"An Indian Love Story"

He saw her in the evening, wrapped in dusk –

On the way home from work, at the bus stop

Poised like a gazelle in flight. Her eyes

Dark pools of promise, he thought, watching.

So he followed her, remembering

The way the hero of last week’s Bollywood film had followed the girl of his dreams.

He followed her home, that evening

He followed her the next

And the day after that.

He called her on the phone, and hung up when she answered. He waited

For her to fall for him – like they did in the films –

But she did not even look his way. So he waited for her, near the bus stop

And stepped out in her path

Suddenly. “Marry me,” he said. “I love you,” he said.

She looked at him with eyes full of fear. She turned to run – so he grabbed her by the arm –

She screamed, in fear, and tried to pull away.

He had a knife in his pocket, because his friends all had one too. He took it out, and stabbed and stabbed.

If he couldn’t have her, nobody could.

And she died

There in the street, frightened, bleeding.

He made the bottom strip in the TV news. He was famous.

People heard his name.

And people said

“That’s the way they are

Those people, you can’t expect any better of them.”

The newspapers called it an unrequited love story

And gave it ten lines on page six, next to an ad

For washing machines.

A politician said, “This is what happens

When we give girls too much freedom, and let them dress how they like. Women should be in the kitchen.”

Women’s groups condemned him

And got on TV, too.

And her mother sat in the dark and cried

Remembering the hopes that would never be.

But nobody thought of her at all.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2012