Running From Hell

The seeping cold invaded us slowly. We were sipping on kulfis, a chocolate-flavoured poor man's version of softy, only harder and colder with every bite, and more drippy after the favoured first few bites. She was staring at the lights. She was always staring at something. Some ice-cream vendor blocked the majestic view of India Gate, through the beginnings of a smoggy, chilly night. We had not spoken for about half an hour, when the scathing argument had petered out into a gravelly, troubled silence, like the interlude between one ambush and the next. She looked quite beautiful, flaming hair, set in curls, tied at the top loosely. I was sititng cross-legged on the pavement, trying to marshal more arguments to convince her. None seemed adequate to the task...