The Death of Mr Love by Indra Sinha

Author:Indra Sinha [Sinha, Indra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471152917
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Maya told Sybil of the experience of a friend of hers, who was in love with a man who had treated her miserably – on off, off on – for years. Maya’s friend yearned for this man, suffered agonies for him. One day, having returned from one of his long absences abroad, he took her to lunch. Over soup she noticed a shred of watercress stuck to his moustache. She laughed out loud. In that instant she knew that she did not love him. He was ridiculous. He was still sitting there, smiling when she pushed back her chair and left. She never saw him again.

But when Mister Love takes Sybil to lunch, there is no soup, no polished silver spoon. It’s – this food is traditional Indian, you eat with your fingers, so – here, may I show you? – reaches over and presses her fingers to form a sloppy ball of rice and sauce – and now to your mouth – oh dear, chin – here, let me wash your fingers – dabs them with a napkin wetted in the rosewater bowl – does it taste nice? is it good? – brings one of her fingers to his lips, rolls them wetly over it, flicks her finger with his tongue, gently sucks – mmm, this is delicious, just like my granny used to make. Sybil experiences a sensation akin to falling. She realises that this oddly plummeting feeling is love and that she has never felt it before.

I have a lovely secret, a special feeling, like a gift that has come to me and woken me from sleep. There’s not a minute when I don’t think of him, and I marvel at my own foolishness. My wild imaginings. Running off together, a whole new life. I know it would be absolute bliss and also know I am being unrealistic. I sit trying to picture his face, going over and over the same few things: every smile that showed he likes me, ditto his smallest gestures, most inconsequential remarks. This morning Phoebe was talking to me and after a while I realised I hadn’t heard a word. I keep having to drag myself back to my mundane world, when really I am on a different plane. At times I feel despairing, and want to bang my head on the table. At other times, I know that this is the height of happiness. When I put a record on the gramophone, every song I hear speaks directly to me, is sung for me only, carries a special message just for me. That record ‘When I fall in love’, L plays it twenty times running. I’ll sing the words to myself even when Killy is in the room and feel oddly liberated, for my life is no longer anything to do with him. He will speak, and I look up in surprise. So much is going on in my head that I’m not aware I haven’t spoken a word for hours.

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