Five years ago, I surprised my new girlfriend with a mini birthday celebration for her 22nd at her parents’ house. As a mutual friend helped drape and pin up her saree, I tore pieces of parata and fed them to her with sweets that her mom had served us while we got ready. She made searing, heart-stopping eye contact as her tongue grazed my fingers. Soon, I would be leaving our hometown for three years, on a 36-hour flight across the Atlantic.
Those moments were our secrets in crowded rooms. (They have no idea about me and you.) Last Saturday, I raised pieces of parata to her lips, with laddus she bought for me before getting on her five-hour flight across the country to visit me at the apartment I rent. We hadn’t seen each other in a year. We were in a rush to head out, so I fed her while she cooked the paratas and I watched the eggs. We chatted casually. I was going to see her off at the airport. She’s 26 now. I’m 25.
The goodbye didn’t involve tears, or shattering embraces reminiscent of lingering kisses undercover. It didn’t need to. I’ll see her again in the winter.
