Sunday, 24 August 2014


They stood on the terrace, their bodies entwined in each other’s. Their clothes hung helplessly from their bodies like office goers would from Bus No.42B every morning on their way to work. His nose buried itself in the smoothness of her skin and tresses. Her right ear was almost in his mouth and words poured incessantly into it, making her heart melt like a Marie biscuit, dipped in a cup of hot tea. It was perfect. They were perfect.

The conversation continued. He talked. (With her heart in her mouth, she chose not to take the chance). While looking beyond the terrace, he whispered, “If there’s any woman who comes close to her in terms of beauty, it would be you.”

So, she was the second most beautiful woman in his life. Virgo women! They had their ways.  (With a Sagittarian’s wicked sense of humour, abundant use of sarcasm, acute absence of poise and compulsive clumsiness, what better results did she expect?)

“Just look at her! You agree?” 
She looked at her. And, a part of her changed that day. She didn’t feel jealous for the first time in her life when he praised another woman so ruthlessly.

She pulled his mouth in hers and whispered, “I do.”

Happy Birthday, Calcutta. You are indeed the most gorgeous woman on this planet.