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The Day Nehru Died - Tino de Sa

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Summary:

Love can manifest in the form of various emotions. Jealously, Possessiveness, Sacrifice and many more. This flashback tale of two star crossed lovers Sahjara and Himmu beginning in pre-independence India covers a wide range of emotions around love

Full Story:

I remember exactly when it happened, because it was the day Nehru died. Only we didn't know it at the time. In the absence of mobile phones or even television, we relied entirely on the state-run All India Radio, which didn't make the announcement until Parliament had been informed, and by then I'd already arranged to meet Kanika at Bolton's, a tiny but rather pricey café tucked away in the Middle Circle of Connaught Place. The food was good and it was discreet; it didn't advertise itself in the papers. Only a small brass plate with black lettering in an elegant cursive style indicated its presence. Clearly Bolton's wasn't seeking to attract the chance passer-by, and relied for its custom elsewhere.

The Delhi heat was oppressive. It was the navtapa, the nine hottest days of summer, with a full month to go before the reprieve of the monsoons. Kanika's two-door Standard Herald was parked across the road from the polished teak door that was the entrance to Bolton's. Red with a bold white stripe along the side. Chic and very recognizable – like Kanika. I'd cautioned her several times, but she was a risk-taker. She said it made it more exciting; and I suppose, in a way, it did. With a smooth, dusky complexion and a husky, erotic voice, Kanika was quite something. I'd known her about three months then. So it would be two or three months at most before we parted. Of course, Kanika didn't know it yet, but that's how it was with me. There'd be some tears and perhaps a scene, but nothing so drastic that a half-way expensive trinket wouldn't cure. I quickened my step; she didn't like to be kept waiting.

There was a couple sitting in the café when I walked in. As the light was low, I didn't know who they were until the woman turned around, and I saw it was my wife.

The room spun around me, and the breath left my body.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Kanika, just a little irritably. Fortunately she'd chosen a table in an alcove that afforded a fine view of the table at which my wife and the man with her sat, while screening us from their direct sight.

Kanika had already ordered: cold coffee with a blob of hazelnut ice cream for herself, a cappuccino for me, and two portions of walnut and raisin cake. Fortunately Kanika was a person who liked talking, and was happiest when the other person was content to listen and not interrupt. This allowed me the freedom to steal glances at my wife, while making perfunctory responses to Kanika's monologue every now and then.

I realised once more how beautiful Sahjara was. The chiselled cheekbones, the slender neck, the fair almost translucent skin....how many, many times I had run my fingers along the side of that slim shoulder and then cupped those small, perfect breasts; how many times I had bent to kiss those lips, surprisingly full and pouting for one so slight. And now it was this man, this stranger, who was bending towards her. He kissed her, lightly though, as if he'd done this many times in the past. His easy demeanour did not display the furtive urgency of a lovers' tryst. He whispered something into her ear, and she laughed, that full and throaty laugh which I knew so well – not the coy, twittering sound some women affect.

Then he slipped out a little box from his pocket and placed it near her frost-beaded glass of coffee. "Go on, open it," he mouthed silently. She unwrapped it carefully, and gasped. He took a sparkling bracelet out – heaven alone knows if it was diamonds or rhinestones, but it delighted her enormously – and clasped it around her wrist.