Out of the mouth of a 'babe'...

‘Hey babe, sorry babe.’ Instantly, I was overwhelmed by a burning desire to rip the bonnet off my car and smack the criminal’s head with it. I was almost run over by this particular roadside Romeo, who was riding his bike like the street belonged to his ancestors. Still, I would’ve let it pass because I was in a hurry. But then he went and ruined it all by referring to me as ‘babe’. Twice. Naturally, I felt compelled to bestow upon him the most riotously potent version of ‘sod off’. Tomorrow will be better, I semi-growled to myself as I walked away from the scene of crime. This was yesterday.
‘Thanks babe.’ This greeted me earlier today. And it roused again the many-headed monster that was already seething from last evening’s attack. This time, all I’d done was convey my warm wishes to a male friend, it being his birthday et al. And ‘thanks babe’ was how he recognised my gesture. It was absolutely uncalled for and I was, understandably, b-stung. After all, I am not this nincompoop’s girlfriend. I am not his blonde secretary. I am not Cher. Or Sonny. I am not a cute, talking pig. And I don’t have the IQ of a sponge. So, I sent the only appropriate reply. ‘K’.
It is bad enough that some of my female friends refer to each other (and me) as ‘babe’. ‘Me n ma babes’ is a standard group photo caption these days. Might as well proclaim to the world that we're a bunch of brainless dingbats whose hobbies include ‘gtng manicures’. Still, I swallow my annoyance and put it down to severely deficient vocabularies. But, when a man utters the monstrosity, I want to freeze him and catapult him to another galaxy in which everyone’s name is Babe. In that distant land may he spew the word until he’s gotten it out of his system. There’s one thing worse than a man who calls me babe… a man who is a stranger who calls be babe.
There is just something so inherently off-putting about the word; in my case, even when it is said in context. (Context being if indeed I were an infant, an innocent simpleton or the utterer’s romantic partner.) It is sexist. It is condescending. It sounds like a blob of phlegm. The only environment that is conducive to the usage of the term is if one wants to describe a good looking woman and decides to say, ‘She’s such a babe!’ Cool, that’s acceptable.
When I discussed this with a male pal, the ignoramus simply shrugged and said he thought ‘babe’ was the equivalent of ‘dude’. A female acquaintance said the word was just a substitute for the word ‘dear’. (Oh dear, that’s another word I despise when used loosely and out of context.) She calls her husband ‘babe’ even in front of others, especially in front of others. As though the word is an infallible indicator of relationship strength. My heart goes out to the poor emasculated being. Yet another young woman said she in fact liked being called babe because it brought in familiarity to the equation. Like guys call each other ‘mate’, we girls must call each ‘babe’, insisted she. ‘Kinship will come off,’ she added eloquently. K.
And, then there are my closest friends who think I am far too reactive for my own good. Well, I seem to have company this time, ladies. #dontcallmebabe was trending on Twitter sometime back. Besides, according to a survey, ‘babe’ has been voted the most hated pet name for women. ‘But what if your future partner likes to call you babe?’ one of them demanded. I will call him Princess Consuela Banana Hammock till he gets over it.
Think I am being irrational? Yes? Okay, talk to the hand, BABE.

Leather bound, dust found

My longing for you swam in a secret place, hidden from light- incorruptible and criminal at the same time. I will never wake it from its lust-drugged slumber, I had decided.

But now, we’re both at a party and there’s a chance for a little dance. A spin with a dangerous romance. You tie my hands up in strips of coarse crocodile skin and steer me around- the willing puppy-t. My feet, you bind to your own with shoelaces of plaited leather. We dance. It’s dreamlike. An enchanted dust is manufactured right there on the dance floor, the particles swirling slowly, percolating body heat and the thickness of wanting. The ashes of combustion they are. Combustion of a combined desire. The dust is amorphous but threatens to crystallise unto eternity if not handled with calculated wantonness. That’s why you used leather, you whisper; so that neither of us strays from intention. You tug, I turn. You pull, we embrace. The shimmery gun-powder shrouds us, absorbs every worry, falls to the floor as photons of dull grey. The effort has turned our bodies scarlet. The perfect hue to be overcome by, given our state of satiation.

Let’s jive and grind till we grow tired. Till we’ve burned off the carnal calories that have been getting in the way of every normal function. Let’s hold each other tight and spin till we’re lean and wet with exhaustion. Till we stop producing that intoxicating dust of ours. No more magic powder to snort. Why would we stick around beyond that? With spent bodies and rent souls, we must say au revoir. And face up to the inevitable withdrawal symptoms that present themselves as cruel reality. I will have secretly stored away some of our private dust. To ease my way back into grey, the unwelcome successor of red. 

Sri Lanka: Good Monning and All for You!

I was back home… it felt like my heart would drop to my toes if I dared move. The sinking feeling had begun at the airport, as we- my friend and I- sat in the lounge area waiting for our flight back to India. We were still in Sri Lanka, but I was already sorely missing the simple, innocent beauty of the country. My mind still lingered on the beaches of Hikkaduwa and the smell of fresh prawn-and-crab curry. And, my heart… it scattered itself in little pieces, across the expanse of the lands we’d traversed. Like pollen grain that surfs the wind and settles in the unlikeliest places.
The past four days had been… well, perfect.
Surprisingly perfect, in fact. It was my first time travelling with this friend. We weren’t even, what one would call, close friends. She is an ex-colleague of mine and we’d spoken several times about doing a trip to Gokarna. That never happened. Somehow, Sri Lanka did.  And, I wondered if we’d get along. They say that you can only really know a person when you travel with them. But, that worked out wonderfully too. Over a shared love for inane humour, minor gossip and character analysis (assassination?), Rickshaw Reddy and Stroviya Reddy (a.k.a us) bonded and explored Sri Lanka in effortless companionship.
When we landed in Colombo, it was 2.40 am. Two girls in an alien land. My guard was up and working overtime- fuelled by a good dose of sleeplessness. So, when a middle aged airport official offered to help us get a cab that would take us to Kandy- our first stop- I was instantly suspicious. I made up aliases for us both and even went so far as to tell him that we had a bunch of friends waiting for us at the destination… just in case. Naturally, when we reached Kandy safe and sound and said our goodbyes to the kind driver, I felt a little guilty. Why was I unable to trust anyone? Had I really lost ALL hope in mankind?
Hanthana Home Stay, perched cosily on a hill, was our first home in Sri Lanka. And, the owners of the place made me realise even more how beautiful the human heart can really get, with their hospitality. The house itself was divine… our room had high ceilings with wooden rafters and the balcony opened out to the great mountains. It was rather grudgingly we left it, after a fiery breakfast of sticky rice cakes and chilli paste, to head to the famed botanical gardens. We paid a bomb to enter because we were ‘foreigners’, but I’d say it was semi-worth it. The greenery was breathtaking. We passed countless young couples lounging about under the thick canopy of trees as we lost and found our way through awe-inducing palm avenues, orchid enclave and grassy knolls. It was special for me, in particular, because I happened to chance upon the tree that pretty much defines my childhood. The tree that I would worship when I’d go to the park in Calcutta every summer, when I was a kid. I found it is called the Cannon Ball Tree. I took a few flowers from the tree to my nose and absently ticked a minor point off my bucket list. Kandy reminded me a little of Kerala and a little of the Bali in my head (I’ve never been). The giant banana trees with their flappy, floppy elephant-ear-like leaves are what define my idea of Bali. And the skirt-sporting people… they could be my neighbours in Kerala, with their unaffected demeanours and perennial umbrella-using.
Next up- the tooth relic Buddha temple. It was magnificent and beautiful and blah, blah, blah. However, the walk around the lake that frames the temple was great. We ate cream buns, took photographs of flowers, interacted with people, explored the town on foot. We finished off with a stout at The Pub, where we traded travel stories with two girls from Denmark. They wanted to know all about India. I warned them against visiting. I also warned them against not visiting.
The train journey to Hikkaduwa was manufactured in a horror story. The trains in Sri Lanka are like feral horses. They buck, they tremble, they jump, they shriek. (All hail the Indian railways.) And, to make matters worse, we sat in third class even though we had first class tickets. We were misled by a kindly Korean lady who didn’t speak English to save her life, let alone Tamil or Sinhalese. I wondered how she managed to get about in the country. Bless her. Also, damn her. Anyway, we got to Hikkaduwa… with the raging appetite of a pack of wolves. Salvation was sweet… and spicy. We sat by the turquoise beaches of the coastal town enjoying the most bliss-inducing meal of buttered prawns, crab curry and rice, and the sight of surfers paddling to catch ‘the wave’. We had decided in advance to ‘chill and go with the flow’ and did this by walking up and down the town just taking in our colourful surroundings. Multi-hued tuk-tuks, beachy apparel stores, green palms, blue sea. Our room in Vibration Hotel was out of a Mediterranean magic book (white textured walls, stone furniture, bathrooms out of the Flinstones) and, in it, we leisurely got ready for the night to follow. There was always going to be a ‘night to follow’. The Tsunami-ravaged gem doubled as a party town, after all, and in the evenings, it turns into a whimsical, lantern-lit stretch of lively shacks serving scrumptious seafood and ambrosia. The clubs take turns in staying open all night to host ‘the party of the day’ (everyone does business that way… can you imagine such an arrangement in India?) and entertain out-of-towners. At Funky de Bar, which was right opposite our digs, we met a nomadic German paper-cutting artist who was sweet, interesting and fresh out of a five-year-long relationship. He tried to flirt with my friend, who was happily uninterested. (Speaking of which- while Kandy was filled with lovely people, Hikkaduwa was all about roadside Romeos inundating us with ‘hey baby/honey’ and ‘hi, wanna danze?’.) On the bright side, the owner of the place- with whom I’d had a discussion on business, journalism and my nose stud- took a fancy to me and therefore took care of our tab. Yayy. We left when the night had just begun. At around 12 am, that is. When I woke up at 6 am to use the restroom, I could still hear the music from the club. How do people do that?!
In the morning, after a hearty English breakfast, starring Mr Bacon, we headed to a turtle farm where I met a 40-year-old guy who wanted a piece of my butt. He was an old, crippled Olive Ridley. And, for some reason, he kept lunging for my derriere. And then, there were those tiny little turtle that so-cutely played dead when I held them (a defense mechanism against prey, I was told). The story of the farm was sad, as many stories in that region tend to be. The place used to be the owner’s house. One day, he’d gone to work. When he’d come back, the house was gone, along with six members of his family. Taken eternal hostage by the Tsunami. With somber thought playing on our minds, we headed to a moonstone mine. It was supremely unimpressive. But, the cinnamon oil pressing process- that we were shown as a side-show- was amazing!
Then, it was time to head to Colombo! Again, we were thrilled with our guest house in the beach suburb- Mount Lavinia and wasted no time in making our way to the beach. Unfortunately, we were accosted by a plentitude of unsavoury elements whose main profession seemed to be The Objectification of Women. Luckily, we stumbled upon a gem of a place called Shore by O, which afforded us a gorgeous view of the sea, classy live music, good people, and a taste of the best Sri Lankan curry we’ve ever tasted. I salivate even now, thinking about that plate from heaven. There, a rich man- who called himself the unofficial Ambassador of Sri Lanka- chatted with us. He told us that if were to come back five years later, there would be flyovers crisscrossing the space right above the ocean. Umm.
The next day, we hit Colombo city with a vengeance. Dutch Hospital, Odel, Cinnamon Grand, food court, beach, walking… dreading the night. We’d have to leave back to India then. So sad. Heart wrenching. I didn’t want to go back home. Not because I hated home. I love home. I love the people- canine and otherwise- in it. But, something about Sri Lanka had me hooked. Or perhaps it was the wanderer in me who finally found how to use her marvellous wings. I was just so happy being on the move. I felt liberated. The feeling of being far away… incomparable.
So, sitting in the airport lounge, between Rickshaw and Stroviya jokes (they never get old), I made up my mind to indulge my wanderlust, come 2014. I want to go where the wind takes me… so long as the wind doesn’t strip me off my job. I will need the money to plan my subsequent travels. The food- yes, I’d like a lot of that, please. I believe that you can taste the essence of a land merely by biting into a chunk of a native dish. I’d like to aimlessly wander about on shiny tar roads, cobbled streets and dusty bylanes, entering charming little bakeries and leaving them with a full tummy. I will use the yellow brick road as my map, and my dreams as a navigation tool.
I want to NOT visit ‘sightseeing’ spots anymore. I might die of boredom if I entered another Buddha temple… it feels like that’s all I’ve been doing since 2009! I am happy enough to JUST BE. Enjoying the unique fragrance in the air of a new place and taking many long walks. I want to travel and meet and interact with different people. I find that it’s like reading a book… only in live video format. I want to get over my innate lack of trust in humanity. I need to travel as much as I can to design for myself a more wholesome, real and healthier view of the world and its so-often-lovely human cogs. I want to leave my fortress of suspicion and distrust. I want to scale the walls of my many fears (except lizards- they can go to hell). I want to not run away from danger… I want to face it. That said; I want to also be sensible. I don’t want to rub the Italian mafia the wrong way or decide to take on a hungry shark all by myself.
But, for most part… I want to get lost. I want to find myself. I want to be free. 

In the dog house

Lolakutty Vincent is the most benign creature to exist. In fact, my father- Mr Vincent- gives you full permission to refer to all the non-malignant tumors of the world as Lola, henceforth. (“Oh, nothing to worry about. The biopsy results came out… it’s only a Lola. Thanks for asking,” and so on…) She’s the most harmless thing in the world, after all.

Myth!  

A myth that is as fat as her mutt-ly majesty’s bum, and perpetrated by meticulously creased facial wrinkles, large eyes and a tongue that perennially hangs out her mouth, giving her the appearance of an adorable village simpleton. It works for her; she might as well wear an LED display board on her head, that says, “Love me, love me.” Everyone adores dear, overweight Lola. Precious Lola. If you ask me, her tactics are too tacky for my taste. Anyway, I digress.

Two days ago, my father wanted some help. He was undertaking the mammoth task of cutting Lola’s claws, and he needed my help. Because, you know how the sweet stream-roller gets when a clipper dares nudge her aura, let alone cut her claws. Oh, you don’t know? Let me elucidate. My father held the ‘poor pooch’, in the manner of a mother holding her infant against her shoulder. I was to stand behind him, and go for her claws ‘without her knowledge’. Only problem- her flat face was in perfect alignment with my own. I took the clipper to her paw and without much of a struggle, managed to tackle one claw. All this while, the tiny darling didn’t believe a low-life such as I would even dare complete such a daredevil act. But, the deed was done…1/20^th of it, at least. And, all hell broke loose. Lolakutty began throwing the hissy fit from hell- screaming, yelling, kicking… the works. The clipper and I had formed a cruel tag team and bothered her aura more than it could take. We were to leeeeeave, screeeech, sreeeeech, squeal, squeal,*ultrasoooooonic*. All the while, my father urged me to go for the other claws. Nu-uh, I was done. Hell hath no fury, apparently, like a woman whose nails are at peril. Destroy her soul, but not her nails.

I was dismissed. ‘Okay, I’ll cut her claws. Two or three every night, when she is asleep,’ said my dad, resignedly. Resigned not because his canine daughter was such a scheming, manipulative hag. But, because, I, Anusha Mary Vincent, his human daughter, lacked the tact and skill to cut the former’s nails. 

Later that night, the fair maiden communicated to my dad, no doubt through grunts and heavy breathing that she wanted access to my room. She had just come back from her walk (which entailed my father carrying her down the stairs and to ‘her spot’, where she would wee and poo, only to clamber back onto her master’s loving embrace, and be re-transported to her lair.) Naturally, I had to oblige. She came into my room coyly enough, with my father dotingly looking on. (Both daughters getting along and all that nonsense-joy parents derive from such things.) But, the moment the door shut, she calmly placed her huge bum smack on my feet. I must repeat; this little pest had just come back from her wee walk. Which spells two things- residual wee!!!!! She knew how anal I was about such things. I shrieked and ran into the bathroom to wash my feet. When I came back to the room, she was royally perched on my rug, throwing the smuggest looks in my direction, through her cataract-y eyes. Revenge is sweet, they say. Sweet as dog piss.

The furry female had won. I was inextricably and irreversibly thrown in the doghouse. 

My golden valentine

In the hypnotic swirl of his golden glitter I dwell, today. Interrupted only- and rather cruelly- by random reality, which prods my forebrain with multimedia precision. I brush it off with all the absent-minded impatience of a woman who waits for the sinful scarlet hour, when she can rush off to meet her lover. Not entirely an analogy, this. For, in the evening, once the mundane proceedings of the day are wrapped up and discarded in virtual plastic, I will run toward my bittersweet rendezvous with my gilded valentine.

He has always made me feel warm ‘n’ fizzy, cool ‘n’ dizzy, I reminisce with a half-smile, enjoying how the anticipation tickles its way down my back. Only a precursor to the night that will be. His dulcet voice, as on cue, will probe something awake inside me; keep me in a suspended state of blushing. I will be shy at first, look at him, from under eyelashes, and mutter that today, ‘Today, we won’t dance. We’ll keep our hands to ourselves.’ He won’t argue, but, I know, he will begin singing to me. I can discern how it will feel… so distinctly. Like swimming in a sunny sea of gentle little bubbles that will brush against my skin, soothing the bruises of banality. Like the piquant surge one experiences from an activity as simple as biting into a very virgin plum. The head rush, followed by a state of spent calm. The need for more. Eventually, I will give into his liquid embrace; watch as his fingers massage my throat, decorate it with traces of tranquility. My eyes will shut, opening only sporadically to take in his burnished brilliance. The little glands on my tongue will come alive in a karmic chorus, as they are treated to his serous song.

Quite as suddenly, he will effervesce. Pull me up out of my sweet stupor and begin twirling me about in a rush of auric ardour. Emotions will run thick, reaching an apex of feverish froth...

But, now, as my present fights relentlessly to be transformed into the past, all I have to hold on to is the shimmery, aqueous fabric of contemplation.

The golden hour arrives, ultimately. In my apartment, even as I step into my special outfit for the evening, I feel the vapid walls of the everyday closing in on me, inching menacingly toward my being. They bear rusted needles, poisoned with a serum of pure bromide. Visions of the hoi polloi- dolled up in dirty masks and filthy intent, and barking at me in fluent gibberish- begin to cloud my eyes. But, today, they all melt away like cheap paraffin. They form a puddle on the warm, iodine-rich floors of my absolute nonchalance. They sublimate. Gone; just like that.

The world isn’t a blot upon the universe. Not today. Because, in a few minutes, dressed to the nines in my favourite pajamas, I will meet him. My chilled beer. 

The geography of smell

 Calcutta is the smell of a certain fleshy, voluptuous flower that used to carpet the grounds of my favourite park. When I was young, I would fly to the city during my vacations for a few blissful weeks of being pampered, buried under new clothes, fed Gulab Khas mangoes, and taken to the park every day. I don’t remember the park’s name, but, it was somewhere near Elgin Road. Or perhaps it was in Elgin Road? That detail is unimportant… for now. However, I do remember straying away from the other kids in the park to go to the huge, damp, mossy tree that produced the exotic flower. I would squat to pick the white-and-pink beauties up, take them to my nose and be transported to some olfactory Shangri La. I would grudgingly walk towards the area that housed the merry-go-rounds and see-saws only when my aunts herded me away from ‘my spot’. They were worried, no doubt, that I was displaying psychotic, loner tendencies.

The tree was located in the corner of the park and was well-shaded by collective foliage, giving the space a dark, Secret Garden-esque feel. God, how I obsessed over that book. The city, to me, is also the smell of delicacies stewing in mustard-in-all-forms, the aroma of hot tea just as it makes contact with the miniature clay pot it is served in. It is also the not-altogether-disagreeable body odour of an old artist who rushed past me one day, when I was walking to my summer painting class, with my strictly-summer-vacation friend- Chithra.

Chennai is a nose-y bag of strong filter coffee (duh), the Cooum River, salty beach air, fishy Central station. And molaga podi (why on earth is it called gunpowder?).

People remember cities by the friends and family in them. I connect cities with smells. I remember smells before all the awesome/ disgusting memories begin to hit me. In fact, the memories come flooding in only because each of them is associated with a particular smell. Why? I don’t know. But, I reckon I was born with a giant nose for a reason.

Okay, so back to Chennai. Chennai is also the smell of home. It is the smell of confusion, for that same reason, because we went through cooks faster than we went through jeans.

Belgium, ironically, isn’t the smell of Godiva. It will always be the warm whiff of fresh Mc Donald’s French fries. When I was around 15, I did a tour of Europe with my mother. Our Sabena aircraft landed in Antwerp. After checking into the hotel, we decided to take a walk and find some food to eat. We found a Mc Donald’s (the first ever one I entered) at the corner of our street. It was a beautiful grey, chilly evening and a couple was heatedly kissing right by the entrance. It was my first experience with PDA. Once my jaw came back to my face, we entered the eatery and were hit by the delicious smell of anorexic potato fingers in the fryer. So, that’s why Belgium will always be connected to frying tubers, in my head.

Switzerland is the scent of bitter chocolate. But, not the kind that is eaten in cute, super-expensive Interlaken cafes, as tinkling cow bell sounds and fresh air are enjoyed. It was in Jungfraujoch. We'd taken that charming little train to the top, and once there, we were surrounded by a bunch of oldies. I was smugly thinking about how they were all going to pass out due to the sheer altitude and pressure. Until I passed out. I had to be revived with a steaming Styrofoam cup of bitter chocolate. When I came to, I wanted to die. “Robust tennis girl faints”. The shame.  

Scotland is the rustic tang of obese sheep and the woolen heat of a random church service in Glasgow.

Dallas is the redolence of Indian food (not deep fried chicken), courtesy the Indian couple I stayed with for a few days, before I decided to hot-foot it back to India.

Kerala is a nice bouquet of jack fruit, mango pickle, rain, a particular black insect that bit us all one year, and the heaped clothes of my cousins.

Malaysia. Anchovies. Sambal. Yuckose.

Mahabalipuram. That magical land fragranced by the sea and chewy calamari.

Thailand is an interesting olfactory mélange of galangal, overpowering drag-queen make-up and Sambuca (yes, it is an interesting story).

Bangalore. Sigh. The sweet perfume of beer, beer, beer and BACON. Makes sense, since I spent countless lazy hours in my favourite pub there- Plan B- with my partner-in-beer. Bangalore is also the lovely Lavender incense I used to burn in my room, and the kebab-scented living room.

Mumbai. I don’t remember a single smell from that city. Let’s just say my time there wasn’t the happiest. So, maybe that’s why my dear brain erased it all away.

I also associate people with smells at times. A good friend of mine is a walking bag of dust. Another pal is a tube of B&B cream. One of my old schoolmates is a talking banana. Random memories of another friend, who is thankfully no longer in touch, always hit my nose in the manner that a hard cake of dried sweat might. I also have a disturbingly vivid recollection of his ‘breath of death’. It would make me want to evaporate every time he said ‘hello’. Imagine this: let us assume the devil does not bathe or brush. Therefore, his mouth is already tarter-land. One fine day, he decides to lob a few onions into his mouth. But, before he can get into the act of chewing, he is called away on urgent business. When he comes back a few days later, he meets a beautiful woman and says ‘hi’, only to realise the onions have been happily fermenting in the acids of his cavernous cavity all the while. The woman dies a million deaths. I was always sure this friend lied about bathing. Yes, I did ask him if he bathed... of course, I cleverly masked the question. But, he lied. Unless, of course, his body produces sulphuric acid instead of sweat. Andddd, I also wondered how he got all those women... he often spoke about a time when he had enjoyed multiple dalliances. Did he lie? Or, did they all die? Leached to death by the toxic fumes? I am not being mean. You must smell this person to know what I am talking about. You don't even have to go out of your way to meet him. Any time a wind blows in your direction and brings with it a stench, it's probably our little friend exhaling.  

My daddy will always be the whiff of Brut-after-a-nighttime-shower, even though he has since shifted loyalties. Mummy is a God-scent combo of jhaal muri, Nivea cleanser and liquid kumkum. 

I remember good-looking men by the perfume/deodorant they wear, or their natural scent. Intoxicating! 

For some reason, I don’t have any specific smells for any of my best/close friends.

One of my closest childhood friends associates the smell of molaga podi with me. We were at a movie theatre recently, and wafting about amidst aromas of fresh popcorn, hotdogs and other unhealthy foods, was the smell of fresh idli podi. She turned to me and said, “That reminds me of you, Anu! You would bring dosa and molaga podi to school every day, at one point, remember?" I wish I were associated with something else. Even the comforting perfume (yes, I will call it that) of stale beer would do.

Sepia fades to grey

The pitcher of sangria sits in front of her, sweating plump beads, the crisp fruits gently bobbing in the red sea, as she soaks in the charmingly docile sunshine. Taking in the faint notes of the band that manage to escape the inky confines of the pub, vaguely circling the rim of her glass with a forefinger. She is at her usual table; the one she’d fallen in love with instantly, all those months ago. It sits near the pub's window and is shaded by a giant peach lace-and-cloth parasol. The umbrella is unlike the others she sees in the numerous outdoor cafes and pubs in the happy village of Felicity. It reminds her of the delicate, hand-knit parasols genteel Victorian women would hide under, as they took long walks, holding love letters discreetly to their bosoms. The umbrella, the table… among the arsenal of smaller elements that come together to create the plush, downy, dreamy love story that is Felicity.

She comes from a different planet. No, she hadn’t ‘come’ here in the true sense of the word- she had jumped in quite by accident. Lobbed in by the turbulent winds of change and strong arms of destiny. She was looking for answers, and on a train to nowhere, had gotten restless, and jumped off at the next stop, for a cold coffee. It felt like walking right into the embrace of God, she had marvelled. The gentle breeze stroked her cheeks, even as the distinct aroma of the village hugged her tight, willing her to stay.

This was her destination then, she had decided, as she watched the train roll away. Her bag, stuffed with old clothes, was still on the train, but she had everything she really needed on her person.

She had found the ramshackle pub, nestled in the slightest alley, even before she had a home. The peach parasol had caught her eye. But, it was the apparition across the street in the old, sepia-hued house that had sealed the deal. Looking at him was like looking at a constellation of stars in all their shine. Like diving into the gooey, coconut-y centre of a dessert dim sum. Felt like blue flames licking her skin, tickling her, warming her. Felt familiar. She had stood, that day, for a good half hour. Transfixed, as the tall stranger moved in mysterious ways, with amazing grace. She imagined his voice would sound like myrrh-soaked wheat husk.

Even after she had found a cosy little home that afforded her a view of the Big Dipper every night, she made the trek to the pub every evening. It was her religion now. 

Today, like all days, she sits by her sweating sangria, watching the object of her affection. His crown of charcoal black complemented beautifully by sharp, biting features and those eyes. The eyes… they seem almost unmoving, inanimate, and yet abounding with the most exotic liquid expressions. They give his face a rare beauty. Another sip of sangria slides easily down, sending a cloud of smiles and courage upwards to her head. It has been three months, she counts with her fingers absently.

Fate decides to throw his glance her way, just as she catches a familiar tune wafting out, interspersed with the smell of waffles and melting butter. It is like a live wire has touched her shoulder, and she tries to joggle it off. He continues looking, through the glass pane, right at her. Unashamedly, fearlessly at her. The minutes stretch into ticks-tocks of unbearable anticipation. At long last, he walks out, not taking his eyes off her, picking up a bunch of roses from the weather-worn cart parked on the cobblestone path. It came between them for three months; it is a heavenly bridge now. There is something about him, she muses, watching him walk towards her, in slow-motion. He looks like someone who has walked out of an old sepia-toned photograph right into garish reality. He glides easily into the seat opposite hers, not saying a word. His lips remain unmoving, his eyes dance slowly. The roses pass hands. For an hour they only look at each other, memorise each other’s profiles.

His arms, so strong. His chest, so sturdy. His forehead, so majestic. His neck, so graceful, so strong. And, the scar that cut across it cruelly. A scar that stretches from his jaw line to his collar bone. That scar… that scar! Like a bolt of lightning, it extends and pierces her core.  How had she forgotten it? Had she? There could be only one such beautiful blemish in the world. And, she had once traced it with her forefinger every day, wondering if, like it, their life together too would end abruptly. Waves of recognition wash over her. A seed of anger, dormant all these years, germinates now, nourished by the pangs of past pain.  The questions come oozing out of her mouth, thick with emotion and disbelief. She didn’t know she held these questions captive, all these years. Even after her self-prescribed lobotomy. He takes her hand in his, and patiently answers her… one question at a time. Growing one shade paler with every answer. Strangely, every time he loses a shade of sepia, she feels a fresh coat of peace and contentment drape her heart. What? When? How? She is unstoppable. His face takes on a distinct pearly grey glow, in stark contrast to his mane of burnt ebony.

It is nearing midnight and the skies blanket them, curiously watching. All but satisfied, ‘Why?’ she finally whispers. A mixture of relief and sadness clutches at her temples. He smiles, with the shadow of a cringe, and breathes truth and good sense into her ears, blowing them across her conscious, subconscious and super conscious. The clock strikes 12 and his transformation is complete. He stands up, like an actor from a 1920 silent movie, glistening grey and black, pulls out his wallet and retrieves a photograph from their past. One last kiss. As he readies to walk into the black and white photograph, he mouths, ‘Throw it away.’ One last sip of Sangria. One last look at that face. She tosses the photograph into an ancient carved fountain on her way home. Home. Home?

The air is cool. It smells of moving on. Her last night at Felicity.

Tomorrow, she will get on the next train, to her next nowhere, for her next answer.