Tale teller: Nikhil Katara
He was tall,
He was smiling
He was french…
She was quiet,
She was shy ,
She was Russian.
I was on vacation ,
I couldn’t help eavesdropping,
I was Indian,
I had the google translate on and I could understand every word of what they were saying.
I’d heard french people are arrogant. But not this man, he was warm and polite. His words were poetry.
She was shy and conscious, she spoke little though she coloured her words with her beautiful smile.
How did he speak to her,
How did she understand his words. It was beyond my comprehension. But they both beamed with the same intensity, as if there was a universal language that doesn’t need words to express itself.
As she was about to leave, I heard him say
‘Merci pour la belle conversation’ and she replied ‘
спасибо за прекрасный разговор’
The tangled nature of this conversation was just like the papaya salad that sat on my table. Even though it had many ingredients inside, many colours and many textures, there was a spicy sweetness to it. That didn’t take too much thinking to enjoy.
If this wasn’t love, what was?