Love Across Borders Read online

  “Would you?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

  “Yeah…sure,” I replied and explained the situation to the staff at my counter. She checked something on her computer, and then quickly checked in a small box along with my suitcase. Without words being exchanged, we walked together.

  “Let’s go for coffee,” he suggested. I nodded happily, and my steps had an added spring to them.

  “So, where are you from?” I asked him.

  “From New York. Been there since I was young. Oh, I am Riyaz, by the way,” he said as he stretched out his hand. Riyaz. He was Muslim. My response was delayed by a second or two.

  “I’m Neha. I am working here, in Singapore.”

  He smiled as he took my hand and shook it. But I was torn. Here was an attractive young man, but it had all ended well before it began. “And what do you do, Neha?” he asked.

  “Oh, I work for CNBC,” I replied, but my smile was tight.

  “Are you upset that I am Muslim?” he asked, making me jump as much for the question as for the sudden manner in which he posed it.

  “No, no,” I replied. “Why should I be?” But some part of me felt like this coffee ‘date’ was a bad idea.

  He regarded me with a steady gaze, and said, “Well, I am originally from Pakistan—on top of being Muslim—so if you want to bring the knives out now would be a good time.” We looked at each other for a couple of seconds, and then burst out laughing.

  We were to board the same flight, heading to Bombay. I was going there for a friend’s wedding, and then to Bangalore for a few days to spend some time with my sister. “Why are you going to Bombay?” I asked.

  “I am going there for some business meetings. I work in finance. Also, I have a good friend living there and this is a good way to catch up,” came the reply.

  “Girlfriend?” the word was out before I knew it. There was a surprised pause and then he smiled.

  “No, I am single,” he said, and his face lit up with a cheeky smile.

  For the next hour or so, we talked, laughed and shared a companionable silence. I felt completely at ease in his presence, almost as if I had met an old friend. When we boarded the flight, I was disappointed to realize that we were sitting several rows apart. “I wish we were sitting together,” I said as I stowed my bag away and sat down. He didn’t say anything, just walked away—I wondered if he found my comment too flirty or if he was just pushed ahead by the tide of passengers.

  The plane took off. I was leafing through the in-flight magazine when the person sitting next to me got up, and Riyaz sat in his place. I was so happy I reached over and hugged him—and when I felt his arms go around me, I knew the feeling was mutual.

  By the time we landed at Bombay, he was absolutely sure that he wanted to take it forward. I was hesitant—a Muslim, a Pakistani at that—my family wouldn’t agree, but even if they did, how would it work? I argued that even a cricket match might cause rifts between us. But he was adamant—he was more American than Pakistani (“Cricket? I watch basketball and hockey!”) and he insisted that politics could be ignored. He told me to think about it, and to call him if I changed my mind. Before we parted ways, he slipped me his business card with a local number scribbled on the back.

  Over the next two days, I could think of little else. I smiled and talked to everyone at the wedding, but my mind was elsewhere. I wondered if the rift between our countries was so big that we couldn’t build a life over the chasm. I wondered if I was being a silly romantic, falling for the grand idea of love beyond borders. I told myself that I didn’t even know this guy—what if he turned out to be a psycho or a serial killer? I tossed and turned at night, and had to use an extra coat of concealer to hide the dark tinge under my eyes the next morning.

  By the time the wedding festivities were concluded, I’d made up my mind. I called my sister and told her I would be coming a couple of days later than planned. I told her not to worry, and made up some story about meeting a long-lost friend. She knew I was lying, but also knew that it would be better to get the truth out of me face-to-face than on the phone. I hung up the phone and called Riyaz.

  “Neha! Please tell me this is not goodbye,” he said when he heard my voice.

  “No, I want to come meet you—where are you?” I asked. “I am staying at the Taj. But I am stuck in meetings all day. Tell me where you are staying, I will come pick you up.” I gave him my address; he told me he had a car with a driver, so it wouldn’t be a problem. I was staying with a friend—so there was enough to keep me distracted while I waited.

  We were watching a movie when the call came—there had been a bomb explosion at a train station. We quickly turned on the news, and watched horrified as the Taj went up in flames. I felt myself go numb when I heard about gunmen and bullets. There was no call from Riyaz. I wondered if he was hurt, or killed. And then I wondered if he was one of the terrorists. My shock was misunderstood as stemming from the horrors of the evening. I called my sister and told her I would be getting back to the safe confines of Singapore as soon as possible. She agreed that it was the best thing to do. I tried the number Riyaz had given me—a recorded voice said it couldn't be reached.

  ***

  There is a lull in the conversation. I don’t know what to say. She probably married someone else since then, and carries the lost chance of love in her heart—a little secret hidden away from the world.

  “Don’t you think that is one amazing story?” she says.

  I nod and refrain from saying that I wished for a better ending. Her phone rings. She picks up, listens and says, “I am at Starbucks. Come on over.”

  “My husband,” she says as she hangs up, “I would like you to meet him.”

  I am a little bit uncomfortable, but have no choice other than to oblige.

  A tall man walks towards us. Neha gets up and hugs him. He turns to me and holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I am Riyaz.”

  My stunned expression must have conveyed that I knew more about him than he would have expected. “He is a writer—a novelist. He was looking for a story, so I told him ours,” Neha explains.

  “Oh, yeah? Did you tell him about how I chased you all the way to Singapore and hounded the CNBC office till I found you?” he asks.

  “I didn’t, but you just did,” she laughs.

  We exchange numbers and the promise of keeping in touch before the couple head off. I open up a new Word document—looks like I can give my agent something after all. I type my dedication on the first page.

  “To Neha and Riyaz, for proving to me that politics can be ignored.”

  ∞

  ABOUT YAMINI VASUDEVAN

  A writer and editor, Yamini has worked with some of the biggest names in the publishing world—Harper’s Bazaar (Singapore), The Singapore Women’s Weekly (Singapore), and The Hindu Business Line (India). She has also co-authored 'Singapore Indian Entrepreneurs: Dreams to Reality'. Her writing spans political and historical narratives and analysis, qualitative business issues, travel and lifestyle. Fiction is a long-standing love, and she has recently penned a couple of short stories and a full-length romance novel. Yamini has also published several fiction and non-fiction pieces for children. You can read her published works at yamini16.wordpress.com.

  ***

  What Kind of Book…

  …do you read late at night, undisturbed and from cover to cover? An Indireads’ novella, of course!

  Browse titles on www.indireads.com

  One Stupid Comment

  SHUCHI KALRA & SABAHAT MUHAMMAD

  Jahaan was tired. The peace negotiations had been going on for hours now, and all the talking was making her jaw ache. Such petty things to be discussing—who cares about a tree here, or a mountain there? We came to end the war, can’t we just agree on that and be done with it? Go back to our respective corners and…

  Her gaze fell on Aryan. His smooth skin was deeply tanned from years spent in the sun. Probably as tough as an elephant’s, too. Lo
oking at his aquiline profile, she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to retreat. The deep orange strip down the back of his jacket denoted rank: the chieftain’s son, perhaps? Well, she was no less than a princess herself. It was only a matter of time before her father handed over the reins of the tribe in her sure hands. It’s too bad, she thought, that he was the enemy.

  A tribe elder said something mundane and she saw Aryan’s eyes roll; she realized he wanted this over with as much as she did.

  Aryan had sensed her watching him. Like her, he was deeply aware of her in the cramped tent. Every once in a while, he had let his gaze linger on her porcelain skin and those emerald eyes that made the rich silk of her green robes pale in comparison.

  They were the only two of their age at the negotiations—representatives of the next generation—and he was curious about her. As curious as he was about the magnificent white stallion tethered right outside the tent. When the group eventually broke for refreshments, Aryan got up to get a better look at the animal.

  In the year 2130, horses were rare—almost extinct, in fact—and he had never seen one outside of his grandfather’s picture books. How would it feel to touch it, ride it, feel its pulse throbbing as it took off with the speed of…?

  “Have you ever seen one before?”

  Aryan whipped his head around at the soft statement. Jahaan was standing right behind him, watching him. “No.” His words were clipped. He was curious about her, yes, but had no reason to be friendly.

  “Would you like to take a ride?” Jahaan’s question took him by surprise. It was an odd gesture of conciliation between tribes that had been enemies for centuries.

  Damn, is she reading my mind? “Ummm…” This wasn’t the time for ifs and buts. What if she changed her mind? “Okay.” How difficult can it be, he thought, to ride one of these things?

  Less than two minutes later, he was sitting behind a beautiful, intriguing woman on an animal that, just a day ago, was a silly fantasy. Aryan gritted his teeth in pain as his butt repeatedly smacked down on the horse’s back. He forced his mind away from the torturous rhythm of the ride, and shouted against the wind.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “The horse?” Jahaan turned her head slightly to look back at Aryan. “I don’t know—we’ve had him since I was born.”

  “Won’t they be angry at you? For taking the enemy out on a horse?”

  Jahaan gave a short laugh. “By sunrise, we’ll be allies—we are here to negotiate peace, after all, aren’t we?”

  “My grandfather said we were allies thirty years ago. It took one man’s stupid comments to break the alliance then…”

  “Are you planning on saying something stupid?” She was mocking, confident, a wry smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

  He narrowed his eyes at her as her silky hair stroked softly against his face, and he turned his head to dislodge the strands. “Not planning on it, no…wha—” Jahaan had moved her head at the same time, trying to get her hair under control. Her hand jerked on the reins just as a snake slithered onto the path before them. The white horse reared in panic, almost throwing his ride. Jahaan pulled at his mouth, but he sensed her fear at almost being thrown, and ignored her command. The horse’s sleek skin stretched over bunched muscles as he turned from the path they were on, and launched himself away from the canyon where the camp was set up.

  “What the hell happened?” Aryan’s words were snatched away by the wind, but Jahaan heard them. Struggling to control the wayward animal, she yelled back.

  “Just hold on. Whatever you do, don’t let go!”

  ***

  The stallion had run for hours, or it had seemed that way. Jahaan had dropped the reins after the first minute and just clutched at his mane, letting him ride out his fear. Aryan, by that time, was deeply regretting the ride, but like Jahaan, he had just held on and waited for the mad dash to end.

  As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Jahaan slipped off the horse. It was damp and frothing slightly at the mouth and obviously needed a rest. Aryan awkwardly followed. He forced himself to remain calm as he looked around. He had no idea how far the horse had run. More troubling than the darkness, though, as he patted his pockets for matches, was the silence.

  “Where the fuck are we?” Jahaan’s whisper floated from across the trembling horse. “Can you see anything?”

  “Just enough.” Aryan found the matches, and casually tore a strip of fabric off his shirt. Cautiously feeling along the ground with his feet, he found a small, rotted branch of wood. He wrapped the fabric around it, adding some sand to slow down the burning, then held up his makeshift torch to get a good look.

  It was a dark, dark night without a moon, but the yellow flame bounced off the black salt of the desert, and Jahaan drew in a sharp breath of fear.

  “Are we on the Kutchee Rann?”

  “You stupid…” Aryan caught himself before he went any further, but Jahaan glared at him.

  “You think this is my fault? I couldn’t control the horse!”

  “Exactly! You couldn’t control it. I thought you knew how to ride.”

  “I do know how to ride, which is why we’re still alive, you pompous jat.” The ancient word caught him a bit by surprise, and as he opened his mouth to lambast her, the torch flickered wildly, and Jahaan looked at him with a tinge of panic.

  “If that goes out…” People didn’t come back from the Kutchee Rann. “We’ll never find the way back in the dark.”

  He kept his voice calm, assured. “We’ll sleep here and wait for light. The sun will rise.”

  He swept the torch around, looking for something that could pass as shelter. The desert was notoriously cold at night.

  He heard her take a deep breath. “We should dig a hole, to sleep in. We’ll stay warm that way,” she finally offered.

  He nodded. “We will get out. We have a horse, a huge advantage over…others…who may have gotten lost here.”

  They had been walking, slowly, Jahaan leading the horse, in search for a soft bed, and something that would buffer them from the cold. She stumbled, unable to see where she was stepping, and let out a sharp cry as she fell. Aryan swept the torch towards her, and the light fell on a crumbling stone wall. Jahaan had stumbled into some ruins, barely standing, but there was a wall, and a few pillars, enough of a structure to give them the illusion of shelter. The torch created a warm ring of light, and, tethering the horse to one of the stones, Jahaan and Aryan searched for a soft spot under the wall, where they could dig a hole large enough for them to snuggle into.

  ***

  They had to use their hands to dig. The horse stood idly by, unconcerned by the humans’ frantic movements. The torch had, mercifully, survived the wild flickering, but was burning down the stick at an alarming rate, prompting the two to speed up their actions.

  “Fuck.” Aryan had scraped his hand against something sharp, breaking skin as he pulled away. Salt from the earth stung the wound, and he sat back for a moment. Jahaan was down in the hole, already almost three feet deep, and she saw the sharp edge that had wounded Aryan sticking out of the ground. It was metal, which seemed odd to her. Metal, on the salt plains? This place was a wasteland, a desolate tract of land that was rumored to be an endless desert without signs of any life, pitted with deep pockets of quicksand and natural traps that meant that humans rarely found their way out. As a result, humans never ventured in.

  She started digging around the edge, smoothing away the sand as she found straight edges of what was clearly a box. Aryan silently joined her, ignoring the sting of sand and salt against his hand.

  The box was huge. The two struggled together to pull it out of the sand and into the hole they had dug. It was buried deep within a nest of wooden planks, and they were both panting with exertion by the time they lifted it out of its cocoon.

  It was beautifully engraved but rusted and weathered.

  “It’s beautiful.” Jahaan reached out to stroke the ornate edge of the box. />
  “It looks like it was…deliberately buried.”

  “Hidden, do you think?”

  “Wait—the planks! We can light a fire, and figure out what this is.” He scrambled out of the hole, and Jahaan grabbed a handful of the crumbling planks and passed them up to him. Within a few minutes, the flickering torch settled as the fire found new material to burn.

  Jahaan was already examining the box, but there seemed to be no lock, no visible way to open it. Frowning, Aryan rested his hand on a corner, and pushed down. Jahaan jumped as a small handle popped out in front of her.

  “What on earth?”

  “Pull it.” The handle came away in her hand. Aryan took it from her, turned it around and pushed it back into the slot it had come out of. The box split in two.

  “How did you know how to do that?”

  “You grew up riding horses, I grew up reading books.”

  They both looked down at the scrolls of paper that had slipped out of the open box. There were pictures, stacked neatly just below the scrolls, and what looked like a stamp.

  “I read too—just never heard or read of a box like this.”

  Aryan frowned. “I read about a box just like this; it had something to do with an important event…” He pulled open a scroll, and suddenly sat down with a thud. “The Kutch Treaty…” His voice was a mere whisper.

  Jahaan saw the familiar crescent and star that was their tribe’s symbol on the paper. Right next to it was an ornate blue wheel, Aryan’s tribe...

  “What was the Kutch Treaty?”

  Aryan smoothed his hand over the textured paper, his brain feverish with the idea that he held the original treaty in his hand. Could this be a way forward out of the desolation in which they lived? How, he wondered, how was this in such good condition?