Free Can Love Happen Twice? by Ravinder Singh Page A

ignored her and walked right to my bedroom and returned with a book—my book.
    ‘Here is her story in the greatest possible detail,’ I said as I handed that book to her.
    Surprised, she quickly grabbed the book and read the title.
    ‘I … too … had … a … love story …’ she read and then murmured in a low voice the line below the title, ‘A heartbreaking true love tale … Ravinder Singh.’ She read my name and then reread it. And then she was left agape. She made out that it was I who had written the story when she flipped the cover page and saw my picture next to the author bio.
    She didn’t speak for a while, her eyes darting from the pages of the book to my face. I knew she had at least a thousand questions she wanted to ask in that one moment, but she was hardly able to frame one. And unable to do so, she sat back and tried to get a sense of it all from my book. Even I didn’t offer help with any explanations but simply stood there reading her facial expressions as she continued flipping some more pages in haste.
    When she got to the summary of the book she read my tribute—‘To the loving memory of the girl whom I loved, yet could not marry.’ Suddenly she closed her mouth and swallowed nervously. I saw her throat muscles retract and then constrict. She seemed a little tense. Then, with a small sigh, she untied her sandals, folded her legs on the couch, leaned back and started reading the book.
    I knew that with the subject of my book, the atmosphere in my living room was getting sombre. And I didn’t want to make it any more emotional.
    ‘All right, I have kept my promise. Take your time and read it at your leisure. I am going to make some tea for both of us. I want you to help me,’ I said, turning towards the kitchen.
    ‘You go and make it. I will read it now,’ came a prompt answer from her.
    ‘What?’ I turned back to her.
    She didn’t bother to answer this time. Her eyes were glued to the book. She no longer cared to look at me. I stood there in silence for a while and left when I was sure that she wouldn’t accompany me.
    For the remainder of the evening she continued with her reading marathon. I wondered how she could simply sit and read without bothering about anything else. She hadn’t even thanked me for the tea! I noticed that she had been quickly and continuously flipping the pages, roughly one every three minutes. Though I sat next to her and had my tea, it was as good as having it alone.
    It is a rare case when a reader is so engrossed in a book that she neglects the author of the very book she is reading!
    It seemed useless to sit around and wait for her to speak, so I moved to the dining table and pulled out my laptop to carry on with my office work. Some more time passed and the silence continued to prevail in the living room.
    Suddenly she stood up and wore her sandals.
    ‘What happened?’ I asked, thinking that she might be wanting to use the loo.
    ‘I have to go back. It’s late!’ she responded.
    I looked at the wall clock. It was just 8.30 p.m. and, as such, it was not really a late hour. I knew she was used to being out of her hostel till much later in the night.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes. And I am taking this with me,’ she said, looking at the book and tying the straps of her sandal with her left hand. The index finger of her right hand was wedged between the pages of the book, marking the point at which she had stopped reading.
    ‘Have dinner, na?’ I insisted.
    ‘No … I need to go,’ she insisted.
    I got the feeling that there was something on her mind as she was behaving a little differently. But I didn’t push her to stay back or to reveal what had happened to her. I let her go.
    A little while later, after she had gone, she sent me a long message:
    ‘M sry 4 leavin dis way all of a sudden. In d last chapter I witnessed u kissing Khushi n holding her in ur arms. 4 sum reasons I got conscious of lookin at u while reading about u. At dis moment m