What seemed fun then feels tragic today. What felt like a tragedy then feels like a comedic sketch now. Before I go further, here are some instructions and sage advice for my readers.

If you have a friend who is in a relationship, do not be their friend until they are married.

If you have a friend who asks you for money and never pays you back, rest assured that even after marriage, they will continue to ask. It’s safer to cut this friendship now.

If your friends drink, learn to drive.

And if you still think this is worth it, wait until I reveal how I was taken to the police station because of my friend.

This all happened ten or fifteen years ago—I’m not really sure. But it happened when I was young and going to the gym every day to keep up with my raging hormones. Good times. I studied at a college that I didn’t want to attend. (It was like a divine conspiracy to make my life miserable; if only I hadn’t gone to that college, I wouldn’t have a broken heart now—but that’s a story for another day). Now, this story is about my good friend. Post-graduate studies weren’t common then, and very few people enrolled. Our only future prospect seemed to be becoming bald-headed professors with bad taste.

The first semester crawled by like a sloth. I spent my time in the library while my friend was smitten by a first-year undergraduate. He had already loved another girl, but she had married and eloped with a bus conductor. (If you want girls to chase after you, become a bus driver or conductor). He wasn’t devastated by this. (Probably wasn’t true love).

Then it happened, and I remember him vividly describing the proposal scene. Our hero stood arched by the corridor rails—lean, tall, unusually dark—chatting with first-year students, sharing his wisdom. Then she appeared, this almost homely girl, standing unusually close to him. This continued for several days: standing close to him but never talking. (I wasn’t there; this is all hearsay, as I told you I was in the library arranging the Norton Anthology series).

Tamil movies have spoiled romance.

Let’s call the girl Chitra and the boy Santhosh. Santhosh stood in his usual place, and Chitra stood unusually close, as usual. No one was around. Utilizing the opportunity, she pulled his ID card closer to her, read his name, and said, “I love you.” She expertly removed the ID card and walked away saying, “Tomorrow, give me an answer, and then you can have your ID card back.”

Let me explain the symbolism here. Many readers won’t spend five years getting a Literature degree, so symbols are important. Like how blue means depression, red is anger, and purple is lust. The next day, Santhosh wore blue, but Chitra wore white. Her hair was loose, her heart singing a trending love song, and the ID card was hidden in her palm. She replayed the previous day’s scene a hundred times. (Note: if you missed the symbol here, let me make it clear. This is an ID card—Identity—she stole his identity. I’m making it easier for the English teachers here, who will never get to teach this story to you, as they would be extinct, and some dumb AI would probably interpret this story for you.)

I apologize for interrupting the story so much, but it’s vital I explain all this. Otherwise, you’ll miss all the reading between the lines. This story isn’t a typical love story—it’s political. Yes, let’s get back to the day she returned the ID card. In fact, she imagined it as a thali chain(for all my white friends it is a thread tied to a women after marriage)  and wrapped it around his neck. Usually, it’s the guy who does that, but here she did it symbolically. Like a sheep heading for slaughter.

Then love blossomed. Lunches together, fights for no reason, bunking classes, movie sessions, secret looks, late-night texting, pride in each other’s vain achievements—all the garbage lovers do. Just thinking about lovers’ commitment makes my head expand like a balloon.

“Dai, wait here, I’ll drop her and come,” he left me one day at a rather peculiar place. I waited. One hour passed before he returned. In that hour, I spiraled into depression, chiding myself for not learning to ride a bike, for my reliance on others, and of course, for no girl liking me. The first two I have successfully mastered, but the last part—well, never mind. I’m now a tourist guide in Venice. I came here to see how this city is drowning, not for a girl dashing to open a window to yell out, “Richard, Richard, where are you?”

But no one calls my name.

Days passed, and I watched these lovers become lovers. Night and day talking, hanging out, feeding each other in the canteen, and holding hands. I didn’t mind. Days, as they do, ran away, cheating youth of an eternal summer. The exams were done, and we were searching for jobs.

We both got communication trainer jobs. Same company, same school, and just like we went to college together, we went to work together as well. Every day we caught a bus to work. While I read a book, he texted his girlfriend. A year slowly plodded by, and now and then he would disappear to meet Chitra.

Then suddenly, Chitra’s parents discovered this affair, but they didn’t do anything. They thought nothing would come of it, that the girl would change. Besides, she would never marry outside her caste. This had been injected into her from her youth. She knew what would happen if she ever stepped aside: instant death. Chitra didn’t believe this though; she continued to love him. Like Shakespeare said, love is blind.

When Chitra got her Bachelor’s degree, she didn’t want to be a Bachelor anymore.

“They are searching for a groom,” she told Santosh. “What are you planning to do?”

Santosh had been doing odd jobs and saving cash for the last six months. He knew this day would come. So he got help from a political group that saved couples in intercaste marriages. (I didn’t know this at the time.)

“Don’t worry,” said one of the members. “We can protect you legally, but if you die, we can’t do anything,” he smiled.

Santosh planned to elope with the girl meticulously. Well, not exactly meticulously—he forgot many things. He forgot that he had friends like me. Never bothered to delete our Facebook photos. BIG MISTAKE.

Santosh had once taken her to his home. His mother already knew.

“Hey, Richard, why this fellow doing like this,” she said. (Note: I’m verbatim translating the dialogues, so it won’t sound proper to you white folks, yellow folks, or anyone who’s reading this.)

“Aunty, that girl only came… he’s always with her,” I blurted, not knowing what to do.

“That girl is other caste, we are different. Please tell him, Richard,” she bemoaned. “Even if we agree, their caste guys won’t. Experts at honor killing.”

I didn’t know a thing about caste until I came to this wretched, God-forsaken place. At my beautiful hill station, people didn’t have time for that nonsense. It was too cold to remove slippers, too tedious to have separate cups, too crowded to have separate streets. But this place crawled with differences—except for money. Money folks joined money folks—black, white, Caste A, Caste B, Caste Z, all the same. Poor folks had dreams and misery to keep them company.

The complex maze of love is put to test when it comes to marriage. Sometimes the girl’s heart melts seeing their parents cry and say they would die. It’s a standard dialogue but very effective. Many girls with flimsy love have gone with their parents after seeing them bawl in front of typical policemen who have seen such drama all their lives.

So all these thoughts ran through Santosh’s head as he asked Chitra a thousand times:

“Will you go if your mom says she’ll die?” “No.” “Father?” “No.”

Santosh, I’m sure, wanted to end the relationship because one day he came home and said, “I asked her to go, but she wouldn’t. She says she’ll kill me if I try to do something.”

“She really does love you?” “Yes.”

I had an amateurish notion of love. I thought only boys loved, and girls had no such feelings. (This was probably because of my many unreciprocated loves that I suffered all my life). I don’t know what it’s like to be loved by someone, and this is precisely what I found incredibly annoying when I saw lovers. When they romance, it’s nauseating to me. I’ve gone from curious to being a negative jerk. This way I keep people away from me so my heart isn’t trampled. The truth is I like the idea of love; when it comes to reality, I’ll mess it up.

I was in no way equipped to advise my friend.

Days passed, and it became clear Chitra’s family had started to see potential grooms. Chitra gave the ultimate ultimatum: she would die if he didn’t marry her. Santosh didn’t know what to do.

“There is no other way, Richard,” he told me one evening. “Elopement, marriage, then escape for a year or two.”

With my little wisdom, I asked, “Is she strong with her resolution?” “Yes.”

Then I shook his hands and bid him farewell. No, that’s not what happened. After revealing his plan, he didn’t meet me. The routine continued for me, and then, gosh, Santosh came home hurriedly one evening.

“I won’t see you for a year or so. Be safe. I won’t tell you where I’m going; they might ask you.” He looked me in the eyes and said, “Sorry for the trouble, Richie.”

I had two good friends in college, and one was going to disappear now. I went about my daily life: going to school, teaching naughty 6th graders, shouting at them at the top of my voice to maintain silence, cajoling them to talk in English. Then by evening, I got a call from an unknown number.

They asked if I knew a person called Santosh. By this time, I had forgotten all about Santosh’s master plan. I thought it must be some debt collector. He didn’t have a strong handle on money management.

“Have you seen him recently?” “No, it has been over two weeks.” “My relative’s girl hasn’t come home. She went out to temple this morning. If your friend calls you, please let us know.”

They cut the call. I started to sweat.

That evening, I was loitering in the corridors of the school to remind these tired kids to talk in English. A 2nd standard Hindi kid who hardly spoke English pointed at me and said, “Banther.”

I nodded my head and left for home. “Santosh went away with that girl, and they called me today.” My mother started to lecture for half an hour about avoiding such friends.

Around 6, another friend called me and asked what had happened. They had called him as well. “So you know where he went?” he asked me. “No man, he never told me.”

“Me neither, hope he’s safe.”

I was becoming anxious. I started to pray (funny how we go to God only when we’re in trouble)—typical human behavior. The reply was clear: “Dude, deal with it.”

I prepared classes and had dinner. Around 8:30, I got another call; this was the girl’s uncle.

“Do you know your friend’s house?” His voice was hostile. “No, I have not gone there.” “Where is that fellow’s house?” he asked. “Somewhere near Swami Colony,” I lied.

He cut the call.

Then he called again. This time he was shouting at me. “You really think we are fools? You have been to his house before a month. Facebook photos… we are coming for you. You better tell us where your friend is…” Blank.

I hadn’t thought about it. Mr. Santosh had neatly tagged me in the photos. Not one, not two, but hundreds. They decided I was his best friend. I waited, then they came. Chitra’s uncle, another uncle, some far-off cousin, neighbor, and the milkman who suddenly claimed to be her uncle visited me around 9.

We didn’t let them enter the house. They stood outside the gate and questioned me. “Where is he?” “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him for many months,” I said. “Don’t lie to us. We know you’re his friend.”

My mom stayed inside and listened.

“Did you know about their love?” That terrifying uncle asked. “Of course I know, and everyone in college knows.” The milkman interjected, “I have seen that boy roaming near our home.” “Please tell us about their place, I’m sure you know about it.”

I was starting to freak out, but I composed myself and said, “Really, I don’t know. You should ask their parents.” “We went to their house; his parents are lying as well.”

Then they started to get agitated. “Morning we will call you, otherwise we will take you to the police station,” they threatened.

That was the only night I didn’t sleep out of fear. Did they leave me then? No, they came once again knocking at the door by 2 A.M. They had brought their relative, an SP. This police officer looked at me and interrogated me.

“How many days you know him?” “Where is he?” “You would have helped him?”

He bombarded me with questions. I said, I don’t know.

He then scolded the other uncles, “You all know she is in love, and why didn’t you do anything? You have left the head and now chasing the tail.”

“Call his mother, and put it on speaker,” the policeman commanded.

I don’t know if it’s legal to barge into a house at 2 A.M. to question like this, but who cares for rules in this country.

I called, and his mother without missing a beat said, “I don’t know, Richard. They came here also. We don’t know where he went.”

After the call, they got more infuriated. They started abusing all the so-called “lower castes” as though they themselves came from heaven. And then they abused us.

“You have come here to earn a living, in our land, and you are doing all this nonsense,” as if I had anything to do with this whole scenario. I was just a guy who memorized poems for fun. But in retrospect, when I think about all the foolishness this man was spouting, I feel sorry for him. He was just there to show his power; he never really cared. (Only after a year did I understand—this uncle wouldn’t get the allotted land if the girl didn’t sign.)

“Give me your phone,” they said.

They searched for his number. I had two numbers: Santosh 1 and Santosh 2. Of course, I had saved his name as Lord of Idiots, but they didn’t guess. They called the number they already knew, hoping if they called from my number, he would pick up. It was dead. They asked me to call from the other number; the policeman thought he was onto something. I called alright, but it didn’t ring. It said it wasn’t in service. (Only after they had gone did I realize I had called my own number—I was totally freaking out by this time, I guess.)

Good thing they didn’t check the call log. They threatened that they would call in the morning, and if there was no news, they would take me to the station.

As they stood there threatening me, my mother came out and shouted, “Some other guy has done something and you’re coming here threatening us! You should have been careful, and now you’re coming here telling about us!”

They looked offended and angry at the same time. They left.

That night I couldn’t sleep. The fear was about my friend—would they find him, would they kill him? These people seemed capable of such things.

The night moved ever so slowly, and only by early morning did I fall asleep. Back at work, I dreaded a lot. My friend called to ask what happened. “I won’t come to your house for another 3 months.”

By 9 o’clock, I received a call. “I’m calling from Perabalur police station. Did your friend call you?” “No,” I said. “We will call by 11:30, and if you don’t answer the call, we will come to your workplace,” the inspector threatened.

I didn’t take any class that day. I asked them to draw anything they wanted. I went around the class while my mind revolved around all the possible scenarios.

I didn’t receive any call until evening, and then another friend called. “They found them, and they’re in another district. They surrendered at a police station—it seems Santosh’s uncle is an inspector there. The girl refused to go with her parents, so they took away all her gold and belongings.”

I was a little relaxed, and a little happy. So my friend was alive and married. Good.

But what happened to them shocked me. (All this I came to know only after 6 months.)

When everything was settled, the uncle who came to my home had contacted the inspector, Santosh’s relative. “I will pay you money, finish them off. I know they’re staying in your house.”

A constable at the police station had heard about this and informed Santosh. His relative, the policeman, after getting drunk, met this sinister uncle and got money from him. As he made his way home, he called three goons and a hitman. “A couple will be with me, all you have to do is kill them.”

That evening he called Santosh, “I’m coming home, don’t go anywhere.” But Santosh knew what he was plotting.

“Come, get ready!” he told her, grabbing his clothes. “Where are we going?” she asked, agitated. For the past four days, she hadn’t slept well. It was evident that both were annoyed with each other. “Can’t we go in the morning?” she pleaded. “We might not make it to morning,” he looked into her eyes and said. She didn’t question him then; she got ready. (This is the problem with love—when they loved, they both wore their goodness masks. They showed only their good sides, but now it became apparent that there were many differences between them.)

They took the old bike, with two bags hanging at the sides, and rain splattering for extra effect as they rode to the highways. The police sirens and ambulances frightened them. They felt like someone was following them.

Meanwhile, his uncle had come home to find Santosh gone. He had drunk heavily and asked his mother if she knew where they had gone. His mother, with a coolness (that frustrated him), said they had gone back to their native home. He called the police vehicle and gave orders to seize this couple if found. Two lakhs would be gone if he didn’t perform this murder. As his senses returned, he thought about Santosh and how they had played together as kids; now, for money, he was willing to kill him. He felt a sickness come over him.

The world had changed him.

He secretly wished they had escaped to a safe place. He asked to stop the car and have tea. He called the uncle and said, “They have escaped.”

“Our pride, our caste and everything is at stake—you have to finish the job.”

And then he mentioned Santosh’s caste, after which they quietened down. If the caste was lower than theirs, they would be willing to kill them, and if the caste was higher, they would reconsider. The hypocrisy of it all. By this time, in the pouring rain, Santosh and Chitra had reached a faraway relative’s house in a village that was hardly on the map. (I knew all this only after a year.)

They stayed there for the next six months. By this time, I had finished the school year, and my other friends, after three months, came home from time to time. But now I was careful about whom I spoke with. If they had a lover, I avoided them at all costs.

Then one day I received an unknown call. Santosh called. It was so weird to hear his voice after six months. “I am safe, don’t worry about me. Other details I will say afterwards. Just go to my house and see my brother and parents,” he said.

One day I went to his house and found out that Santosh’s brother had been kidnapped and beaten badly, being asked for his brother’s location. They had injected him with something—he wasn’t sure what it was—but it was Santosh’s mother who had threatened to go to the police station and burn herself if they didn’t leave them alone.

I often wonder what drives these men to be so despicable. Just pride, nothing else. Well, it has been over a decade now; I met his two children last week. A boy naughty like him, and a girl bold like her mother. I won’t say “happily married,” because stories always end happily, but that’s not life. They are married, and was it all worth it? Only time can tell.

This is exactly how you survive an elopement:

• Get a lawyer
• An atomic bomb shelter
• Don’t be a friend if they are in a relationship
• Practice running every day
• Know driving
• Be acquainted with a political party
• And for heaven’s sake, don’t be friends with private bus drivers or conductors. You will be in trouble
• Don’t be friends with people who tag you on social media

Oh wait, Santosh just called—his brother has gone with some other girl. Okay then, it’s time for me to go into hiding.