The Haunted Hour

True story: 

5:15 pm
She starts preparing the kids for trick-or-treating.  The costumes are laid out.

5:20 pm
She starts feeding the kids dinner while they run, play, refuse to eat, etc.

5:40 pm
She starts feeling hungry (hangry?) herself.  Not a good sign.  
She decides she will eat dinner at 6 pm when he chaperones the kids around the neighborhood.

5:45 pm
He walks around looking tired.  
She offers to chaperone the kids instead.  
He declines.

5:55 pm
He changes mind.  
She gets furious at the last minute change.  
Sparks fly.  
A kid or two wail in the background.

6 pm 
She herds the kids and escorts them outside.  
One child complains of hunger, the other doesn’t want to wear a scarf. 

6:05pm
He offers to take the kids.  
Weak offer.
She gives him the look.  More sparks fly.  
She storms off with kids.

6:10 pm
It begins raining.  
He departs home and runs behind the ladies, umbrellas in hand.

6:15 pm
One child has had enough and wants to come back home.  
At home, her dad has turned into a witch and is handing out candy, having the most fun amongst all.

A Halloween Story

The wharf was completely deserted after the boat had departed.  The sky had only a couple streaks of sunlight left.  She stood at the edge of the wharf and stared wistfully at the angry looking wake the hull of the boat had left behind.  The swirls in the water glistened eerily in the moonlight.

Without warning, she felt a push.  Before she could turn around and ascertain what had happened, she was in the water.  She didn't know how to swim.  In fact, she hated water.  She felt herself sinking.  Time seemed to slow down, so much so that she found herself wondering how she was able to hold her breath for so long.  

Then she saw them.

A shiver of sharks was approaching her.  Horror engulfed her.  In that moment of terror she realized that the sharks seemed to belong to the same family.  She could spot a large middle aged male shark, a slightly smaller female, two little ones presumably of opposite genders, and a couple of aging sharks.  What was strange was that each shark was being ridden by those unpredictable two legged creatures.  The two legged riders looked more menacing that the sharks themselves.  The one straddling the large male shark looked particularly terrifying.  He was carrying a net.  Was he going to catch her?

She closed her eyes shut and turned around.  Instinctively she began swimming.  Swimming really hard.  She could feel the water around her get more and more turbulent as the sharks and the two leggers got closer and closer to her.  She had to do something.  They were clearly faster and stronger.

She opened her eyes.

A carcass of a whale lay sadly on the sea bed.  Oh the horrors of the sea!  The sharks must be absolute monsters.  To think that they slayed such a huge whale!  

She had to make a split second decision.

She swam directly into the ribcage of the dead whale and found a hiding spot.  Her heart was pounding.  The sharks and the two leggers were right above her at this time.  She stayed there trying her best to not disturb the water.  In about 10 seconds, the sharks left.

She rejoiced!  She thought she had outsmarted the hunters!  Out she swam, feeling triumphant!

But that wasn't the end of it.  Before she knew it, the two legger with the net made a dash toward her on his shark.  The next moment she was inside the net!

~~~ If you are thinking to yourself what kind of a morbid tale this is, take a moment and watch this video.  It is supposed to be about a baby shark and his family.  Yes... scary... ~~~

Awwal Number (1990) - A Review

The Hindi Film Industry has churned out plenty of memorable sports films.  A sports film is generally trope-laden, and truth be told, audiences watch sports films knowing this and expecting this.  The story of the underdog.  Trial.  Misery.  Pain.  Tenacity.  Hard work.  And victory at the end.  We all love this.  You know the Chak De Indias and the Lagaans.  Even the biopics, although sometimes more like extended skits of anecdotes and recreations of actual videos from the past making you wish that you were watching a solemn documentary instead, give you the buzz of euphoria you expect from a sports film.  And within this genre, you will sometimes get a Dangal that has a narrative that transcends this cliché by addressing the human condition, a Bhaag Milkha Bhaag that deals with the sensitivity surrounding the Partition, and a Paan Singh Tomar that is raw and honest with incredible acting.

And then you have Awwal Number.

Remember how India as a whole felt proud and honored when Lagaan was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars but failed to win?  I think that is just gross underestimation of talent and a false sense of mediocrity.  Do you really think we don't make Oscar worthy films?  Let me tell you that the only reason we have never won an Oscar is because back in 1990, Dev Anand never cared to submit his masterpiece Awwal Number to the Academy.  In fact, Awwal Number outclasses any film that has ever won the Oscar.  

Awwal Number is a story of three men, Vicky, Ronnie, and Sunny.  Vicky, played by Dev Anand, is the President of BCCI, chief selector, cricket coach, and a retired Director General of Police who is on the Home Minister's speed dial so that he can be pulled out of retirement whenever needed because of his brilliant terrorist catching abilities.  He is a skilled helicopter pilot and can accurately shoot villains with a rifle using only one hand while flying the helicopter with the other.  He knows that the only effective way to interrogate a male terrorist suspect is by injecting sach ugalwane ki dawaa into him and a female terrorist suspect is by flirting with her.  He also knows the names of all the cricketing shots, and shouts them out at random while coaching his step-brother Ronnie, thus turning Ronnie into the world's best batsman.  He is also emotionally very stable, evidenced by his lukewarm reaction when 10 year old Ronnie shoots a man dead.  To top it all, he is also a man of principle because he drinks exactly one scotch and soda before dinner and smokes exactly one cigarette after dinner, votes to drop his own step-brother from the cricket team despite having been partial to him when selecting him the first time, and also has the gall to override the Home Minster's orders when it comes to following his usool to carry out his duties as a policeman.

Ronnie, played by Aditya Pancholi, is Vicky's younger step-brother.  While Vicky was born to an Indian mother, Ronnie was born to Cindy Crawford.  Yes, you heard that right.  Cindy Crawford.  Legend has it that Dev Anand asked his assistant to go buy the first photograph of a European looking woman he saw on Ranade Rd Dadar West, and the assistant returned with an exquisitely framed photo of supermodel Cindy Crawford, who then Dev Anand cast, uncredited and unaware, as his deceased step-mother.  Having those Angrez genes, it is no wonder that Ronnie has cricket in his blood.  With top class 1:1 coaching from his brother, he becomes a superstar cricketer who is famous for hitting sixers, because that's all really matters in cricket.  He is also a bad person because he is arrogant, disrespects his fans if they aren't pretty women, sleeps with them if they are, and also drinks a lot of beer (as opposed to drinking exactly one scotch and soda).  He usually scores centuries when he is in form, and gets out on zero when he is out of form.  He is currently out of form because of his aiyaashi and lack of focus.  He is jealous of younger cricketers who can also hit sixers, and generally wants to kill them by planting dynamite under the pitch, right around the good length area.  His MO for carrying out this operation is wearing a hat and a fake mustache and yet making no effort to hide his identity so he can use his name to get a free seat on a helicopter to fly over the stadium and press a button on a remote to activate the dynamite.  And as I said earlier, he is also a juvenile murderer on the loose.

Sunny, played by Aamir Khan, is an up and coming cricketer, which basically means he is a sixer hitting batsman.  He makes it clear right at the beginning that although his name is Sunny, he isn't the great Sunny Gavaskar.  However, he and his aging father, played by Bharat Bhushan, once receive an autographed bat from Sunny Gavaskar (not shown in the film), which our young Sunny, played by Aftab Shivdasani, then brings back to his chawl, starts playing cricket with, and grows up into a sixer hitting Aamir Khan.  Sunny is a good person, because he drinks neither beer nor scotch, he has never killed anyone in his life, and his behavior toward female fans is appropriate, i.e. he falls in love with them, sings songs with them in swimsuits on the beach, eats bhaang waale bhajiya with them on chowpatty, and eventually promises to marry them by meeting their aging mother.  He is also a big fan of Ronnie, but doesn't shy away from getting into a bar brawl with him when the senior cricketer speaks cheaply about women.  He also carries a tape recorder in his pocket, given to him by his girlfriend Aarti, played by Ekta Sohini, with "I love you, I love you, I love you" recorded in her voice in varying pitches.  Sunny uses this recorder like the Sanjeevani herb whenever he gets injured on the field, so that he can jump back up on his feet and resume hitting sixers.

Awwal Number is not just a movie.  It is a grand journey.  It is an adventure that traverses from cricket selection comprising of 5 people choosing between Ronnie and Sunny, to flash backs of cricket coaching accomplished either using a cricket bat if you are rich and by running on the streets on Mumbai if you are poor, to bad Tamil accented Punjabi actors playing LTTE members (the "Ayyo, umm tho thum ko jaantha hi nehi hey ji" kind), to Punjabi Tamil groundsmen named Kundi because apparently it is a South Indian word, to buxom women who pose as air hostesses in order to smuggle gold bars in their bras but end up becoming bar dancers without ever being arrested, to an Australian cricket team that consists of mustached white-face brown actors and just a single fast bowler that bowls every single over of the match, to policemen who are able to converse with villains in helicopters using some sort of mysterious telepathy.  Staying true to the sport film genre, India finally wins the match against Australia.  Sunny scores a century in his first ODI and achieves the rare feat of breaking Ronnie's test record in an ODI.  He is also named the Man of Match and is awarded a Mercedes Benz car, which then he gives Aarti a ride in.  Oh, and also, Vicky kills Ronnie, and the Tamil villains lose.

Continental Breakfast

A Man Who Enjoys a Continental Breakfast - Key & Peele

"Here's your key, sir.  Elevators are to your left.  Breakfast is from 6 am to 10 am."

I glanced at the breakfast area.  Through the darkness I spotted a bagel slicer.  My mind darted back to a stay I had endured at a questionable hotel in Manhattan about a decade ago.  I recalled the tempestuous debate I had had with the hotel manager regarding some crumbs I had noticed inside the bagel slicer; the point of contention being that the manager believed they were innocent scrapings from cinnamon-raisin bagels and I believed they were remnants of ordure produced by the rodents I was sure to have seen scampering around the corner.  

I shuddered.

As I walked towards the elevator, I hallucinated rainbow colored mice carrying cinnamon-raisin bagels alongside me.  It was almost midnight.  I clearly needed sleep.  Leaving the rodents behind, I stepped into the elevator.

The oblique light of dawn kissed me into wakefulness.  Propping myself up between the severely tucked sheets, I looked around, squinting.  The room looked pretty neat.  A huge window, a large screen TV, a small frig, a microwave, a fancy upholstered slipper chair, and a pretty clean looking carpet.  I took a deep breath.  No musty smell.  Not bad, I thought to myself.  I rolled out of bed and walked up to the window.  The sun was rising over the horizon the DC metro area seemed to disappear into.   My gaze got fixated on a systematic cloverleaf highway interchange that was layered carefully over a labyrinth of disorderly local roads, and it suddenly gave me a sense of security and strengthened my faith in the positive nature of evolutionary advancement of civilization.  A great deal of good cheer returned to my disposition.  Bagel bearing vermin were long forgotten.

My stomach growled.  

As I took the elevator down, I caught a whiff of bacon.  Being a vegetarian, there was a slight dwindling in the optimism I had garnered earlier, but I didn't lose heart.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself.  I stepped out of the elevator and incorporated my hungry frame into the esurient assemblage of a couple dozen hotel guests.  The mob seamlessly transported me to the hot food section with three stainless steel chafing containers.  I ignored the first one that contained bacon.  The second one had breakfast potatoes.  You know, the cubed and roasted and seasoned kind.  Good, I thought to myself, this I can eat!  And just I had made up my mind, the sinless fella ahead of me in the line used the bacon tongs to serve himself the potatoes!

Great!  Potatoes were out now.  

I strengthened my resolve.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself, and approached the third chafing container.  Scrambled eggs!  Yay, I told myself, I can eat this!  I could almost feel the good cheer returning as I dug into the eggs with the ladle.  And just as I was about to serve the eggs on my plate, I saw a small piece of bacon stuck to the bottom of the ladle!  This time, all of the good cheer vanished.  I must have dropped the ladle hard on spoon rest, because my sinless friend suddenly turned around and stared at me.  I looked at him and shrugged.

Next was a wall mounted plastic cereal dispenser with Froot Loops, and a jug of cold milk labeled "skim".  Although by no means was cereal my breakfast de choix, I decided to suck it up and serve myself some, because, you know, complimentary breakfast is a good thing.  Mustering up some of that good cheer again, I took a bowl and turned the knob on the dispenser.  What followed was an ugly crushing sound.  Before I knew it, a jet of colorful fairy dust like powder shot into my bowl!

Eggs out.  Cereal out.

By this point, good cheer was beginning to seem like an academic abstraction.  The mob now ferried me over to the section with breads.  As I walked past the cream cheeses and butters and jams, I managed to muster up just a tiny bit of some lukewarm cheer.  Bread it is, I told myself, I can eat that.  With butter.  May be I'll even throw some ketchup on it.  Oh, and I can even season it with black pepper.  Or how about a jam sandwich?  Or may be I could do a nice crisp toast with cream cheese smeared on it.  Oh, and I could season this one with black pepper too!

It wasn't exactly good cheer, but it was something.  I straightened my spine and marched forth with the mob.  And just as I was feeling more determined, the mob deposited me right in front of that bagel slicer!  

As I felt my PTSD kick in, I rapidly looked away and focused my attention on the bread case next to it.  I scanned the assortment to make my choice.  White bread?  No, I can do better than that, I said to myself.  Multigrain bread?  Nah, that's basically white bread with some grains.  Rye bread?  What is rye bread anyway?  Oh, wait, what's that...?  

Lo and behold!  I could spy with my little eyes some innocent scrapings from non-existent cinnamon-raisin bagels!

Worth Five Rupees

Today was different.  Sundar's pockets jingled with exactly five one-Rupee coins - the minimum autorickshaw fare back in 1996.  He had spent all day at school checking his pockets to make sure they were still there.  He hadn't ridden his Atlas city bike to school today, thanks to a flat tire.  His dad had given him five Rupees when he had dropped him off at school that morning, with the intention that he would take an autorickshaw back home instead of walking.  However, as the day progressed, alternate plans had brewed in Sundar's head.  As the final bell rang, Sundar strengthened his resolve.  Today was the day.  He had had all day to work out the logistics.  No one would know!, he thought to himself.  

Without saying a single bye, Sundar left his friends behind and began walking in the direction of his home.  He passed the autorickshaw stand.  Rikshaw wale Kakas looked at him expectantly, but he wasn't going to take a riskshaw today.  No sir.  His focus was completely different today.  Making sure no one was watching him, he quickened his pace.  Within 5 minutes he reached the intersection, the venue for today's covert operation.  He paused and took a moment to contemplate the scene.  As always, the street sounds began to instantly fade out and time seemed to come to a standstill.  The lone tapri on the corner began to get larger and larger in his frame of vision, sort of like the "dolly zoom" effect used in psychological thriller movies.

Snapping out of it, he began moving quickly toward the tapri.  As always, the tapri looked discordantly serene.  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", the little chalkboard easel in front of it screamed.  Cheap.  Even in 1996.  Notwithstanding the fact that not once had Sundar seen a soul around the tapri, munching on the said kachori, he started walking faster.  The unpopularity of the kachori vendor raised absolutely no flags in Sundar's foodie brain.  Besides, he was also incredibly drawn by the mystique that surrounded the tapri.

Sundar wasn't what you would consider overweight by today's standards.  Mind you though, he wasn't a particularly lean kid by any standards either.  In fact, back in the 90s, kids with his kind of BMI were a rarity.  Heads usually turned, not in a kindly way.  Kids like Sundar were usually picked on and hazed by the skinner ones.  They were often chosen, rather callously, by physical education instructors in schools as exhibits of abhorrent body types.  Thankfully, Sundar was pretty comfortable in his, what many Indians called, "healthy" body.  He loved food.  Homemade meals, restaurant fare, or street-side pick me ups, it didn't matter.  He just loved food.  His parents took pride in that he wasn't a picky eater.  He took pride in that he never disappointed his friends' mothers when they offered him food when he visited them.

Every afternoon on his way back home from school, Sundar would always stop pedaling his bike when he approached intersection, and take a moment check his pockets to see if he had two rupees.  He never did.  Obviously.  He was 12.  He didn't carry money that his parents didn't give him.  And his parents didn't give him money he didn't need.  Today was an exception though.  He had five whole Rupees in his pocket today.  With that kind of money he could eat two kachoris!  He had it all planned.  He would buy one kachori first.  He would first make a hole in the top layer, then ask for chutney.  He would then pour that chutney into the hole and then sink his top teeth into the deliciously crisp and flaky kachori.  After the first kachori, he would then buy a second one.  This one would be sans chutney and "for the road".  What a plan!  He put his right hand into his right pants pocket and jingled the five one-rupee coins.  Feeling wealthy and twitching with nervous excitement, he walked right up to the counter and squeaked, "Kaka, ek kachori dya na…"

Sundar then peered into the tapri.  Something felt off at once.  Tapri wale Kaka looked less like a kachori vendor and more like an investment banker.  He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, blue silk tie, expensive looking trousers with a rather fancy leather belt, and shiny black dress shoes.  Faithful to the 90s Indian male business fashion, he wore gold rimmed glasses, his beard was clean shaven, and his mustache was carefully trimmed.  Sundar rapidly started becoming skeptical about his grand plan.  Unlike typical vendors, there wasn't a single kachori in display.  In fact, barring the chalkboard easel that said  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", there wasn't a single indication that the tapri was a kachori store.  All it contained was a singular table with a glass top and nothing on it, and an expensive looking chair on which Tapri wale Kaka sat.

Tapri wale Kaka slowly rose from his seat, and smiled at Sundar, revealing his perfectly white and even set of teeth.  In a baritone and a totally unexpected British accent, he asked:

"Would you fancy one or two kachoris, kind Sir?"

Hearing the word "kachori" in a British accent made Sundar instantly panic.  Instinctively, he turned around and bolted.  The five one-Rupee coins jingled uncontrollably in his pocket as he went hell for leather.  He ran faster than his legs could carry.  Not once did he turn around.  He didn't care for the traffic.  He charged through the intersection, causing all the Baja Chetaks, Hero Honda Splendors, autorickshaws, PMC buses, and Maruti 800s to honk simultaneously at him.  Sundar didn't stop.  He cursed his Atlas city bike for having a flat tire that day.  Had he biked to school, his dad would have never given him the five Rupees, and he would never have succumbed to the lust for the kachori.  Panting his way to the sidewalk, he decided to hold his Atlas city bike responsible for anything bad that might happen to him today.  Just as he thought he had abated danger and had begun slowing down, he heard the British baritone again behind him:

"Care for this awfully delicious chutney on the side, sir?  It's bloody exquisite, I must say…"

Panic returned like the devil.  Without turning and looking, Sundar simply started running and cutting through the wind like a bat out of hell.  He ran and ran until he felt the ground give way under him.  Then he felt himself fall into a never ending abyss.  He wanted to scream, but his lips wouldn't part.  He felt gagged.  He tried vocalizing with his mouth closed, but there was no sound.  It was as if his vocal cords had ceased to exist.  He began flailing his limbs helplessly.  Defying all laws of physics, he felt being drawn into the earth faster than terminal velocity.  For some reason, he could also hear a distant beeping that seemed to echo limitlessly in the bottomless pit.

The alarm clock jolted Prabhakar awake.  He sat up sweating and panting.  Wasting no time, Prabhakar threw back the covers and ran out through the front door of the apartment and down the stairs.  There was his teenage son Sundar's Atlas city bike, safely chained to a side rail and both tires nicely inflated!

The Proposal - Part II

"Sit", the rider said and motioned to him with an almost undetectable wave of the hand.  

Before he could fully process the unsought invitation and the brusque manner of the rider, she exclaimed, "Appa!"

He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook.  He froze.

"Sit", her dad reiterated.

"Appa!", she reiterated.

A moment of uncomfortable silence.  

A battered tempo passed them.  The clunking noise its wheels made as they rolled over the railroad tracks eased the silence for a bit.  Her dad looked at him through the face shield of the red and black helmet he was wearing.  Clearly, he was being expected to show some reaction.  Quick, say something!  He unfroze.  His brain prompted him to say Namaste! and Oh okay! at the same time.  He ended up blurting out: 

"Namaste! Okay?"

Bad start.  He refroze.

Luckily, the battered tempo honked obnoxiously at the exact same time and drowned out his fumble.

"I'll walk", she said and started walking.  His frozen brain took too long to process what just happened.  Before he knew it, she had disappeared leaving him alone with her dad.

"Sit", her dad repeated patiently.  He immediately felt an unforeseen sense of warmth.  Her dad wasn't smiling, yet he felt a sense of kindliness, in the face of which his botched "Namaste" seemed all the more imbecilic.

This time he simply followed the instruction and decided not to open his mouth.  The motorcycle started its journey uphill.  They passed the battered tempo.  The poor thing was whining its way uphill.  Seemed pretty symbolic.

Suddenly, her dad asked him a question.  Unfortunately, the battered tempo honked again, drowning out the question almost entirely.  All he heard was: "… bus … time … … … … village … auto?".

Awkward.  He knew it was a question because of the upward intonation on the word "auto", but what was the question?  Was it a wh- question or a how question?  Maybe he was being asked if the bus was on time?  But what did autos and villages have to do with that?  He began panicking.  He looked at her dad’s helmet.  It had red streaks on a black background.  Or were they black streaks on a red background?  If only he could get access to the helmet later, he could then take some measurements and … Shut up and focus!  He had to respond. Quickly.

"Yes, Appa", he said irrelevantly.

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He froze again.  Maybe he shouldn’t have said Appa.  Uncle was probably more appropriate.  But why did he say “yes”?  What was he agreeing to?  

This wasn’t going well.

They turned onto a smaller road.  The gradient got steeper and her dad switched the motorcycle to a lower gear.  He realized that this was the private access road that lead to their home.  He breathed a little easier when he spotted her standing on the front porch.  Her mother and grandfather were standing beside her.  His breathing quickened again as their motorcycle pulled up.  He got down.  Expecting them to look resentful and displeased to see him, he summoned his best Namaste and opened his mouth to convey it.  But before he could, she exclaimed, "Amma!"

"Eh?", his tongue failed him yet again.

"Ajja!", she exclaimed again.

He just realized that she wasn't having a field day with words either.  Somehow, it didn't help that both her mother and grandfather had unexpectedly warm smiles on their faces.  He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook either.  Time to say that Namaste!, he thought.

"Wash your feet!"

He was caught unawares by this order from her dad's direction.  He turned around and blurted out:

"Namaste?"

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He started to feel the situation fall apart.  Panic returned.  But then suddenly, her mom said her first words:

"Have you eaten anything?"

If you are an Indian, you know these aren't just words of cordiality.  You know the sincerity behind this question.  And the question had been asked with so much tenderness that he immediately began breathing easier.

"Let him wash his feet first...", her dad said.

"Was the bus on time?", her grandfather said his first words.

"Come, it's almost lunch time!  You must be tired...", her mom said.

"We have a little tap on the other side of this bush, you can wash your feet there...", her dad said.

"Did you walk here from the bus stand?", her grandfather asked.

"I'm not sure if you like balekayi, here we use balekayi for many items...", her mom continued.

"The tap is somewhat hidden, come let me show you...", her dad continued.

"I used to walk from the bus stand too when I was younger.  Nowadays it has become hard...", her grandfather continued.

"I hope you like our food, you may not be used to our taste..."

"Your feet will dry, don't worry.  Come, let's go in..."

"Ours is a small village, but it has become so easy these days with buses and autos!"

"Do you mind sitting on the floor for lunch, or do you want to sit at the table?"

"He's young and healthy, of course he'll sit on the floor!"

"Sitting on the floor is the best posture for eating..."

An overwhelming feeling of warmth engulfed him.  He glanced at her.  She was beaming with happiness and pride.  Things were going to be alright after all!

The Proposal - Part I

The tortuous route that bisected the mountain massif didn't exactly help his nerves.  He stared blankly out the rusty bus window at the lush green trees pass by.  The unmatched splendor of the Sahyadri ranges that disappeared into the horizon nested against an unperturbed blue sky did nothing to comfort him.  The beauty of the landscape felt jarring to him.  The late morning breeze that hit his face felt uncomfortable.  He felt queasy.  

She didn't say a word.  She held his arm tight and rested her head on his shoulder.  She understood.  She was nervous herself.  Thoughts raced in her head, as they always tended to.  How would the rest of the day go?  How would they react?  What would it all culminate in?  She tried to clear her head.  Bending down, she extracted a little Frooti carton from her backpack and waved it at him inquiringly.  He shook his head.

She recounted in her mind all the events that had transpired over the last two years.  Within that short span, their relationship had endured an elaborate arc traversing from their eyes first meeting, to the initial infatuation period, to the enlightenment of love, to long distance dating, to painful separation, to patching back up, and to finally deciding to commit to each other in marriage.  His parents had agreed for the most part, but they thought he was too young and not ready to get married as yet.  On the other hand, her parents had not agreed at all, but thought she getting older and was on the verge of entering the desi-girl-unmarriageable-age-bracket and had to be found a suitor within the community (i.e. not him).  They were both the exact same age, by the way.

Teetering down the meandering ghat section, the bus finally made its descent onto the low elevation plateau.  She felt a slight sense of comfort as the bus entered the small town she had grown up in.  For him though, this was the first time in the region.  Normally he would have been taking in the surroundings cerebrally by observing the streets and shops and asking questions.  Not today though.  He was too keyed up.  She thought he might feel better if she chatted with him about her city, so she began jabbering.  He pretended to listen.

The bus pulled into the bus stand and rolled to a stop.  Debarking with their two backpacks, they walked through the noisy bus stand and exited into the busy street.  She had stopped jabbering by now, and was lost in thought.  What would her dad say?  She knew her mom sympathized.  Deep down she knew her dad did too.  She understood that it wasn’t them.  It was societal pressure.  Relatives.  Neighbors.  But she wasn’t going to knuckle under all that.  She was a fighter.  She had always been.

As they maneuvered past a pack of haphazardly parked two-wheelers, he felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him.  He looked around.  Not a single familiar face.  Yet, he felt watched.  He felt they were both being watched.  He immediately understood the importance of being formally committed.  She had harped on this subject one too many times.  That was exactly what this whole plan was about.  His trip from the US.  This idea to go and meet her parents.  That was the proper thing to do.  Right.  Still and all, would he walk away with a yes?  Or would this be the end of it all?  Was this all worth it?  But then again, what other choice did they have?  He felt a single bead of sweat trickle down his forehead.  Positive thoughts!, he told himself.

A hasty auto-rikshaw dangerously careened around the corner as they both made their way toward her childhood home.  After being momentarily startled, she went back to her thoughts.  The circumstances as they stood at the time hadn't just come by.  She had fought for the situation to be the way it was.  And she was ready to keep fighting.  She was certainly glad that his parents had agreed so willingly.  Imagine if they hadn't!  With his family on board, it felt like half the battle had been won, like they had some conditional warrant in their back pockets.  And she was grateful for this.  Then she began thinking about her grandfather.  Him being the head of the household, a lot depended on his disposition.

After about 30 minutes of walking they reached a busy intersection with railroad tracks.  She told him they were now really close.  His collywobbles began intensifying.  Suddenly, he heard a motorcycle approach behind him...