The Love Triangle

They were an unlikely couple. Not the least because the girl was about three feet tall, and the guy was a good six, apart from being much less good looking. It seemed that the man had much to say, to which the lady was putting up a reticent front. There were only a few disapproving shakes of the head and a few patronizing smiles from her. But the chemistry was shining through the neon lights of the pub and it didn’t take a behavioral scientist to decipher that they were completely in love with each other. The pub. Like the Indian eateries on the better side of the Atlantic has Shahrukh Khan pinned to the walls along with Chicken Tikka on the plates to evoke nostalgia, the All American Diner boasted of an authentic Yankee décor. Probably constructing an alternate reality for the nephews of Uncle Sam amidst Monroe, Carter the magician and Babe Ruth endorsed commercial vying for space. For the moment the ‘pale-faced’ steps out of the restaurent, it would be back to tour guide illustrated tropical heat of Delhi- with mercs and people and cows and people and beggars and people and ABN Amros.

The humble roots of yours truly through a regimented English-speaking upbringing at school and dispersion to an alien city had transplanted enough spunk to the plumules- so that ensured I didn’t feel out of place in the swanky place. And that allowed me to have a look around whence I spotted the couple. Theirs was an interesting scene- the lady was toying with a dilapidated potato wedge and the man was doing his best to impress her. His tone varied from the authoritative to the imploring but scarcely produced a scratch on the demeanor of the lady apart from what she willed to part with. She had a quiet yet gay spirit about her that I found beautiful. They were discussing the weather, merits and demerits of a particular school and watermelons and to the extent common decency allowed me, I could get snatches of the conversation-

“So, don’t you like water melons?”
“They are big. And watery.”
“…..mangoes.”
“ No, no, no…”
“…..playing with potato wedges..”
“ I want it today. Now…”

The Sunday evening had its usual numbness..a sort of vacuous, memory less aura, something in the line of the awkwardness one would associate with the funeral of a friend’s father. As the evening rolled on, I could sense the change in the visage of the guy. He was getting restless, wistful and quieter by the second. On the other hand, the girl was getting chirpier and quickly swallowed up any torn piece of silence which came floating in here and there. Suddenly, both of them went very quiet and I couldn’t resist leaning forward to closely examine a napkin holder on an adjoining table.

“So, it is eight. Stay well, Yashna.”
“Don’t go, please..can't we…”
“No, Yashna, she will be very angry…”

At that moment the door opened quietly, as if guilty of playing the spoilsport. A lady walked in and from the direction of her proud strut it became evident that the third angle of the love story had made her entry. She was tall and had this accomplished glaze all over her. I could barely see Yashna’s face, but somehow felt from her voice after she saw the lady, that her eyes had swelled up like an eager monsoon sky working on an overdrive.

“OK, Yashna, come to Mummy. Times up. Or do you want Judge uncle to scold Daddy?”