Swati,

The pretty girl who lived next-door

Stepped out of her house brightly dressed

To go to work only a block away

To her chagrin

Two of her admirers waiting, as usual, escorted her

To her office, which act she disliked.

Today was the day she must decide,

She confronted them near the bookstall,

She frequented and said -

‘You have read me for a long time,

Which book prepared you for me?’

The young lads wore a look of surprise,

On their good-looking face

They thought a while and the one wearing the blue shirt,

Gathered courage to tell her -

‘It is the ‘Gitanjali’ of Rabindranath Tagore

The songs he wrote you sing silently,

For me to hear and you make me sing with you,

Be mine.’

The other wearing a maroon shirt said –

‘It is ‘Dr. Zhivago’ of Boris Pasternak

I love you the way he loved Lara,

Be mine.’

Swati could call their bluff but did not,

And unto herself she said –

‘Sadly, both have not gone beyond me.’

She walked away, leaving the two astounded.