Stories Of Young Love by Abhilash Gaur

up. It was silly of me to read a book on a night like this.
Sleep was out of the question too. Her voice rang in my ears
effortlessly, though, and I lay back and went over the evening
slowly.
    I thought of her
soft, clean hands and toes peeking through Bata sandals. She
dressed the same way even after two years in a job and was just as
unsparing with her keen wit. She was a little heavier, perhaps, but
it was hard to say since she never wore fitted clothes. There were
dark circles under her eyes, the result of working night shifts and
staying up late glued to Messenger. But little else of note.
    Months ago, I had
scanned and mailed her a photograph of me after working off the
weight I had gained eating samosas at the institute, but she had
never sent me any of hers, although she wrote all the time. Some
evenings, when our shifts coincided, she sent seven or eight emails
and scolded me if I didn’t reply to even one. Hers were all
effusive mails, at least a few paragraphs long. She wrote the way
she spoke, with pauses and exclamations and asides and
afterthoughts, while my mails were monosyllables stretched to a
sentence out of consideration for her feelings. But she didn’t mind
the brevity of my replies although she didn’t tire of needling me
about it.
    Neither of us had
a cellular phone in those days, and we heard each other’s voices
once in months because she felt shy calling my folks’ number. Yet,
her sparkling voice and dimpled laugh were hardwired in my mind.
When I read her mails, I heard her speak, and when she pulled my
leg I saw and heard her laugh.
    I got up to get a
glass of water. It was 1am and the night was deathly still. In a
few hours I would see her again. Maybe she was lying awake at that
moment and thinking about me. Perhaps she was phrasing the
inevitable question that I dreaded so much: whether and when we
were going to get married. How was I to evade it sitting beside her
this time? I wished she were younger than me and had time on her
side. I wished the institution of marriage had never been
created.
    These two years, I
had been constant despite my youth and the distance in our
relationship. Not even a fling in all this time although my office
was full of temptation: smart girls my age who spoke the same
language and had grown up in the same city. I had been constant
despite knowing—realizing belatedly, after the first rush of
romance and noble feelings—that we couldn’t travel far together.
She wanted marriage and irrevocable commitment while I... look, I
am no ladies’ man, I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, but marriage
then or even five years on was out of the question. I had tried
explaining this to her many times before over email. Now, I had to
do it looking into her eyes. The morning was not going to be as
sweet as the last evening.
    ***
    I pictured her
sitting on the bed with me, smelling of freshly shampooed hair and
moisturiser. She never wore perfume. How would I say no? Would I
break her heart, make her cry? Would she storm out of the room like
that night, muttering “such bitches!”? Would I run after her and
stop her? Not if there were other people in the corridor. I just
couldn’t handle a scene in public. So, would I say yes? I tried to
picture my life with her, but instead of imagining the future,
turned to the past, starting at that afternoon when I first become
aware of her quiet presence in our class of 40. That earnest,
studious face behind steel-rimmed glasses. The simply cut blouse,
the reserved, thoughtful manner and the polished accent in a sea of
fakes. I had found those qualities attractive because four years
after breaking up with my first love, a gorgeous, outgoing girl, I
was still hurting. I wanted someone calm, restrained, reserved,
inward-looking. And faithful. Someone I could love with an easy
mind, rather than fret all the time about her cheating on me.
    It was several
weeks before she and I coalesced into a small group of five
friends, four of