by Pauline Masurel
We spent that summer cocooned in a hammock slung in the brightest patch of sunshine. We fantasised about chicken chat nestling on fresh bed of salad with squeezes of lemon for added zest. We'd wrangle for hours over ordering murgh or marsala. With saag, brinjal or aloo gobi? Finally, after she'd almost tipped us out with tickling, we'd come to some agreement and begin to dream of kulfi.
We hardly ever got to dine. Dusk drew us too close to go inside, shower and change from shorts. Instead we found our own gentle, airborne way to work up a sweat beneath the stars.
Afterwards we fell asleep. Later I'd wake, stomach rumbling, with netted patterns of rope impaled on backs of thighs and her head cradled against my breast.
That was my sweetest summer. I don't think I'll ever enjoy a meal as much as the ones we never ate.
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