We are all strangers until

She watched as the last car left their gate. Yes, it was theirs now, no longer hers alone. The evening hadn't weakened the sun's glare. The heat was killing her but she wandered around in the veranda procrastinating going in. She suddenly missed her father terribly. She wished he'd stayed around, at least for a few more days. But then she wouldn't have been in this situation at all. At last, she went in.

He looked up as she entered, the sun rays exposing the honey color in his eyes. She'd initially thought they were plain black. She made a mental note of this. He gave a quick smile but didn't say anything. Not the communicative kind then. She noted that. She was quite the opposite. Beautiful red, green, purple packages were strewn all across the floor. She loved gift wraps. She'd undo each gift as carefully as possible so as to store the wrapping and reuse it maybe. He glanced up at her as he bent to take a package. She assumed he wanted them to open their gifts now. She moved to sit next to him, hesitated, and sat on the floor instead, a few feet away.

She had begun meticulously separating the cello tape from the corners as he tore open his package. The gashed paper glinted and glared at them as they took in each other's movement. She gave a perfunctory smile and looked down quickly. Her neatly folded wrapping on the floor was sparkling under the sunlight. Her box revealed a tiny gold plated Ganesha, his, a wallet-purse combo. She took up a heavier box next. She didn't notice his actions till he passed her a sheet of wrapping paper, folded almost as neatly as hers. This time, her smile was genuine and stayed longer on her face. She unwrapped a tea-set. He, another tea-set. They chuckled as they put both on the table and reached for another package. This one they opened together. He stared at a wall painting of the Aurora Borealis for a full minute. The streaks reflected in his now black eyes seemed to materialize the phenomenon right there in their drawing room. Must be his dream vacation. She made a note of this. They'd received a variety of gifts. Most were household furnishings. Some utensils, some showpieces, sets of glassware and cooking apparatus. Many tea-sets. As they opened their fifth set of tea-cups, they both groaned before bursting into a split of laughter. She'd rented this house nearly 2 years ago. This must've been the first time its walls echoed with laughter. The stack of gift wraps was taller and not so glaring anymore. The sunlight had mellowed.

He was shy about using the bathroom. He hesitated when she told him he could use it first, and insisted that she was with more baggage to clean off so she use the bathroom first and of course, the room as well. He'd wait in the hall till she finished, unless she wanted help perhaps? Quite the gentleman. She made a note of this. She was blushing as furiously as him when she rejected any help and assured him she'll finish fast. After the door had closed, she stood in front of the mirror wondering why her heart beat so fast. It was a 1 BHK, meant for 1 person, or a couple. Even though she was the one who told her mother she could find someone for her, the reality of it hadn't set in till this afternoon. The bedroom had closed them in and she'd grown conscious. But that was only because he himself had been so conscious about it. How can a man of his age be so shy. Then she wondered "why shouldn't a man be shy. This was new to him too. He must've had less or no physical interaction with the opposite sex, just like her. A man who waited till marriage". A wave of respect and unity surged through her. He was just like her. She looked around at the walls, always bare, but now patterned by the shadows and wrinkles of the softened sunlight peeking through the curtains. They looked shy too. Perhaps they were seeing a stranger in her too, today.

She washed quickly and wore a better-than-homewear dress. He must be hungry. She wondered what she'd have to cook. The smell of coconut oil and freshly boiled milk hit her as she opened the bedroom door. She stood rooted at the kitchen door as she noted his hands, dripping with the pakoda batter, oil crackling loudly, were deftly sliding each coated potato slice into the frying pan. "Thought I'll make potato bhajji. I was hungry, pretty sure you are too, and it's easy. The oil was already poured out by your mom for pappad I think. Do you mind that I used your kitchen?"

He made the best bhajjis, she decided. Even better than her mother's had been in her memory. That thought felt traitorous. But one's allegiance must be sworn to the king. Specially when one crowns him for oneself.

She brought out one of the "tea-sets" they'd unpacked. Pure white with dark, striking borders of red. Much like her new bangles. She arranged the table as neatly as she could, with lace material given by her aunt, a flower in a new china cup, sugar in a crystal bowl, a side plate for him, at the head of the table. She made tea the proper Indian way. Half milk, half water, lots of sugar.

He had apologetically enquired for a towel rather than the traditional "thorthu" that she had kept for him. She noted that. He'd taken barely 5 min in the bathroom versus her 25. He really deserved to go first, she thought to herself. The smell of Cinthol and Old Spice filled her nostrils as she served him. So, he preferred Cinthol to her Himalya Herbal. She made a note of that. She must add it to her monthly shopping list. His smile was more pronounced and she noted a tiny dimple as he watched pouring the tea. The sun had set but the room was aglow with the pink and orange it left in its wake.

She suggested making "upmav" for the night. He strictly told her not to enter the kitchen tonight and that take-out was more than enough. He said he knew someone who could arrange for a maid for them and from tomorrow she could cook for them. Let the cleaning lady do the sweeping, mopping, they could perhaps eat dinner watching a movie. He suggested watching the 1981 hit-film "Silsila". "Why Silsila?", she asked, shocked. "I noticed your watched list", he replied. Yes, it was one of the few Rekha movies she hadn't seen. In fact it was the only big one she'd missed. Had he googled it. Well, he must have. Who would watch old Rekha movies these days. But he'd noticed yet another detail. It suddenly struck her that he may have noted as many preferences and attributes of hers as she has of his. When she'd decided to support her widowed mother at the age of 35, her bank account showed 3 lakhs. She's never anticipated any immediate use to that money since it had been more than enough for a lower middle class life of solitude. When she took up the cause for feminism, same-sex marriages, and atheism, she was barely 19. It was also the year her parents disowned her. But that had not bothered her much then. Travelling and interacting with women from different parts of India, selling them the dream of independence and self-employment had hardly required any money of her own. The group she was part of was funded by NGOs and she was in the last 5 years, a recognized voice of the movement. There had been no time for loneliness and her life would've continued on with very little personal addition if her father hadn't passed away in a sudden accident. When she saw her mother, 16 years later, a thin, fragile, broken woman, with no bank balance, with no siblings, she'd quietly brought her home. Her mother had been diagnosed with cancer a year ago and all the savings her parents had accumulated were eaten up in a year. That night, as her mother slept beside her, after 20 years she suspected, she lay awake deciding the future that was now no longer hers alone. When morning came, her face was drawn but calm as she told her mother to register her on any matrimonial site she wished to. She knew there'll be men, mostly divorced, mostly over 40, but rich, and willing to marry her, marry anyone.

He knew she'd married him for the money. He'd read up about her. Strangely, it hadn't upset him. He wondered if she would enquire about why he'd not got married till now. Most men married at 28. Here he was, at 42. But she didn't seem interested. And he was glad. The truth was that, he just didn't know why. He'd never felt the need perhaps. He'd been so busy making money. He'd never missed company. But now he'd felt like some. It wasn't for children, not for pleasure, not for help physically, or to look after his parents. It was simply for company. And as she entered their room that night, the sacred vermilion line of Sindur flashing on her forehead, he suspected she knew it too.

She and he would remember that night many years later, as they watch a red streak of the Aurora Borealis set the sky aflame with it's brilliance.