of impulses

Let’s go, you say at two a.m. on a Friday night, almost pukish at the thought of spending another weekend in Delhi.  Let’s get out. We never do anything impulsive, you say. Chalo, he says. Abhi? You can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

Five minutes later, you’re packing an overnight bag and dumping it in the boot of your one-year-old-highway-virgin car, double-checking to make sure you have all your papers in place, and driving off.

Where to, he asks. You name the first place that pops into your head at that moment. Kasauli it is.

Thirty minutes later, you stop over at a tiny little eatery on the road and announce do chai, ek aloo parantha. You fall asleep as you wait. When you wake up, he’s watching you intently.

Within seconds you are both smiling and holding hands, Hindi-picture style.

You finish your paranthas and chai and head home.