If I had time I’d write this story I heard from a friend, about this woman who married a man she met on a plane. Sat next to him reading the same magazine – even on the same page - picture of the Taj Mahal.
“I’ve always wanted to go,” says the man and the woman says it’s a sign. Within weeks they got married.
I’d tell you all the stuff about how that was bonkers and hasty, but there’s no time for that. Fill in the gaps if you will. Dress. Cake. Dancing.
Skip a few months and they’re landing in Delhi.
Noisy. Sweaty. Anyone would be crabby. They both are. They’re so hot their fingers swell up. They work their wedding rings off with soap. She puts them in her purse for safekeeping.
Usual tour of Delhi – Red Fort, Humayun’s tomb, Jama Masjid. Then to Agra early for the sunrise tour, planning to get there before the hoards.
The hoards have the same idea.
The couple start arguing. I mean, who wouldn’t? This was their dream afterall.
Mostly they bicker about beggars.
He says, “Just give them some coins.”
She says, “It doesn’t help.”
But the beggars keep asking and he keeps tutting, so in the end she gives a few coins away, and then a few more, until she isn’t paying attention, just dipping her hand and giving out coins and wishing they’d leave her alone.
Cut to the plane home. He’s trying to make peace. Says they should get married again. Presses the buzzer for the steward to be witness. She puts her hand in the purse for the rings. Of course, they’ve gone. She feels sick – realises she’s given them away.
Says it’s a sign.
If only I had time.