Fiction 67

“You no longer are conscious around me, nowadays, no? Why?” he smiles, playing with her hair.

“Because I don’t feel anything when I am with you.”

“Whaat?! Now this is full on damage, pa. How could you say something like that? To me?!”

“Bah. Let me explain, no?”

“There’s no need. Go. Bugger off.” he says, feigning anger.

“Aww. You know what I meant. When I am with you, there is absolutely no sense of feeling fat. Feeling ugly.”

“That’s because you are neither fat, nor ugly.”

“Aww.” she smiles, hugging him tight. “Anyway, where were we?”

“I don’t remember anything after that hug.”

“Yeah, you were saying I was cute and beautiful, and you were going to buy me chocolates.”

“Right, if you’re cute and beautiful, I am Tom Cruise and Sean Connery.”

“Of course you are. You’re my Tom Cruise and Sean Connery. Now stop slapping your head at everything I say. You’ll give yourself a headache.”

“What do I do with you?” he sighs.

“Make achaar out of me.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Oh, I forgot your Hindi sucks. Make pickle out of me. Kill me, cut me into pieces, marinate me in spices, then eat that pickle with your dosa.”

“What morbid thoughts you have, woman!”

“Well, I am learning from the best!” she giggles, drawing him closer into her arms.


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