Sharing the Lemon Tart

My frustration hit the roof while the water splashed all the way up to the window. Why I always end up leaving work at the wrong time is beyond me. Today’s cue was heavy rains and an unbelievable traffic jam. 

Struggling to see through the glass, my poor car getting battered by the downpour from all sides and the furious honks from everyone else around for music wasn't exactly my idea of a mid-week evening. I guess that’s the joy of having many still-single friends on the brink of marriage. It overtakes, overpowers and over dramatises everything. 

I’ve barely just recovered from the pressure of Lia getting married, when Arathi decides to drop a bomb. A link to the profile of her would-be on keralamatrimony.com No, my tea didn’t spill all over and neither did I choke. It was obviously her silly humour at play. They were clearly a mismatch because our Arathi wasn’t in the least bit sweet, polite or homely. 

So any ping now and she’ll agree with me or laugh it off with one of her wise (not) cracks. One would think, right. Instead, she spits disgust and fumes about how I’m wrong and how he’s definitely the one for her. Confusion reigns supreme. Turns out, she’s in this vile temper because her sister voiced a strong opinion in favour of this match. And thinks they are perfect for each other. 

I’m glad this was all over chat, because it was all I could do to not start giggling at that pretty picture of the future I had just painted. But when she cancelled our coffee date and called me home instead, I panicked. It wasn’t like her to be so affected by something like this. Or maybe it was just like her. Nevertheless, this is exactly why I ended up in the oh-so-serene jam right in front of her house. 

An hour and a half later, after an unnecessary kilometer long diversion, I was back at the same place, but on the opposite side of the road. I parked, whispered a rather loud hallelujah and brought out my crushed pink umbrella. It would suffice; her house was hardly 50 steps ahead. The door opened to a morose Patti Kutti and a rather cheerful mug of steaming hot tea. 

I think I saw a hint of remorse for having brought me out into that monster of a jam, but it vanished before I could be sure. I sat down and asked her to spill it out. She chose to spit it all out. All she kept repeating was that it was not like her sister to behave this way. After a good hour long venting session, she said it herself…she felt she was over reacting. That definitely won my vote and the fact that her sister was probably pmsing. 

She seemed to have made her peace with it, because she asked me what I wanted for dinner. I finally opened my mouth, only to have it shut by saying she could make me scrambled eggs and toast. Scared to aggravate all that spit out again, I said I was ok with anything. 

After a couple of repetitions of the same dialogues, we miraculously agreed and unanimously decided to go out. And cutting a long story of Coke, random starters, a gigantic sandwich and many gossipy chuckles short, I am happy to say that she had forgotten all about Mr. Wrong.

We sat amidst all the Nepalese waiters staring at us museum pieces, laughing at ourselves, re-strengthening the belief that we were born to change the world and out of the blue, what a whiny pig Dryer was. 

As we devoured the final few moments of our date, the cold tang of the lemon tart struck the warmest of chords I’ve felt in a long time. I looked at her and beamed. My girls just never fail me. 

I had come to help bring her out of the doldrums, but couldn’t help thinking how worth it that traffic jam was… for myself, my own doldrums.