Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas

Read the story so far here.

Peering into the darkness, her eyes fell on a figure crouched at her feet. He was on bended knee, holding out a dark velvet box with the unmistakable glimmer of polymorphed carbon.  Will you marry me, came the words from a galaxy far, far away, and echoed in the ether of that seaside town. Her eyes re-focused. Her ears nudged each other into soldier-like attention. Even her stomach stopped churning for the merest of moments.

Will you marry me, he repeated, as her brain tried to pinch her tongue into responding. Say something, it hissed. Anything!

So she did. Barf, she went, I’m going to throw up, and stumbled forward, bracing her body for projectile hurling. Miraculously, something else emerged. She heard a voice say yes. With an exclamation or two thrown in for good measure. And their eyes met as he rose at last.

The ring was simple and locally-bought. We’ll call it Thiffany’s, she giggled, as he slipped it on her finger, smiling and holding her gaze. But nothing in their lives was quick and painless, so why should an engagement be an exception? Remember the bright blue door she had stopped outside? At the precise moment that the ring went on, it opened, and a figure emerged.

(To be continued…)

Once upon a time, on a balmy February evening in Pondicherry, a couple years ago, a Boy and his girl walked over to a candle-lit courtyard for a meal. They had taken a quick trip from Bombay, zoomed around on a rented bike all weekend and wanted to make their last evening special. It was a sweet and intimate time that had begun with a disagreement and involved lots of making up. It was just them and the Southern sun, whitewashed walls and bougainvillea, incense and long walks, and the curious sense of home that the girl always found amidst it all.

Struggling to see under the not-so-bright stars and ineffective candlelight, they tucked into a meal of Creole mutton curry, coastal fish and some forgettable dessert. There were few other diners that night and they held hands and talked quietly. Dinner over, they strolled back through silent lanes, the crash of the waves a reminder that the blue bay was only one street east.

The girl, greedy thing, had consumed one helping too many and she staggered toward their hotel room, mumbling about how stuffed she was.  Let’s sit by the sea for a while, the Boy suggested, taking her arm to guide her. An explanation about fresh air being helpful followed. I’m feeling sick, she whined, her gills spewing curry, I want to go back. And with that, she quickened her pace, leaving him a few steps behind.

Then I guess I’ll just have to do it here, she heard him say, and tried to fashion a suitable question over her shoulder. But curry can rapidly seep into one’s brain, dulling all senses, and dessert delivers the master stroke. She stopped outside a bright blue door. All was calm, but not bright. It wasn’t Christmas and she certainly wasn’t Mary. Her brain registered a lack of sound. She felt his presence behind her and turned around to face him. He was gone.

(To be continued…)