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I feel a fluttering in my stomach again. It’s no big deal, I assure myself. ‘Okay. See you at 11 p.m. in the lobby,’ I say.

  He gives me a friendly peck on the cheek and then dashes off inside.

  It’s almost 11 p.m. Thankfully, the work is all done. Everyone, including the boss is busy getting drunk at the bar. I meet Samir in the lobby. I am wearing a turquoise-blue, georgette saree with a halter-neck blouse. He is in a maroon, khadi-silk kurta from FabIndia with denim jeans. We smile at each other and then take the elevator up to the honeymoon suite on the fifth floor. I unlock the door and walk inside. Its dark, but I can smell the light fragrance of jasmine. As my eyes adjust, I can see the four-poster decorated with strings of jasmine flower. On the pillows, there are hearts made with red, rose petals. It had looked beautiful during the day, but it looks ethereal in moonlight. I walk over to the window. I can see the crescent moon through it. As I open it, cool breeze gushes in. I can feel a tingling sensation on the soft, naked skin of my hands. It’s not just the wind. It’s him. I see Samir watch me intently from across the room. He walks across with a steady stride, his eyes glued to mine. I can hear my heartbeat loud and clear, like the drums at the party downstairs. I feel strangely drawn to him, both physically and emotionally. There is a strong connection; a chemistry—the only subject that I could never understand.

  He is now standing very close to me. A lock of my hair is flapping against my cheek in the wind. I feel his fingers graze my lips, gingerly move across my cheek and tuck the lock behind my ear. He pauses to admire the butterfly-earrings dangling down my neck, while caressing my soft skin. The wind throws the hair back again on my face.

  ‘Here. I have your scarf,’ he says as he hands me the scarf I was wearing yesterday.

  I don’t remember when I lost it.

  ‘Last night, when your head was resting on my shoulder in the taxi, it came loose and fell down.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything,’ I say, feeling weird.

  ‘I hope you remember our kiss. Although I have to admit you are not the best.’

  I am turning red now. How can I not remember anything?

  ‘It’s okay. Practice makes one perfect. We can try again now,’ he teases.

  How dare he tell me I don’t kiss well? I am about to show him how I kiss, when suddenly I hear the door open with a loud thud. I feel Samir move away with a jerk. I try to open my eyes, but I am blinded by an array of shining bulbs. Their bright, ochre-yellow light overpowering the moon’s soft, whitish-yellow luminescence.

  ‘Kya ho raha hai yahan?’ I hear a stern, accusing voice. I still can’t see her in the flood of light, but I recognize it as the voice of the groom’s mother.

  ‘Just clicking the pictures of the honeymoon suite, Aunty,’ replies Samir smoothly.

  ‘In the dark?’ Aunty challenges. I see her gaze turn towards the beautifully decorated, king-size, mahogany, poster bed.

  I feel a pang of shame and excitement as I read the thought passing through her mind. The scorn on her face eases a little when she sees the undisturbed sheets. Two sex-hungry youngsters had not maligned her son’s wedding bed.

  ‘I was trying to get the moonlight shots first, Aunty,’ lies Samir convincingly. ‘Can I click a picture of you in the moonlight too? You are looking like Madhubala!’

  Aunty immediately softens at this praise from a young, handsome boy. She adjusts her pallu, letting it fall just below her cleavage. Samir clicks multiple shots, advising Aunty to pose differently each time. I am amazed at the ease with which he is able to connect even with an older woman. I step behind the curtains and watch him in action and admire his lean body as he captures his current object of attention with his SLR camera. His fingers adjust the light aperture. I remember the softness of those fingers on my lips. My cheeks begin to burn.

  After he has captured Madhubala, Meena Kumari and Nargis poses, he quickly takes a few shots of the honeymoon suite from varied angles with professional ease, while Aunty pretends to look around for something in the room. She doesn’t trust our raging hormones. She wants to make sure she locks the room after we leave.

  ‘Thanks, Aunty. We are done here,’ I hear Samir say. I quickly follow him out of the room. The moment we are out of Aunty’s sight, he grabs my hand and we break into a run. I don’t know where we are going. I don’t care. We climb down two flights of stairs. I am holding the folds of my saree above my heels with my right hand, to avoid stepping on them. My left hand is secure in Samir’s firm grasp. We stop in front of a room on the third floor. We hear voices of some elderly people coming from the end of the corridor. He pushes the door of the room with his left hand. It opens without any hindrance. We slip inside the room and wait for the noises to subside.

  A few minutes later, when all is quiet, he tells me that this is his room.

  ‘No one will disturb us here,’ he says and starts walking to the bed, still holding my hand. He sits down on the bed, pulling me along with him. I can feel the tension beginning to grow in my chest. Suddenly he leaves my hand, which became sticky from our sweat, and starts laughing.

  ‘Did you see the look in Aunty’s eyes as she scanned the bed in the honeymoon suite?’ He says chuckling.

  I watch his eyes sparkle with childlike amusement at our little adventure. I find myself join his laughter as I first recall the look of horror and then the relief on her face.

  As the thrill of the escapade subsides, his eyes rest intensely on my face. A different thrill begins to build between us. My body tenses as his finger slides down the side of my face resting just above my shoulder. He is aware of my pulse rising and falling. He doesn’t wait any more this time. His lips are on mine, lingering softly in the beginning, then possessing me with the intensity of a storm. It’s too soon, a voice in my head warns. It’s okay. Just go with the flow, contradicts my heart. Soon, I can’t hear any voices. My mind goes blank. I am lost in a cyclone of cloud and wind spinning together, which is fed by the heat of our passion.

  I wake up at the crack of the dawn as the rising sun peeks through the curtains at our intertwined bodies. I slowly lift my leg lying on top of his, extricate my arm from under him and then gather my clothes, which were thrown across the floor in haste last night.

  I look at the clock above the bed. Shucks! My flight back to Delhi is in three hours. I need to pack my stuff and leave now, if I want to get to the airport in time. I don’t want to leave, but I have to. I want to wake up Samir and kiss him goodbye. I wonder when we will meet. He had said he keeps coming to Delhi. I hope he comes soon. Okay, this is definitely crazy. I haven’t even left him yet and I am already desperate to meet him again.

  I pick up his phone to edit my contact name to ‘Butterfly’. I decide to call him from the airport and surprise him.

  I am swiping the screen on his phone when I see a yellow post-it app with some notes. It reads, ‘book ideas, thoughts, feelings’. I am tempted to see his inner-most thoughts. I double click to read the complete note. I realize these are Samir’s notes on anything he wants to record as ideas for his stories. I am surprised that he didn’t tell me anything about writing a story or a book. Another engineer who wants to be a writer—how clichéd! I smile and go through the notes.

  Love is like an umbrella. Share it with everyone.

  My favourite flowers are Tulips—two lips.

  I saw two birds today on a branch of a tree outside my room.

  They seemed to be in perfect harmony. No binding of marriage and yet together, forever.

  The notes are so sweet, so touching, so vulnerable and so romantic. I know I ought to be leaving right now, yet I scroll further down.

  Let’s Have Coffee is a funny take on our generation’s casual attitude towards sex. Having sex with a friend or a stranger is like meeting for coffee. With no responsibilities and disposable incomes. My twenty-something friends believe in trying new partners like we so often order new products online. We are used to free returns within thirty days, no questions asked, whether it
is shoes, dress or a date. If his feet start smelling after a month or she farts too much, we go back to being friends with benefits like nothing happened.

  My hands are shaking and I am sure I will miss my flight, but I can’t leave now without reading it all.

  They first meet at a wedding. She is from the groom’s side and he’s from the bride’s. They feel an immediate connect. They end up having sex in the bridegroom’s honeymoon suite in the hotel.

  I gulp down the lump in my throat but it is hard to control the tears brimming in my eyes. Is this what he thinks of me? An idea of a story? Was he planning to sleep with me in the honeymoon suite so he could add realistic experience to his story? Am I just a cup of coffee to be had at a designer wedding? All these questions are hammering in my mind and are demanding to be answered.

  Just a minute ago, I wanted to say how much I had enjoyed our time together. I wanted to tell him how I felt a connection with him. I wanted to get to know him more. I wanted to develop a taste for our togetherness, as one develops a taste for wine. Slowly, beautifully forever. But after reading this, I can’t. I can’t tell him any of it. It will mean nothing to him. What I want to savour as wine is just coffee for him. A mere act of sex at a random wedding. A spicy, saucy chapter in his story.

  Sitting in the plane on the way back home, my mind goes back to the two beautiful days I had with Samir. I feel horrible. I feel used. I feel I have been wronged. I feel angry with Samir. The logical side of my mind argues that he didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like he forced himself upon me or confessed his love for me. It was my mistake too. How could I sleep with someone I knew only for forty-eight hours? It was like blowing away one’s caution in the wind. In this case, literally.

  Nevertheless, I felt a connection—my romantic side cries in its defence. I felt like I had known him for years. I felt safe and secure with him.

  Well, there is nothing that can be changed now—both sides of my mind agree. It is best to forget and move on. That chapter is over. End of story.

  Samir wakes up from the most beautiful dream he has ever had and tries to feel Meha next to him in the bed. She is gone. Everything was so perfect; why did she leave without even a goodbye kiss. He rubs his eyes and looks at the clock. She must have left for the airport, he realizes. Confident that she must have left a message for him at the reception, he runs out in his boxers to the reception and inquires about her.

  Madam checked out an hour ago. No. She didn’t leave any message for anyone. The girl at the reception stares disapprovingly at his under-dressed state.

  He instinctively reaches for his phone to call Meha. It’s in his room. He rushes back to his room and finds his phone lying on the table. He tries to call her but the number is switched off. She is already on the flight. He is thrilled to see a note lying under his phone. It is scribbled on the complimentary hotel stationary. He quickly reads it, once, and then once again.

  ‘Thanks for sharing your lovely umbrella with me. Sorry, but I peeked into your private notes. Just to let you know, I don’t believe in friends with benefits. I prefer to forget a random hookup like an unknown cafe in a narrow lane, where you enjoy a nice coffee on a vacation, but you wouldn’t care to remember its name or street. Don’t try to find me. I won’t remember you.’

  He crumples the paper into a ball and throws it away. He walks out of the hotel to the beach. How stupid of him to think that she was the one!

  A Public Proposal

  Five years later

  I am nervous as I go through the Cyber Hub security. After all, it’s not every day that a girl proposes to a guy. That too in front of a crowd! C’mon, don’t tell me you think that proposing is not a big deal. Did you ever have to get a poor mark sheet signed by your parents? How about being caught the only time you lied to your best friend? How about going to a party without makeup? See, you’re getting it. Proposing is like baring your inner self to the one who can hurt you the most. If that is not vulnerable enough, imagine being watched by hundreds of spectators as you propose—like in the one in Oprah Winfrey show. Only this is not a staged show—it’s real life. Moreover, I want this to go well—more than anything else.

  I am patiently waiting as the female guard is counting the number of lipsticks in my purse. She then opens my handbag and takes her own sweet time confirming the expiry date on the pack of glucose biscuits. Then, she is touching me everywhere. I respect her dedication to duty, but squirm at this invasion of privacy.

  I can hear my heart as I walk hurriedly past the Wine Country, the California Pizza Kitchen and Nandos. I tie my sweaty hair up in a loose knot with the help of a clutch. It’s almost five in the evening, but the scorching June sun is unrelenting in its mission to prove the ineffectiveness of my sunscreen.

  About to faint with the potent mixture of anxiety and heat, I smell from a distance, the bittersweet aroma of fresh coffee beans. My legs take me to Starbucks. I am tempted to go in, get some cool air and my regular Frappuccino. Just as I unlock my phone to see if I have time, it begins to ring. It’s the dance troupe. I promise myself to visit Starbucks later. For now, I head straight to the open-air theatre. The place is bustling with crowd of young people from the nearby office buildings. Had it been any other time, I would have loved the energy. Today, I am just hoping to not make a fool of myself in front of all these people. I talk to the dance troupe and go over the sequence of events for the flash-mob proposal. I check the sound system and the life-size display screen. Everything seems to be in order. I have been working on this proposal for the last two weeks. There is no reason for me to worry—but my mind warns that if everything is going well, it can never be a good sign.

  Just then I get a message on WhatsApp that he has arrived. I realize that it’s not the preparation that I am worried about. It’s his answer. What if he rejects my proposal? No! Don’t even think about it. Bad things happen if you think negative. Your blood group is ‘B positive’—be optimistic! I try to think about the delicious Frappuccino waiting for me at Starbucks. The trip to Maldives that is due. The new pair of silver earrings I saw at Anokhi. Those earrings are gorgeous. I smile. I am already feeling better.

  ‘He is in front of Donut Factory.’

  ‘Now he is at the Pita Pit.’

  I am getting real-time updates on his movements from the team. The video guy has started recording his walk from the Cyber Hub entry to the open-air theatre.

  ‘He has stopped to buy a kulfi at King’s Kulfi.’

  It’s okay! No need to panic. I tell the team to keep recording. I had kept a buffer of thirty minutes for such unexpected deviations. As he approaches the open-stage area, the music comes on. The song ‘Lat lag gayi’ is one of his favourites. And mine too. The lead dancer goes to the floor and breaks into some supercool steps. As predicted, he gets tempted and walks towards the stage to check out the dance performance. The heat does not bother him. The mist-sprinklers stationed around the stage was a good idea. I move closer to one. Two more guys join the dance and the song changes to another one of his favourites. He looks happy, unaware that he is soon going to be the star bakra of a live show. There are eight dancers on the floor now. All the dancers are moving in amazing synchrony. A large crowd has gathered around to enjoy the free show. People are cheering and grooving to the latest chartbuster tunes.

  A minute later, right on my cue, she joins the dancers on the floor. Wearing a cotton palazzo with a sleeveless, lace top, she grooves to the tune of ‘Tumhi ho bandhu sakha tumhi’. I can’t believe she is the same girl who couldn’t dance a few weeks ago. Here she is—perfectly coordinated with the experts from the dance troupe.

  Who is she? Hello! She is the heroine of our show. The brave girl who is risking it all for a guy. I am only the proposal-designer and I am tense because my business survives on the success of this proposal. Wait! Did you, by any chance, think I was proposing? I agree that it’s not an impossible thought. I mean I am twenty-seven now. I should be getting married. In fact, my mom des
perately wants me to get married. It’s just that I am yet to find someone who loves me for who I am—one in a million!

  As she continues to rock the floor, I keenly observe his expression for a clue. First, he is surprised to see her dancing. Then, he is confused. Then the worst happens. His face becomes expressionless, like a blank television screen.

  ‘What does this mean?’ I anxiously ask the team on my mike. ‘Is he feeling trapped or is he blown over?’

  No one responds. Then Pyare Mohan, my production guy, who is managing the music, whispers, ‘He is in an empty box. Only men go there—never a woman.’

  ‘Obviously a lady would never want to visit an empty box. But what the fuck is he thinking right now?’ I am tense now, fiddling with my earring.

  ‘Nothing,’ comes the reply.

  The love of your life is wooing you and you are thinking of nothing. You see, it is only possible for guys to think of nothing, because God messed up while creating them. He used up all his boxes, full of creativity, moods, and feelings, while designing a woman’s mind. When he got to creating a man’s mind, he ran out of stuff. A woman has these boxes in her brain, which are meaningful and connected with high-speed, fibre-optic cable, which allows her to jump topics and moods at astounding speed. On the other hand, men can at their best be looking at the box right in front, with no ability to multitask. Often that box in front turns out to be empty. Like what just happened to our star-hero.

  As I am trying my best to make something out of his nothingness, I see him touch his throat. This is definitely not good. He is having doubts. Oh, please God, make him say yes. I need the money badly. It’s only a proposal and not a full wedding. But it will help my start-up to survive another month. I feel bad worrying about material gains when someone’s love is at stake. Yet you have to help yourself first, isn’t it?

  The song ends and she walks with slow, confident steps towards him. I am very impressed by her poise. The crowd is going mad—shouting and cheering. They have never seen a girl propose in public at Cyber Hub. She reaches him, stretches out her hand and ask him to join her. She knows he loves to dance. He is an expert ballroom dancer. That was one of the reasons we had settled for the flash-mob idea. He hesitates for a second. My heart drops. Then he takes her hand in his and they move into their own world—eyes locked, dancing only for each other. The world fades away. Just the way it happens in the movies. The music stops. I can hear her as she speaks, loud and clear, on my earphone.