23-03-2021, 08:18 PM
As soon as he saw us, an eager young Indian army driver jumped out of the SUV and opened the rear door. Just as we approached, a man stepped out.
And my wife and I both stumbled to a stop.
He was big. He must have been six-three, and he was wide as well as tall, the sort of guy who you keep thinking is going to bump his shoulders on doorframes. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him—he was all solid, hard muscle. And as my eyes tracked up to his face, I saw that he was good looking, too. Nandini had once said that Indian men fell into two categories—dumpy and surly looking, or chiseled and really good looking. I hated to admit it, but I suddenly saw what she meant. The immigration guard had been the first kind—the guy had basically had no neck—but this guy was most definitely the second. He had sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw and a dusting of dark stubble around his jaw. His eyes were as coldly blue as Nandini’s are calmingly green, and his dark brows and lashes gave him a look that women would call brooding.
He was in full captain’s dress uniform—and Vishakapatnam really goes to town when it comes to their Indian army. His uniform was all rich, dark blue fabric and perfectly-polished brass buttons, and there were a good few medals across his chest. He took off his hat when he saw Nandini and held it neatly under one arm.
“Miss Mathur,” he said formally in heavily-accented Punjabi. “I am Captain Akshay Singh.” And he reached for her hand.
I blinked, because he’d said Miss and used her maiden name. Nandini had said something, when she’d organized the trip about using her maiden name to reinforce the fact she was Hindi, but I hadn’t realized she’d neglected to tell the Indian army she was married.
When I turned to look at her, she looked…hypnotized. She was much smaller than the captain, so she had to crane up to look into his eyes. She didn’t resist as he gently took her hand, lifted it up to his mouth…and kissed it. And then he looked up from her hand, straight into her eyes, as he held it there for a second.
Nandini didn’t speak. She took a breath and then another and I heard a little shudder in her breathing, as if she’d just stepped off the treadmill at the gym.
There was something about him that’s difficult for me to explain. He was…foreign, but I don’t mean anything to do with his looks or his voice. He just felt very unfamiliar. The best way I can describe it is: we’d travelled around both America and Western Europe a lot, during our years filming. All over Germany and France and Italy, I couldn’t read the road signs, but I could at least recognize the letters. But when we came far enough east, to places like Vishakapatnam, the entire alphabet was different. You couldn’t even take a stab at pronouncing the words, because it was just totally alien and strange. That’s how meeting Captain Singh felt. Like I’d just come up against something I’d never experienced before.
And my wife and I both stumbled to a stop.
He was big. He must have been six-three, and he was wide as well as tall, the sort of guy who you keep thinking is going to bump his shoulders on doorframes. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him—he was all solid, hard muscle. And as my eyes tracked up to his face, I saw that he was good looking, too. Nandini had once said that Indian men fell into two categories—dumpy and surly looking, or chiseled and really good looking. I hated to admit it, but I suddenly saw what she meant. The immigration guard had been the first kind—the guy had basically had no neck—but this guy was most definitely the second. He had sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw and a dusting of dark stubble around his jaw. His eyes were as coldly blue as Nandini’s are calmingly green, and his dark brows and lashes gave him a look that women would call brooding.
He was in full captain’s dress uniform—and Vishakapatnam really goes to town when it comes to their Indian army. His uniform was all rich, dark blue fabric and perfectly-polished brass buttons, and there were a good few medals across his chest. He took off his hat when he saw Nandini and held it neatly under one arm.
“Miss Mathur,” he said formally in heavily-accented Punjabi. “I am Captain Akshay Singh.” And he reached for her hand.
I blinked, because he’d said Miss and used her maiden name. Nandini had said something, when she’d organized the trip about using her maiden name to reinforce the fact she was Hindi, but I hadn’t realized she’d neglected to tell the Indian army she was married.
When I turned to look at her, she looked…hypnotized. She was much smaller than the captain, so she had to crane up to look into his eyes. She didn’t resist as he gently took her hand, lifted it up to his mouth…and kissed it. And then he looked up from her hand, straight into her eyes, as he held it there for a second.
Nandini didn’t speak. She took a breath and then another and I heard a little shudder in her breathing, as if she’d just stepped off the treadmill at the gym.
There was something about him that’s difficult for me to explain. He was…foreign, but I don’t mean anything to do with his looks or his voice. He just felt very unfamiliar. The best way I can describe it is: we’d travelled around both America and Western Europe a lot, during our years filming. All over Germany and France and Italy, I couldn’t read the road signs, but I could at least recognize the letters. But when we came far enough east, to places like Vishakapatnam, the entire alphabet was different. You couldn’t even take a stab at pronouncing the words, because it was just totally alien and strange. That’s how meeting Captain Singh felt. Like I’d just come up against something I’d never experienced before.
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