• Excerpts from Chapter Three - “It must have been the roses”
• Excerpts from Chapter Six - “An Englishman in Newark”

The book is a journey through a period of three years. It features a girl named Nina who is like me in almost every way but her experiences are fictional. In the first part, it describes how Nina finds the prince of her dreams and then ends up discovering that he is not the man she needs him to be. In the second part, it recounts how Nina finally comes to realize that living one’s life is more about enjoying the voyage than hurrying to arrive at that actual destination. I have included a few paragraphs from two different chapters. If, after you are finished with those, you find that you would enjoy reading more, please contact your local bookstore, or your uncle in the publishing industry, or even that good friend who is a literary agent and ask them to email me, using the “contact” form provided on the top of this page.

“HAPPILY UNMARRIED EVER AFTER - A FAIRY TALE FOR THE MODERN WOMAN”

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. Meet me there.” Rumi

Excerpts from Chapter Three - “It must have been the roses”

…I smell him before I see him. A whiff of jasmine mixed with coconut and lime. Then, out of the corner of my eye, as soon as this intoxicating scent hits me, I see the un-tucked, crisp white shirt and the dark, shiny hair. He has not noticed me, at least I do not think so, although he walks by again, this time behind me and I hear him inhale, one single, slow breath. That is how close he is to me. I have to smile to myself, thinking that if it had been anyone else, not so good looking and not so fantastically scented, I would have probably turned around, right around this time, and called him a “f….ing a..hole” to his face. Usual response to strange men in the subway who stand too close and breathe heavy in my ear. But my defenses are down with him.

A train pulls into the station and this time it is the right one for sure. Just as I am about to enter, a guy sitting to the right of the door awakens from his daze and rushes out of the car. In order not to get trampled by this genius, I take a step back, into the fragrant stranger on the platform.

He is standing right behind me but again I get a whiff of his intoxicating body scent and do the unthinkable.

“I’m sorry.” I apologize, turning my head in profile, just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. How non aggressive of me, after all it was he who was standing way too close.

“Oh, no, it’s all right. I’m sorry.” He sounds exactly the way someone who looks and smells like him should. I can feel all the muscles in my body relaxing and a pleasant tingle in my toes.

I step all the way into the train and go to stand against the doors on the opposite side. There are plenty of seats but there is some weird energy running through my body and besides, I need to have an unobstructed view of the handsome stranger. He stands leaning against the doors directly across from me, juts out his right hip imperceptibly and grabs the handrail with his left hand. He possesses a boyish charm, has a little silver hoop in his left ear and the most beautiful golden skin. I look around and our subway car seems to have taken on a Bollywood feel, with pink saris decorating the windows and marigold flowers all over the floor. Maybe it is his pose, which I am quite sure is meant to impress me, but I could swear the whole train dances and everyone wears lavish costumes, braided hair extensions and bare, bejeweled feet. This little pop fantasy of mine plants a smile on my lips and I feel quite shy and vulnerable, something a bit unusual. I cannot face him while he stands there, staring directly at me through his light blue sunglasses, so I keep looking at the floor as if there is an imaginary mirror reflecting back to him.

When I actually find the courage to look up and resolve to glance at him in a beckoning way, I see that he is staring at the same spot on the floor, smiling the whitest, widest smile. In my dazzled confusion I try to figure out where he is from. He has the charm of a Latin man, he could be Italian or Cuban and since I did not detect an accent when he spoke before, probably born right here in the States.

At the Times Square stop, the doors open behind him and he seizes the opportunity to glide across to where I am standing, until we are shoulder to shoulder. I clutch the bag that my Italian boss Mario got for me in the Caribbean, the one I carry my dance clothes in, and squeeze it closer to my body. Panic suddenly hits me as I realize that I must get off at the next stop. Maybe I could keep riding with my beautiful stranger and pretend to get off where he does, but I do not have that much time and I could end up looking like a stalker, not to mention up in Harlem somewhere. There is a part of me that is lazy and timid when it comes to men I like and I wish silently for him to make the first move.

Another vision flashes through my head. This time, though, it is the film noir version. A black and white tragic scene of the subway doors closing behind me, the beautiful stranger still inside the train. Then, the train pulls out of the station and the stranger and I are separated forever.

“Is that Molokai in Hawaii?” He is talking to me! The bag, he is talking about the bag that Mario, my human lucky charm, gave me! I make a mental note to call my lovely ex boss tomorrow and tell him how much I love him.

My knees buckle for a moment, but I recover.

“No, it’s actually a resort on the island of Saint Barth’s in the Caribbean.” I answer calmly and feel as if I have started my dance class already.

“Oh, have you been there?” He sounds so sexy and charming.

“No, actually my boss brought it back for me. He has been there a couple of times and absolutely loves it.”

“It’s just that anytime I see something that reminds me of Hawaii, this special feeling takes over me and seeing your bag just now took me back to those times I watched the sunsets on Maui.” Seriously, it is amazing what the right person can say. This would have sounded like such a tacky pickup line coming from anyone else. But the obvious thing here is that neither of us wants the conversation to end and so we keep going back and forward, throwing corny lines at each other.

“I feel the same way about India, you know?!” It is like a sultry tango now, the whole environment around us has disappeared, but I notice the red bricks of the Forty-Ninth Street station, as the train pulls in. I do not feel the same panic that I felt before we started talking because now we have made a connection.

“I am getting off at this stop, I work on Forty-Seventh Street.” He says. I cannot believe it, we are getting off at the same stop! How meant-to-be is that.

“Oh great! I am getting off too!” I cannot hide my enthusiasm.

As we step off the train and he moves aside to allow me to pass, I smell his intoxicating scent again.

I cannot wait to kiss this man, to feel his lips on mine and to have his arms around me. I keep reminding myself that I have just met him. This must be what they mean by “love at first sight”, only it was more like “love at first smell” for me.

“So, where have you been in India?” He asks, continuing the conversation.

“Oh, I have been to Delhi, Bombay, Lucknow and different cities in Rajastan. My best friend lives in Jaipur, but he was born in Punjab.” We talk while making our way up the stairs. The people now coming down the stairs, into the station, are all pretty wet. It must have started to rain outside but I could not care less. It is like I am having an out of body experience.

Just as we reach the top of the stairs, when we are about to make our way into the dark, threatening, windy world that has developed while we have been down in the underground, he turns to me and utters the words.

“My name is Amal; my family is from Punjab.” It all suddenly makes sense.

The dream that I have been having, oh my God, how could I not have recognized this guy, HE is the man in the dream! It is the nose and the hair I saw and the feeling I felt while riding in the car, HE is the man at the wheel…

Excerpts from Chapter Six - “An Englishman in Newark”

I am on my way to beginning the rest of our lives together. Amal and I and our living together in Los Angeles, that is. After his final performance in the play, the Nineteenth of December in Boston, he hugged me and uttered the words I had always wanted to hear.

“Will you spend the rest of your life with me?”

OK, so maybe other women would rather hear “Will you marry me?” shortly thereafter followed by a sizable diamond ring. But the institution of marriage has never been an absolute necessity to me. In fact, it is more the idea of unending partnership that I find appealing and romantic.

Taking into account Amal’s disastrous financial situation and the fact that we have only spent a couple of months together total, because of his tour schedule, I currently find cohabitation the only sensible solution.

Back in August, right around my birthday, I attended my cousin Marco’s wedding, in Italy. It was a beautiful ceremony, the bride and groom looked happy beyond words and the reception was held in one of the best restaurants in Naples, so the food was sensational. I cried during the church service, but not out of sentimentality. Amal and I had spent three passionate - and mildly careless - weeks in San Francisco, right before my trip to Italy, and on the day of the wedding, my period was already ten days late. Ten days! This is me, I could set my clock to it, it is always so consistent. The tears I shed were tears of fear, at the thought of having a child with Amal and, as a result, having to do things “right” by his parents.

“You know, my parents will not allow their grandchild to be born out of wedlock. My sister had a shotgun wedding because of Josh, my unplanned-for nephew, and I guess we’ll make that two hurried weddings in the family.” I could swear he sounded victorious, when I called him from Naples, before leaving for the church.

“Amal, Honey, maybe we are both jumping the gun here? I mean, I am only a few days late and I’m traveling. Maybe the stress from the trip and just being away from you after having spent three weeks together, my hormones could just be acting up. And anyway, as appealing as the whole idea of getting married wearing scarlet sounds, my vote counts for something, right? I’m just not the marrying kind.” It was not out of any special principle that I spoke up this way. Just that the idea of marrying Amal’s bad credit and disastrous financial status, along with his adolescent behavior, scared me more than just a little.

The tears flowed freely down my cheeks during the ceremony and my mind was cluttered with visions of our household, one, two, ten years from now. In my fantasy, I could see a lot of running around and yelling on my part, and a whole lot of wickedness from the boys. Yeah, just my luck, Amal would probably get his wish for a son, first time around. I felt like screaming out loud. The only redeeming factor would be the traditional Hindu ceremony, just like the ones in the Bollywood films I adore. I would have to wear the traditional red sari and no one would question it. But seriously, this unexpected pregnancy would screw up our chances of easing into our relationship slowly, one day at a time. I prayed really hard and hoped God was listening, even though I knew God was fully aware I had brought this all on myself.

It turned out that my emotional state at cousin Marco’s wedding was a bad case of P.M.S.. When I got back to the hotel, around midnight, I felt some butterflies in the pit of my stomach. Resigned about my future, and stuffed from all the food I ate at the reception, I put my right hand on my tummy and started speaking to my future offspring.

“You know, you are a lucky boy. Your father is very handsome and your mom is a good business woman. Think about all the great clothes you will have, I already own some amazing outfits for you I picked up in Ethiopia and Rajastan. You will be the best looking boy on the block. Maybe a little gay, but always a really sharp dresser… Lets just hope you get your father’s hair and your mom’s feet.”

Then I sat on the toilet - and voila! - ten days late but as bright as ever, my monthly friend appeared. I called Amal right away. I detected disappointment in his voice, through my excitement. After I hung up, I took a few twirls around the room but then another vision of our now imaginary family popped into my head and I had to lie down….

…I board the plane quickly and take my seat by the window. I watch the ground crew loading the luggage efficiently into the cargo hold.

“So, it was you!” I hear the words spoken in perfect Queen’s English before I turn around to behold the surprise. Crispin was the man whose silhouette made me smile earlier and he has the aisle seat next to mine. We hug, inappropriately and too long for ex lovers and take our seats. I, for one, glowing.

“Darling, you look more beautiful than ever! I can’t believe my eyes. I thought I saw you in the terminal, fighting with that midget who was trying to steal your luggage, but I wasn’t sure. And the last thing I wanted to do was distract you from your battle.” His eyes twinkle. I am almost positive he is making fun of me.

“You look fantastic too, Cris. And I wasn’t fighting with a midget back there. I was consoling a child. You know children, those lovely creatures of which you have, oh let me see, two of your very own! How are the kids, how are the ex-wife and wife number two?” It is a mouthful, but then Crispin is a very complex man. He is also even more handsome than I remembered.

“Well, you might want to phrase it this way: how are the kids and the ex-wives? I got a divorce from my second wife. I am now in the market for number three. How lucky we should meet again, after so long.” He winks. Crispin and Amal are as different as night and day, physically and in every other way.

“How long has it been, Nina, two years at least, right?” He could be ordering a sandwich at a deli but with his accent, my name sounds like a Shakespearean sonnet.

“Hum… Are you implying something Cris? Because I must stop you right there if you are. I am spoken for. I am on this flight, moving to Los Angeles, to be with this man. I believe he is the love of life. Although, I am so mad at him right now, I could scream!” I am not sure if it is because I am so angry at Amal, but I feel an easy closeness with Crispin. It reminds me of the times spent together and all the wonderful talks we had. Everything sounded smart when he was involved in the conversation. We would read poetry to each other, speak at length about our world travels, drink amazing champagne and lie in each other’s arms. No commitment, no flying across the country to give it my all, no hard work for the sake of the relationship. Just two people, really into each other, spending the moments they had together with as little space between them as possible.

I turn, because Crispin’s hand rests on my arm. Was that a shiver I felt? It is getting to be a chronic condition these days. I thought it only possible when Amal was in the room.

“Darling, the flight attendant wants you to buckle your seat belt. Do it please, I beg you, so we can take off. You are clearly holding up the plane.” How funny, Crispin. Well, at least the quivering feeling is gone. I must remember to thank Crispin for killing the mood. It is all coming back now. The downside to this man - apart from the “married with children” issue which he thinks has been resolved now - is his condescending attitude outside the bedroom. In bed, he was always free and uninhibited. In life, he can be a damn pompous ass.

Nevertheless, I turn to take in his gorgeous profile and try to remember the words to “The Road Not Taken.” I can only think of the last stanza.

“I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

I am not sure whether Amal or Cris are the road less traveled. And I cannot remember the explanation Mr. Jones, my eleventh grade English teacher, gave to the class. Some special, code-cracking truth that, at the time, I wrote down in my notebook as the meaning of life.

“Anyway, what’s this rubbish I hear about you finding the love of your life? Haven’t I taught you anything?” He takes hold of my face. He smells fresh and his hands feel soft yet masculine. I want to be mad at him for still making me feel like an inexperienced little girl but I cannot focus on anything other than his aqua blue eyes.

“Love does not pay the bills, Darling. Love does not keep you safe in a storm. Love does not challenge your mind nor does it nourish your body. Now, hold on - I know what you are thinking. But it isn’t love that gives you that intense, pleasurable feeling. It’s passion, that is different. You and I had passion. You might be “in passion” with this chap, I shall give you that much, but I guarantee a disaster if you have made any decisions based on love. What is the boy’s name anyway?” I hate it that he calls him a boy. He is doing it again, belittling me, my feelings. He makes it sound like I am in heat. “In passion,” I’ll show you Crispin!

“The MAN’s name is Amal. He is a wonderful, loving…” Cris interrupts me! Aaugh.

“Amal… Oh, the boy is Indian then? You should have said so right away! It is all the Kama Sutra he has been practicing on you that has you speaking of love! I should have known. I give it six to eight months. Let me see. I will be on a hunting expedition in Tanzania, then up to visit my mum in Wales and in April, I open in a play in the West End. By the end of that run, it should bring us both to the end of August and I know you will be thinking differently then. If you have outgrown your sentimentality, I can offer you security, sparkling conversations, a wicked good time in the sack and two lovely, ready-made children who would only visit us on weekends. Love, I do not do, but by then, I guarantee, neither will you.” He sounds so sure of himself. All he has managed to do is feed within me my feelings for Amal. I unexpectedly plant a kiss on Crispin’s cheek. His little speech has convinced me I am traveling to the right destination. We spend the rest of the journey exchanging light conversation and pregnant glances….

© 2009 by E. N. Rothe