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Garba Magic

by

Neale Sourna

Khabir must go to a Garba dance and seek a bride, his father expects so; while every mother there is a hawk and he a juicy worm to be chewed and fed to their daughters; until a girl on her own rescues him, and....

-------

My back was against the wall, Dad’d ordered me to come to the dance.

“Find a nice traditional girl, not those sluts you’re always hanging around.” Subtle, right?

I leaned against the wall, as pretty country girls and not so pretty smiled hard, or their moms did, before pinching and prodding their daughters my way; so I tried to not make eye contact, while clutching my Garba sticks, and planning escape.

She was laughing at me.

No. At my predicament. But it wasn’t funny.

She made a face. I made one back. She made a heads up gesture, as a determined mom headed my way, to find out “why you’re thinking yourself too good for my little girl.”

I ran. Irate mom chased me.

My new friend intercepted.

“There you are, you promised, you mean thing; promised to only dance with me this last night. Oh, hello, Mrs. Paritosh.” My rescuer boldly pulled me onto the floor and we silently danced the round together.

My lovely rescuer had eyes like warm brandy, and a figure and face that held my fascinated gaze. The Garba ended and the moms were now concentrating on another unattached man, like wolves on a tired gazelle.

“Thank you, sir, for dancing with me,” she said in bashful softness.

“Why so shy now?” She blushed, looked away, as if about to flee. “No, really, why?”

“You needed help. Mothers are ruthless when they find a fine catch, or even just a man just barely still breathing.” I laughed, and Mrs. Paritosh glared at me, then at my rescuer, sniffed, and then turned her back on us.

“What’s your name?”

My charming rescuer eventually began to speak, but stared over my shoulder, and frowned. I looked around, and saw nothing.

Turning back, she was gone! So was my heart.

* * * *

It’d been weeks. I’d say exactly how long, by days, hours, and minutes, but it might sound too pathetic. The Garba. Irate Mrs. Paritosh on my trail about not dancing with her unmarried daughter. I was rescued. I’d shared one dance and my lovely rescuer’d vanished without leaving her name.

Nor did anyone else know, not even Mrs. Paritosh.

I left the office and entered the crowded streets, thinking I must get back to the country, to try again to find her, when I found her.

“Hey! HEY!” Everyone looked around, except her, as I followed. Down long streets, and an ally or two. Into a flower market, I’d always only ever been to before when I was quite small. I was tired of following and wanted to know the cherished answer she’d not given: her name. And more.

I caught her up, and I fear I forgot myself and grabbed her around.

“Oh!”

“No. It’s me. You rescued me at Garba, from Mrs. Paritosh’s wrath?”

“Oh! It’s you. It really is you.”

“I’ve been following you for blocks.” Her beautiful eyes went wide.

“You have?”

“Don’t faint.”

“I-I’m not.”

“I’m not convinced.”

Then, in the midst of a rainbow of flowers and herbs and peoples of all kind, and rumbling vehicles, horns, yapping dogs, and laughing and crying children, we were silent.

“I … I have to go.”

“I’ve just found you, again.”

“I found YOU last time.” Then she blushed, and was backing away.

“Tell me where I can find you, again. Please. I must see you again.”

She smiled, shyly, still backing away. I took a step and she shook her head “no.” I stopped. That pleased her, but made me desperate, until—.

“Tomorrow, noon, here.” She ran.

And I’d still not gotten her name.

* * * *

I’d gotten to the flower market far before noon the next day, to wait for her, but she snuck up—.

“Boo!” I jumped, and she giggled, and then said, “My name is Lilla. What’s yours, besides ‘that snotty fellow’?”

“What?”

“That’s what Mrs. Paritosh and the other mothers called you at the dance.”

“Really.” Forget those mothers, pun intended. “Lilla. Your name’s lovely; and they’re vipers.”

She giggled again, for “lovely” or “viper,” or both, I wasn’t certain.

“It’s foreign. Short for Elisabeth, but not Lillia or Lillian, I don’t understand why though.”

“Your given name’s Elisabeth then?”

“No. Just Lilla. Mother prayed at the temple for a name for me, and that was the first that came to her. ‘Like a soft voice in her ear,’ she said.” I swallowed rather hard, lovely wasn’t a word good enough for Lilla. “You haven’t answered.”

“W-What?”

“YOUR name, snotty.” She giggled, and I thought “charming.”

“Um, it’s Khabir.” She then pulled a “charming” face, as she thought about it, then smiled.

“I like it, which I’m, of course, certain your mother and father have waited many years to hear.”

“Just my father.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I.... I’m—.”

“It’s fine. Dear Lilla, how could you make my father so right?” She looked perplexed, and charming. “Well. Do you want something to eat?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“So let’s do it anyway. My treat.”

“A-All right. If you wish,” she said quietly, again the bashfulness back, after teasing me so.

She let me take her hand and place it on my arm, and I placed my other hand over hers, securing her presence beside me.

Poor Mrs. Paritosh will kill me, because like father’d said I would, I’d found my bride at the country dance.

* * *

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