Love Spoils (II)

Such a weird creature, desire.

A few weeks ago, I was narrating my experience of a date to a friend. Although things didn't work out eventually, the night itself was memorable. We had dinner, went on a drive, made out in his car and debated the logistics of having sex in that limited space. But we didn't. Especially because I wanted the date to go, for once, according to me. And anyway, I enjoy making out more than anything else. I can spend hours exploring a person's mouth, ruffling through their hair and touching their skin. And he was happy to oblige.

Whenever I think of that night, I ask myself this question - What do I really miss? The person, or the experience? Are these two questions so exclusive anyway? However, the answer is always 'experience'. I do miss the excitement of getting ready, going out, taking the metro, stepping into a restaurant, to (preferably) see someone waiting, talking and then (hopefully) going for a walk or a drive. I miss the process. It sometimes troubles me to think that it shall always be a 'someone' and not 'one', but I am beyond that.

Or so I think.

~

After our shower time was over, he made us some chai. In fact, he was the one who taught me how to make chai, but that's a story for another day. I don't remember what we talked about while sipping that extra sugary concoction, but it could have been anything from Lady Gaga to Milind Soman (He claimed to have met both). 

It was time to go. I was still in college then, and had to be inside campus by a certain time in the evening. I had breached that limit anyway. He took me to a mall in the city where he bought something for himself, and when I insisted that I really had to leave, he made a face. Why don't you stay for the night, he asked. I really can't, I said. After all, the nerd in me was still alive and I hadn't reached that stage where I'd start breaking rules for spending a night with him.

That night was one of the first times I sat in an uber. He told the driver very insistently that he drop me all the way to the college gate (our college was in the outskirts of the city, and the campus was even further inside from the main highway). He would anyway come to know when I reached the destination. 

Before I got into the car, he hugged me tight. I could smell the soap in the crevices of his neck and the shampoo on his almost bald head. Did he smell me the same way? When I got into the car and looked outside to wave for the final time, I could see a wide grin on his face. Did I see a tear? Or was that the city in his eyes?

We sped onto the dark lanes of the city outskirts with only the trees illuminated by the lights beaming from the car. When we had left the city far behind, the driver, without turning back, asked, "Sir, bura na maane, toh ek baat poochun?" ("If you don't mind, can I ask you something?"). 

Hesitatingly, I said, "Haan, poochiye?" ("Yes, go ahead").

"Abhi jisne aapko gaadi mein bithaiya, wo aapka dost tha?", he asked. ("The one who saw you off, was he a friend?")

"Haan", I replied. ("Yes")

"Accha. Humne toh kabhi doston mein itni mohabbat nahi dekhi. Humein laga aapka bhai hoga", he observed. ("Ok. I've never seen such love between friends. I assumed he was your brother") He coupled his observation with a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye made known to me through the rear-view mirror.

"Nahi bhaiyya, dost hi tha", I said, in an attempt to end that conversation. ("No no, he was a friend only")

The car sped on. And for a moment there was total silence. All I could hear was the sound of the car itself, or of the occasional jerks when it came in contact with an unsuspecting speed-breaker. But somehow, the silence was almost waiting to be broken. 

"Accha sir, aap cigarette-sharaab toh nahi peetey na?", he asked.

I had no idea how to respond to such an inquiry from a total stranger. I maintained my silence hoping that that would be a fitting response.

"Nahi maine isiliye bola kyunki aapki aawaz itni meethi hai. Cigarette-sharaab sab barbaad kar dega. Aaj kal toh itne jawaan ladke-ladkiyan cigarette-sharaab ke nashe mein barbaad ho gaye hain", came the swift defence to his inquisitive-personal inquiry. ("No, I asked because you have such a sweet voice. Cigarettes and alcohol would spoil it. Even young boys and girls have lost their way due to this")

Although I was a little taken aback by the judgment disguising itself as a compliment, I could not help smiling. No one had ever complimented my voice before. Except my mother who thought I could sing any song, much to the dismay of my music teacher, who I visited only once. But there I was, gloating in the face of some unsolicited notes of flattery.

In no time, we were in front of my college gate. No sooner had I stepped out of the car, than I heard the voice again. 

"Sir!"

I turned back to see the driver's face peeping out of the window. "Apna khayal rakhiyega. Aur apni awaaz ka bhi". ("Take care of yourself, and your voice")

"Aap bhi", I replied. ("You too")

~

To this date, I cannot place one memory over the other. I cannot certainly say that the date at the restaurant followed by a drunken shower made me happier than the driver's appreciation of my "meethi" voice. I cannot be sure that the tight hug gave me as much joy as the words of farewell upon reaching my destination. I still can't stop smiling when I recall those words said in a speeding car in a lonely highway. 

Is happiness more valuable when you encounter it in a situation where you least expect it? Hidden behind the lips of a stranger, looking at you through a rear-view mirror?