Her fits were worsening or may be they were same. Calling them worse wouldn't have made any difference, only his worries about her health would multiply. Nothing else.
He played his guitar. He sang too. But when she would join in, he would know she was back.
"I may run you through the wall!", she had told him on their date set up by their parents. A strue believer like her, she couldn't find a single guy to pass her basic tests - she had designed them personally. And as of him, he had given universe a fair share of chances but it never brought her to him before.
"... and how do you think I should respond to this ?", he was caught off-guard. His voice fumbled.
"I don't know. You can always surprise me!", the despair of another hopeless meet was all across her face.
It had been 7 years since that day when she wore the red lehenga with loud yet subtle golden zari and he donned a sherwani of her choice, an elegant white piece and a match to her lehenga.
He knew who he was marrying. She was the one who taught him the mysteries of vulnerability, trust and freedom in love. She was the one who would bring him anything and everything to his feet without him even knowing he needed them.
She would put her fingers through his hair when he'd cry, hold his hand when he felt alone. She would bring him back his world whenever a thought of it slipping through his hand streak through his mind. He couldn't believe he got so lucky.
She was his world.
And when this would get threatened, he would do anything to bring her back.
She was passionate, yet with freaks on. Never would have her parents imagined they were not just teenage hormones at play. They intensified over time. The panic attacks, the mood-swings who would believe would turn into something so illusive. So dangerous that a minute late she would freak out about being in her own house. It would look completely different suddenly or she would forget what her home looked like of if she had any. And to get away she would run anywhere. The only thing that she would remember would be the song - the one she wrote and forced him to put it to a tune.
She was diagnosed with a mental disorder. So her office let her go.
Last evening, the day of their anniversary he came home with a bouquet of plastic daisies. Had they been alive, the thought of them dying the next day would have called for a closed-casket funeral and the whole nine yards.
"How can anyone pluck them? Ever?"
So she had asked him always to get her plastic ones and he had agreed in a jiff.
He started on with all lighting arrangements and went on to order the food palette, her favourite. Things were in place but he still couldn't hear a word from her. It was longer than usual. He called her but she was nowhere inside. He suddenly blitzed out of his mind and ran out. He must have gone few hundred metres when he found her at a store shouting at the shopkeeper because he had wrapped the book in a green paper not the blue one she had picked out.
She had promised him a nice anthology for their anniversary and that must have been the one.
He looked up and thanked the universe and his God for making him the luckiest man.
He played his guitar. He sang too. But when she would join in, he would know she was back.
"I may run you through the wall!", she had told him on their date set up by their parents. A strue believer like her, she couldn't find a single guy to pass her basic tests - she had designed them personally. And as of him, he had given universe a fair share of chances but it never brought her to him before.
"... and how do you think I should respond to this ?", he was caught off-guard. His voice fumbled.
"I don't know. You can always surprise me!", the despair of another hopeless meet was all across her face.
It had been 7 years since that day when she wore the red lehenga with loud yet subtle golden zari and he donned a sherwani of her choice, an elegant white piece and a match to her lehenga.
He knew who he was marrying. She was the one who taught him the mysteries of vulnerability, trust and freedom in love. She was the one who would bring him anything and everything to his feet without him even knowing he needed them.
She would put her fingers through his hair when he'd cry, hold his hand when he felt alone. She would bring him back his world whenever a thought of it slipping through his hand streak through his mind. He couldn't believe he got so lucky.
She was his world.
And when this would get threatened, he would do anything to bring her back.
She was passionate, yet with freaks on. Never would have her parents imagined they were not just teenage hormones at play. They intensified over time. The panic attacks, the mood-swings who would believe would turn into something so illusive. So dangerous that a minute late she would freak out about being in her own house. It would look completely different suddenly or she would forget what her home looked like of if she had any. And to get away she would run anywhere. The only thing that she would remember would be the song - the one she wrote and forced him to put it to a tune.
She was diagnosed with a mental disorder. So her office let her go.
Last evening, the day of their anniversary he came home with a bouquet of plastic daisies. Had they been alive, the thought of them dying the next day would have called for a closed-casket funeral and the whole nine yards.
"How can anyone pluck them? Ever?"
So she had asked him always to get her plastic ones and he had agreed in a jiff.
He started on with all lighting arrangements and went on to order the food palette, her favourite. Things were in place but he still couldn't hear a word from her. It was longer than usual. He called her but she was nowhere inside. He suddenly blitzed out of his mind and ran out. He must have gone few hundred metres when he found her at a store shouting at the shopkeeper because he had wrapped the book in a green paper not the blue one she had picked out.
She had promised him a nice anthology for their anniversary and that must have been the one.
He looked up and thanked the universe and his God for making him the luckiest man.
-------------------------------------------------------
Based on the quote - "It's hard to beat somebody when they don't give up." - Babe Ruth."
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Honest Opinion please,