10
I knocked on the door of Riya’s bedroom, located on the first floor
of her house.
‘Come in, Madhav,’ Riya said and sniffled, ‘Meet your sick friend.’
She was in bed, leaning against the backrest with her legs stretched
out. She wore a white night-suit with pink dots all over it. She looked
like candy, more cute than ill. Viral fever suited her.
‘Wait. Come back in again. I should sit with a thermometer in my
mouth,’ she said.
I smiled and sat on a chair near her bed.
‘How are you feeling?’ I said.
She shifted to the side and bent to look under the bed. She pulled
out a guitar. Strumming it once, she started to sing.
‘Terrible, I feel terrible. And I need a hug.’
I looked at her, surprised.
‘Because I’m sure. That is my only cure.'
She saw my shell-shocked face and winked at me. Even though
she sang as a joke, I loved her voice and the goofy lyrics of her song.
‘You sing well,’ I said, ‘and the guitar-playing is not bad either.’
‘Ha ha. I feel terrible. I also sing terribly,’ she said.
‘No you don’t.You’re good,' I said.
She smiled and kept her guitar aside. She spread her arms.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I said I need a hug.’
It is funny how women feel they have the right to demand physical
affection whenever they want, but men can’t. Like a trained pet, I
stood up and bent to embrace her.
‘You don’t have fever,’ I said as I held her. Her body felt cold, in
fact.
‘I did a few hours ago. I took a nap and now I am better.’
‘You are fine.’
She mock-frowned. 'I am a sick girl. Please take care of me,’ she