She sat sipping her ‘Virgin Mary’ by his side. People looked at them at their ‘same difference’, he a six footer fair North Indian, she a 5 footer, dark South Indian. They made such a lovely pair like black and white in a coloured photograph, like a dot and a line.
It was one of those places they loved hanging out. Families usually came there to unwind with their kids. There was nothing to talk nothing to discuss. So she blew bubbles in his mocktail. He joined in and did the same to her’s. They raced to finish faster than the other and ended up in peels of laughter.
Suddenly a child came running towards them. He smiled into her eyes and asked, 'What would our kid's mother tongue be?’ She smiled back and replied, ’pink’. ‘I guess the father tongue also is pink’ said she. Then, he pointed out many North-Indians to her. ‘Those are Bengalis, those are Gujus’ He uttered some words in Bengali to a kid who came fetching a stray ball saying those are the few lines he learnt from his friend. She pointed out some Malayalis and Tamilians and said, ‘even I cannot sometimes point out who is who among the south-Indians too.’
They fell silent again and sat soaking up the serene and serendipity of the night, the moonlight seeping through the trees to form shadows. He reached out and held her hand. She said, ’I thought you were a Christian. Your name sounds like one. That’s why I asked you which church you go to the other day.’ ‘I cannot even hug you properly. I can hug your stomach only.’
He answered, ’But, I think, I can make love to you. Try me’. ‘No test driving please’, laughed she.
Her religion, his religion, her mother tongue, his mother tongue, her food habbits, his food habbits, …
They sat listening to their song wishing ‘tomorrow’ would be a little far away because if that moment was wrong, nothing else seemed right.