Unrequited Love

arol's house was just like her. Neat, cute, beautiful. It had statues and fountains on the lawns, chandeliers and paintings inside. I had never been inside a house like that before.

Having grown up in a mud-thatched house which had country tiles for a roof, I was nervous, though I put on a pretense of being used to such living.

Servants shuffled in and out of rooms noiselessly. Laughter and local music wafted in from the lawns where the family had gathered.

I liked Carol's mother. She was just like her daughter. I did not detect any flippancy in her, only a high-flown attitude, a superficiality that perhaps comes with success.

Carol's father was more understanding. He put me at ease talking about hockey, about Indian food, about my mother. And my dead father. And Carol. And finally me. I fidgeted in my chair, not knowing what to say when it came to Carol and me.

Carol had left me with her parents and gone inside the house. I now saw her return with a young man, their hands clasped, fingers intertwined.

I felt beads of perspiration on my face and I felt hurt. Small town boys are very sentimental, very possessive, and very touchy about their women. They want them respected, not admired. Added to it was the fact that I am a Pathan, an extremist race that loves and hates intensely and completely.

I wanted to run away from there. But couldn't. There was no public transport available in that stinking rich locality.

Winter had shrouded the warmth in my heart again. It had suddenly become a large world with very small people. I was burning with shame and anger. Why did people always treat me like dirt?

"Shit" I shouted. Nobody heard me. "Why did this bitch take me to her home at all?"

At Madras Airport, On Return from Kuala Lumpur