As before, Emily sent me her parts to smush into my recollections, but did not read the finished product. . . (insert evil laugh)
After telling her I had to get to an appointment, and agreeing to meet for dinner, I left her to the tender mercies of the tourists and the sun to make my way back into town. Not one for trusting taxis in many places in the world, Iâd asked for and been given a driver, assured the guy was a âgood chap.â Now I spotted him sitting cross-legged under a tree next to the parking lot, hacking away at a laptop; on seeing me, he got up and headed toward the car to meet me there, as always smiling brightly when I greeted him with âNamaskar.â It had taken me a while to break the habit, having been taught wrongly to say âNamaste.â For just a moment I recalled the lady whoâd first corrected me, during some pillow talk; sheâd explained that the literal meaning was âI bow to you, I bow to the divine in you. . . a true recognition that we are all one.â Then I found himself smiling as I realized that girl had looked nothing like the redhead Iâd just met. . . variety in a spicy part of life.
Giving time for the car to be air-conditioned properly, we finally got in, with me as always slipping into the passenger seat rather than the back. The drive to town was uneventful, with the driver asking how the photography had gone and me recounting my camera adventures, leaving out the redhead for now. Soon enough we were at the government building, with plenty of time to grab something edible for my very particular taste buds before my meeting began. . .
So it was with a sigh of despair–albeit a bit comical, the driver thought–that I exited the meeting a few hours later and got right back into the car, wanting to go back to the hotel to rest up from the oppressive weather before trying to find out just how much heat Emily brought to dinner. The thought of her brightened me quite a bit, though not enough to remove my mindset from its usual job, in this particular case scanning the surroundings.
A nap in air conditioned comfort cannot be underestimated. Donât know how long I was out, but I found myself moving a little quicker than usual through the streets until I was sitting at the table the smiling owner led me to, bringing me the soft drink Iâd requested as I wondered just how late an American redhead would want to show up. On the walk over Iâd noticed the streets were about equally divided between women in Western clothing and those in the traditional garb, so it took me by surprise when Emily joined me wearing a green sari and a huge smile. . . and hopefully a gallon of sunblock.
âLike?â
âLike.â
âI didnât think the orange one showed my skin off right,â she blushed prettily.
âOrange is my favorite color, but youâre probably right. Any redhead that canât wear green doesnât deserve the hair.â
Something about that statement bothered her, but since she couldnât figure out what, she let it go, brightening when she saw Iâd pulled out the chair for her. Being in the perfect position, knowing she was expecting me to look down at her cleavage, I instead ran a hand over the bare shoulder and murmured, âAll day in the sun and still porcelain.â
She wondered if Iâd notice her lack of freckles. âSunblock 1000. Probably stop a nuclear accident.â
âThey have nukes here, so letâs not find out.â
âAgreed,â she grinned as she watched me walk around and sit across from her. âHave you checked out the menu yet?â
âWaiting for you. Hope thereâs something I can stand.â
âPicky eater or picky stomach?â
âBoth. If I donât find anything I can tolerate, or the chef is adamant about being spicy, I can always make do with a couple of jalebi. Thatâll put him in his place.â
Wrinkling her nose at the thought of a chef being spicy, she asked just what jalebi was supposed to be, twirling a finger through her sherbet locks absently.
âThink of it as a pretzel-shaped churro.â
âOh wow! Is it suitable for dunking in chocolate?â
âOnly with a really wide mug.â
âTrue!â she giggled, not bothering to mention it could be broken into a smaller dunkable pieces. Instead she picked up the menu, happy to see it was in English, at least the one in front of her. But as she wondered what she would learn about me next, she glanced up from the menu to see me glaring to the side. Sheâd noticed it too, but apparently I was more susceptible to the cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose in support. âYeah, Iâve noticed everyone smokes around here. Donât you wonder how they can afford to eat?â
âWonder what would happen if I told them secondhand smoke was killing their beloved cows. . .â I mused.
A man a few tables away turned to see what the giggling was about. Of course he was too late for the joke, but that didnât stop him from looking at the beautiful white woman in the native dress. His family had been all for a vacation, though India had not been their choice. Anything was better than the gloomy weather of Scotland this time of year, but theyâd been hoping more for the Caribbean. Instead Dad/hubby had explained that they would be visiting places where their ancestors became famous; heâd studied up to the point of knowing the name of every single battle involving the Highlanders, who no doubt would have rather fought in some place like Russia than this unbearably hot and humid place.
When he turned back, he saw that his son, with that permanent smirk/sneer, had taken the âWhen in Romeâ thing to heart and lit up a cigarette. The Scot, without changing expression at all, slapped the offending carcinogen right out of the kidâs mouth, where it flew across the aisle to stick out of some very dense-looking curry at the next table.
The woman across the way, seeing this new addition to her meal, plucked the cancer stick from the dish and regarded it curiously; though she knew damn well what it was, she seemed to be at a loss at how it had suddenly appeared.
âWas that as surreal to you?â the redhead whispered harshly.
I nodded, rather furiously. âI hope they never saw Twin Peaks, because–â
âThatâs what I was thinking of!â She banged herself–gently–on the forehead. Then, realizing sheâd given up something she didnât have to, chirped perkily as she pulled her hair back from her face, âSo where are you from?â coincidentally thrusting her chest forward, as though trying to distract me from what weâd just witnessed.
But I was not to be defeated so easily. âLos Angeles, where we keep our foreheads without palm prints.â
âNice.â Grinning, she saw the food arriving and beamed an extra-strength redhead-powered smile.
An hour later she was gawking around my hotel room. âGlad we came to your place! Much nicer than mine.â
I joined her at the sofa and handed her a water bottle, this time–unlike when I seated her in the restaurant–taking advantage of the view; her breasts filled the front of her sari when she leaned forward to take it. Knowing exactly what was going on, she looked up to make sure of the path of my eyes, then smiled. âYouâve got a one-track mind, honey.â
âLike you didnât dress this way to get exactly that reaction.â
She tried to play it innocent, but not very hard, since she knew it wasnât the easiest move in a redheadâs repertoire. Instead she went with, âLike me yet?â
âSo far youâre okay.â
âThanks loads,â she moaned.
âDrama queen makes me like you less.â
âGotcha,â she sighed, thinking this would make things more difficult. Or not, grin. . .
âDonât move.â
Of course she looked up, saw my camera pointed at her, and couldnât help smiling and posing.
âI told you not to move!â
She had the decency to look abashed, though it didnât help much, considering my mood.
âYou obviously have trust issues.â
She laughed at that, then decided to prove me wrong. âOf course I trust you. Do you know how awesome you are?â There, that always gets them. . .
âI know Iâm awesome,â I sighed. âI just canât seem to convince women of that.â
âYou know,â she yawned some long minutes later, âI wanted to come to Khajuraho so much I didnât do any research on the rest of India. Tell me about it.â
âYouâve got a weird form of date talk, but okay. India has three main regions: the Himalayas in the north, the flat hot plain south of that, and the Peninsular Shield in the south. Since you liked what I said about seasons, the cold months are January and February, with sweltering heat between March and May. The monsoon season is from June to September. South of the mountains itâs hot, dirty and humid throughout most of the year.â
âBut the north has to be cool, right? Right?â
I gave her a poke in the ribs for the bad acting, though I would have enjoyed the squeal more had it not been in my ear. âIndia has some of the biggest cities in the world, but most of the almost billion people live in the country, and most of them are poor.â
âNot that I donât care,â she whispered, âbut donât bring me down right now. Tell me about. . . languages!â
âThe official language is Hindi, but English is second and is widely spoken. All official documents are in English.â
âThatâs good!â
âNot for you. They wonât let you get away with anything. There are eighteen other languages, each with its own script.â
âThat boggles my mind too much. Hey, how come there was meat on the menu for you to eat? Arenât the cows sacred?â
âHindus are the ones who donât eat beef, but they do eat other meat. . . except the really strict ones, who donât even have alcohol. Muslims wonât even touch pork. Sikhs donât smoke.â
âI like them already!â
She quickly perked up even more when I told her there was a light and sound show in half an hour at the temples. Momentarily annoyed that I didnât want to spend time alone with her, she nevertheless listened as I explained the show was about an hour long and covered the history, philosophy, and art of the sculpting of these temples.
âItâs held on the lawn at the temple complex, so bring a blanket, unless you want to lie on the grass.â
âCan we hang out there after?â
âNot unless you want to stay for the second show.â
âWhat?â Quickly she saw the effect her squeak had caused and toned it down, but still glared at me accusingly. âIf thereâs a second show–â
âItâs in Hindi.â
âFine! Quick shower, at least?â
âNo time, and in this weather, wonât do you much good. Donât worry, I can assure you youâre not stinky. . . yet.â
She made a rueful face as she bounced off the bed, wrapping the green sari around herself before her feet hit the ground.
âGlad you know how to put that on yourself.â
We were early enough to get a good seat, or blanket placing, which made her glare at me, but only for a second, once she saw my grin. Instead she looked around, realizing that while sheâd been here in the daytime, she didnât recognize anything, as well as finding it spooky as hell. So what? Got a big strong man to defend me, if someone decides to mess with the redhead. . .
  Wait! This is not the way for a redhead to act! Hell, Iâll probably end up having to protect him! Wouldnât that be a hoot?
Luckily the show started and despite it being in English she found herself much more entranced by the sights than the commentary. Still, she didnât miss it when the announcer, obviously reading from a script, inquired rhetorically, âWhat is the most important thing in life?â
âLove!â
Shocked by the redheadâs uncharacteristic response to the rhetorical question, I could only gape in her direction; she saw my astonishment and blushed, but also smiled.
Other than tickling her hand when she wasnât looking, eliciting a yelp that garnered way too much attention for her tastes–sheâd thought it was a tarantula–there werenât any other memorable moments in what turned out to be a frankly boring presentation. Walking out, not at all in the mood for sticking around like sheâd mentioned earlier, she noticed the hawkers were still there, doing their best to sell meaningless trinkets to the foreign tourists. She wondered if they expected more sales from the local-language show, then stated, âI canât get into haggling. Feels like Iâm taking money out of their kidsâ mouths.â
âYou have the heart of a brunette,â I laughed, the put an arm around her shoulder and brought her to me. . . so she wouldnât be able to punch me as hard. âDonât worry about them, they make out just fine. They start out way overpriced, probably double. If youâre dumb enough to pay that, they figure itâs your problem.â
âThat makes me think more like a redhead again,â she assured me, though adding a nudge in the ribs.
âCounter with half of that, watch in amusement as he screams âThat is less than it cost me to buy!â then keep going until youâve reached a price you can live with. Either you or him will be disappointed, but at least heâll be entertained. . . and I donât mean by looking at you. If youâre that worried about it, find something you like, ask around to see what itâs worth–â
âThatâs too sensible!â she shrieked. âI wouldnât want people to think Iâm wearing a wig!â
From there I walked her back to her hotel, where to my surprise she acted like she didnât want me to leave yet. Finally she meekly tried, âOne oâclock at your hotel?â closing her eyes to curse herself without me seeing it.
âThat sounds acceptable,â I informed her formally, making her giggle and move in for a kiss. Right before she turned away to hippity-hoppety up the stairs, she whispered, âMiss me, bub. . .â
âAlready do,â I smiled, though making sure she couldnât hear it. . . well enough to be sure.
;o)