Close to Nature

Close to Nature

There was this lovely old house, built by an old Parsi who's long dead now, but who's name still remains on the shining brass plate at the gate. Lovely old house, tall ceilings that make me want to become Spiderman, gardens that make me want to roll in them, a swimming pool that shimmers, a portico where I spent afternoons, a swing that gave me the heebie-jeebies.

I spent my time in Lonavla reading on the portico, swaying on the swing, and dreaming of Nature Boy.

We had made a pact not to interact for those two days: no messages, no phone calls. I'm smiling right now, as I think of the imperious message he sent shortly: Ok, pact's over. Missing ya. Call NOW! I would have loved to: only, my damn balance was down, and I had -Rs 15.65 on my phone. Talk about being precise. Awful.

So there I was, reading a chapter, then looking at the pool, and wishing I was splashing about with Nature Boy. Wishing he was there on the other swing, both of us reading books, looking up now and then to smile at each other, strolling around the Khandala backwoods, and doing a myriad other things, except stare profoundly at my cell phone and wish that I could sms him back.

And yes, I kept imagining those Endless Nights of Passion (Richard Marx).