“Well, Mr. Saint, I hope you are real and not some mirage,” I whisper.
“This is me as real as I can be. Let’s hear what you have to say so we can move forward.”
“We may not be able to move forward after hearing this.” I lean over the cement parapet, resting my elbows on it.
“Mayu! It’s a brisk, bright morning. A man is standing outside on the balcony with a phone and a cup of coffee. A man who loves you more than you could imagine.” His voice has a ring of freshness and excitement of a young bird in love. “So, please, just say it if you think you would really like to share.”
“I can’t cook,” I whisper so lowly that not even I can hear my own voice.
“What?” Raag sounds shocked.
“You heard me.”
“A beautiful Indian Gujarati girl, nineteen years old, doesn’t know how to cook! Unacceptable!” He still sounds shocked, making me nervous.
“See, I told you…it’s going to be a problem.” I hold my forehead with my palm, looking down. “I know that guys do look for girls who can cook, especially overseas. You are not getting good Indian food now, and you won’t get any, even if I am there,” I say as fast as I can, taking deep breaths in the dark.
After a moment of silence, I hear a burst of out-loud laughter, not his usual soft chuckles. What’s going on?
“Oh…Mayu…Mayu…I don’t know what I’m going to do! You are very, very sweet,” Raag says, in between laughter. “I love you.”
“What? You love me because I can’t cook?” I ask, annoyed.
“I love you because I love you. I love you because you are for sure my perfectly imperfect penguin, honest and innocent,” he says, making me blush.
“Okay…that does not explain the cooking issue.”
“Well, I did not plan to get married to a cooking machine. Even if you know cooking, it doesn’t mean you are expected to cook.” Raag pauses momentarily. “There are two people in marriage, always. Equal partners. They complement each other and complete each other.”
I take a sigh of relief and breathe in gratitude to have found a man who seems to hold such high thinking. “How exactly are we going to complement each other specifically to resolve cooking issues?”
“I can get my way around the kitchen,” Raag mentions casually.
“Wait, what? You mean, you can…”
“Cook.”
While grinning side to side, staring at the slowly deserting street, I say, “The more I talk with you, the more I am unsure of your existence. Are you for sure real?”
“You are funny,” Raag says. “Since you have questioned my existence for a couple of times now, we must clarify.” He pauses. “You have a desktop computer if I am not wrong?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Wifi?”
“Yes.”
“What are we waiting for, then? You were too mesmerizing for me to think. We could have done this way earlier!”
“Which is…?”
“Skype video conference. Come on, we both are in IT, this is extremely embarrassing! How in the world did we not think about it?” He sounds perplexed.
“Oh, no! No, no, no…” I stammer. A video conference at this hour in this attire is a bad idea.
“What? I thought you wanted to see me,” Raag pauses. Then adds, “I would love to see you too.”
“No! I mean, I do!” I grumble. “But I am not ready to be seen…” I squeak. “Your mother saw me all tired and sweaty. Besides, I am in my pajamas and a T-shirt. Not happening! The first impression is the last impression.”
“Your first impression is on my heart,” Raag enunciates softly. “Please?” He requests in a heart-meltingly cajoling tone.
“Is this how you are going to convince me for the rest of our lives?”
“Did it work?”
I grumble. “Okay, Mr. Charming! It did. Let’s do it.” Nervously I make my way inside the bedroom. Switching on the soft white light, I perched on the black revolving chair, facing the table and the desktop.
While still staying on the call, with a press of a button, I turn the mean machine alive. Mechanically following his expert instructions for a few minutes, voila! All set. Now I have a separate Skype account, and a Gmail account. Raag suggests that my current Yahoo account could stay for my college communications. He seems to be a well-organized person, even when it comes to multiple internet accounts.
Then it’s there, a soft tune and a small window popping in the middle of the screen. Once I hit the green phone icon, I am rewarded for all my efforts on the painful process of setting up accounts and passwords.
There he is, Mr. Raag—effortlessly handsome—Purohit. Fair skin tone, messy black hair—messy in a good way, not wayward messy like mine—slightly pointy nose, square jawline, and deep black eyes. His webcam is probably set as such that I could see him, chest up. Raag wears a black T-shirt. His light stubble complements his perfect relaxing morning looks. He takes a sip of coffee and purses his soft, beautiful lips…and I am awed.
God! Does he look better in the video or am I simply smitten by his appearance? Wouldn’t it be amazing to wake up next to this man every single morning?!
“Excuse me, Ms. Bhatt. If you are done savoring the view, I am still waiting.” Raag for sure interrupts my obvious ogling.
While adjusting my never-used webcam, I say, “Well, the view is pretty darn good, Mr. Purohit! Are you sure you have seen my pictures?”
“I surely have, and you look pretty darn beautiful yourself.”
“Do you wear glasses?” I ask playfully.
“Oh, come on, Mayu! Tell me, no one ever told you that you look beautiful?”
We are going to have to work on controlling the heartbeat when he calls me by my nickname.
“Well, every time someone did, I thought they needed glasses,” I say, pressing the video button. His chuckles follow. While I am staring at the screen, adjusting my loose strands and looking at my reflection on the screen, there is silence from his side.
“Damn it! I want to move those long brown locks of yours away from your golden cheeks,” Raag says in his husky voice, and I smile shyly. He can see me. I blush.
“I see…um…do you keep your hair like this? In your picture, it’s short,” I ask, changing the subject.
“Depends when I get time. How do you like it?” He smirks.
“I like it now! A little longer…it’s perfect,” I answer, and somehow, my tone is unusual. Something naughty, I guess. I also want to tell him that I would love to run my fingers through them one day, but I keep quiet.
“Point noted, Ms. Bhatt,” Raag says. “You are very beautiful,” he adds, staring at me through the magic portal, and I am suddenly self-conscious. I never thought of myself as beautiful, but when he says it, he sounds convincing.
I never thought that there was anything special about my average height, long dark brown wavy hair, big brown eyes, and a slightly dusky tone. While Raag, with his charming persona, obviously looks like a Greek god, I wonder how he fell in love with me.
“Are we still talking?” Raag brings me out of my wayward thoughts.