She laughs. She is forbidden to mention this to any prospective groom, or to anybody for that matter. She faces him. He’s not her prospect anymore.
“I don’t remember the exact details. I was told by the nurse at the mental hospital that I attacked a man with a kitchen knife in the middle of the street. There was a police case.”
“You are joking, right? That’s insane.”
“Insane. That’s a right word. Now, you can go tell your mother that I’m insane and the wedding is off. Just don’t tell Dastidar Kaku about it, if possible. He doesn’t know. Nobody knows.”
“I’m sorry. I did not mean that. I’m finding it hard to believe your story. You look perfectly normal to me, unless you are carrying a kitchen knife in your bag right now.” He gives her a smile, a open-mouthed smile of solidarity. “Who was the victim anyway? Was he dead?”
“Thankfully, no. This is the best part. He was the reason I went to Boston. He was my senior and we were in love. We were planning to get married once I finish my doctorate.”
“Then his mother found him a bride.”
“No. He decided to marry a local girl, because he had impregnated her. He came to me that day, this much I remember. He told me that he loved me, but he must marry that girl because she was carrying his child. He must protect his seed, those were his exact words.”
A silence hangs between them. Sometimes silence is the best way to extend solidarity.
[Excerpt from a story I am working on, tentatively titled 'At Victoria' or 'The First Date']