"Yes!"

"So...when do you propose to pop the question?" she asked in between sips of Marquis de Pompadour. "Before dessert or after?"

The hors d'oeuvre froze in motion in its path from the platter to the mouth. "Question? What question?" he blurted eventually.


"Candlelight Dinner", Jacqueline Ditt, 2003, (80 x 100 cm) Acrylic on fibreglass. All rights reserved, www.universal-arts.de

Her index finger lightly traced the outline of the glass flute's rim. "You've only brought me here once before, and that was on Valentine's Day. Now what other occasion could be as romantic?" She smiled knowingly at him.

He shrugged the suggestion away. "No occasion really. I just felt like taking you out to a nice place, that's all."

It's not often that the mouse gets to toy with the cat, and she wasn't prepared to let go. "If you say so. And I suppose that ring in your pocket is just a gift for your mum, right?"

He surrendered with good grace. "Damn, I've been too obvious, haven't I?" He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and brought out a small velvet-covered jewellery case. "Since you brought up the subject - I was planning to save it till just before dessert."

He clicked the case open. The solitary diamond on the ring sparkled in the candle-light.

He took her hand in his and looked deep into her eyes. "Will you marry me?" he asked, simply, softly, sincerely.

But her mood hadn't changed from playful to romantic just yet. She let her hand remain in his, but averted her eyes away, shyly, like a schoolgirl coming face-to-face with her secret crush. "You'll have to ask Papa first."

Playfulness was in the air, and it was catching too. He turned her face towards him, and questioned her with his eyes, "Is that so?"

Her eyes replied back, "Yes!"

Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled out his cell-phone and punched in her phone number. "Hello, Colonel Kaul? Good evening, Sir. This is Vikram Mehta. We've never met, but I'm in love with your daughter, and would like your permission to marry her. Do I have it, Sir?"

* * *

At 311, Race Course Road, Col. Kaul, three-quarters asleep, one quarter awake, mumbled "Yes" and put the phone down. He switched off the bedside lamp and prepared to return to dreamland. Mrs. Kaul, her slumber too rudely interrupted by the telephone call, enquired drowsily of her husband, "Who was that?" "Couldn't get his name," the Colonel answered back, "but I think he wanted to carry our water."