A Rendezvous and Thereafter

He came after the rains. It was a bright afternoon. There was nothing serendipitous or momentous about their meeting. He had just called her, said he would love to meet her and would drop in at her office on his way home from the airport. But still, she had chosen her dress with care – a black georgette salwar kameez, which was the best piece of clothing she had in her wardrobe. It was not flashy but elegant, she reassured herself.

When the office assistant called and said she had a visitor, she got up in such a hurry that her dupatta got entangled between the wheels of her chair. She cursed. She had been waiting for this moment all morning and she still had to be clumsy. She rushed to the bathroom, made faces at the mirror, pinched her taut cheeks unsuccessfully to get some healthy pink on them, and walked as calmly as she could to where he was waiting.

It might have been a coincidence, he was wearing a black shirt.

“Hi,” he said. “I am sorry I am a bit late, got delayed at the airport.” He smiled.

He was too fair, she thought, and not really tall. She liked his smile though. There was something quite open about it.

“Shall we go straight for lunch? It is quite late.” she asked in her most cultivated voice. First impressions are everything.

“Sure. Shall I call my driver to bring the car around?”

“Oh, no, it is just walking distance. Inside the gates.”

They walked down the Technopark campus. There was a stiff breeze blowing which was invigorating. She saw the lushness of Technopark with an outsider’s eyes. It was spellbinding but comforting too – the seductress and the soother. And then the massive stone man came into view, looking forever seaward – and something masculine creeps in, predicting storms and realizing dreams.

“Wow,” most people said that when they saw the statue for the first time.

They ate. They talked – and talked some more. She could not later remember what they spoke that day, however hard she tried. There were just two things fixed in her memory – a black mole on his biceps – no, just where the biceps and triceps muscles meet, the stickler in her corrected – and the way he bit his lower lip ever so slightly when he was thinking or listening. And he was a good listener.

When they parted that day, it was already evening. The sky was steamy red on the horizon, as if a master artist had painted a blazing scarlet on a whim. It looked passionate, erotic, caught unabashedly in the moment. They turned their eyes away.

“Are we meeting again?” She asked almost shyly.

“Yes, definitely. Aren’t we?” He asked back. “I have got something for you.” And he opened the car door and got out a small brown box. “They are Godiva truffles,” he explained.

“Thank you,” She said. It sounded exotic.

They met again, and again, and again. They had lunches and dinners together. She was the one who talked mostly, he listened. They typed long, meaningless e-mails. When he traveled for work, she pretended to get busy with work too. She was suffering from what she called Penelope syndrome. She claimed she was waiting for her Ulysses. She would weave and unweave imaginary tapestries. When they met again, they held hands. They dreamt of kissing each other. They argued. They wagered. If he won, he would kiss her. She lost. They kissed.

He asked, “Should we get married?”

“What do you think?” She asked back.

“I think yes.”

“Well, I think so too.” She was shy again.

“Shall we tell our parents? They would want to know.”

“Yes, I guess we should.”

That was how it happened. In a nutshell. They got married next April, on April 22 to be precise.

Afterword
Seven years have passed. He still has the mole, he still bites his lower lip. But as each day passes by, there are more things about him to add to my list of favorites. I still suffer from Penelope syndrome now and then. I still weave and unweave my tapestry, at least to kill time, forever being Penelope to my Ulysses.