It was this function where things got little crazy between us.On the evening of marriage reception, all the ladies were busy dressing up in one of the rooms. We guys as usual got ready quickly and were helping setup and decorate the reception stage. In the midst of it, we ran out of safety pins for decoration. So we thought ladies would be having it. I went to the room where all the ladies were dressing up, to bring them. I knocked on the door. “Ladies were putting on saree. Hold on for a moment”, somebody uttered from inside. I waited for 15 minutes outside. Then finally they opened the door and asked me what I wanted. There were about 6-7 ladies in there, all aunties dressed up. I asked for safety pins. One of them went searching for it while Disha stepped out from the corner dressed up in a gorgeous read saree. Matching red blouse with transparent sleeves, matching jewelry, saree draped so beautifully and exposing her delicious navel. I glanced her top to bottom and smiled at her.. Then she’d been wearing a costly evening gown, diamonds sparkling from her ears, her light brown hair shining; clearly salon-washed and styled that very day. Now she was dressed in running shorts, a short sweat shirt with sports bikini under, all wet and covered with the remnants of her vomit. Her hair was wet, tangled, a real mess. She must have been getting cold by now; the cabin was well insulated and shaded from the sun by the big trees that surrounded it, so the air inside was cool.I pulled on the ski mask and picked up the bucket of water, a washcloth and a towel. I opened the door and was met by a glare that would have blasted me if looks could kill. I’d seen some similar facial expressions on Iraqi insurgents we’d been holding. I didn’t speak, just dropped the washing kit on the floor and backed out of the room. She could clean up some, but with the handcuffs still in place, it wouldn’t be easy. Not really my problem. She’d come round in time. The bottle of water I’d given.
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