resignation. “You should try meditation,” the girl said.

Roshan was distracted by a snort that suspiciously converted into a cough at his elbow. He turned to see Neha, his long-term friend and the Machiavelli who machinated this set up, bury her nose into her drink. “Or you can try the nicotine patch,” piped Dev, Neha’s fiancé, either innocently or devilishly. Roshan had never been able to tell.

“Or I can try new friends,” Roshan said. Neha chuckled, Dev weakly joined and the pretty girl looked at him blankly. “How will that help?” she asked, her brow charmingly wrinkled.

Roshan had really wanted to have sex with her, which was why he’d agreed to this “double date.” He still did, but he realized that it could only happen if he gagged her.

“It’s a new addiction therapy, haven’t you heard?” he said. “It involves severing relationship with everything that leads one into a downward spiral,” he said, putting his drink down. “And leaving, in search of new positive things. Like this,” he said and left the table.

His dramatic exit was hampered quite a bit by the throng of elbows and hips and legs—the club was really very popular—but he managed to force his way to the doors that led to the fancy terrace.  The club was situated in a high floor of a new tall commercial building and its terrace oversaw the quickly gentrifying mill area of the city.  The nightscape hid the squalor, construction dust, and narrow streets and put the old mill structures amidst tall buildings in a surreal aspect.

Roshan fished out his cigarette pack from inside his fancy night-out jacket, scanning the crowded terrace for a quiet place for a quick drag. He found his getaway behind what looked like a fancy Japanese arbor behind a Japanese waterfall.  

He lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and quite uncharacteristically thought what the fuck he was doing with his life. Roshan was not given to such considerations—his was a charmed life. He was born into affluence, grew up in it, got everything he wanted or aspired for pretty easily, and to top it all, was blessed with a handsome visage and an easy-going nature. He was not sentimental.

Yet, here he was, almost 30, with no trophy girlfriend or wife in tow, having a clandestine smoke after escaping from the killer prosaicness of a boring girl—on a Saturday night.

“Rough night huh?”

Even before he turned, Roshan’s hormones were captivated by the voice. It was so deep that it could’ve come from the ground floor.

She was curled up on the wooden bench in the arbor and herself in semi-darkness. He still got the sense of the statuesque—voluptuous curves, long limbs, hair piled high in a complex coiffure, tasteful jewelry and a hot, hot red dress.

“Philosophical rather,” Roshan responded flippantly.

“Oh?” her voice was laced with faint mockery.

“Wondering whether we have the power to transform ourselves,” he said, catching the glint of white teeth in the dappled light.

“You would be surprised,” she replied.

“Yet, you too are hiding in darkness,” he looked at her appraisingly.

“I’m waiting for the right moment to find me,” she said.

“You think it will tonight?” he asked.

She laughed gently and stood up. It was a process—her limbs uncurled, her back straightened and she got up in a fluid motion, with surprising speed. When she stood up, Roshan realized that she was very tall. One could spend a week trying to untangle from those legs, his mind involuntarily added.

She leaned in and purred, “What do you think?”

‘Have my babies,’ his hormones yelled.  “I think the moment’s quest might end tonight,” he said suavely.

“Cocky!” she said and Roshan caught a whiff of an accent. Italian?

“You are not from around here, are you?” he asked.

“Let’s find out,” she grinned at him.

“Your place or mine?” he asked.

“Let's go for a drive first,” she suggested.

“I have a sweet ride,” he said.

“Mine is better,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Really, I have a great car,” Roshan said as they rode down the express elevator.

“Wait till you see mine,” she smiled mysteriously.

Roshan snorted as the elevator doors opened into the basement parking. She led the way.

“Well?” Roshan asked impatiently after 15 seconds.

She turned and smiled at him saucily. Then she bent over.

And transformed into a hot red Ferrari.

Boy-meets-girl 4: Angel's Touch

When lanky, easily-missed-in-a-crowd, and shabbily dressed 22-year old Dinesh stepped out of the gleaming office building that merciless May Tuesday afternoon, he didn’t know he was an entry in his Guardian Angel’s calendar.

In his defense, Dinesh was preoccupied. He’d just finished giving an interview for a coder job in one of the IT companies. It was an entry-level job just above the level of janitor and would pay pittance. But it would be a step in the right direction for young Dinesh, who currently worked at a call center and hated dealing with irate and abusive customers. He’d put himself through a NIIT course—in fact, his widowed mother had sold the last of her gold jewelry to put him through it.

He was naturally anxious to get the job. He was also hungry. It was lunchtime, but he had 50 rupees on him to see him through the entire day and probably the next.  After that, he’d have to figure out an inexpensive way of spending six odd hours before his shift at the call center started. He also noticed that there were a couple of missed calls from his mother—no doubt she was calling him about his younger brother, who hadn’t come home the previous night.

Dinesh was not a complaining type, but life did weigh heavily on his young shoulders. When he was not worrying about rent, crowd in the local train, a new rain coat for the monsoon, medical expenses, his mother’s hunched shoulders or his brother’s worrisome ways (which was almost never), he did think of a different life—that of leisure, money, better clothes, a/c car, and—in the deepest recesses of his heart—a girl with gleaming hair, clean delicate feet and soft skin.

But on a day-to-day basis, Dinesh was not a happy guy. If you put him under hypnotic trance, you would find out that he’s forgotten how to be happy about six years ago, when his father died of a sudden, inexplicable illness. Which was a problem, as far as the Keepers of Balance of the Universe were concerned. Enter the Guardian Angel.

The Guardian Angel had Dinesh in his sight as the boy emerged from the building into the small lane, which served as the local “khau galli.” You’ve probably seen the Angel there on other occasions. Yes, he’s the doped-looking guy, with long hair, thick glasses, wrinkled Fab India kurta and jeans, smoking at the paan-bidi shop. This is how he normally worked his beat. 

Dinesh was delighted to see the variety of choices he had that afternoon—vada paav, burji paav, paav baji, dosa, tender coconut, and chai vendors were lining the galli and doing brisk business. He could eat like a king.

The Angel smiled softly as he saw Dinesh’s eyes light up. He watched the boy inspect his choices carefully and pick dosa and chai after deep consideration. He smoked his cigarette leisurely as Dinesh ate his lunch slowly, with relish. 

As Dinesh washed his hand (the Angel didn’t approve of this practice, but what do you do), paid up and turned, the Angel straightened.  Although Dinesh was his 460^th assignment, he still felt a coil of stress unfurl in his otherworldly stomach just at moment zero.  These set ups were like complex dominos, and there were always unknown factors such as wind, temperature, humidity or the sheer quirkiness of nature to make the dominos scatter all over the place.

Dinesh took one unseeing step towards his right, with his eyes glued to the congested main road he was brought to a halt by a shriek and almost stumbled over a hunched body. He turned startled eyes to the source of the commotion and was confronted by two serious brown eyes, belonging to a brown young woman in sleeveless T-shirt and jeans, crouching on the ground.

“Careful!” she barked at him.  He frowned in confusion.  “You almost stepped over him!” she accused.

Who?

Turned out to be a piteously injured street dog puppy, probably run over by a vehicle.  His hind legs were a mess and he keened and squirmed when he found the energy.

“I’m sorry,” Dinesh mumbled.

She looked at him accusatorily for another five seconds and turned her attention to the puppy. Dinesh stood over her and the puppy, lost as to what to do. He could of course walk away, as everybody else in that crowded galli were doing. He looked around and saw a few people looking at him and the girl with horrid fascination and felt embarrassed.

The Angel caught his breath. These were tough moments—when a soul was put to test. Especially when it was not about earth shatteringly important choices.

Dinesh looked down at the girl—rather, her tanned, brown shoulders, back of her shorthaired head and the base of her back, where the T-shirt allowed an inch of gap over the waist of her jeans. She raised her head and looked around a little helplessly.

Dinesh heard himself say, “You want me to do something?”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes and probably found his not-so-threatening, obviously lower-middle class appearance acceptable, because her face cleared. She gave him a tight smile. “Yes, can you watch over the dog till I find a carton?” she asked.

“Carton?” Dinesh was nonplussed.

“I need to carry this fellow to vet hospital—I need a carton and a gunny sack. I’ll probably get it from one of those shops,” she pointed out.

Dinesh felt like a fool, but he said, “Ok,” and spent the most embarrassing five minutes of his life watching over an injured puppy, physically stopping people from accidentally stepping over him.

Luckily she came back with the carton before long. With one practiced movement, she lifted the puppy by the scruff of its neck and placed it gently in the small carton lined with dirty gunnysack. The puppy tried to protest but found the carton a more hospitable place than the dust and curled up as best he could and lay quietly and miserably.

“Listen, can you help me find an auto?” the girl said in her no-nonsense manner.

The Angel hid a smile. He’d expected her to take charge of the situation.   

“Ok,” Dinesh said. There didn’t seem to be a choice.  He spent the next 15 minutes running up and down the road, trying to cajole auto drivers to stop and take the girl to her destination while she stood on one side, tending to her precious cargo. 

Every time he came back dejected, she smiled at him in encouragement, and Dinesh bloomed like a flower under its warmth and redoubled his efforts.

He was successful in the end. He helped the girl get inside the auto. She thanked him and the auto started.  

Dinesh stood there where she left him feeling curiously empty. The Angel frowned and looked at the traffic. It suddenly thickened, making the auto slow down and halt after it moved 20 yards.  He looked at Dinesh.

Dinesh too saw it and suddenly got energized and ran after the auto. “Hey! Hey!” he shouted. The girl looked out. Dinesh took a deep breath and asked, “Can I come with you to the hospital?”

She hesitated for a second and then smiled. “Sure,” she said, moving in and making space for him.

The traffic cleared. The auto sped on its way.

The Angel looked around proudly at nobody in particular and bought another cigarette.

Boy-meets-girl 3: Meet Cute

“U still @ party?” Whatsapp flashed.

Lakshmi regarded her phone lying on the low table in front of her, sipping her fresh lime soda (her fourth of the evening). She was hungry and bored and really didn’t want to get into this conversation.

“U dere?” the phone flashed again.

She sighed and picked it up. “Ya,” she responded. 

“Hmmm. I’m feeling lonely :-(” came the response.

Lakshmi wondered at the tendril of annoyance that unfurled inside her. 27-year Lakshmi Muthukrishnan was not given to irritation, anger or tantrums. She’d always been a “good girl”—obedient, quiet, and eager to please. She was the girl who was held up as an example among eye-rolling cousins and friends.

“It’s not a v interesting party,” Lakshmi typed, pushed by guilt.

“Why don’t u leave?” pat came the reply.

Now the irritation spread across her chest. “Coz I gotto be around with every1,” she typed. Which was a lie, because she was sitting in a dark corner, alone save the company of the sofa she sat on, table in front of her and her glass of fresh lime soda in her hand. The party was in full swing about three feet away from her, with strobe lights, ear piercing music and indistinguishable heaving bodies trying to dance.

There was silence. She knew Raj (Rajasekaran) was upset andwill give her the silent treatment until she apologized.  And Lakshmi always apologized. Even for faults that were not hers, because she felt pressurized to do so. Because she believed there shouldn’t be any ego in love. But was it fair on Raj’s part to expect her to do this all the time?

“You don’t look too happy.”

The voice startled her and she looked up to see Vince, a friend and colleague, standing over her with two empty glasses in his hands.  He was ridiculously (at least according to Lakshmi) dressed in a skintight, short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off his well-muscled body (he spent a lot of time in the gym) and equally tight jeans accentuating his narrow waist and flat abs.

“Your girlfriend thirsty?” she asked, gesturing at the empty glasses in his hands. Vincent had been doing what he did in every party—pick a girl and stick to her like glue. He sometimes succeeded in getting that girl to bed. Today it was a girl from their Mumbai branch in a stylish short dress.

Vince grinned. “No, not drunk enough,” he replied shamelessly. “But you tell me why you are hiding in the dark?” 

Lakshmi involuntarily looked at her phone. Vince, for all his dumb jock look, was quick. “Ah, lover’s tiff!” he observed.

Lakshmi resolutely shut her mouth, because Vince had made it very clear what he thought of Raj from the beginning. “Wuss” was his most politically right epithet.

Vince walked around the table and flopped on the sofa next to her. “Talk,” he commanded.

Lakshmi sighed. “Nothing to say—he’s upset that I’m at this party,” she replied shortly.

“Why, is he afraid that you will lose your virginity to all the hot guys out here?” Vince asked.

Lakshmi smiled lopsidedly and almost automatically asked, “Which hot guys?” 

“If you drank something decent rather than the curd rice you are drinking, they will become apparent to you,” Vince replied.

“Not at an office party,” Lakshmi replied. It was a party to end a two-day national “off-site” organized by their department at a luxury resort in Goa.

“Which other party do you attend?” Vince teased. It was true—Lakshmi didn’t party. She didn’t know what to do in such dos because she neither drank nor danced. She was the quiet retiring type—more importantly, she hailed from a conservative Tambram family, where such debauchery was frowned upon severely.

"R u drinkin?” her phone flashed again.

“Maybe I should try,” Lakshmi told Vince.

Vince raised his eyebrows. “What?” he asked.

“Drink,” Lakshmi said and got up.

“Whoa!” Vince said and got up with her. “I was just kidding!” 

Lakshmi looked at him, her eyes flashing. “You are saying I shouldn’t?” she asked him.

Vince held up placatory hands. “I’m only saying you may not like it,” he replied.

“How will I know if I don’t try?” she asked and started moving towards the bar, past the sweaty bodies.

“Point,” Vince shrugged as he followed her.

“You order,” she commanded him.

“Breezer?” he asked immediately.

Lakshmi’s eyes narrowed. “No, I want the hard stuff!” she declared.

Vince regarded her thoughtfully. “What hard stuff?” he asked her.

“Vodka,” she replied, because that was the first thing that came to her mind.

“Oh jeez!” Vince exclaimed softly and leaned over the counter. “Vodka with orange juice, for my friend here,” he said and looked over at her. “A very small one,” he winked at the bartender.

“U dere?” her phone buzzed.

Lakshmi did bottoms up of her drink as soon as it came, despite Vince yelling, “Slowly, slowly!” It hit her almost immediately, like a physical blow.

“Sit down!” Vince told her sharply and sat her down on the barstool. “Drink some water!” He thrust a glass under her nose.

Lakshmi by this time was already feeling light headed. “No, I’m good,” she replied. “I want another,” she sang out.

“No, you are not getting any,” Vince frowned.

She looked at him dolefully. Perhaps she shouldn’t.

“Ok, then I will dance,” she said and got up.

“Lakshmi! U dere?” her phone insisted. She pushed it into her jeans pocket.

“Show me,” she told Vince. He groaned.

“Lord, please deliver me from the sin of getting this curd rice drunk!” he sent a prayer up but followed her to the dance floor.

“Teach me the step you did with the other girl!” Lakshmi shouted over the noise.

What—“ Vince blanked and then his face cleared, “The jive?” he asked.

“Whatever,” Lakshmi said and put her hands on his shoulder.

Vince took an embarrassed look around him. But others seemed too busy with their enjoyment. He sighed and removed her hands from his shoulders. “You start like this,” he showed. “Turn like this—not this way, you idiot, the other way,” he continued. He stumbled a little bit when untrained Lakshmi flailed about and came crashing into him.

“I need an insurance policy for this!” Vince complained. Lakshmi hit him on the shoulder. “Show me properly!”

The phone buzzed in her pocket, sending Lakshmi into frenzy. She picked up the basic steps in a minute and danced passably well with Vince till the end of this song.

“I need a drink,” she announced at the end of it.

“No you don’t,” Vince replied automatically.

“Shut the fuck up!” Lakshmi told him. Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked at him in horror.

Vince started laughing. “We definitely need to drink to your first f-bomb,” he said and took her to the bar.

Alcohol flowed, music pulsated, and hands that were awkward got familiar and found the curves to fit in snugly. Heat bloomed as breaths mingled with sweat. People left the dance floor, in search of food. When the lights came on, only Vince and Lakshmi were on it.

They looked at each other with chagrined smiles. “Dinner?” Vince asked. Lakshmi nodded.

As they settled at a table with plates laden with food, Lakshmi extracted the phone from her pocket. There were several messages, increasingly strident, and four missed calls—all from Raj. “I don’t like it when you don’t pick up my calls,” was his last curt message. “This doesn’t bode well for our relationship.”

Lakshmi put her spoon down. Vince looked at her face searchingly. “I’m done, shall we go?” she asked him.

He nodded wordlessly and they got out of the main building. 

“Shall I call the cart sir?” a courteous resort employee asked.

“No, I want to walk,” Lakshmi said.

“Really?” Vince asked.

“Yes!” Lakshmi said and started walking down the driveway.

Vince caught up with her. “Lakshmi, you want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m a good girl, Vince!” she said.

“Of course you are!” Vince replied, nonplussed.

“I don’t want to be,” she said and before Vince knew what she was up to, caught hold of his shoulder and kissed him. It was dark, both of them were drunk, and Lakshmi was shorter than Vince, so the kiss landed on his jaw, but the fervor was unmistakable.

“Whoa!” Vince said, steadying her. “Whoa!” he said again. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Lakshmi looked at him with troubled eyes. “I don’t know how to do this,” she said miserably.

“Nobody expected you to,” Vince murmured and steadfastly walked on. Lakshmi walked up to him and linked her hand through his arm. “You are mad at me?” she asked in a cajoling voice.

“You are drunk,” Vince said, half trying to extricate himself. But fingers somehow entwined and held on and he pulled her to him and kissed her, properly.

“Whoa!” it was Lakshmi’s turn to say it when they both surfaced for air.

“Don’t play with me curd rice,” Vince said, an odd catch in his voice.

“Do it again!” Lakshmi commanded and threw herself back at him. He held her by the waist and kissed her again. They strayed off the paved path into the shrubbery as his mouth traced the line of her neck. She drew in a sharp breath as his hand moulded her breast. She felt a hardness, which she had only read about in romance novels.

“Is it…” she asked, her eyes wide in wonder.

“Shut up!” Vince growled.

She hung on to his neck. “Sorry! Sorry!” she said.

He held her. “What do you want curd rice?” he asked.

She buried her face in his shoulder. 

“You sure?” he asked, his voice strained.

She nodded without raising her head. “Fuck, I’m going to regret this!” he said softly and started walking with Lakshmi hanging on his arm.  She started nibbling his neck. They somehow reached his villa without collapsing on the way.

“Fuck!” He said again as he opened the door.

“What?” Lakshmi asked.

“Shravan,” he whispered, indicating his roommate. “Inside.”

Lakshmi peered in. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered back.

“So?” Vince asked with a frown.

“The bathroom,” Lakshmi giggled. Yes, indeed the ultra luxurious resort had well appointed bathrooms.

Vince staggered. “You sure?” he asked.

Lakshmi stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again.

The bathtub was uncomfortable, a little small for two people, but as the clothes came of and bodies sunk into each other, such considerations seemed trivial. What seemed important were the urgent touches, whispers, giggles, grimaces, and indrawn breaths.

“Lakshmi,” Vince called, a long time after.

“Hmm?” she responded, not lifting her head from his shoulder.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Lakshmi yawned, a jaw breaking yawn. “I’m sleepy,” she said.

Vince looked down at the top of her head. “This—whatever this was…” Vince struggled with his words.

“Take me to my room,” Lakshmi said and stumblingly got up.

“Lakshmi,” Vince tried again.

“I need to get back to my room!” Lakshmi said, with some sort of panic in her voice as she struggled into her clothes.

Vince looked at her and shut his mouth. They got stealthily out of his villa and walked silently to hers.  At the door, Vince put out a hand, “Lakshmi,” he said again.

Lakshmi looked at him through drowsy eyes, but they were sober. “I’m sorry Vince. Good night,” she said and led herself into the door. 

She leaned against the door, took a deep breath and extracted her phone. “I’m so sorry,” she typed. “Didn’t see your messages. Boss got hold of me and wouldn’t let go! I will call you in the morning. Sorry again!”

Boy-meets-girl 2: To Forgive, Divine!

Is it easy to forgive or forget?

That was the debate long time back in her moral science class.  Forget, she’d argued, for she would never be able to forgive someone for the crime they committed. It was easier to forget. It was easier to get distracted by life, get busy, move on, succeed, and pretend that it never happened, never hurt. 

Sonal looked into her coffee cup and observed the brown coffee stain on its inner sides and dregs at the bottom absently.

“Let’s meet for a cup of coffee,” Prakash had suggested casually. She’d agreed with alacrity, curiosity getting the better of her. 

Five years was a long time! She had been curious as to how he’d fared in the time they had lost touch. Wanted to see where he had reached in his life.

Wanted to see whether their old magic still existed.

What magic? There had been no name or designation to it. It had been inadequately and cripplingly boxed in the framework of friendship.  A framework whose boundaries were tested every day with yet another “moment”—a walk through the city that lasted for several hours without either of them noticing it; a conversation that lasted all night; a thrilling bike ride through the quiet night streets; long phone calls; intimate confessions… They were “just friends.” 

Perhaps both of them had been cowards—too scared of rejection, too scared to disturb status quo. And yet, the anger had simmered and grown, fed by frustrated expectations, unsaid sentiments and a queer inability to talk about “it.” It had colored their friendship—usurped it. So much so that when they started drifting apart, there had been some malicious pleasure in being rude and remote.

When Prakash had gotten a job in Hyderabad, she had been the last person to know—so much had the chasm between them deepened. Their goodbyes had been stiff and awkward. Almost hostile.

She had forgotten Prakash—it was difficult in the beginning, but as the days passed, it became easy enough. He completely slipped her mind when she’d met Satish and eventually married him.

When Prakash had connected with her on Facebook a month ago, she hadn’t thought of him at all in the past two to three years.

And here she was. And there he was.

She looked at him. The same unruly hair, but now weaved with silver; the same tall frame, but now going slightly out of shape; the same sardonic half smile, but some new lines.

He met her gaze. “So what brought you to Pune?” he asked.

“I had a meeting with our IT vendor, who sits here, in our back office,” Sonal responded.

“And you said you will be here for a couple of days?” he enquired.

“Yes—I’ll be returning to Mumbai tomorrow evening,” she responded.

Pause.

Whatever she had imagined of their meeting, she hadn’t expected the awkwardness. This irrational reluctance to try.

“You like Pune?” she asked. Prakash had informed her that he’d moved there some eight months ago.

He shrugged. “It’s nice during winter,” he said.

She looked out through the glass wall of the coffee shop into the well lit bustling street. “It sure is pretty,” she observed.

“You didn’t move out of Mumbai at all?” he asked.

“Satish and I decided that we won’t be at home anywhere else,” she replied.

Another pause. This terrible inanity!

“How about you? Do you plan to come back?” she asked.

Prakash shook his head. “No, I don’t think I can handle it. One loses one’s soul in Mumbai,” he said.

Sonal raised her eyebrows. “I thought you liked the place,” she said.

“Never,” he said.

Sonal was taken aback. What about those endless prowling around the city that they had done, all those years ago? The restless exploring they had done almost every weekend?

“I met some incredible people there, but I never could settle down there,” he continued.

“You don’t seem settled even now,” Sonal said, the words out before she could control it.

He grinned. “Yeah, footloose and fancy free,” he commented.

“You like it?” she asked curiously.

“Do you like being married?” he asked.

What was this question? Why did he ask it? What did he expect? Sonal felt the old anger raising its ugly head in her chest.

“It’s great,” she said tightly.

“It suits you,” he said unexpectedly.

She laughed self-consciously. “You should try it then,” she murmured.

“I should,” he agreed.

She sighed. This conversation was not going anywhere. They had once shared an easy dialogue—an ability to talk about everything and nothing. Talk for hours. Talk un-self consciously, talk with great understanding, and talk with a great sense of bonding. What a contrast to this stilted, insipid interaction!

She made a show of looking at her watch. “I should be getting back. Have an early morning tomorrow,” she said, at her most professional.

“Really?” Prakash asked, looking sharply at her.

“Yes,” she collected her bag.

“How will you get back?” he asked.

“I will take an auto,” she replied.

“Where are you put up at?” he asked.

“At the O, Koregaon park,” she said.

“Oh then come, I’ll drop you. Not too far from here,” he said.

She frowned. “You sure?” she asked.

“Yes, no problem,” he said and got up.

She followed him out of the coffee shop to the parking lot of the mall. She drew up short when she realized he had a bike.

“Oh!” she said.

“I haven’t changed my ride,” he grinned.

“I—um…” she stammered.

“You are ok with riding on the bike right?” he asked, suddenly uncertain.

She didn’t know. She hadn’t ridden on one in years. Not since—not since she rode on his, all those years ago. None of her peers had bikes anymore—only one or two bikers, with their bikers clubs and rider manias. Not as means of urban transportation, but as a statement of individuality.

“Should I put you in an auto?” he asked, his frown deepening, seeing her hesitation.

She drew in a breath. “No, this is fine,” she said, feeling slightly light headed.

He wore his jacket and his helmet and swung his leg over the bike—she realized that she had not forgotten the ritual. Is it easy to forget?

He removed the stand, kick-started the bike, kicked the footrests out and brought the bike out of its parking. “Come,” he said.

She put her hands on his shoulders. She hadn’t forgotten the firmness and broadness of his shoulders. She also sat astride, behind him, leaving her hands on his shoulders.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

They set off. They encountered traffic as soon as they emerged from the mall. It continued for a while.

“Why is there so much traffic?” she complained.

“We are on the North Main Road, there’s bound to be traffic,” he responded.

“Take me for a ride,” she said suddenly, surprising herself.

“What?” he asked sounding equally surprised.

“A ride—show me your city. Show me Koregaon park. I see misty, tree lined lanes during my morning walks,” she said.

“You are crazy!” he said.

“Go go, I’m bored with this traffic!” she said recklessly.

She felt him sigh. He took a u-turn at the next signal. They entered the lane where the ashram was shortly. They drove through the police barricades, past the ashram and the hospital, reached the end of the street, turned left and got lost in the maze of the exclusive streets, lined with tall trees and mammoth gates concealing mansions. The dark streets were more or less deserted, except for one or two security guards.

The ride was chilly. Sonal shed the distance that had built up between them and leaned in, rested her forehead on his shoulder.  The years fell by.

She drew in a breath and started talking. About everything—nothing.

Was it this easy to forgive?

Boy-meets-girl 1: One Rainy Night

July rain drummed the hood of the auto and lashed in intrusively through the stinking canvas screens on the sides. The auto fellinto yet another bone-rattling pot-hole that dotted what went for roads in Andheri East. The auto driver swore under his breath. 

Al, the lone, wet passenger on the rear seat, tried to shrink into the two square inches of dry space on the seat. His attempt was soon defeated by the spray of water from the rear wheels of a pointlessly rushing car on the submerged road next to the auto. Who drove fast at 10 p.m. in the fucking night during torrential rains? And where were they going in fucking Andheri East?

Al gave up—trying to stay dry, trying to feel cheerful, and trying to have a life. If not for vigilante friends, he’d have given up trying to live long time ago. But they annoyingly, irritatingly, persistently tried to engage him with life—like today. He was made to brave the fucking rains to meet his fucking friend at his office so that they can go out for fucking drinks and dinner. Like that was going to make Al forget the steaming pile of mess his life had become since his divorce!

“Left, left!” Al shouted at his auto driver as he almost missed the small lane inside which the ridiculously big and modern office building was situated. The security guard at the gate peered at him from under the hood of his rain gear and waved him in. Did Al see pity in his eyes? The auto halted at the lush porch of the building. 

Al paid, got out and looked up at the building. Lights dotted the shiny glass façade here and there, but the building was mostly in darkness. Only ghosts, antisocial elements, and desperate souls seemed to be abroad that unholy night.

Al entered the foyer with squelching shoes as the blast of a/c hit him and made him shiver. The lobby security was dozing at his seat. He woke up and raised an unfriendly gaze at Al and watched him with suspicion as he filled up the security log. “15^th floor,” he informed Al unnecessarily.

Al walked down to the mood lit bank of elevators. One of the elevators responded to his call and squished down and opened its doors. He stepped in. As the doors were closing on the cavernous space within, there was a flutter outside. Al caught glimpses of saree’s edges, twinkling bangles, huge eyes and a desperate mouth and almost automatically pressed the “open” button.

She walked in. Al stood transfixed and barely noticed the doors closing behind her. As the elevator jerked and started its sedate journey upwards, she raised her enormous, long lashed eyes to him and showed her gratitude with a half-smile. Did he smile in return? He felt light headed, as if he’d already consumed the alcohol planned for later in the evening; or had smoked something nice.

As his senses registered the brightness of the eyes, the line of her nose, the fullness of her lips, the fall of her hair, the rise of her chest, the curve of her hip, and the hint of her legs, Al struggled to breathe. Who was she? She didn’t look the corporate type, with her rather traditional attire, long hair and a thin mangal sutra around her neck. She was not carrying anything, not even an umbrella. Where did she come from?

She stood silently, head bowed down at the other end of the elevator, yet Al felt a strange pull--a strange urge to conquer, a strange urge to surrender. Maybe he should talk to her. Find out what she was doing in a semi-empty office building, all alone, at such a time on such a night. Maybe she needed some help. Which floor did she want to go on?

He looked over to the panel and saw only 15 lit. He turned to her when the elevator jerked and the lights dimmed momentarily. Before he could react, they were on the 15^th floor and the door opened. He looked out and faintly registered the glass doors of his friend’s office.

He turned back. She was not there.