invisible string ✓

twenty two

***

I was at the restaurant two streets away from my house, waiting for my boyfriend who was supposed to be returning from the toilet long ago. Glancing here and there over forty times, I tried to spot his head but to no avail. I sent ten missed calls and multiple texts asking for his whereabouts, only to land on deaf ears.

And, after fifteen minutes of perplexity, I could sense my eyebrows relaxing when I saw him from a crowd with a plate covered with a tureen.

He sat opposite me and placed the plate on the table, sighing, “Wait a minute,” and bent down to take something from his bag that had God-knows-what stuff. Sitting upright, he placed two Tupperware boxes next to the plate, pushed the three of them towards me, and suggested that I open them while pointing his chin towards the dishes.

As I sensed the smell of something delicious from the boxes and the plate, I lifted the tureen from the plate and looked at the dish that was reddish-brown with shades of pale white scattered here and there. It gleamed in golden under the sunlight from my right, just like those from the dining table of Disney movies.

“Chicken. Fucking. Breast!” I laughed and covered my mouth with my hands, not expecting a bit about having chicken breast as my lunch. I opened the boxes and propped my forehead against the table, trying to control my laughter at the sight of creamy white butter naan and saffron-shaded paneer tikka.

I looked up at Ishaan, who was looking at me with a lone star gleaming in his rainforest eyes, and a smile that could light up the whole city while raising his eyebrows up. Tearing a piece of the butter naan larger than my mouth and making it edible-level soggy in the paneer tikka, I gobbled it while mouthing an, “Thank you so much,” trying to grin wide and stuff my first piece of chicken breast into my overloaded mouth.

Extending a glass of water, Ishaan exclaimed, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Steady, Miss Overload. The breast belongs to a dead hen, hence it won't run off anywhere. You don't have to rush.”

Sending the butter naan and chicken breast down my oesophagus, I let out an airy laughter and assured, “Okay, I won't.”

***

FIVE HOURS LATER…

Ishaan and I spent the next three hours visiting Chandni Chowk and Qutub Minar while Aarvi substituted Ishaan later due to some “unexplainable” reasons. Using the privilege of being private with my best friend, Aarvi and I took pictures in all angles and filters with India Gate at the backdrop, adding more aesthetic to our pictures.

And, after ending up so tired, we decided to go home. The moment I opened the door, I saw a sight I never expected to see in my lifetime.

The living room had no lights on except one neon white bulb and Ishaan standing right below it with a screwdriver in his hand.

I looked back to see Aarvi, who shot a suggestive smile and pointed her chin towards inside. I put forward two steps towards Ishaan, allowing Aarvi to join us as well.

“Check. Check. Hello. One, two, three.” He tapped on the screwdriver's head, dealing it as a microphone, and continued with his speech. “Welcome, ladies! I warmly welcome you to my most smart, foot-sweeping, gorgeous lady's twenty-first birthday. It's me, hi, I'm Ishaan Ahuja: a fictional man who feels real after meeting this girl.” He swung his hand to me, emphasising “this girl”.

“Instead of making my beloved tired with my long, boring speeches, I would like the ladies to have their seats and enjoy my surprise. For Mia Anima.”

We sat on the couch, just as he directed at us, and looked again at him, who placed the screwdriver aside and slung his guitar like a bag.

“Tastes like strawberries on a summer evenin'
And it sounds just like a song
I want more berries and that summer feelin'
It's so wonderful and warm.