The Girl with the Golden Parasol

TWELVE

The dates were the fifth to the fifteenth of September.

In these ten days so many events happened one after the other that Rahul felt as if in one sitting he were watching a film in fast-forward, created by a magical device.

The sixth of September was a Wednesday. As soon as he got up, even before brushing his teeth and washing his face, and with eyes half closed, his first order of business was to soak his handkerchief in water and moisten Madhuri Dixit’s back so much so that the adhesive loosened, and the center spread of Stardust pasted on the window of Room 252 fell to the floor.

The wet paper had become transparent. Traces of advertisements for Honda Hero Splendor and Ile deodorant printed on the other side of the page appeared on Madhuri’s eyes and back. Gone were the startled, doe-like eyes and sculpted, tormented back wounded by Salman Khan’s slingshot.

Rahul wiped the window until it was spotless. Now he could see clearly the playing field in the valley and the semicircular road surrounding it. From here he could also see with great clarity, without binoculars, like a butterfly could, that shining yellow spot slowly swimming in the distance. Its mere appearance would take Rahul’s breath away and rushed the blood fast through his veins. And the sound of his throbbing heartbeat reached all the way to his ears. Thump, whoosh! Thump, whoosh!

The night has a thousand

eyes and the day but one

yet the light of the bright world dies

with the dying sun

The mind has a thousand eyes

and the heart but one

yet the light of a whole life dies

when love is done!

Rahul stooped down and picked up the pieces of wet paper that had borne Madhuri’s photo, opened the door of his room, and threw them outside in the trash.

Arrivederci, Mrs. Nene! Bye-bye!