A cool breeze kept entertaining us. Time and again strands of Simar’s hair would fall over her face and she would keep moving them back. One moment, while she was sipping coffee, I moved the strands of her hair behind her ear, and the touch of my finger behind her ear seemed to arouse her. She kept looking at me with expectation. I too looked deep into her eyes, which seemed to suddenly pull me towards them. I looked at her for a few seconds. Then, when I couldn’t resist myself, I brought my face closer to hers and tasted her cappuccino-coated lips. That tasted far better than my own cappuccino. Simar held my face in her palms and kissed me harder. We didn’t have to worry about kissing each other in the open. It is quite common to express your love this way not only in Belgium but in other parts of the West too. I love Belgium for its openness. We were still on the bonnet of Anthony’s Volkswagen and it made a creaky sound under our weight as we got busy in shuffling our positions while kissing each other. Suddenly I recalled Anthony’s last instructions on the phone—Take care of it more than you take care of your girl—and I withdrew.
Soon the weather got windy and black clouds hovered on the Belgian sky. Simar locked both her arms across my left arm and paddled her legs in the air. She said something. When I looked at her, she laughed. She had remembered a few words from the song I recited to her the night before. ‘Jaana suno… La la laaaa la laa … Hahaha,’ she laughed then and said, ‘Ravz, kitne funny ho tum, yaar.’ And then she laughed again. It was lovely to see her so carefree and joyful.
Then it started drizzling and we rushed inside the car. All of a sudden we inhaled the fresh revitalizing scent of the wet soil. I ignited the engine and we drove back to the city. Everything around us was breathtaking—the rain, the wind and the greenery outside the car and the melodious music, the hot cappuccino and my beautiful Simar inside the car. Each time the car’s wiper would mop the windscreen, sending splashes of rainwater off the side, everything in front of us would appear clean and clear for a split second and then it would all get blurred yet again. It was going to be one of the most memorable evenings.
After a drive of fifty-odd kilometres we were back at my place. It was still raining and Simar opted to stay back. We were hungry. We stretched out for some time on the living-room couch before getting up to prepare dinner for ourselves.
We cooked jeera rice and some egg curry. Simar cut some salad and arranged the table. To celebrate the evening further we had picked up a bottle of champagne on our way back. For Simar, who had never boozed, we had bought the champagne which barely had any alcohol content. I got the bottle while Simar brought out the cutlery and the food to the table. We switched off all the lights, apart from the one which hung over the dining table, illuminating only the table area. I popped open the champagne and the frothy drink gushed out of the bottle. I served it in two glasses and handed one to Simar. We raised a toast to the beautiful evening. Under the warm light it was just the two of us. We kept talking to each other as we ate dinner. The hot steam rising from the rice gently fogged our vision, adding to the romance of the night. It also made us feel pleasantly warm. Outside, the rain had turned everything cold. As Simar and I drank and ate we recalled how we’d met for the first time at the gym, what we then thought of each other and where finally our destinies had brought us.
It was the first night that Simar was going to spend with me. An hour later, I was holding her, and my hand was firmly clasping her back. We were in the balcony; the same place where Simar and I sat for long when she had first come on my birthday. It was still dimly lit and we enjoyed the sound of the rain and the gusts of chilly air. She leaned her back against my chest; I wrapped my arms around her from behind, placing my hands on her stomach and resting my chin over her right shoulder. We stood in that warm cuddle, staring into the distance. She felt warm, she said. I naughtily moved my finger over her dress on her stomach and discovered her belly button. She giggled when I circled the tip of my finger in the depth of her naval. It tickled her.
She whispered, ‘Stop doing that. I feel butterflies in my stomach.’
Late in the night the two of us made love in my bedroom. Outside it continued to rain. That was the first time we fully discovered each other. I kissed her everywhere as I explored each beautiful part of her. I knew she enjoyed my doing so, and so did I.
It was certainly the most romantic day of our lives.
‘I will never forget this evening,’ she said as we lay together, saturated by our love.
‘I am glad we are together,’ I said.
By the time we slept it was quite late at night. The rain had finally stopped.
Sixteen
It was mid-July. Summer was at its peak.
During this time of the year the days in western Europe are long enough and have sunlight beyond 9 or at times even 9.30 in the night. Belgian evenings therefore tend to be longer. On those evenings, Simar and I used to spend more time at the gym.
Once, when we met late after sundown, Simar shared a secret wish of hers. She wanted to booze. I was pleasantly surprised. She had mentioned that she had never had a drink before, apart from the champagne the other night—which contained very little alcohol content—nor did she have any plans to do so.
‘How come you have this urge all of a sudden?’ I questioned her.
‘Just like that,’ she answered candidly. I kept looking at her thinking that she would say something more as an explanation. But she didn’t. That was it.
‘Big deal!’ she said, showing off and then giggling.
I rechecked, ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded and then anxiously awaited my response. It was strange but I was enjoying this sudden urge of hers to do something crazy.
‘Do you think it is a bad idea?’ she asked innocently. Her eyes seemed to want me to say it wasn’t.
I simply followed her eyes.
In a short while we were at a nearby Chinese restaurant. Both of us loved Chinese food and we had identified a few good Chinese eating joints in the city. We took the corner table with a sofa which Simar chose for us. We sat right beside the bar. This would not only be extremely convenient but would also give us some much-needed privacy.
The waiter handed the menu to Simar and I kept watching her take a decision on what she would drink. Her choice of booze was dependent on how nice the bottle at the bar looked and not on its contents. So she spent her time going through the deck of bottles at the bar. I enjoyed seeing her immature decision-making capabilities on the subject of alcohol. She spent some ten minutes surveying the bottles, only to come back confused to me.
‘Ravz, every bottle looks amazing. Which one should we have?’
In certain moments when Simar would talk in this ultra-cute manner, I would refrain from answering immediately. I rather wanted to keep observing the little kid in my grown-up girl. I wanted to cherish the cuteness with which she talked. I wanted to share a part of her innocence and read those little things running in her sharp mind. I wanted to observe her eyes, the way they restlessly shifted between me and the bottles. I wanted to observe her lips, how they curved when she smiled, how she bit the lower one. I wanted to focus on how she wrinkled her nose when she was disappointed in one of the bottles. How her eyelashes would flutter and kiss each other for a split second after every few seconds. I wanted to just absorb each and every tiny movement on her face and in her body language. And whenever I got to live such moments, I simply wanted to keep looking at her and fulfil my lust of seeing her for an infinite duration. I wanted to become a silent observer. I never wanted to talk.
But whenever I did that, she would become shy and insist that I take my gaze off her which I would do reluctantly.
It was going to be Simar’s first encounter with alcohol and, on my suggestion, she opted for a beer. I gave her two reasons: one, that among all the drinks this contained the least amount of alcohol; two, that Belgium was known for its beer. She brushed aside my first suggestion. Her plan was to get drunk with something that tasted good too, so
she wasn’t really worried about the level of alcohol. Luckily for me, my second suggestion appealed to her.
Since the time we had ordered the drinks, she had this anxiety and excitement to have the first sip. I could see that excitement in the mischievous glint in her eyes and also sense it in her questions, all of which were on the bar and the bottles beside us.
The waiter served the drinks along with the snacks we had ordered. Simar was moments away from taking the first sip of Belgium’s renowned alcoholic drink. That’s how she wanted to remember it. I gave her a little tip on how to say cheers and to keep the glass back on the table after the first sip. She went ahead and followed my instructions completely, barely containing her excitement.
But as soon as she tasted it, her euphoria drooped. Acting brave, she didn’t say much—but the way her eyes shut tightly the moment she sipped the beer revealed the reality. It hadn’t tasted as per her expectations. On her lips was a white moustache of froth.
‘So, how is it?’ I asked, smiling, and wondered what she would say.
‘I knew it was going to taste bad. But I had been told by friends that this is how alcohol is supposed to be,’ she answered.
I liked her spirit.
‘Go slow and complement every sip with some snacks. It will help you,’ I answered protectively.
In the initial few sips, Simar did struggle with the taste. It seemed it was an effort for her to swallow the spirit down her throat. But as the evening moved on, Simar did give her best shot to understand, accept and adapt to the taste of booze.
We kept talking about ourselves and the people in the restaurant. We talked about the taste of the snacks and beer. Most of the time, I kept giving her my share of gyaan on alcohol. Even though I wasn’t much of a drinker, I still had the experience of drinking.
Soon there came a time when alcohol took effect. It had tickled the pleasure cells in her brain. That’s when taste didn’t matter any more. We continued to eat and drink, and we talked a lot. We talked crazy. Actually, it was Simar who was talking crazy. I was just acknowledging her chatter in the same tone. I was enjoying being with her. I was enjoying seeing this totally different side to her. She was enjoying making the best out of the bitter-tasting beer. She let herself go, enjoying her high because she knew that I was with her. She had said she was comfortable with me.
But all of a sudden I was beginning to think about my comfort level. My girlfriend was pitch drunk with only a pint of beer and had starting singing songs.
Hindi songs! In a Chinese restaurant! Amidst a Belgian crowd!
I wanted her to enjoy herself, though certainly not at the cost of being a public embarrassment. But she was unstoppable. Fortunately, there were not many people occupying the immediate tables beside us and thankfully she wasn’t loud enough for others who sat at tables further away. She picked one line and tested my nerves by singing it I don’t know how many times!
‘Aaja-aaja-neeley la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaa—JAI HO!’
And every time, exactly two seconds later, she would add another ‘JAI HO’, the only clearly audible part of her song.
I tried my best to control her but I couldn’t help myself from laughing when she asked, ‘Ravz, you don’t like A.R. Rahman, kya?’
She was completely drunk by now and I realized the change in her body language.
Seeing the squad of bartenders and waiters observing us I was a little alarmed and began to insist that Simar behave herself. She gave me a look as if I had denied her her moral right. I quickly called on the waiter to get the menu card to order the main course.
As the waiter arrived at our table, Simar tried reading the name tag right above the pocket of his tuxedo. She actually got close enough to him while reading it.
‘Lee …’ she said first and then continued to add, ‘Chang …’ She was about to spell the remaining two letters of one of the most difficult names she had encountered in her life, when I cut her short.
‘Simar!’
‘Yes,’ she said and shifted her focus back to me. She was smiling all the time.
‘Excuse me.’ I begged pardon from the waiter for Simar’s behaviour. Then I asked Simar what she would prefer for dinner. She looked here and there wondering what she wanted next that evening.
‘What are those people having along with lemon in those tiny glasses?’ she asked me, pointing to a bunch of people at the bar.
I looked behind.
‘That’s tequila,’ I answered and continued asking her about what she wanted to eat.
But she ignored me completely and screamed, ‘Oh! Tequila shots!!’
She had added her knowledge to the little amount of information I had provided and was feeling on top of the world. I knew she was not going to give any suggestions on the food.
I looked at the menu and ordered some fried rice and seasonal vegetables dipped in garlic sauce. The waiter left the table and I found that Simar was still waiting for me to acknowledge her previous suggestion.
‘Yes, they are tequila shots.’
She clapped her hands and demanded, ‘I want to have those shots!’
She was already one drink down and in the middle of her second glass of beer.
‘No, dear,’ I persuaded her. ‘This is the last one and you shouldn’t mix two different drinks.’
On the one hand, I smiled at her as I told her to take it easy while on the other hand, I was worried about the reaction of the people in the restaurant. I tried my best to explain to her that we were in a public place and we should maintain decorum.
Without saying a single word she nodded. It was a big enough nod that her head tilted all the way back and then came down; three times in sequence, after which she pulled up her feet on to the sofa and relaxed. I somehow managed to control my laughter and struggled with two different thoughts.
In that very moment she was provoking me to love her and in that same moment she was pissing me off.
‘Simar, take your feet off the sofa and sit properly!’ I almost shouted at her.
‘Shhhhhhh!!!!’ she hushed with a finger on her tightly closed lips. ‘We are in a public place, Ravin. Don’t shout.’ And she closed her eyes and relaxed for a while. She was thoroughly enjoying the essence of her drink.
This was enough time for me to take her glass back. She revolted. I still managed to take it away. Then for a while I kept her involved in conversation. I wanted to divert her attention, so that she would get a little serious. I talked to her about her MBA programme. She didn’t get into the details and ended up saying that all was going well. I talked about her friends and she said they were all nice human beings. Under the influence of alcohol, she only had such positive answers to all my questions.
I was in the middle of talking to her when all of a sudden one blunder occurred. She got a call on her mobile. It was from her mother.
She showed me her mobile and all I could say was, ‘Shit!’ Simar was not in a condition to talk to her mother. For her mother, I was sure, didn’t think that Simar could ever dare to booze.
I was watching Simar. It seemed as if a part of her brain was alert to the upcoming danger, while another part had failed to realize what was happening.
As the phone continued to ring, pressure mounted in my brain. Simar in one instance was worried and in the other instance laughed at my panic. In her drunken state of mind she had somehow mistaken her mother to be my mother. So she started laughing, wondering how I would talk to my mom while I was drunk. I had a feeling that by now the bartenders who were watching us carefully were thinking that we had actually gone nuts. In panic I quickly looked carefully for the button to turn her phone silent. One full ring and we didn’t pick up the call. The very next moment it rang again. I told Simar to sit calmly and to not go anywhere. Then I went out to the gallery and disconnected the call. I then quickly jotted down her mom’s cell number and switched off Simar’s phone. I had a plan in my mind.
I called up her mom from my cellphone. I had already spoken
to Aunty in the past when Simar had introduced me to her. That actually worked in my favour.
‘Hello Aunty!’ I said.
‘Hello Ravin. How are you?’ she asked.
‘I am good, Aunty. Aaa … uh … Simar called me up just now from her friend’s cellphone,’ I continued, desperately trying to cook up a story.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I was trying her just now but for some reason she didn’t pick up her call?’ She appeared curious.
‘Yes, yes, Aunty, that’s why she called me. Her phone was low on battery and as soon as she picked up your call it switched off. She is out at a party with her college friends and she told me that she will call you tomorrow morning,’ I lied.
‘Oh, okay … Yes, it rang twice but then when I tried again I got to know that her phone is switched off.’
‘Yes, Aunty, that’s why she called me from her friend’s mobile.’
‘That’s okay, beta. How are you otherwise?’ she checked.
I breathed a sigh of relief and went on lying some more. ‘I am good, Aunty. I have a conference call with my India office people so I need to rush.’ In truth, I wanted to rush back and check on Simar.
In this world where it is difficult to handle one woman, I was handling two at the same time. Worse still, it was a mother–daughter combo!
As soon as I had finished the call I ran back to the dining hall where I soon realized that my troubles were not yet over. Simar was missing from her seat. She was at the bar!
Two little empty glasses of tequilas were rolling on the bar stand right in front of Simar. She was busy licking the lemon slice with a pinch of salt. I immediately rushed to her. Now she was at the peak of being drunk. She was hardly able to open her eyes. I gave an angry look to the bartender and shouted, ‘Why did you serve her?’ But that was all I could do. They weren’t wrong in serving her. After all, she was a patron. Also, how would they have known that it was the first time Simar was drinking alcohol! For all the problems I had faced I now wanted to make it her last day of boozing.
Can Love Happen Twice? Page 9
