Let's Have Coffee Page 3

  It’s about 10 at night. He asks me if I want to go back to the hotel. To be honest, I don’t. But I don’t know what he wants. Moreover, a girl can’t be too available.

  ‘Do you have work back at the hotel?’ I ask playing the subtle card and trying to gauge his interest.

  ‘Only a dozen girls are waiting to step on my toes,’ he jokes.

  ‘Then I would rather not get your feet injured anymore,’ I say playfully.

  He looks at me with a touch of amusement in his eyes. ‘That’s rather considerate of you Senorita. If you are not tired of driving, how about we go to a local shack by the beach?’

  I really like the way he keeps calling me Senorita. He must be using this on every girl, but it still makes me feel special. I smile at him and get ready to drive. Our next halt is at the Andrews shack on the lively Baga beach. The peak tourist season is yet to start, but Samir tells me that Baga beach is always alive with music and action.

  We sit down on one of the many plastic chairs and tables that are laid in front of the shack. He orders a couple of chilled beers and a plate of Manchurian-corn starter. I am rather tired after standing all day long. I sit back, put my legs up on a chair in the front and watch the vast, awe-inspiring ocean stretch out before us. Samir raises his camera every now and then to capture a bird in flight or click the kids making a sandcastle nearby. I am surprised at how comfortable I am in his presence.

  In fact, I was shocked when I had seen his Facebook profile and discovered that he was an engineer. I am usually self-conscious around engineers. I once met an IITian boyfriend of my sister. He asked me the probability of picking a random person in a gathering and finding a girl who had casual sex before marriage. At first, I thought he was flirting with me, but then he started explaining it to me in Venn diagrams and probabilities. I had to literally excuse myself saying that I have to use the loo. It’s not that I don’t like maths. I actually used to love it during my school days. Just that I didn’t want everyone to compare me with Didi and expect me to ace IIT. So, I pretended to hate it.

  But Samir seems different. He has a calm aura around him. No pretence—not trying to prove that he was better than the other person. Just comfortable the way he is.

  Curious to know more about him, I ask him what he does.

  ‘I sell soaps,’ he says and smiles. ‘Olay—love the skin you’re in.’

  Wow. Really? I had assumed he’d be doing something more exciting.

  ‘Is that fun?’

  ‘Not sure about fun but it pays my bills. Did you know that P&G coined the term “soap opera” by being the first in the 1880s to run ads on TV for women?’

  Soap opera sounds more interesting than soaps. ‘Then why did you do engineering?’ I ask without thinking—my curiosity getting the better of me.

  I see a caught-you smile cross his lips. Oops! Now he knows that I have also checked his FB profile, but he doesn’t pull my leg. I like it.

  ‘You know our education system is like a factory producing soaps. All soaps have to smell the same. No soap can have its own special fragrance.’

  I know what he means. Our society doesn’t encourage uniqueness. I remember being forced to use my right hand instead of my left hand by my dogmatic aunt, whom I still dislike. I wonder if that aunt realizes that a left-handed misfit called Steve Jobs created the iPhone that she proudly flaunts.

  ‘How come you didn’t become a journalist after doing English Literature?’

  For a minute, I am surprised how he knows what I studied. Hmm… Our common friend FB. I tell him that I found mainstream journalism too depressing—our daily reality is so much about rape and riots, while I would do anything to help change that reality, but for my own life, I would like to do something that is optimistic. I tried corporate events, but found it regimental. The grey in the logo can’t be changed to any other shade of grey. No scope for creativity. Therefore, I landed up with a wedding-design firm. So far, I love it.

  ‘Good for you. You can now experiment with different shades of grey.’ He smiles and we both laugh.

  For a few minutes, we just sip our beer and silently watch the world around us, like two old friends. I have barely known Samir for less than twenty-four hours, but I am beginning to feel like I have known him my entire life. My mind wanders off in all directions but comes back to one thing. How many girls has he hung out with like this before?

  ‘Are you seeing someone?’ I finally ask after two bottles of beer.

  ‘Only you!’ He says, looking into my eyes.

  I blush at his flattering response.

  ‘You? In love with anyone?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘See, this is where you are mistaken. Of course you are in love, at this moment, with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I giggle.

  ‘You know what, we overrate this love thing. We think love is a sort of bond that can never break,’ he says. ‘You know what I believe. I believe that each of the positive moments that we share with others is love.’

  Ok, he is beginning to being philosophical, but I am listening.

  ‘Like the common interest in photography that I shared with the photo tour group today. That was love. The pride for your work that you share with your team is love. The gratitude I feel for you for giving me a bike ride is love.’

  I smile at this one.

  ‘It is when you co-experience these tiny moments of positive emotions with someone and you feel connected to that person, that is love,’ he concludes.

  I am at a loss of words—although beaming with love. He has just described love so beautifully and yet so simply. He has told me that he loves me and yet he has told me he loves everyone else too. I want to ask him if he thinks that having sex with Radhika was love. I want to know how he will ever know whom to marry if he loves so many people. I want to ask him if he thinks kissing is love. I want to ask so many things, but as I am getting high, I keep my thoughts to myself.

  We order some food and while we are eating, he calls for a cab. I insist that I can ride but he says that we can come back and pick up the bike later. I let him be in charge. Everything becomes a blur after that. We do some crazy things, but there is no touching, no intent to get to bed—only pure repartee, fun, and friendship. At some point, he drops me off in front of my room. I want him to stay but he says he has to go click some pictures. I think I curse Radhika and we both laugh. Then he leaves and I promptly doze off.

  Coffee or Wine

  The next morning, the buzz in my head could be because of a hangover, but I think a lot of it has to do with Samir. I want to call him but I don’t even have his number. I get ready quickly and rush to the hotel lobby humming ‘Tera hone laga hoon…’ from the movie Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani. I don’t know why I am humming this song. Maybe it was playing at the shack yesterday. I don’t remember. I don’t remember most of the things that happened after he started describing love. Fuck! I can’t even recollect if we kissed. I don’t think we did, but I am not absolutely sure.

  I can’t see him anywhere. Maybe he is still asleep. Should I go to his room? I don’t even know his room number. Can I ask at the reception? I am trying to sort my own thoughts when I hear my boss, Sarika, call out from somewhere behind me.

  ‘It’s the big day today, Meha. I want you to do your best. Shall we go over the plans once more?’ She has a brisk, businesslike tone.

  I finally wake up. Today is the wedding. Indeed a big day for us. A little disoriented, but definitely motivated to do my best, I follow my boss to a conference room where the rest of the team is already gathered.

  In middle of the meeting, when we are deep in discussion, my phone beeps. I sneak a glance. It’s a message from him. I can tell it is from him by the few words I can read ‘Thanks for saving my…’ I am desperate to read further, but Sarika is in the middle of giving us instructions. I somehow manage to check the message holding the phone with my left hand under the table.

  ‘Thanks for saving my toes fr
om the hot babes yesterday. I had a LOVE-ly time ;)’

  My heart begins to beat very fast. I wonder what the wink and that LOVE in capitals mean. I can barely hear Sarika anymore. She is talking about someone adding blackberries in champagne glasses last night. I vaguely hear that it’s a good idea but we need to stick to the original plans and not to innovate on the spot. Wedding planning is as much about creativity as it is about following processes.

  ‘Meha.’

  I hear my name being called.

  ‘Yes, Sarika.’

  ‘If you have any ideas then please share with me.’

  ‘Sarika, I was thinking we should shift the pheras from the mandap on the beach to a cemented patio. Sand can be a bit annoying in sarees and high heels.’

  She glares at me as if I have suggested shifting the venue to the moon.

  I realize that by ‘share with me’, she didn’t mean to say share with her right now. What she meant is to inform her before implementing any changes. Too late! I have already told the chefs to add rose petals to the green ice candy to match the lunch theme, which is green and pink. Big deal. No one will notice.

  Thankfully, she ends the meeting soon and I am free. I go back to the hotel lobby but still can’t spot Samir anywhere. At least I have his number now. What should I message him? I can’t ask him if we kissed because if we didn’t, he will think I want to kiss him and if we did, he will think how stupid I am that I can’t even remember kissing him.

  ‘Where are you?’ I keep it plain and simple.

  ‘In my room. Just woke up.’

  Wow, he just woke up and the first thing he did is to message me. It feels good to know that I am on his mind.

  ‘What’s the plan for today?’ I message back.

  ‘Love, sex and dhoka!’

  ‘???’

  ‘I am doing a photo story on Deepak and Radhika’s affair :)’

  ‘Good title. See you around.’ I slide the phone back in my sling bag.

  Half an hour later, it beeps again. I am sitting on a sofa in the lobby. Mansi, the associate production manager, is discussing alternatives to the Banarasi border drapes for the backdrop of varmala. Apparently, the truck carrying the drapes met with an accident and we need to redesign.

  I excuse myself to read the message.

  ‘You should leave your hair open more often. You look nice.’ It’s him.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I am standing on the balcony above the stairs.’

  I look up, smile and wave at him. He waves back.

  Mansi is surprised that I know anyone else here. I like Mansi. She is friendly and open to suggestions. She also has a perfect figure to carry an off-shoulder, body-hugging dress. I tell her that I met this guy yesterday, at the wedding. She gives me an understanding smile.

  There is another message from him a few minutes later.

  ‘I just realized who you look like. Drew Barrymore, except prettier.’

  My heart stops beating. I look up, but he is gone. I reread his message multiple times. Every time I read it, I find it even lovelier than the last time.

  ‘Flirting is just foreplay to get a girl into bed. Women need a reason to have sex, men just need a place,’ warns Mansi. ‘Take my advice, get a dildo.’ I simply smile. I like to be serious about my relationships. But to write a story, you have to start with a chapter first.

  The whole morning passes in a blur. Both Samir and I have been very busy, but we have been texting each other. The decorations of the lunch hall are done. Mansi and I are now sitting with Sarika, going over the revised plans for the backdrop of the varmala. She is still furious. Even if that poor truck driver escaped alive from the accident, by now he must have died from her curses.

  My phone beeps yet again. Surprised at the number of messages I am getting today, Sarika asks me if it is my birthday or something. I tell her it’s my sister at a shopping mall asking for advice. Mansi knows I am lying but Sarika seems to understand. I guess there are some advantages of having a female boss.

  I read the message as soon as Sarika is not looking at my phone over my shoulder.

  ‘Do you like the Sunday crossword?’

  ‘It’s my favourite pastime.’

  ‘Solve this: Midday meal (5).’

  It’s too simple. I immediately type back ‘LUNCH’.

  ‘Something unexpected (8).’

  Again an easy one. I type back ‘SURPRISE’.

  ‘You are good at this. How about this: Dried-petal mixture (9).’

  This is taking me a while, but finally I am able to decode the clue. After two minutes, I type back ‘POTPOURRI’.

  ‘You are amazing. You deserve a prize. Go get your SURPRISE from the POTPOURRI in the LUNCH hall.’

  I am lost at this one. This doesn’t make any sense. But a bunch of hungry frogs have been triggered at the mention of the word ‘lunch’. Since we can’t eat before the guests, I decide to take a quick bite of the desserts for the time being. I also want to see how the rose petals are looking in the green popsicles. The hall is relatively empty now, but the food is laid out. I head straight to the dessert counter. The pink petals in green ice are looking unique and rather beautiful beside the pink chamcham and green pista burfi. Next to the desserts is a beautiful array of vases with green and pink potpourri. My brain begins to work and I figure out the last clue. It’s obvious once you know the answer. I had arranged these potpourri vases myself a while ago, but I didn’t link them to Samir’s clue. I examine the vases carefully and see a small pink, cloth bag in one of them. I carefully take it out and open it. Inside the little pink bag is the pair of vintage wire butterfly earrings that I had tried at the German stall yesterday and then left as they were beyond my budget. There is a small note with it. It says, ‘Love is like a butterfly. The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.’

  How beautiful. I feel a bit gooey inside. It’s like the fluttering of butterfly wings just before a flight. A flight to an unknown place. I try calling Samir but his number is busy. I don’t want to send a simple thank you message. I want it to be more personal. I send him a message, ‘Call when free’.

  It’s around 5 p.m. I am setting the mandap for pheras on the sand. It’s very stressful. Nothing is going as per the plan; loose sand is hurting my feet, and Sarika is calling after every ten minutes for updates. I haven’t heard from Samir since lunch and though I have been busy, I am feeling a bit ignored. I want to thank him for the earrings which I have promptly worn. I am about to check my phone again, when I hear Samir’s deep laughter coming from somewhere behind me. I turn around and there he is with his back towards me—clicking pictures of the bride and her friends. I can see them trying to compete with each other to catch Samir’s attention. I turn away and focus on the bamboo pole, which is refusing to stay straight.

  A minute later, my phone beeps.

  ‘Do you think the blue bikini wants to have sex with me?’

  ‘Why are you asking me? Ask her!’ Of course, I am irritated. He sends such loving messages and a most romantic surprise gift in the morning. Then he doesn’t text for three hours and now this?

  ‘C’mon, you are a girl. You know how girls think. Won’t you help a friend?’

  ‘Ask Radhika. Blue-bikini is her friend after all. Surely she will help.’

  I then see blue-bikini walk up to Samir and whisper something in his ears. Something bubbles inside me like molten, red lava.

  ‘I think she wants to eat your ear lobes.’ I type on my phone. If only there was a way to bite through a message, I would have bitten him myself.

  ‘Ouch. That hurt!’

  ‘What?’ I gesture with my hands, wondering if she actually bit him.

  ‘The arrow you just shot with your eyes. It pierced straight through my heart.’

  ‘Serves you right.’ I message back and pretend to get busy.

  ‘Are you trying to do a pole dance for me?’ I hear him speak softly. I realize that he is standing very
close to me. The girls seemed to have finally gone inside to get ready for the wedding.

  I give him an angry stare and leave the bamboo pole I am trying to stabilize. It falls straight on him.

  ‘What is my crime, Senorita?’ He asks, ducking just in time to save his head.

  Senorita softens me a little, but how dare he ask me if another girl wants to have sex with him.

  ‘How can I help it if girls think I am honey and flock to me like bees?’ He is now looking straight into my eyes.

  I see that he has managed to dig the pole deep enough in the sand so that it can stand on its own. Looking at him, I can somehow tell that he was just pulling my leg—that the blue-bikini meant nothing.

  ‘Are you always this obnoxious?’ I ask him cynically.

  ‘Only on weekends when I am flirting with a beautiful girl outside office. Weekdays I stay within official limits.’

  I don’t know what he does or how he does it, but he has done it again. He just makes me feel special in his own funny way. I can’t help but smile. Besides, he has managed to fix all the bamboo poles for me. So I am feeling relaxed.

  ‘So, do you like them?’ He asks looking at the butterflies on my ears.

  ‘Blew me away!’ I admit.

  ‘Well, I am Samir—the wind. You are Meha—the clouds. It is in my nature to blow you away.’

  Gosh! He is truly full of himself with his nose in the air (just like his name), but I like the way he has connected our names.

  ‘By the way, when are you decorating the honeymoon suite?’ He asks.

  ‘Why? You want to go there with that blue-bikini?’ I snap immediately.

  ‘Arey baba nahin. Photoshoot karna hai. How about you take me to the honeymoon suite later?’