YOUNG LOVE
They reached the cinema early and quickly took the corner two seats in last row.
She seemed a little more conscious and apprehensive than him about the whole situation. But then, her upbringing was such.
He was not brash, just a little excited perhaps.
The loud music of the adverts drowned their conversations, and the darkness had never felt more comforting.
His excitement grew as he could see the backs of no more than a dozen or so heads from his seat.
He had planned it well.
A mid week day, a 3 pm show, a cinema an hour away from home and a Japanese cult movie..
If one were to apply Cox's theory of probabilities, the probability of them being seen and recognised approached zero.
Soon the adverts and the trailers faded away and
Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon took charge of the 70mm screen. It was one of the most daring films of its era.
But today, on that rainy Wednesday afternoon, in that darkened cinema hall, he was going to dare a different daring.
As the cinema recounted how a heinous crime was recalled from the different perspectives of a bandit, a samurai, the samurai’s wife, and a woodcutter,
His hand slipped over the arm of the chair separating them. She had the popcorn cone in her left hand, so her right hand was free. In the darkness he tentatively reached out towards the fingertips of her right hand with his left. She drew back in an instant, by the suddenness, quickly checking around her.
Everyone was oblivious of this act in the last row and the dozen or so heads were intently watching the samurai brandishing his sword on the screen. No one seemed to have caught this 'off screen' brazen act.
As violence erupted on screen, she found comfort in the hand that was holding hers. She didn't realise when her grip had tightened and their fingers were now intertwined.
The Dolby sound system was echoing the heartbeats of the samurai; as he was poised above, balancing himself on the tree branch, the sword gripped in his front teeth, ready to pounce on the murderer.
But all she could hear was the thumping in his chest, as his heart was racing like a quad turbo charged 8L W16 engine of Bugatti Veyron.
As he gently leaned towards her, first sniffing the musk off her and then whispering in his husky voice in her
ear, "I wish I could smell your breath!'.
She knew, that he knew, that she found this tone of his voice very attractive.
'Why?', she asked simply.
"So that I can inhale the air that has been through you ", he said looking in her eyes, "So that I can share something that has been a part of you".
She smiled and turned away. She wasn't going to let his nose near hers!
He feigned a few minutes of grumpiness; but soon found solace in the warmth of her hands.
Rashomon ended on a stunning climax that questioned the nature of humanity.
They waited till all the viewers had left and reluctantly got up to leave.
Even though the cinema hall was empty, she quickly let go off his hand, as soon as the lights were turned on.
She was, after all, from a respectable household and she couldn't bear to hear any malicious comments.
The clouds had stopped pouring and the weather turned a little fresh.
A gust of fresh breeze and the slanting rays of the setting sun sprinkled through the clouds, giving a spring like hue to the atmosphere. The heavens were contriving and romance was in the air.
"Would you like a cup of filter coffee?, There is no one on the east side of railwayline in Goregaon who brews a better cup than me," he said and without waiting for her answer he led the way towards the gates of the 7 story building at the end of the road.
"Will anybody be at home"?, she still hesitated, but he had gone beyond pretences. The security man was nowhere to be seen.
No one had seen them enter the building.
His walk became rapid as they took the lift together.
Fortunately, no one was waiting in the foyer. So, they had the lift to themselves.
She was following him, in trepidation, unsure as to what lay ahead, but still eager to experience that unknown.
They closed the lift doors, and gingerly walked towards flat number 601, both holding their breath as they listened with intent, trying to gather if there was anyone on the other side of the door.
Not a sound nor any light, filtered across the door frame.
He pulled out the keys from his trousers and slowly turned the Godrej lock.
As the key slowly turned in the plug, it activated the retracting locking bolt at its other end and the driver pins slotted in the 6 holes drilled in the plug.
The contraption made clicking noises before the door opened. He so wished that they were part of a silent movie.
They paused at the entrance. Listening for signs of human voices. Having heard none, his hand turned towards the near wall to switch on the lights.
But before he could press the button, they were bathed in the glow of seven 100 Watt bulbs which illuminated the lounge.
They stood there, like rabbits in front of car headlights, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Their act exposed as the gathering of 25 people surrounded them.
The banner on the far wall read,
'Happy 50th wedding anniversary Aaji and Aajo'.
As they had schemed and quietly planned their special day,
Unknown to them ,
Their children and grandchildren had planned an equally pleasant surprise.
They both stood there at the doorway.
Tears rolling down their cheeks.
His hand still on the light switch.
Her hand holding the long sleeve of his blue shirt.
She holding the end of his long sleeve...
That was the only public demonstration of their love anyone had seen in 50 years of their togetherness. ..