At the interview.

Are you married?
No!

Don't want to get married?
Nothing like that.

Waiting for someone in line?
Yes for Milind Soman, hoping he will meet me someday and realise we are made for each other. If he gets married before the above mentioned dream is realized, then I might get married to the next rich guy I come across and who is foolish enough to marry me.

I didn't say any of that, though now I feel I should have, as I didn't take up that job any ways and at Renuka's house read in Mumbai Mirror that Milind Soman has finally got married. I had not meant to go to Renuka's place, had gone to the Maharashtra State Board for Education, in Vashi, to collect the migration certificate for a cousin. I had gone there early morning, only to be told certificate will be issued between 2.30pm and 5.00pm, I should have checked the time on the back of the receipt. The stamp on the back of the receipt was blotched, the time could have been 10.30 or 12.30 or anything that fancied your imagination. I wanted to cry, it was my third visit to this excuse of an education institute, if I say I was frustrated it would be an understatement. I called amma and wanted to cry, but I didn't, told her will be home soon. On my way to the Vashi station, in the rickshaw I wanted to cry, I didn't. I wanted to cry while I was waiting for the train, but I didn't.

And at that moment I thought of Renuka, who stays close to the Board, she had called the day before and told me she is not well so will be home. I called her and asked if I could visit her, she said yes. At her home had a good time, went through this book called, 'The Little big Book of Love"

A poem from this book. Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds by William Shakespeare.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved.
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.