23-03-2021, 08:19 PM
The captain smiled and finally dropped Nandini’s hand and the spell that had been holding both of us was broken. I stepped forward and offered my hand. “Asif Ali,” I said firmly.
The captain turned to me and smiled politely but a little disinterestedly. “Miss Mathur’s cameraman?” he asked.
“And also her husband,” I told him. I’d been planning it in my head, and in my head it sounded confident and grand—putting him in his place a little. But when it came out of my mouth, it didn’t sound confident or grand at all. It sounded nervous and petulant, like a child demanding the grown-ups acknowledge that he really is a pirate.
It made him take notice of me, though. Just not in the way I’d been hoping.
“Her husband?” said the captain. He turned to Nandini . “But you are unmarried.”
My wife did something I’d never seen her do before: she dropped her eyes to the ground, just for an instant, as if shamed. She’s never done that with me. She’s a very proud woman, always holding her ground in an argument. Then she looked back up into those cold blue eyes. “There must have been a mistake,” she said quietly.
The captain pulled a piece of neatly-folded paper from his pocket and made a big show of unfolding it and reading it. “Miss Nandini Mathur,” he read in his deep, accented voice, “requests to accompany the Sindhughosh on its final voyage, together with her cameraman.”
There was absolute silence for a second. I should have been leaping to my wife’s rescue, but I felt almost ill. It was like being a couple of high college kids, caught by the principal.
“I made a mistake,” said Nandini in a voice that was almost a whisper. “Galti ho gayi.” Sorry.
I blinked. I’d barely heard her speak Indian in years. And she was gazing up into his eyes in a way I’d never seen before. On camera, she could be flirty and vivacious, but when she met men in person she was shy and almost awkward—people often couldn’t believe it was the same woman from the videos. But she didn’t look shy or awkward now. She looked more…dumbstruck. Awed, almost.
The captain turned to me and smiled politely but a little disinterestedly. “Miss Mathur’s cameraman?” he asked.
“And also her husband,” I told him. I’d been planning it in my head, and in my head it sounded confident and grand—putting him in his place a little. But when it came out of my mouth, it didn’t sound confident or grand at all. It sounded nervous and petulant, like a child demanding the grown-ups acknowledge that he really is a pirate.
It made him take notice of me, though. Just not in the way I’d been hoping.
“Her husband?” said the captain. He turned to Nandini . “But you are unmarried.”
My wife did something I’d never seen her do before: she dropped her eyes to the ground, just for an instant, as if shamed. She’s never done that with me. She’s a very proud woman, always holding her ground in an argument. Then she looked back up into those cold blue eyes. “There must have been a mistake,” she said quietly.
The captain pulled a piece of neatly-folded paper from his pocket and made a big show of unfolding it and reading it. “Miss Nandini Mathur,” he read in his deep, accented voice, “requests to accompany the Sindhughosh on its final voyage, together with her cameraman.”
There was absolute silence for a second. I should have been leaping to my wife’s rescue, but I felt almost ill. It was like being a couple of high college kids, caught by the principal.
“I made a mistake,” said Nandini in a voice that was almost a whisper. “Galti ho gayi.” Sorry.
I blinked. I’d barely heard her speak Indian in years. And she was gazing up into his eyes in a way I’d never seen before. On camera, she could be flirty and vivacious, but when she met men in person she was shy and almost awkward—people often couldn’t believe it was the same woman from the videos. But she didn’t look shy or awkward now. She looked more…dumbstruck. Awed, almost.
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