NAUGHTY DATE AT CHURCHGATE - Flirty Romance

NAUGHTY DATE AT CHURCHGATE 

Flirty Romance

By  

VIKRAM KARVE

Dear Reader:

Are you feeling “bored”?

Let me try to banish your boredom – and to do that I will delve into my Creative Writing Archives and pull out this breezy romance for you.

I wrote this story 11 years ago, in the year 2004, during my glorious Mumbai days.

I spent six of the best years of my life in Mumbai. 

I was very lucky – I lived in a beautiful heritage building called Empress Court opposite the Oval. 

Every morning I woke up sharp at six to the chimes of the majestic clock on the University of Mumbai Rajabai Tower and I would be off to Marine Drive for my brisk morning jog cum walk from Churchgate to Chowpatty and back right till land’s end at Nariman Point. 

This was for physical exercise.

For mental relaxation, in the evenings, I would go on a leisurely walk on Marine Drive or on Colaba Causeway, and then I would browse books in the Oxford Bookstore next door. 

I loved browsing in Oxford Bookstore, and sometimes would browse books after dinner too, and on Sunday afternoons as well. 

I can never forget the many delightful hours I spent browsing books in the comfort of Oxford Book Store on those elegant orange rocking chairs, refreshing myself with delicious cups of invigorating teas in the Cha-Bar.

My wife would keep an eye on me (to ensure I was browsing books only) from our second floor balcony in Empress Court as I sat in a rocking chair enjoying  my reading. 

Whenever I got time I would go across to Oxford and enjoy my moments there – the staff was very courteous and they encouraged browsing. 

After relocating to Pune, the one thing I miss is Oxford Bookstore, the tranquil ambiance and the wonderful time I spent there among books.

This story is set this story in the Oxford Book Store and the surroundings.

I wrote this story 11 years ago, in the year 2004. 

I have written many short stories set in Mumbai but this story remains one of my all time favourite Mumbai Stories.

This story features in COCKTAIL – my book of short stories about relationships.

I am sure you will love this breezy romance – the story of a bored housewife and her exciting adventure. 

Read on – enjoy this flirty naughty romance

NAUGHTY DATE AT CHURCHGATE – a flirty romance by Vikram Karve

What do you do if a man looks at you with frank admiration in his eyes?

He looks yearningly at you in an insistent suggestive sort of way that is worth a thousand compliments.

What do you do?

Nothing. 

You do absolutely nothing. 

You do nothing because you are a thoroughly bored “happily” married thirty year old housewife sitting comfortably in your favourite rocking chair, browsing through Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care, at the Oxford Bookstore at Churchgate in Mumbai.

So you just look down at your feet, you act as if you have not noticed, and you try to read.

But you cannot read – the words just don’t focus in front of you. 

You think of the man, his lingering look, his eyes curiously languid, yet inviting – it’s the first time someone looked at you in such a flattering way for a long long time.

You feel a tinge of excitement.

Maybe something is going to happen. 

Something exciting, something dangerously exciting is going to happen to you. 

At long last.

Something that you have been secretly wanting to happen, and thought would never ever happen.

Or maybe it’s nothing.

Just your imagination playing tricks.

So just to check. 

Once. 

Only once. 

You quickly look up – a fleeting glance.

He is still looking at you – not furtively, but brazenly, almost unashamedly, with waves of yearning flowing out of his eyes. 

He looks a decisive, hot-blooded and masculine man with his smart beard and piercing eyes.

You feel a flush inside. 

A shiver. 

A tremor. 

A tremor of trepidation – mixed with excitement. 

You cannot define how you feel – but it feels good. 

He looks at you. 

You look back at him in return. 

He begins to smile. 

You quickly look down and bury yourself into the pages in front of you and pretend to read.

But it is no use. 

You can sense his unseen eyes locked onto you, burning into you, travelling all over your body and lingering exactly where they should not – just like a laser beam.

And now, he knows that you know.

So what do you do...? 

It is best not to react – just accept the fact of being looked at – ignore him and keep on pretending to read.

Oh, No...! 

That may be dangerous. 

He may get ideas. 

You never know these types. 

He may think you are game. 

But are you game for some fun...? 

Or aren’t you...?

Why not play on... have some fun... flirt a bit... see what happens.

Why not have a little excitement to enliven up your boring life a bit.

So you take a deep breath, and you brace yourself, and you start a dangerous flirtation game.

You look up from your book, pan your gaze slowly across the bookstore, looking at everything – the shelves of books, the people, the cha-bar, the sales counter - and finally, like a dog that has circled its bowl of food long enough, you look directly at him.

Eyes meet. 

His and yours. 

Yours and his. 

His appraising eyes look into yours. 

And then his eyes travel down and look at the book in your hands.

You spontaneously follow his gaze, and look down at the book in your hands – Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care – most inappropriate for what you have in mind. 

You quickly put it away into the rack, run your eyes across the shelf and pick up ‘The Art of Seduction’.

You turn the pages – nothing registers – so you look up at him almost seeking approbation.

He smiles – a wry canny smile – as if he knows something you don’t. 

And suddenly he gets up from the chair, keeps the magazine he is holding back in the rack and begins walking towards you.

Your heart stops – you want to disappear, but he is already standing in front of you.

“Good morning Anita,” he says. “I’m Sen. Dilip Sen.”

Anita...? 

You are not Anita. 

It seems to be a case of mistaken identity.

But you are curious, and in a playful mood, so you say, “Oh, Hello Mr. Sen. You are late.”

“Late...? No,” he says looking at his watch, and with a confused look on his face, he says: “The RV is correct - as planned.”

“RV...?” you ask, puzzled.

“Rendezvous... ” he says, matter-of-factly.

Now you are really curious. 

“Why don’t you pull up that stool and sit down so we can talk comfortably,” you say to the man.

“Not here. Let’s go to the cha-bar. We can talk in peace there,” he says.

“Okay,” you say.

You replace the book in its place in the shelf, get up and walk towards the cha-bar.

The cha-bar – the tea lounge – it’s the best thing about Oxford Bookstore. 

The cha-bar is an ideal place to relax, browse, or have a quiet flirtatious chat over a cup of exquisite tea.

As you sip, savouring the fragrance and relishing the rich flavour of premium Darjeeling Tea, you feel a shiver of anticipation. 

It’s your first time. 

You wonder what’s going to happen next.

“Well done. Let’s recap,” he says pulling out a pocket diary.

Well done?

Recap?

You wonder what this is all about. 

The man seems to be crazy. 

But you keep your wits about, and to calm down you say to yourself, “Relax. Just keep quiet and play along.”

And to Mr. Sen, you say confidently, “Okay. Sure. Let’s recap.”

“Step 1,” he says looking into the diary in front of him, “you and I independently arrive at the previously agreed upon rendezvous. Your choice is excellent – this bookstore – easy to wait, observe and not be noticed. We just blended in. Much better cover than a railway station, park or restaurant. And the book you chose – Baby and Child Care - easily discernible – so aptly chosen. Perfect for your cover. Looked so natural in your hands.”

“Do I look pregnant...?” you snap at him.

“No. No. I am sorry. I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, taken aback, “You look lovely. But the book – it suited your cover – as a bored housewife.”

Cover...? A bored housewife...? What’s he talking...?

That’s what you are, aren’t you...?

Husband busy working, kids at school, and you – a bored housewife... bored to death with nothing to do.

“I’m not bored,” you tease him with your eyes... you flatter him by looking steadily at him without letting your eyes stray.

“Step 2 – making eye contact. We could be a bit more discreet next time, isn’t it...?” he says smiling into your eyes.

Discreet...? Next time...? What’s going on...? Who’s this guy...?

“Step 3 – the signal. Change of book. Okay. But ‘The Art of Seduction’...?” he looks perplexed, “you should have picked up something more sober – in line with your cover…..”

He goes on and on.

But you aren’t listening. 

You just look at him. 

A man who looks like a man. 

Solid, strong, decisive but vulnerable.

You fantasize.

Your imagination begins to run wild.

You feel his touch – he has put his hand in your arm. 

His touch is electric.

A shiver of anticipation rises within you.

Suddenly he is shaking you.

You snap back to reality.

“Okay Anita. Let’s get on with the tradecraft,” he says, in an almost imperative tone.

“Tradecraft...?”

“Yes. And make sure you don’t grow a tail.”

“Tail...? “

“Yes,” he says, “Be careful. Maybe you’ve already grown a tail – check it out and shake it off.”

“Grown a tail...?” unknowingly you move your hand over your behind to check and instinctively shake your bottom.

“Not there...!” he reprimands, in a voice a teacher uses to scold a careless student.

“Have you forgotten everything – counter surveillance protocol...?”

“Countersurveillance protocol...?” you ask credulous.

“Come on Anita. Snap out of it. Be alert. They told me you were a seasoned detective. Now get on with your mission. We can't afford to abort the mission now...”

Detective...? Mission...? What’s he talking about...?

Oh my God...! Fear starts rising within you. It’s getting dangerous. This is for real... it's no longer fun. It’s time to run.

“Excuse me,” you say, quickly get up and start walking towards the exit. 

You sense he is following you. 

So the moment you get out of the bookstore, you deliberately avoid going to your car but walk in the opposite direction towards the Oval.

The Clock on Rajabai Tower is striking twelve – it is twelve noon.

You look back over your shoulder. 

Dilip Sen is following you.

You break into a run, still looking back, and suddenly bang into someone.

Oh, My God...! 

It’s Nalini – your gossipy neighbour.

“What happened...?” Nalini asks, steadying you up.

“Nothing,” you say.

“Hey. Why did you abort...?” Dilip Sen asks, catching up with you, his hand clutching your arm.

“Abort...? Did you say ‘Abort’...?” exclaims Nalini, her eyebrows arched, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Nalini looks at Dilip Sen.

Then she looks at me with an incredulous look in her eyes, and she says to me in astonishment, “You and him? And...you...Anita...abortion...?”

You look at Nalini. 

You look at Dilip Sen. 

And then you look at at Nalini again.

Nalini’s roving eyes travel all over you, look meaningfully at Dilip Sen, for that significant moment her eyes focus on his hand holding yours, taking in everything, till her gaze settles down pointedly looking at where it should not.

Everything seems frozen in silence – a terrible silence, a deafening silence, a grotesque silence.

You look at Nalini, her changing expression.

Nalini looks at you with envious awe. 

And you see something mischievously wicked in her large radiating eyes.

You know you are sunk.

Yes, you are truly sunk. 

Lock, Stock and Barrel. 

“Up the Gum Tree” as they say.

You break out into laughter. 

That’s the only sane thing left to do. 

But one thing is for sure. 

For me – life isn’t going to be boring any longer after this naughty date at Churchgate.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 
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Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved)

This story written by me Vikram Karve in the year 2004, published in my short stories book COCKTAIL, and posted online by me earlier in my blogs a number of times including at urls: http://creative.sulekha.com/my-favourite-short-stories-part-51-flirtation-seduction-abortion_543620_blog  and  http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2010/08/flirtation-seduction-abortion.html

LOVE STORY FOR VALENTINE’S DAY

LOVE STORY FOR VALENTINE’S DAY

Long back – more than 25 years ago – in the 1980’s/1990’s – before the arrival of the internet – I wrote fiction short stories for magazines and supplements.

Sometimes – I was requested to write a special story for an occasion – like Valentine’s Day.

Frankly speaking – I don’t believe in celebrating “days” – and for me every day must be “celebrated” – carpe diem.

But today is Valentine’s Day – so for those romantic readers who are celebrating Valentine’s Day – let me delve deep into my creative writing archives and pull out this Valentine’s Day Story I wrote more than 20 years ago, in the 1990’s – and post it for you – suitably abridged – to make it easier to read online on a screen. 

It is a longish story – written at a time when there was no internet, no blogs, no ebooks, no online reading – but when you had to read magazines and books on paper for short fiction and when you had the time, the patience, and span of attention to read longish stories. 

So relax, take your time, and read this old style romance – and do tell me if you like it. 

VALENTINE’S DAY STORY

A Romance

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Vandana dragged me to the New Year’s Eve party at our Club. 

“I’d feel good,” she said. I’d been wallowing in my grief too long and it was high time I forgot the tragic events of my past and got on with my life. Besides, she could not go alone. Would I be good enough to escort her? 

The moment we entered, Vandana was whisked away to the dance-floor by one of those young desperate bachelors, who are present in every such party. 

I did not mind it at all. 

In fact, I felt relieved for I was in no mood to dance. 

I still had not forgotten the day when fate had cruelly snatched away my beloved Rajashree from my life. 

I picked up a glass of whisky from the bar and took up a strong tactical position with my back to the wall from where I could watch the entrance, the dance-floor, most of the hall and could see all the happenings at the ball in a discreet manner without being observed. 

I saw her almost at once. 

Her snow-white dress, unusual and eye-catching in the sea of sober blacks and grays, skin-tight, hip-hugging. 

She was only about ten feet away, but had her back to me, and I did no more than register a general approval. 

Then she turned, and I saw her face. 

And the impact was so overwhelming that I heard myself gasp! 

She turned further, and looked at me; her gaze focusing directly at me. 

And for just that fraction of a second I thought that it was all a bad dream – it was as if there was my very own Rajashree herself – standing right in front of me.

Yes – she looked exactly like Rajashree – the same big dancing eyes, set in the same way, in the same rather small face – the same high cheekbones – the same habit of lifting the chin with the head slightly thrown back. 

It was only for a fraction of a second, of course. 

Then I began to see the difference. 

She was slightly taller than Rajashree. 

The big eyes had no gray in them – not even a hint of the greenish gray – in fact, her eyes were pure brown. 

And her complexion – very similar – just that bit fairer – and the texture or her hair – wavy – almost identical – but just that slight difference. 

I was staring at her brazenly – with undisguised directness – maybe – even too rudely. 

At first she realized that I was looking at her. 

Then, she accepted the fact of being looked at. 

Finally, she began to look at me in return. 

Then she smiled at the frank admiration in my eyes. 

I must have been so engrossed marveling at the object of my attention that I hadn’t sensed Vandana come by my side silently – and she was curiously observing the goings on with interest. 

Embarrassed – I tried to change my focus – and I made a pretence of trying to look elsewhere.

“Dance over?” I asked. 

“That Pongo! He thought he was on a parade ground! Stepped on my toes. I walked out.” Vandana paused – and then she asked, “What were you upto?” 

“Nothing. Just having a drink.” 

“Vivek,” Vandana said.” You have got this delightful habit.” 

“What habit?” 

“You look at a woman in an insistent suggestive sort of way that is worth a hundred compliments.” 

“No,” I protested, blushing terribly. 

“Come on, Vivek,” Vandana said taking my arm. “I have seen you looking at me like that. Eyeing me blatantly, yearningly, almost hungrily. So many times. Giving me those canny looks when you thought I wasn’t noticing.” 

I felt ashamed. 

I felt ashamed of having eyed Vandana. 

And now I felt ashamed of having eyed that woman in the snow-white dress. 

I had stared at her – so openly –  so brazenly – as if I was in a trance. 

The beautiful woman in snow-white dress – Rajashree’s lookalike – she was still standing there. 

“Why don’t you ask her for a dance?” Vandana said. 

“Who?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. 

“You know who!” Vandana said, “Her! The object of your attention. Or rather the object of your affection. The woman in white!” 

“No,” I said. 

“Why not?” Vandana persisted. 

“I’m very sentimental, Vandana. I cry easily,” I said.

Then I paused for a moment, and said, “If she refuses me, I’ll be shattered.”

“But why should she refuse you, Vivek? It’s New Year’s Eve. And she has come here to dance.” Vandana asked. 

“I don’t know. I’m scared. I don’t have the guts to go and ask her.” 

“I think you’re really cute, Vivek. And you are handsome too. Okay – let’s us dance – forget her – think of me instead!” 

But I could not forget her – the woman in white – and Rajashree – my late beloved wife – and the striking similarity between the two. 

I cannot begin to describe my emotion as I danced with Vandana, with the woman in white mesmerizing me in my mind’s eye. 

But as we danced, I must have pulled Vandana close, my mind elsewhere. 

For when the lights went out to ring in the New Year, I found Vandana tightly embracing me – and kissing me passionately. 

I kissed her back – for who can resist a full-blooded embrace of a passionate woman in the prime of her life. 

On New Year’s day, I got up early in the morning, put on my track suit for my customary jog down to Sims Park. 

The air was so pure that I could easily discern that familiar fruity whiff of perfume even at a distance. 

It was her! 

The woman of my dreams! 

She was sporting Rajashree’s favourite perfume. 

Yes, it was the woman in white – now wearing jeans, jacket and black leather gloves – walking briskly down the slope in the direction of Coonoor.

I discreetly followed her – all the way down to the railway station. 

The morning passenger train to Ooty was already standing on the platform. 

She sat right in front, facing forward in the first car. 

I sat diagonally opposite, but way behind, in order to get a good view but remain undetected. 

She got down at Lovedale, the station just before Ooty. 

And as she walked across the platform I noticed several things which had not struck me the New Year’s Eve party. 

The resemblance to Rajashree was still startling. 

But she was younger than I had thought – may be 25, at the most 27 – whereas Rajashree had been 33 – one year ago – when the cruel hand of fate snatched her away from me. 

And now this woman who had come into my life so suddenly – was also walking away. 

I felt an instant urge to jump off the train and rush towards her – but I restrained myself. 

And suddenly the train started moving towards Ooty. 

When I returned home to Coonoor in the evening – I found Vandana waiting for me. 

She seemed livid. 

“Happy New Year!” I said. 

“I thought you wished me quite eloquently at the stroke of midnight!” Vandana said full of sarcasm.

Then she looked at me and said, “have you gone crazy? Gallivanting around whole day like a zombie. In your track suit?” 

I flushed in embarrassment. 

“It’s good she did not notice you,” Vandana said, “You almost jeopardized our mission.”

“Our mission?” I said incredulously. 

“I’ll explain,” Vandana said. 

“Have you put me under surveillance?” I asked angrily.

“You better pull up your socks, Vivek Mathur,” Vandana said patronizingly, “you didn’t even notice me sitting right behind you in the train.” 

I was stunned speechless.

Vandana had followed me in the train all the way to Ooty and I hadn’t even noticed. 

“And many mercies,” she added, as an after thought, “thank you for not getting down at Lovedale and making an ass yourself.” 

“She looks like Rajashree – my late wife,” I said sheepishly. 

“I know. That’s why we have chosen you for the assignment,” Vandana said matter-of-factly. 

“Assignment?” I asked, dumbfounded. 

“It’s time to return where you really belong, Vivek. Into the wilderness of mirrors,” Vandana said, softly taking my hand, “Isn’t one year is too long a time to be in mourning?” 

My profession is a solitary one, whose sine qua non is the power of anonymity. 

And that’s what we were checking out six days later on the 6th of January at five in the evening as I stood on MG Road in Bangalore watching her entering Gangaram’s – a three storeyed bookshop – one of my favorite bookstores. 

It was the crucial test of anonymity. 

If I passed – I got the assignment. 

Suppose she recognized me – it was curtains as far as this career was concerned. 

And then I would have no choice but to return to my boring teaching job. 

I entered, walked briskly up the steps, and stepped into the bookstore. 

There she was. 

Browsing. 

I went across and picked up a book. 

She looked up. 

Our eyes met. 

I felt a tremor of trepidation. 

For a moment I was anxious – lest she recognize me. 

But she nonchalantly put the book she was holding, back on the shelf. 

And then she casually walked away. 

No trace of recognition! 

I felt relieved. 

Or did I? 

Maybe my anxiety had, in reality, been hope – hope that somehow she would recognize me and my assignment would be revoked by circumstance. 

I followed her into the stationery and greeting cards section on the third floor. 

“I want a Valentine’s Day Card.” I heard her ask, “something very special. Exclusive. Custom-made.” 

“Yes, madam,” the sales girl said, “I’ll take you to the manager.” 

A windfall! 

What luck! 

A custom-made Valentine’s Day Card. 

I knew I had the case all wrapped up. 

The case? 

The mission? 

The assignment? 

Oh yes! 

Let me tell you all about it. 

Plainly but precisely. 

The way a good soldier recalls a battle – not to win – not to lose – but just tells the facts – the simple truth. 

It started as a simple inquiry – a pre-matrimonial investigation. 

That’s what Vandana had told me. 

Rita Rao.

That was her name. 

The girl in white who looked like Rajashree. 

Rita Rao was clean. 

They gave her a clean chit. 

So, our client went to her father with a marriage proposal. 

Rita Rao’s father was delighted. 

Both were only children – I mean the only child of their respective parents. 

Both were scions of flourishing business families. 

An ideal marriage which made business-sense too. 

But Rita Rao refuses. 

Says she won’t go in for an arranged marriage with our client Jayant – that is his name. 

Rita Rao says that she will marry the man she loves. 

“Who?” asks her father. 

“I don’t know,” she tells her father – there are at least two – maybe three prospective candidates she has in mind. 

But she can’t decide. 

She needs time. 

“Okay,” says her doting father Mr. Rao, “You decide by Valentine’s Day. Or else I’ll announce your engagement to Mr. Jayant on the 15th of February.” 

Rita Rao agrees. 

Unbelievable – but true. 

Those are the ways of the rich! 

Our client Mr. Jayant is furious with Vandana. 

“You told me she’s clean. I want you to find out everything about her. I want his name. The man she intends marrying. Fast. At any cost. Don’t worry about expenses,” Mr. Jayant says.

“You’ll get the name, Mr. Jayant. By Valentine’s Day – the 14th of February,” Vandana assures our client. 

So I shave off my beard and begin shadowing and tailing Rita Rao. 

“I knew she won’t recognize you,” Vandana said, as we ordered a late evening ‘tiffin’ in our favorite restaurant on MG Road, “Do you know the amount of money Jayant is going to pay for this assignment? It is enough to last a lifetime.”  

“And then?” I ventured. 

“And then we go off to Seychelles for a holiday. The two of us – just you and me – to enjoy in the cool breeze, the pristine blue waters, the silver beaches –just the both of us,” she smiled, with a far-away look in her eyes. 

“I didn’t mean about us,” I said softly, “What I mean is suppose we tell our client the name of Rita Rao’s ‘Valentine’ – then, what will he do? I don’t understand why is he paying so much money just to know a name?” 

“Don’t delve too deeply!” Vandana’s voice trailed off, as I noticed Rita Rao entering the restaurant. 

A man got up and walked toward her. 

The sight of Rita Rao clearly gave the man great joy – for he was beaming with pleasure. 

“It’s not him,” Vandana said. 

“Why not?” 

“Can’t you see? They love each other – but they are not in love with each other!” 

“Like us?” 

“No, Vivek. There’s slight difference. You love me – but I am in love with you.”  

I took Vandana’s hand, slipping my five fingers in between hers, and I said to her, “I’ll try.” 

And try I did – as we cuddled very close that evening watching a romantic movie sitting in the corner seats of the movie theatre. 

For the next few days we did everything possible – surveillance – bugging – but there was no clue. 

Except one. 

Just one small clue. 

On the 31st of January, Rita Rao collected her custom-made Valentine’s Day Card and headed straight back to her bungalow on her Tea Estate near Ooty. 

And then she holed up there incommunicado. 

Finally, on the 12th of February, Vandana’s ‘Greetings Telegram’ arrived. 

(Those days, when this happened, there was no e-mail, no internet, no e-cards, and no cell-phones for SMS – only greeting cards and telegrams). 

The handwriting on the telegram was barely legible, “Happy Birthday. See you on 14th of February at the Flower Show. Love. Valentine.” 

I smiled to myself. 

Vandana had signed as ‘Valentine’ – her codeword for this mission. 

I realized how much Vandana loved me. 

I’d made her wait long enough. 

Now I’d seal it. 

On Valentine’s Day. 

At last it was Valentine’s Day. 

February 14. 

The Ooty Flower Show at the Botanical Gardens. 

Celebrating the festival of lovers. 

The mating season of birds. 

The magnificent display of roses. 

Vandana beside me. 

I had waited for this moment – and now that the moment had come I did not know what to do with it! 

I put my hand inside my overcoat and nervously gripped the diamond necklace wrapped around a bouquet of a dozen red roses. 

And while taking it out I mumbled, “Vandana, thanks for the birthday greetings telegram.” 

“What telegram?” Vandana asked – with genuine surprise in her eyes. 

I froze. 

My mind went blank. 

I stood flummoxed – holding the necklace in my hand – frozen – not knowing what to do. 

Someone was tapping my back. 

I turned around. 

And I stood dumbstruck, shell-shocked, mesmerized by what I saw in front of me. 

It was Rita Rao. 

She was holding out the beautifully engraved Valentine Card in her hand. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Rita Rao seemed to be saying with her dancing eyes. 

Instinctively, I gave her the diamond necklace wrapped around the bouquet of red roses and I could see the glow of love in her eyes. 

Then, I turned towards Vandana. 

Vandana quickly plucked out a yellow rose and gave it to me. 

There were tears in Vandana’s eyes as she said, “Take my car. The tickets are in the dashboard. Coimbatore to Mumbai and Mumbai to Seychelles!” 

And Vandana held out the car keys, looked at both of us, and she said, “Hey, lovebirds. Happy Valentine’s Day!” 

The officer at Mumbai Airport opened the passport, saw the photo inside, and then he had a good look at Rita Rao. 

Thumbing through the pages of Rajashree’s well-worn passport, he asked her, “You are Rajashree Mathur?” 

“Yes,” Rita answered boldly. 

The officer stamped our passports, he gave them back to us, and he said, “Have a nice holiday Mr. & Mrs. Mathur. Seychelles is wonderful place.”

VIKRAM KARVE

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Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved)

This story written by me in 1990 and earlier posted online in my creative writing blogs a number of times from 2004 onwards including on 30 June 2006 at url: https://karve.wordpress.com/2006/06/30/my-valentine/