Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-10)

I want to hold on to the email for a while before replying, even though my heart is already jumping up and down with excitement from the attention I have been getting. My thumbs start twitching, and I write a reply, right away.

“Do you use you cell phone for emails?” he asks.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Please type on the computer. There are too many spelling mistakes”
How dare he, but, I don’t show my anger “I don’t want to double check”
“I thought you want to be a writer?”
“I don’t remember telling you that”
“You enrolled”
“So did you”
“I write well enough”
“I never read any”
“May be you should”
“Sure, when I am done reading everyone who sold more copies than you”
“You are rude”
“You are not polite yourself”
“Can we IM?”
“Why? What’s wrong with SMS?”
“It’s more intimate”
“As long as it’s not leading to sex, I wouldn’t call it intimate”
“Intimate: involving warm friendship, according to the dictionary”
“That is one of the several meanings”
“Life is always about picking and choosing what you want”
“I choose not to have any conversation with you”
“Why, if you choose to answer?”
“I am happily married”
“So am I, and I am not asking you to marry me”
“I didn’t say that, but I don’t feel the need to chat with you where as you do feel it”
“Two writers talking about literature is not the same as husband and wife talking about filing taxes”
“I am an introvert. I never talk to anyone unless I need to”
“Really! You typed thirty lines before declaring that”
“Doesn’t matter. I have to do today’s assignment. See you in class, later”
“What are you writing about? I am writing about the beautiful girl who married an old man, and how she was duped”
“It’s so silly”
“You haven’t even read the story”
“I heard the plot”
“Story is all about how you treat it”
“Nice talking to you, I will catch you later”
“Hey, do you want to come to an author’s meet with me tomorrow, evening?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so”
“I have a pass with me, but my wife doesn’t like to go to such functions. Rushdie is the chief guest. I will email you the venue, and keep my phone with me. If you decide to come, just call me before seven”

I didn’t acknowledge the last message. Partly hoping to tell him that I never got it, partly because I didn’t want to show that I wanted to go. What would I tell Shekhar? That I have a date with another author? What would he think of me? Or, should I put the gender equation behind me, and just treat my stranger as someone I share my interests with? Whatever the reasoning can be, the next day I leave at six, after sending an SMS that I will be there. I didn’t want to show excitement, as usual.

“You look gorgeous”, he said, as expected. I have heard it so many times already that I don’t even know who lies, and who really means it. I acknowledge his icebreaker with a simple thank you, and head into the community center with him. His picture on the internet doesn’t do justice to his true features. I like looking into his eyes when talking to him. The greenish blue eyes tell me stories. Which ones, I don’t know. He flirts endlessly, and I enjoy the attention, as long as it is platonic. He suggested going to the restaurant at the lake, and I said yes, completely ignoring Rushdie’s speech, the supposed highlight of the evening. We walk along the lake, talking about things that didn’t matter, of the books we read, of the stories we heard, and of the reality we assumed. It was like meeting your best friend after a decade. So much has already happened in life that you don’t bother telling about any of that, unless it really came up. We ignored telling each other that we were married, we had kids, and we had jobs. I was unemployed actually. That evening, I felt so rejuvenated that I asked Shekhar to come out for a walk with me, and avoided talking about anything that mattered. I two timed myself, and nothing ever excited me so much. Not even my first love.

“Did you have a good time?” asked Shekhar that night, in the bed.
I didn’t know what to say, except a hmm.
“Did you make any friends?”
“Hmm”
“Who? Writers? Publishers?”
“A writer”
“Do we know him?”
“He is not that famous”
“What did your lover say?”
“huh?”
“Mr. Rushdie the great! Did you tell him how much you love him?”
“No. I didn’t get to meet him”
“I thought all this white dress and ensemble for his eyes only”
“I didn’t feel like meeting him”
“Who was that interesting that you skipped meeting him?”
“I am tired. Can we sleep?”
“Sleep already?”
“Hmm”
“You look so beautiful today. Did anyone tell you?”
“Yeah. I was crowned Ms. California”
“No.. I mean it. There is a twinkle in your eyes that I saw when we were dating”
“That’s because I am dating someone else now”
“Who.. the rich and old Shekhar?”
“No, busy and indifferent Shekhar”
“Do you like him?”
“No, I love him”
“How much?”
“Look who is asking”
“Tell me”
“More than he loves me”

I wanted to tell Shekhar that I had the most beautiful evening in the recent days, but feared, that he might not like it, no matter how many times he told me that there shouldn’t be secrets between a husband and wife, and they should be each other’s best friends. Today, I didn’t feel that he was my best friend who should know everything about me.