Continued from…
I asked the bartender for the bill. Two cocktails were enough for both. Her eyes signaled something, the check went to her. She paid with a card, not forgetting to leave a humble Rs five hundred as tip and asked me if I could drive her back to Orange County. I live in Shipra, which was almost the distance I had to cover. I reluctantly agreed, mentally calculating money saved on the cab. She stumbled on the stairs and I noticed a band aid on her left toe. It looked like a corn. “You should not be in heals, it pains lesser.” She found my advice amusing and ruffled my hair as music and colored lights faded behind us “Do you always give so much advice kiddo?” she asked.
We were out under street lights; her white Toyota Corolla had seat covers that smelt like fresh musk. I turned the key; The ignition outside was accompanied with voice of Jagjit Singh playing inside, he sang “Mere dil mein tu hi tu hai, Dil ki dawa kya karun.” She told me to raise the volume, and closed her eyes and looked towards to the window.
I was able to get a look at her face more clearly now. It was beautiful. She had aged pleasantly, but aged faster than expected and suddenly perhaps. Her face showed dark circles around mesmerizing eyes that talked of stress she had suffered abruptly at some spike of life. We drove past lonely traffic signals, sleeping beggars and abrupt lift-asking men with office bag-packs on their shoulders.
It was almost 1 am when I slowed the car outside doors of a posh society where sleeping guards were at peace. There was a dramatic sudden change in weather. It started to drizzle. She opened the window and stretched her palm, allowing the raindrops to fall on it. I sat there motionless, thoughtless, waiting for directions.
We sat without speaking a word, listening to drops falling on the surface of the car, making a merry sound, a sound of some restart or that of a refreshing interval. I took out a Benson cigarette from my pocket and asked her if I can smoke in the car. She kept looking outside and softly replied. “You should not ask anyone for things that you really want to do. Hear the rain. Respect the drizzle. Learn.”
She opened her purse to hand me a lighter. She took the cigarette from my lips and blew a puff. Filter tasted like lip gloss when it came back to me. The showers were belligerent by now and pushed me to make the choice of walking back by dawn. “I have a big house. It is lonely in a way, that every room is called “guest room,”she laughed.
To be continued.
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