December 1, 2008
I thought I’d try and write about something nice today, to take a break from the sadness and anger that has besieged India.
So I’m going to tell you about the man I wanted to marry.
Yes, I found love in India. Real love.
It came unexpectedly about two months ago and swept me off my feet on a dusty street of the Pink City. It happened one morning on my way to work. I was sitting in a rickshaw painfully trying to ignore the usual losers on their bikes yelling all sorts of pornographic concepts to me. The driver, Tabu, a skinny young man, one of three brothers who ran my local rickshaw stand, kept looking at two bikers who where asking me to please kindly take my skirt off. Winking in a bonding way, Tabu kept at pace with them. I frowned. This was very unlike him. The man, like his brothers, had always been extremely polite to me, never ever saying a word out of place. Unperturbed, Tabu kept winking and finally waved towards the two bikers, making them stop on the side of the street. He got out of his three-wheeler and, under my bewildered eyes, proceeded to…beat the daylight out of the two guys.
Pathak, he slapped them hard, asking them to dare repeat what they were saying to me. Pathak, pathak: they flew across the pavement, helpless and scared out of their dim wits. Pathak, one more for the road.
Then he quietly got back into his rickshaw and said “Chalo“. Let’s go. You bet, I thought, let’s go, honey, my hero, let’s go wherever your scooty takes us, let’s take off to the moon…
I was in heaven. I was in love.
Alas I was quickly told off by my friends, who decided there was no way I could get married to a rickshaw driver in a Temperley dress. Love sucks.