I turn to look at a short, brown man who wears khaki uniform pants, shirt, and a cap. God, he is going to ask all sorts of questions. And we will be in trouble for hugging in public. Kissing too! I must come up with an evil plot to come out clean.
“Hello…sir. I am so scared. I don’t know what to do,” I blurt out.
“What do you mean?” the policeman asks, his brow furrowed.
“My husband here is very sick, and we are not able to find an auto rickshaw. I was just trying to console him.” I look back and forth from Raag to the cop. I must admit that my dear Raag is not helping at all.
“What is his problem?” the policeman says, banging his stick on the concrete parapet. I flinch. “Why hugging in public?” His voice is harsh and loud.
“His stomach hurts. Too much gas. Or, something serious like kidney stone or appendicitis?” I look at Raag in the hopes of some help but no luck. Then I look back at the policeman. “We just don’t know. Can you please help us find the rickshaw? Nobody is stopping.” I say it quickly. “If you ask, they will stop. Please, sir. Please…please…” God, I haven’t said please that many times in one sentence ever before.
“What happened to his hand?”
“It was hurting too.” I hope he buys that.
“Okay, okay,” the policeman says, disinterested now. Leisurely he strolls toward the traffic on the road as if he owns it. He stops the first rickshaw on the road by simply banging his stick. Once the rickshaw comes to an abrupt halt, he commands, “Take sir and madam to the nearest hospital.”
Without question, I pull Raag—who is probably amused by my impromptu drama—and push him in the vehicle, hopping in behind him.
“What are you waiting for? Let’s go, bhai!” I scold the rickshaw driver. Then looking at that police officer, I say, “Thank you so much, sir. You are so sweet!” Seriously? Sweet? You should have come up with a better word.
“It’s okay madam! Take care,” the policeman says. I hear his muffled voice from behind as the rickshaw darts forward. “Next time no hugging in public, madam!”
As we pull away, I finally laugh, forgetting the whole tensed episode for a second. As I turn toward Raag, I find him intently staring at me as if observing something. Once we are off the bridge, looking at the rickshaw driver, I command, “Take us to the Big Bazar Mall.”
“But I thought you want hospital,” the rickshaw driver asks, confused. I sense that he is trying his best at his English.
“Yes, but my husband feels better now. So, we are going shopping.”
The driver shakes his head in disapproval and mumbles, “These days, women want husbands for shopping only! No hospitals.”
We spend the day at various shops and restaurants on CG Road. Raag, in general, is not interested in food or shopping ,and what happened over the bridge makes it ten times worse. I try my best to cheer him and bring him out of his brooding. Mostly it feels as if I am having a conversation with myself while he is lost in his melancholy.
At the Bandhani store, I try to talk him into wearing traditional attire for the engagement ceremony, which is the day after tomorrow. I force him to try on a knee-length ivory kurta and dhoti. Though he looks dashing in them, he doesn’t seem to be interested in wearing those for the ceremony.
In the meantime, I find a few girls and their mother ogling my boyfriend. For a second, I wish I could tell them that this ship has sailed ladies, go look somewhere else.
At last, my eyes lay on a long black kurta that has white bandhani print embossed. It is stacked in the corner under the mound of crumbled unfolded clothes, and instantly I pull it out. I don’t ask Raag to try it, but I ask the shopkeeper to pack it for us.
“You don’t have to wear it,” I reassure him. “It’s a gift.” He tries a smile that fails him.
At the restaurant, while eating pav bhaji, I discuss all the pre-engagement preparation to bring him back to the now and intentionally force him to think about the future, a bright future that has him and I live happily.
I tell him how my mother made sure I select my ghagra choli the very next day after our engagement was finalized. It had a lot of opinions from both my mother and Anju. Also, I warned him that in a rush to get back to him, I did not make a wise choice—seeing is believing.
My mother booked the best beautician in our area for my mehndi—Henna, a temporary tattoo that is explicitly done for special occasions like weddings, engagements, and baby showers—one day before the engagement ceremony and for my makeup on the day of the engagement.
My father couldn’t find a venue on short notice, in the wedding season but his boss was generous enough to let us utilize his farmhouse on the outskirts of Ahmedabad.
Raag stays disconnected. What is it that is eating him from the inside? He keeps gazing at me, intently, as if he is trying to make a judgment call on something. It is frustrating when he doesn’t talk, and I don’t wish to indulge in my worst fears. Things were going almost like a fairy tale, at least my own version of an adventure tale. Now, this!
Is Raag still thinking that him and I, us, is not a good idea because of what happened over the bridge?
“For you.” Raag hands me his phone, and I wonder who would call him for me.
“Did you forget that we have a facial appointment?” Anju scolds on the other end. I completely forgot the most essential pre-engagement appointment. The last time I saw Anju was when she and others in my college group invited Raag and me to a dinner they arranged. She is looking for all the juicy details about our adventures these days. The facial appointment would give her a good two hours to extract everything. I am glad my sidekick called, as I am in a desperate need of ideas.
“Hey Anju. Sorry, I forgot about the appointment.” I get up, waving at Raag, indicating that I am stepping out.
“I am waiting for you. Don’t tell me you are ditching me over your love.”
“Anju, calm down.”
“You don’t sound so well. What’s going on?”
“Not sure…”
“Not sure about what?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t want to give her many details.
“You are not sure about engagement? Don’t tell me that you don’t want to get engaged. Because if you don’t, I swear…”
I stop her before she can go on. “Shut up!”
“You know, I was just joking,” she says.
“What should I do if I want to know something about Raag’s past but not ask him directly?” I ask her as if asking an expert.
“Yaar, you are so stupid!” Anju says, matter-of-factly. What are friends for? “Ask his mother! You told me that his mother is really cool and that Raag tells her everything.” Now that she mentioned Raag’s mother, I think, she is correct that I am stupid. How come I didn’t consider that?
“But I don’t want to ask directly. And I don’t want Raag to find out either. I want to gift something to him that he could relate with his past.” It was an impromptu lie.
“Lallu,” she says, calling me silly, “just go to his place and ask his mother to show you some old pictures. Specifically, when Raag is not around. Then ask.”
“Thanks…that’s brilliant,” I praise her.