Indian English

 "I actually saw you on TV at the football match in London. I could recognise you in an instant. "

He smiles, his eyes gleaming up at the mention of football. His teeth seem perfectly okay, unlike the rather unflattering stereotype surrounding British men. But I'm not looking at his teeth this time. It's his eyes, a perfect blue, the sorts you only see in a swimming pool, never the ocean. I secretly envy him. Here I am, stuck with the most boring pair of dark brown eyes. His hair is the colour of my eyes, a dusty dull mud melange of summer rain. 

"I told you I would be going for the match. Were you looking out for me? "

I don't admit to him that I hate football. My ex was a Man U fan, yelling profanities in bars, walking up chest to chest towards Arsenal fans in hordes, asking them to meet him outside, man to man. Just toxic masculinity. I never understood the big deal about any sport, unless it was gymnastics or figure skating or diving, the kind that requires endless patience and grace. But for David, I was willing to sit through an agonizing football match just so that I could spot him in the crowd. 

"No, I wasn't. I was actually at a pub watching the match with friends when I spotted you. "

I lied, I wasn't. I was at home, listening to all the songs he had shared with me. I had a music folder on my computer where I stored all these songs. When I listened to them, I imagined him listening to them in his beautiful apartment or his tiny red sports car. The man was obsessed with cars too, another thing I could never understand. I didn't even know how to drive a car, forget admiring one. 

He smiles again, looking down at my desk while he stands next to it, towering at 6 feet, 1 inch, while he fidgets with the pearl ring on his little finger. What I know about pearl rings, is from astrologers in India, and it is always recommended for those with a serious temper or a weak Moon placement, especially on the little finger. But he didn't believe in astrology and neither did he have a temper. He once told me he wore it just because he liked it. 

I start stuttering again. In my long history of dealing with men of all kinds - the ones I loved, the ones I hated and the ones I couldn't give a damn about, he was the only one I could not form sentences in front of. 

I try to rationalize it in my head and put it down to fear. When you meet someone who is new, someone who does not emulate the patterns you have been familiar with, you freeze in fear and admiration, as if you were a lepidopterist witnessing a new species of butterfly. 

My desk partner chuckles away, watching me churn out a string of gibberish words that make no sense. When David leaves, she nudges me and laughs at my face. 

"Serves you right for intimidating men all the time. You should have seen yourself. Your cheeks were red and you were talking absolute nonsense. You really fancy him, don't you? "

I shut her up, asking her to focus on the delivery schedule. Of course, I fancy him! He's an Englishman. A legal non alien from London. I picture us getting married near a gurgling brook amidst a green meadow. 

He asks me out for dinner. He's in the mood for 'tandoori', if there were ever such a thing. We drink, rather he drinks. I sip vodka with Dukes lemonade as I watch him guzzle pints of beer, wondering where they disappear without making him high. The waitress eyes him, as do other women around us. He has a posh British accent, and of course, the well defined good looks. He orders copious amounts of food, and leaves leftovers. I don't want to be a party pooper or ask him not to waste food, so I say nothing. 

He eats with his fingers, long and white, stained with the red gravy. I look at his thin lips and wonder if we will meet again. He's flying back tomorrow night, and word around the work place is that he has quit. But he doesn't tell me any of that. We discuss books and music. He tells me of his nephew and how he adores him. He talks of his mum and dad and growing up in Singapore. 

I ask him to come home. He looks at my house with disapproval and the view outside. When asked he suggests I could do better. I put on my favorite music on the record player and offer him cheap wine. 

He's finally drunk, and decides to kiss me. He fumbles with my clothes in a state of disregard, then stops mid-way. I ask him what's wrong. 

"I am sorry. I have a girlfriend. We are about to be engaged. I know we've been chatting endlessly for days. But I can't do this. "

Why did he bother, I ask, hoping he says he liked me, just as I liked him

"I was curious. How it might be, with someone like you. "

"Someone like me? What do you mean? "

"I meant, Indian. I've never been with an Indian girl before. It's something new"

I try to understand what this is. 

"Will you tell your girlfriend about this or us? "

He laughs. 

"No, obviously not. This is not a big deal. It's just a bit of hankering around. She doesn't need to know. "

I finally understand him. And that we have nothing in common, really. He was right, I was different. Just not in any way he assumed me to be. He was different too. But I wasn't looking to conquer him anymore. He had already had his way. 

(Inspired by the series, 'One Day'. And British men.)