Lovely Games

Last Sunday, at the Book Fair, a young lady was trying to sell Sachin’s autobiography to me. She reminded me of someone I knew, someone I would have liked to please. If only it had been someone else’s book. I shook my head, turned away reluctantly, and bumped into a short, well-built lady. I said, ‘Excuse me.’ She said my name. I looked at her. ‘Don’t you remember me?’ she asked. I smiled. ‘You made me cry!’ she said happily. ‘When was this?’ I said with a laugh. ‘We must have been ten then,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, I remember!’ I exclaimed. I used to look much better then. She must have too.

On Monday, I thought about that meeting. I rummaged through the contents of an old box with letters, certificates and presents, carefully preserved for the posthumous pyre. One of those presents was a leaky pen, which had done all it could to obliterate the note that came along with the gift. I could decipher a scrawl at the end, ‘Your darling’. I was taken aback. I wondered if it was that crying girl of ten I met on Sunday. But it seemed to belong to a much later age.

Tuesday was a quiet day. I did wake up to find my wife’s face a bit too close. If she had said, ‘I love you’, I would have screamed. She did not, lovely being that she is. As I said, it was a quiet day.

Wednesday was rolling along nicely, till tea-time. The landline phone rang then. My wife picked it up, and handed it to me, ‘It’s for you.’ I raised an eyebrow, she shrugged and I took the receiver from her. ‘Guess who?’ a lady said. ‘Not again,’ I thought to myself. ‘It’s our thirtieth anniversary,’ she said. ‘Really...?’ I asked tentatively. ‘You said the same then. What a coincidence!’ she shrieked. My wife looked at me, I shrugged and she turned away. ‘And what did you say then? Surely not the same...?’ I said jovially. ‘You don’t remember?’ she asked, sounding a bit disappointed. ‘Do you think I will forget? Just want to hear it again,’ I flirted shamelessly. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘What?!’ my thoughts shrieked. We talked about old times for a while. When I placed the phone on the hook, my wife asked, ‘Who was it?’ ‘Not too sure,’ I said. My wife did not even raise an eyebrow.

I kept a low profile on Thursday, safely confined to my room, doing little, wary of poltergeists in any form jumping out at me. At bedtime, when I thought I had got through the day safely, my wife turned to me and said, ‘I met a lady at the grocery today...’ ‘Yeah, yeah, she knew me, and was my girlfriend, right?’ I said. ‘How did you know?’ she propped herself up on an elbow, facing me. ‘It’s been going around,’ I said vaguely, trying to sound sleepy. She did not look convinced. But she trusts me in such matters.

Friday, around noon, I got an email. ‘Shall we meet?’ it said. My messenger recognized the sender. I even had a folder dedicated to it. I deleted the mail and folder, and went offline. I thought a lot that day.

Saturday found me proactive. Attack is the best defence, isn’t that the well-used cliché? I opened my address book, randomly picked a page, it opened at P. I called the seventh number on that page. A lady picked up after three rings. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘Me too,’ she replied. I felt relieved.