(As told to Ram Kumar Ramaswamy)
I met him five years ago in a friend’s party at a beautiful seashore bungalow in Chennai. The weather was nice, and we were a small bunch of friends invited by my school best friend to celebrate her engagement. He was a journalist. He sat opposite me as we played carom with endless cups of coffee and fryums. I heard him talk about social issues, women suffering in war-torn West Asian countries… He also gave us an intense account of Malala Yousufzai’s life. I was impressed.
What a wonderful guy!
We exchanged numbers and continued to chat on our phones for the next five weeks. Or should I say, passionately argue about any and every social issue the world faced, especially women’s issues. It was bliss. Conversations with him were addictive, and I liked the fact that he was careful not let our mutual admiration come in the way of his arguments with me. Here is a man who respects women in the truest sense of it, I believed.
We fell in love. Head over heels it was. We courted each other for three months before we decided to tie the knot. He’d make my cheeks burn red with plenty of praises of my qualities, my intellect, and even why I, a woman, was better than him. He had a way with words, and called himself the weaker sex.