It was a Saturday morning, and Rumi was at her clinic attending her newest patient.
Just fifteen minutes into unlocking the sliding doors of her petty, scanty entranced clinic, a tall, gangly tween had shuffled in. His t-shirt was awkwardly baggy, hair ruffled from the moistureless, scorching Madras air, and face, damp from the unsparing perspiration.
Cautious in not disturbing the thick paper box in his hands, he brushed his sweaty face on the sleeves of his t-shirt, advancing to Rumi's table.
As Rumi watched him attentively pushing her glasses up her nose, he held out the box with a nervous, timid smile. "There's an injured squirrel, doctor," he said.
Rumi put on the lights that flooded the examining table, and padded around her desk to reach it. She patted the table, signalling him to place the bag on it.
Opening the bag gently, Rumi found a wounded, palm squirrel wrapped around in a worn out cotton shirt. Bending down to have a clear view, she clutched the shirt by its flanks and lifted out the hurt squirrel lying on it.
The boy who brought it in, watched Rumi keenly, as she assessed the bruises.
"How did it happen?"
The boy stayed silent for a few perceptive seconds, before shaking his head. "I don't know," he replied, a despondent curve hanging on his lips. "I found him under the tree when I was playing with my friends on the street. I have no idea about squirrels, so I googled on my Amma's phone to check. They'd asked to keep the squirrel warm with a soft cloth, so I dug out an old shirt from my cupboard and scooped him up with it."
Rumi listened to him with big, amused eyes, and gave an insightful nod.
Having finished her examination on her patient, she looked up at the boy. "Okay, so I have done some first-aid. His bruises do not need anymore medical intervention. He will be okay on his own completely in a few days time," she explained, with an addressing smile.
The boy did not seem assured with her words. "Are you sure he doesn't need any medicines?" He asked, unsatisfied.
"Ofcourse." Rumi nodded, walking across the room to reach the wash basin in the diagonal edge of the room. "He doesn't need anymore medicines."
"Okay." Caving in, he stepped forward to catch hold of the squirrel wrapped up in the bag. And then, as if something had rang in his mind, he halted, his hand involuntarily starting to dig up his pants pockets.
Rumi watched him silently, as his reddened face roused to her with his hands holding out a tiny roll of tattered ten, and twenty rupees notes.
"How much should I give?" he asked, demurely.
"Nothing."
He blinked at her, surprised. "What? Really?"
"Yes. I don't charge from students like you," Rumi said, noticing how his face relaxed at her words. "Leave him in an area away from other animals. He will survive this by himself."
"Okay."
"One more thing," she added, stopping him from taking his next step towards the exit. "Don't hold him or pet him. Squirrels aren't naturally aggressive, but they do have sharp teeth and jaw. He might bite or claw you, at this time. Okay?"
"Okay. Sure. Can I feed him though?"
"Yeah, but without holding him. You can give him any raw vegetable, fruit, or nuts."
"Okay. And then I will name him, too," the boy muttered, mostly to himself.
Tweaked with a smile, a very curious question left her lips. "What will you name him though?"
Realizing he'd been louder than intended in prompting himself, his face warmed up. And it was the most adorable sight to watch. "I will name him Upma," with no qualm, he responded, swiftly.
Rumi stared at him for a dicey moment, before letting out that gratified chuckle. "Upma, huh?"
"Yes, one Upma that no one will hate," was all he muttered, before he left the clinic.
Rumi sat down at her chair, as she watched the quiescently wise boy retire.
Just then her phone buzzed with a text message. Rumi picked it up, unable to take in the loose grin pinching her lips from ear to ear.
11.03—Hey, Rude girl. Have dinner with me? I am baking sourdough focaccia -A
She was impertinent about learning what sourdough focaccia was, but there was one transcendent reminder she'd to tell him before that.
11.03—What have I told you about texting me? :O -R
11.05—Oops. Sorry ma'am. இரவு உணவு என்னோட சாப்டு. Focaccia சமைக்கறேன். -A
(Have dinner with me. I am baking Focaccia.) -A
11.06—:') :') :') :') :'D :'D :'D -R
11.07—சிறிக்காதே. பதில் சொல். -A
11.08—It's சிரிக்காதே. Not றி. And yes, I will have dinner with you. P.S: I hope that whatever focaccia doesn't have bitter gourd? -R
11.10—It's a sourdough bread. Can be eaten as a sandwich with a filling you like. No bitter gourds. Fret not:) (This is too long to type in Tamil. Sorry:P) -A
11.11—Fine O:-) -R
This had become a usual happening between Rumi and Adhithan ever since she'd asked him to text message her in Tamil, as homework.
Adhithan had surrendered to it, by sending off a text message that night as soon as he reached his home.
21:37—Thank you, Rumi. For listening to me.-A
She was still at the terrace, after he'd left and when she received that warming message, it seemed to be the most lightheaded time her heart had had. She'd excused it back then because he wasn't learned enough to write big words, or even a complete sentence.
Now, after a month, when he'd become sufficiently familiar with somewhat lengthy words, she wasn't exempting him.
A couple days after the terrace conversation had happened, Rumi had just returned home from her clinic.
Just when she'd exited the bathroom sporting a fresh set of shorts, and t-shirt after her customary, evening shower, a harsh jangle from the next door had startled her.
It was from Google boy's living room—Rumi could say it assuredly.
Leaving the door closed without any lock, Rumi bustled out of her house to check up on Adhithan.
"Ayo, Google boy. Are you okay?" Rumi had sprinted into his living room, leaving out an alarming shriek.
Sitting wide legged on the floor, Adhithan was cuddling a terrified, whining Google to his chest, soothing her floof. "It's okay, baby. It's okay. It's nothing. I am okay. You don't have to be scared," he was murmuring softly, kissing her snoot, and resting his cheek on her face.
Next to him was a graceful, ceramic vase that'd always have flowers brimming in it, smashed and shattered to shards.
Wrapping his arms around Google, who was curled up against him, he'd pointed at the wooden top, and its rope. "I was trying to play with this," he said, beckoning the stand beside him, "It'd hit the stand, and this vase toppled over, Google got startled at the noise. I am trying reassure her."
Her chest heaving from the bustle, and heart hammering at the sight she was watching, Rumi wanted to say, I am startled too.
A knot formed, constricting her throat as her words remained unspoken.
The next day Rumi had knocked on his door at six in the evening.
When he opened his door for her, she'd brought out an arm from her behind, holding out a simple yellow porcelain flower vase that'd go with his ratty gray wooden stand.
"I had to go see an old Doberman in T.nagar," she told him, setting it up on the top shelf, "found this piece from a streetside shop and thought it'd go great with your stand."
She stepped back from her stance to have a look at the flower vase, and it was perfect.
The next day he'd found Rumi at his doorstep, she'd had a bunch of red roses, chrysanths, and weed flowers tied together in her hands. When he moved aside allowing her in, Rumi walked to the stand straightaway, and tucked in her flowers into the newest, empty vase.
Adhithan had smiled a very relishing smile her way. And she'd come back to her home, after telling him his homework.
A week later, Adhithan had texted Rumi.
15:30—Hi. நீ, நான்,Google கடல் பாக்க போலாமா.
Googleக்கு மொதல் முறை பீச்-A
(How about Google, you and I go to the beach? It's her first time. -A)
Rumi laughed at his amaetur Tamil sentences. He'd known to speak perfect sentences, but writing them was still a strenuous task to him. Hence, he'd created a sentence with small words he'd known to write.
And Rumi couldn't ever not say yes to that uber cute invitation.
15:35—போலாமே! -R
(Oh yes!) -R
***
Strolling down her street, Rumi mentally reminded herself to not forget today's quota of flowers, in spite of the thrill she felt.
They were going to have dinner together at his place—menu, sourdough sandwich—handmade by Google boy (brownie points.)
At first, she'd thought if she should bring something to eat too. But then considering her skills in cooking, she'd wiped out the idea.
It was not a date—officially.
Rumi took her habitual shower and slipped into a close, round necked t-shirt, and a cotton elephant printed wrap around skirt. Her hair tied in an everyday bun, she'd locked her house, and scooted out.
Adhithan's door was welcomingly wide open, and Google was on the watch out for squirrels, lying down at the doorstep.
Hearing Rumi's feeble footsteps, Adhithan poked his head out from the kitchen to wave at her, while she was engrossed in getting her dose of sloppy, slobber kisses from her dearest Google.
Entering his living room, Rumi squeezed in the tiny bouquet in her hands in his vase, first of all.
"Google boy, please let me know if you need any help," she announced generously, sauntering into his kitchen at an unobstructed pace, clasping her hands together.
Having his hands sudsy from scraping the sticky dough from the eversilver dough bowl at the kitchen sink, Adhithan shot her a mocking glare. "Does sitting quietly on the counter count as help? If yes, please do that."
Rumi grinned sheepishly, starting to shift things on his kitchen counter. Clearing out a spot on the cabinet for her, she hopped on to perch on it, while Adhithan snatched the kitchen towel from his window bar to wipe the freshly washed baking tray.
There was a line of half-gallon mason jars filled with pale-white, slimy substance, a white label stuck on each of them. The handwriting was cursive, but slapdash.
Rumi's eyes wrinkled behind her square framed glasses, and her nose scrunched in effort to read the handwriting. "Jane Austen," she read tentatively, giving him a questioning look.
"Those are my sourdough starters," Adhithan chuckled, his voice gruff, and low. "She is my first starter."
Puzzled at his response, Rumi asked, "You guys name your sourdough starters?"
"Yes. Once you activate it, the Lactobacilli stays alive in it," Adhithan said, wearing his baking gloves, "it keeps growing, and needs a quaggy cup of water and flour to be fed. Just like a pet."
Gaping at him, fascinated at his reply, Rumi set it down, and grabbed the next glass jar. It was labelled as 'Serendipity.'
Rumi beamed at it. "Hey, this is my favorite word."
"Amrutha named it."
Rumi lifted the penultimate jar, and studied it. "Nincompoop. So silly. You named it, right?"
A quiet, conforming smile was all he gave her in response.
Taking the last jar in her hands, Rumi rotated it to find out its name. It was unnamed, with just an empty, white label stuck on it.
Watching her looking for a name on it, Adhithan pulled out a black sketch from the top shelf right next to him in a swooping motion, and offered it to her.
Her bushy eyebrows squished together in a very confused frown. "What?"
Grabbing her hand, Adhithan placed the marker on her palm with a dainty smile squiggling his mouth. "This is a new one." Holding her wide eyes in his intent, warm gaze, he told her, "You name it."
Rumi wanted to give him one of her standard flippant replies. But muttering an okay, only after clearing her throat tenderly, was the only possible thing she could do at the moment.
Letting her eyes wander around his kitchen—to the shelves that were aligned with bottles stocked up with various lentils, pulses, mustards seeds, cumin seeds and such everyday tempering stuff of South Indian cuisine; a brass tin with the words, 'Life begins after coffee,' painted on it, giving her a tiniest, poesy smile, and a glass jar half-filled with sugar crystals—Rumi sat there mulling over a name for Adhithan's new sourdough starter.
Keeping an eye on Google, who was nibbling on her stuffed tiger toy, Adhithan was immersed in prepping up the oven for focaccia. While Rumi bent down at the jar in her hands, as her other hand with the marker scrawled on it, a tad bit cramped within the white surface.
"Here." She pushed the jar to his face, with a sublime grin. "I named it."
George Breadnard Shaw, it read, and gave him a trifling, but pensive smile.
Adhithan set the jar on the counter, and offered his hand out to her, casually. "Rumi, will you go out with me?" he asked, with that smile still on his face.
A delicate tingle swirled in her stomach, as his words reeled in her mind.
Reciprocating his charming smile—although not as charming as it'd look on him, as Rumi would put—and watching his gaze on her grow dreamy, Rumi managed to mumble, "I thought that's what we're doing already—" Her words leaving her mouth as deep, rugged breaths, she added, "—hanging out with each other all the time."
"Yes, we do," he agreed thoughtfully, realizing what they had been doing all this while. "But hereafter with cozy hugs, and a little kissing."
Little kissing? No. Lots of kissing. Loads of it, Rumi thought, as her glimmering eyes slanted down to his biggish palm that was still anticipating to be held lovingly by hers.
She placed her hand gingerly on his coarsened palm, still watching it fit together. "Great." Her voice came out in a whisper, as she raised her eyes to his. "Because I want to kiss you too."
Flashing a pretty jaunty grin at her, Adhithan stepped forward, slow and steady. His hands swathed her cheeks in a tender grasp, as his lips grazed hers tickling a tiny, moony simper on his lips. Exhilaration shivered up in his spine, when Rumi cozily, planted a hand on his shoulder, and the other one gently began to tread his dense, curly locks, whilst her lips parted slightly on his.
Taking in the warmth of her mouth in slow, but intense flutters, Adhithan felt his heart's pounding echo in his throat. As they kissed, Rumi's spectacles were hanging loosely, squashed between their faces, getting foggy with their hot breaths, but neither of them did care about it.
When Adhithan pulled apart, letting his lungs hunt for some air, and their bewildered gazes touched for a whimsical moment, Rumi sensed the churn teasing her stomach rising to her chest.
Long, haggard breaths wafted out of Rumi's wet mouth, as Adhithan leaned forward to smooch her lips with a parting peck, and fixed her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
Adhithan did not know what distracted Rumi at such a fondly instant when she hopped down the counter abruptly, and yelled, "Google!"
Adhithan watched her, blinking, as she pointed out at Google who'd ripped off her fluffy, tiger toy and had started ingesting the racron, polyester filling.
Slipping out of his trance, Adhithan trailed Rumi's steps.
And, Google, clutching her torn toy in her mouth, raced away from the humans advancing to her, to take it away from her.
When Adhithan had tackled to catch Google, he'd sat down, stretching his legs and wrapping his arms around her body, whilst she was squirming, aiming an escape.
"Baby, what's in your mouth? Show me?" he asked, wheedling her.
Rumi followed him, trying to open her mouth. "Treats, if you open your mouth. Come on, good girl."
"Am I not feeding you or what? Why are you chewing on every damn thing you see?" he rambled along, as Rumi managed to open Google's mouth.
Holding her upper jaw with one of her hands, Rumi gently fondled Google's tongue with her fingers, seeking the remains of the cotton balls.
Adhithan loosened his hold around her, allowing Google to jump out of his arm. She bolted away earning an indignant glare from him, for which she returned her versant, deceitful puppy eyes.
"Kazhutha, kandathaiyum thinnu! (Donkey, going around eating everything you lay your eyes on!)" He scolded her.₹
"Look for this stuff in her poop tomorrow," Rumi announced, showing him the wet cotton balls she'd retrieved from Google's mouth. "If she'd eaten any, it should come out tomorrow. Let's see."
"Fine."
Rumi sat down in relief, after having washed her hands. "Hey, I have a thing to say though," she perked up.
"Yeah?"
"I will date you," she said, her eyes reacquired with the mischief they always had gleaming in them, "only if you say you won't force me to eat bitter gourds."
Adhithan's lips pinched away in a teasing grin. "Why would I force you to eat bitter gourds?"
With that nefarious expression on his face, Rumi knew there was something coming for her. "Because you like them?"
"When did I say I like bitter gourds?"
Rumi watched him wide-eyed, expectantly.
"I said they're healthy and eatable if cooked properly." Bringing back the exact words he'd said back then, Adhithan continued. "I never said I like bitter gourds. God, I hate them!" he declared with a roll of his eyes.
"Then why did you buy so many of them?"
"Amrutha loves them. I cook for her whenever she pays me her weekly visits."
The picture of Adhithan walking towards her with a Tupperware in his hands flared to life, in her mind.
Rumi's heart pumped at an unstable pace, leaving her throat dry. She almost knew the answer for the question she was going to ask him next. Almost.
"Then why did you argue with me on bitter gourds?"
"To start a conversation with you."
