I challenged her to take a chance with me. I asked her to look deep down inside her heart for that buried ember still glowing in the ashes of our once cherished love. I almost drowned in her eyes that night. Here gaze was so gentle yet sad. Tears welling up as she offered me a soft smile. God I love her so much!
But then she said she was with child and that father was not I. She explained to me that "had she, with hairy plumber, three times on carpet and twice on head of dinner table where bread is broke." Her Punjabi accent cut strongly across her poorly grammatically-constructed English as she told me this on her knees. I mechanistically applied swift slaps to her mauve-hued cheeks--two small ones on each. However, I knowing first thing how lusty my plumber could be, him swinging both ways and I fleeing in fear, immediately forgave her most heinous of deeds.
Then I said, "Ghyldidra, I, Chitmahutni of Hydrabaad, renounce the inquietude of having heard this most despicable of acts. I adore thee with all my heart. Wilt thou be mine lawfully wedded wife?" Her countenance was one of surprise, but in a flash she acquiesced. We were to be betrothed on the third Monday of the month of May, with the setting of the solar eclipse. We were joined in a state of unholy matrimony by the archbishop of Canterbury and then we fled to ancient India where we spent the remainder of our days relaxing and eating yogurt-curried chapatis.
Well, not quite. There's more to this tale of requited love. You see we went to the great battlefield known as kurushsetra where 5000 years ago there was a catastrophic battle between good and evil. As we were 72% good, 5% bad and 21% spiritually malnourished, we opted to remain in our holy pilgrimage for another three nights so that we could chant the great mahamantra one-hundred and thirteen times on our japa beads provided by our portly shirpa named Sanpath Sabahababotachu. We meditated humbly on Krshna's sacred names:
Hare Krshna Hare Krshna
Krshna Krshna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare
The very sound of this sweet nectar projected itself into our third eye and made us cry in ecstasy. We then took prasadam, or a vegetarian meal first offered to Krshna, and then proceeded to go scuba diving in the Ganges river. Despite the fact that the cremated remains of countless Indians drifted by us, we could still clearly see people bathing in the river, although this was not our intent. We merely were curious to see if any hippopotami habituated beneath the weathered mangroves along the shoreline. There were none to our great dismay. Nevertheless, we had a splendid time frolicking like a couple of school children in the tepid water.
Afterwards, we snacked on some pickled mangos, chutney, as it were, and then climbed up the chundramundra, the astronomical structures built long ago. As you may recall from the discovery channel, or sesame street, if you prefer, these chundramundra are a conglomerate of massive staircases that lead to nowhere. Amazing really. One just climbs to the top and that's it: you either are teleported into space, directed toward the heavenly planets, or you inevitable fall 20 stories to an untimely demise. Since we had the choice, we opted for the former rather than to be reborn as a fungus or peanut. We underwent a transmigration of the soul that evening, anyhow. I became a doe-eyed cow and Ghyldi became the lovely cow-herd boy with the conch horn named Arjuna. To this day we remain inseparable dancers within a grassy knoll of Krshnalandia.
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