A story of meeting and falling in love by Saeed exclusively for Different Truths

Sonali was punctual to a fault, always arriving several minutes earlier than the appointed time for any given rendezvous. Today she kept looking at her watch as she waited in the courtyard of the Mysore Palace for her busload of tourists to arrive. It was already 3.30 pm and the coach had not yet come; maybe it had left late from the previous spot on the tour itinerary which was the Chamundeshwari Temple located atop the lofty Chamundi Hills. But who was she to complain? This timing suited her perfectly as it allowed her enough time to eat her lunch at the finish of her classes before taking the short bus ride to the Palace.

Sonali was in her second semester in the two-year Master’s programme in French at the School of Foreign Languages at Mysore University. She had at the beginning of the academic year enrolled at the Tourism Department as a part-time monument guide working two afternoons a week for a guided one-hour tour of the Mysore Palace, the official residence of the Wodiyar Dynasty and an architectural marvel in the Indo-Saracenic style built between 1897 and 1912. She loved her work, and the minimal pay, coupled with tips from the tourists, provided her with much-needed pocket money for her day-to-day expenses.

Although she lived at home, she was conscious of not being a burden on her retired parents. Sonali was an attractive 23-year-old young woman who was well-groomed, loved good clothes and was always careful about her appearance. She was also well-read and knowledgeable and had a sunny and warm personality, qualities that made her an engaging and popular tourist guide.

As she waited for her group’s arrival, she thought about the ups and downs of her part-time job, but being of a fun-loving and jolly temperament, she preferred to think about the lighter side of her work and the pleasure she derived from meeting and interacting with people from different parts of the world. She was reminded of a funny and amusing incident when accompanying an elderly American couple on a private tour of Mysore; the man had insisted that she join them for lunch at a MacDonald’s. In a loud and friendly voice, he had announced:

“Gee, I’m starving! Let’s get some hamburgers and fries for all of us and some cans of Coke.”

So, saying, he had walked up to the counter to place his order whilst Sonali had tried to keep his wife engaged in conversation. The man had eventually returned with his order and had started enjoying his burger when he remembered the sachets of tomato ketchup that the employee at the counter had put onto his tray.

At the best of times, sachets of tomato ketchup are not easy to open, and Sonali’s American client was soon struggling to get his sachet opened. Frustration written large on his face, he had turned to Sonali and exclaimed: “You don’t happen to have a pair of scissors with you, do you?”

Not to be outdone, Sonali had promptly replied, “Unfortunately, I don’t. But I must remember to include that in my guide kitbag!” and the three of them laughed out loud.

Sonali was still smiling from the memory of this incident when the bus finally got there, and a motley group of foreign tourists trooped in through the North gate of the Palace. There was a large contingent of the ubiquitous Japanese tourists with their eager, state-of-the-art cameras slung across their shoulders, two young American couples, a dozen chatty, gesticulating Italians, a sedate English couple, two noisy Korean families with several children and finally, all by himself, a tall young man from France dressed in a maroon kurta and blue
jeans.

After the customary roll call and the preliminary introductions were over, Sonali quickly put away her passenger list into her canvas sling bag, already overflowing with her college books and lunch box. She shepherded her group into the opulent Public Durbar Hall with its majestic bottle-shaped columns and a priceless collection of paintings by famous Indian artists. She had just paused before a well-known painting by Raja Ravi Varma. She was explaining its origin and significance to the assembled group when she noticed the tall Frenchman gazing intently at her with a faint smile playing on his handsome young face. It was not in any way a rude stare but more a look of wonderment and pleasure. She met his glance briefly, felt the colour rise to her cheeks and quickly looked away, continuing with her discourse.

The rest of the visit went by uneventfully, and Sonali was glad for once that there were no further questions or queries. With a strange thumping in her heart, she hurriedly logged out of the group, and they dispersed, returning to the waiting bus to continue with the remaining part of their tour. There were no more classes that day, and she walked towards the North gate to take a bus back home.
As she approached the exit, she saw the young Frenchman waiting by the gate with a broad smile and a twinkle in his merry brown eyes. Holding out a book towards Sonali, he said to her in his accented English:

“I think this belongs to you. It fell out of your bag during the tour.”

Sonali blushed and quickly checked her bag. Indeed, the book did belong to her and had somehow slipped out of her open and overloaded sling bag. It was a volume of “La Peste” (The Plague), the famous novel by Albert Camus, which was part of the syllabus in her MA class. She accepted the book and thanked the young man for his thoughtful gesture.

“It’s my pleasure,” he replied. “I am Christophe Leblanc, and you are … Sonali Hegde,” he added with a mischievous grin.

Sonali’s fine-boned face reddened with anger, “Very funny. And how, may I ask, did you find out my name?”

“It was written on the top right-hand corner on the first page of your book. How do you say… – ‘Elementary, my dear Watson!’ –”, he intoned in his charming French accent.

Sonali permitted herself a smile, and the ice was somehow broken. “Now, if you will join me for a cup of coffee,” Christophe continued with a mock flourish,

“I shall be greatly honoured.”

Sonali hesitated, but she had to admit that she found him funny and entertaining, and she accepted his offer.

Over coffee, the two of them slipped into easy conversation. Christophe told Sonali that he had come to Mysore to learn yoga. He had registered at the Teacher Training Course at one of Mysore’s premier yoga institutes with the hope of opening his own yoga school back in Paris. Despite being in Mysore for the last two months, he had not had the time to visit the tourist spots of the city and had finally decided to join the day-long sightseeing tour organized by the Tourist Office. Sonali, in turn, told him about her MA course in French at Mysore University and her idea of one day becoming a teacher of French.

“But how is it that you don’t speak French yourself?” he teased.

“The way we are taught French is designed to give us only a bookish knowledge of the language,” Sonali explained. “We never have an opportunity to speak the language or to correct our accent.”

From the moment of their first meeting, Christophe had not been able to take his eyes off Sonali, so struck had he been by her comeliness and her beautiful dark eyes. He wanted every bit to continue seeing her, and stretching out his arm across the table, he reached for Sonali’s hand.

“Don’t worry, I will teach you,” he reassured her. “My yoga classes are mostly in the mornings, and I can meet you at the Palace gate once you are done with your guide duties. The best way to improve your language skills is through conversation.”

Sonali was drawn to Christophe by his charming manners and the strength of his athletic young body. His offer seemed genuine enough, and she agreed to meet him at the North gate the following Tuesday at 5 pm. The two of them parted company, and Christophe continued to watch her receding figure until she turned the corner and headed for the bus stop.

Sonali had a troubled weekend, tormented with conflicting thoughts and emotions. She was flattered by Christophe’s attention, and to be honest, she did feel terribly attracted to him by his good looks and his charismatic smile. But not being one to be easily swept off her feet, she was assailed by a number of doubts.

Was he just another Casanova who used his good looks and charm to win over every woman he was attracted to? Could she be sure of his sincerity? Was the offer of teaching her French only a method to get close to her and gain her confidence? After several tantalizing mental debates, she finally decided that she was being unnecessarily suspicious of his motives and settled down to eagerly anticipate her meeting with him. But the weekend was dragging by too slowly, and Tuesday still seemed so far away.

Tuesday did finally arrive, and after finishing her latest touristic assignment, Sonali made her way with a beating heart to the North Gate rendezvous. In fact, typical of her penchant for punctuality, she was there five minutes before the appointed time. She checked her watch nervously several times. The seconds were ticking by at an agonizingly slow pace. Five o’clock came and went, but there was no sign of Christophe. She had met him only once and had no idea about his habits concerning punctuality, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt and decided to wait.

She waited another fifteen minutes, but he was still not there. It was nearing closing time, and the crowd of departing visitors had thinned out considerably. With mounting impatience, Sonali by now had begun to pace up and down until, at 5.30 pm, the guards started to close the gate, and she was forced to wait outside. Her irritation gave way to concern. Why had Christophe not been there at the given rendezvous? Had he fallen ill or been involved in some kind of untoward incident or accident? Unfortunately, she had no means of finding out since they had not exchanged phone numbers, and she had no idea of the yoga institute that he was attending. She finally decided to give up, and, disappointed and worried, she left for home.

On the following Saturday, still anxious about what may have befallen Christophe, she went up to the North Gate, hoping that he would be there this time. She waited for twenty minutes, but he did not show up. The old misgivings and apprehensions returned to plague her. Maybe she had been right in her initial doubts about his sincerity and good intentions. Perhaps he had met someone else whom he found more attractive and had decided to discontinue his association with her. Crushed by disappointment and hurt pride, Sonali decided to dismiss her brief encounter with Christophe as an unpleasant episode soon to be forgotten. After all, not all the experiences connected with her work as a guide could be expected to be fulfilling or rewarding, she thought to herself ruefully. Having pushed the incident behind her, she made up her mind to move on and carry on with her life.

Two weeks went by. But despite her resolve, the memory of Christophe’s smiling face and his mirthful brown eyes still haunted her. She had not only given up waiting for him, but in a conscious effort to dismiss him from her thoughts, she avoided using the North Gate altogether. On completing her guide duties, she walked instead to the South Gate. To her dismay, she found that due to some repair work, the South Gate had been shut down. Frustrated, she turned around and traced her steps back towards the North Gate.

As she approached the North Gate, she saw a tall figure dressed in the familiar maroon-coloured kurta and blue jeans leaning against the gate post. He had been watching her, intently following her every movement. Sonali’s heart missed a beat.

Elated and without a second thought, she rushed towards the waiting figure with a smiling face and twinkling brown eyes.

He had made it to their rendezvous at the North Gate after all. She would figure out the rest later on.

Picture design Anumita Roy

Saeed Ibrahim

Bangalore-based writer, Saeed Ibrahim, is the author of two books - “Twin Tales from Kutcch,” a family saga set in Colonial India, and “The Missing Tile and Other Stories.” Saeed was educated at St. Mary’s High School and St. Xavier’s College in Mumbai and, later, at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris. His other writings include newspaper articles, travel essays, several book reviews and two essays for the Museum of Material Memory.

See Full Bio