Stories Of Young Love by Abhilash Gaur Read Free Book Online Page A

to wear.
    I haven’t slept a
wink all night. First it was his clothes, then his fears, and as
dawn broke, Zeba called. They cancelled the breakfast date and
decided to meet ASAP at her hotel coffee shop. So he’s rushed out
now, and I don’t know whether what they are doing is right. Heck, I
don’t think the two of them have the faintest idea of what they
want to do. For now, they just want to see each other.
    And what do I
want?
    Another cup of
coffee.
    ***~~~***

Early Checkout
    At 7am I stood
in the hotel reception. I had a very small, grey bag, the same that
I used to take to office with a book, some papers, a snack and a
water bottle in it every day. I had come on a very short visit to
Delhi, just a night’s stay, and it was summer, so all I needed was
a change of underclothes and a book to read at night. I could have
walked out of the hotel with that bag and nobody would have guessed
I was leaving with my bill unpaid.
    I had checked in
the previous evening, and the man at the desk had sized me up
suspiciously not only because I was young and my luggage so
insubstantial, but also because there was a girl at my side.
“Double room, sir,” he had asked with eyes on her, and I had
replied “single” rather hotly, bringing him back to his large
register.
    It was a
government hotel in the heart of Delhi, not swish but fairly clean
for the price. I would have recommended it to you but it was
privatized, torn down and rebuilt years ago. The new hotel’s tariff
is beyond my means.
    After reserving a
room, we had gone out to eat. The hotel had well-advertised
restaurants but a meal for two in them cost too much. We both were
in our first jobs then and earned just enough to get by on. Also,
both of us had a healthy regard for money, so we went to the lane
behind the hotel that had several shacks, and ate stuffed parathas
with omelettes just like in our student days, finishing the meal
with hot gulab jamuns and sweet, milky coffee in heavy but chipped
mugs whose rims showed signs of being sprinkled with drinking
chocolate. There, we could afford to tip, and there was genuine
delight in the smile that lit up the waiter’s face.
    We strolled after
that. I loved that girl and for two years we had kept our
relationship going over Yahoo Mail without once seeing each other.
It had started late in the last term of our diploma course and
hadn’t gone beyond the intentional brushing of hands at night on
the dimly lit street outside her hostel. Once, only once, the day
before I left Delhi for good, we had hurriedly hugged in my room
and then laughed in embarrassment because our friends were waiting
downstairs, pretending they knew nothing about us. We had come up
on the pretext of getting some books she wanted.
    There was nothing
sensuous about that hug. Speaking for me, I wasn’t aroused when her
breasts squished into my ribs. She was a plump girl, not fat,
partial to Britannia Good Day biscuits and tea but not much of a
foodie, and a bookworm averse to exercise, which showed. I remember
she was wearing the same paisley-print teal shirt that she had worn
the day when I first noticed her at the start of our course. The
day our class went to the book fair in the afternoon. She was
buried in a book, but since there was nobody else in class at the
time, I had had to ask her about the bus.
    That day in my
room, she had stood on her toes to wrap her arms around my neck,
and I would have held her there awhile but her eyes were locked on
mine, and after a moment she had laughed and drawn away patting my
head. Must have been something she saw in them. But I knew she was
dead serious about us. All that irony, the wit, was a front. She
was emotionally very fragile, and it was not easy to break through
her guard. I had foolishly wasted weeks, if not months, failing to
read her mind. The day she openly resented my spending time with
another girl should have lit a bulb. “Such bitches!” she had said
and stormed off when I showed up at a