Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIII

Love in the time of festivities

It is one thing to enjoy a Mills and Boon story, and quite another to be a part of it

When Rinku wore the pink lehenga and tripped softly down the stairs, her anklets tinkling in anticipation, she had left Ronnie enthralled. The flame from the diyas she was decorating the quadrangle with flickered on her face, making her look delicate, almost fragile as if she was herself the evanescent moment. And I glanced at Ronnie; his heart was taking a thousand pictures.
Festivities are a beautiful time to fall in love. Lights, colour, passion -- the world seems to become screened with a veil of romance, the real becomes the ethereal. Naturally, you get intoxicated. Amour, the greatest intoxicant.
So it was beautiful to see Ronnie and Rinku's fleeting glances and watch their fairy tale unfold with sparklers, diyas, little light bulbs, and gorgeously dressed people as the backdrop. It was perfect. Like living in an ad film. I smiled to myself when I saw Rinku making special efforts to help Manju aunty bring trays of food or light the candles or get her a glass of water when she started puffing, which was after almost every three diyas she placed. Don't you see it? Manju aunty happens to be the paramour's mother. This meant Rinku's scores soared. Ronnie just melted.
I hardly remember how, while I was enjoying the sweet, live Mills and Boon, I became a character in the story. Perhaps it was when Rinku's eyes sparkled, her voice quivered and she shivered as she grasped my hand, "You can't tell ANYBODY. And make sure you cover up for me when my mum asks."
Here, I will digress a bit and tell you about Rinku's mum. Mrs Bhasin: extremely haughty, proud of her daughter's good looks, fiercely protective of her, and ambitious to the extent that she really believes in fairy tales -- that Rinku will definitely bag a prince charming in the likes of Aditya Mittal.
Back to the story. "I kissed him. It was wonderful." Wow! I laughed. Don't ask me what elicited such an inappropriate response. But I quickly said the standard lines, "I am happy for you, but go slow, and, um, I am very happy for you, but make sure this is what both of you want. I am there for you." And then immediately I felt burdened. Why can't I just stay off these matters? Why do I need to do the conventionally 'right' thing -- be the confidante, the adviser, the helper, the listener?
After a few trysts of me taking Rinku out on the pretext of shopping so that she could meet Ronnie, both mums smelt a rat. So guess who they came for help and advice? Yours truly. They hated each other, and the complaint was standard.
"The boy lured my lovely daughter, for sure."
"The girl's mother must have taught her to trap my beta, sniff sniff." I had given her coffee and all my tissues so that she would stop sniffing into her pallu and wiping her hands on my sofa. And they both told me the same thing, "You are young. Please ask them what is happening. They like you. They will tell you." I nearly bit my nails off.
But the worst was yet to come. One afternoon, while Manju aunty sniffed, and Mrs Bhasin rang the bell and froze me with icy looks when her eyes fell on her opponent on my sofa, Ronnie and Rinku burst in screaming, "Di, we need your help again!"
I wanted to do an Amélie right there, just melt into a splash of water and be gone.