How I Accidentally Got Engaged in India… (Part 2)

Two Margaritas and a Moment of Carelessness Almost Changed My Life

Missed Part 1? Find it here.

A ring.

An actual physical declaration of love, that would live on my finger forevermore as a constant (albeit rather pretty) reminder that I am a fucking idiot.

I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I knew that if I didn’t do something soon I would end up accidentally married, accidentally pregnant and accidentally in a life that was ultimately the result of two particularly strong margaritas.

It was time to pull the ejector cord.

I had it all planned out. We were going for dinner on the beach. Somewhere between the main and dessert I would gently break the news that, while I thought Ajay was great (translation: very, very hot), this was all moving at a speed which was just too much for a British disposition such as mine and that, actually, I thought it best to put our impending nuptials on hold… indefinitely.

We settled down to dinner, which ironically with the full moon and crashing waves, I couldn’t help imagining as a lovely spot to get engaged in. But before I could even think of tucking into my prawns or jumping into my extremely sugarcoated break-up soliloquy, Ajay had his own announcement to make…

“Lottie, I’ve been thinking…”

Oh, thank God! He had obviously realised the insanity of the situation and he wanted out too, or at least a downgrade to a very sexual holiday fling — which I would happily be willing to give him.

“Yes, Ajay?”

“Well… after we get married you could carry on living in Berlin during the summers. Then every year, as soon as it gets cold, you come and join me here in Goa. You could be a freelance writer. And you said you love yoga! You could get your teaching certificate and give lessons on the beach! Eventually, when we’ve saved up enough money we can get a little guest house — they practically run themselves. We’ll be SO happy.”

I sat there literally speechless — in the sense that the break-up speech that I had planned on giving just seconds before was now apparently nowhere to be found.

I took a deep breath and looked around me. REALLY looked around me — at the beautiful surroundings I was in, at the beautiful man sat so hopeful in front of me and I thought about the beautiful future he had apparently planned for us. And suddenly the words came without any searching…

“Yes. Ok. Let’s do it.”

Which, in effect, took my engagement from accidental and so therefore kind-of-void, to extremely fucking real and binding.

I know, I know. “What the fuck was i thinking?” — getting seriously engaged to a man I barely knew. But can you honestly tell me that this didn’t sound good? A life split between two amazing countries, perpetual summer and years of sex with a very beautiful husband. It sounded a lot more promising than my first two engagements, I can tell you that… (Stories for another time, perhaps).

And so I dove head in. Fuck it. Sure, people might judge, but they could do so from their two-ups, two-downs with the childhood sweethearts they got bored of shagging 10 years ago. While I would be a tanned toned yoga goddess who writes about her adventures abroad for a living.

*Tanned and toned, as an aside, is really where I should have truly recognised the infeasibility of this fantasy — being pale, freckled and a lover of both cheese and wine.*

This dream, however, lasted about as long as our original courtship — which is to say, about the amount of time it takes for an open carton of milk to go off. You see, the thing is — and it makes sense looking back now — someone who is intense enough to want to marry you after just a couple of days, is probably intense in other, less desirable, ways as well. Ones that don’t lead to kissing in the surf with sunset backgrounds.

Ajay loved with a jealousy that was all-consuming and tiresome. And I am someone who flits around the world drinking too much and flirting with pretty much anyone and everyone. It was a recipe for disaster and not in a sexy rom-com, “they’ll-work-it-out-in-the-end” kind of way.

Instead, our relationship mimicked the kind of roller coaster I had pursued as a 16-year-old who learned the basics of romance from Eastenders — with constant screaming matches in the street and ever-present threats to leave.

In fact, at one point I remember trying to do exactly that. The problem? Ajay had all my bags locked in his room and he’d be fucked if he was going to make it easy for me to go by handing them over.

“STUFF” I screamed, while Indian families and tourists alike gaped at the unfolding spectacle, “YOU THINK I NEED STUFF?! HA! KEEP THE FUCKING STUFF AJAY, I’M GOING WITH, OR WITHOUT IT.”

And so I did, walking off into the Indian wilderness with just my passport, a few rupees and the very vivid realisation that actually you totally do need stuff.

Luckily his friend, who in just a few days had apparently got used to our constant ups and downs, came and got me from halfway down the road — and with all the sweetness that Ajay now lacked, cajoled me into getting onto his moped so he could return me to both my fiancé and all of my knickers.

But even though I did go back, the bubble we had been living in had irreparably burst — and I was more aware than ever that this was not a life that I wanted. That actually I was 27 and not 16 and I liked people that made me laugh (and perhaps, occasionally, breakfast). Someone who was easygoing and willing to accompany me on my crazy adventures, rather than trying to stop me from having them. And only jealous in the normal amounts.

So, for the second time in just over a week, I faced the prospect of ending an engagement (albeit, this time, a real one).

Of course, as anyone who has been in a fiery relationship knows, this can be easier said than done. First of all, there are the intoxicating highs that play contrast to the disastrous lows. While they serve to make the falls more painful, they are also just enough to keep you coming back, like a junkie always promising “just once more”. And even in this short amount of time, Ajay and I had plenty of them — last minute excursions to crazy hidden clubs in the mountains, long honest talks while cuddling in bed and, after nine days (seven of which we had spent engaged), our first time fucking.

You’re shocked right?!

Yep, I was apparently willing to commit myself to a life with this man. And yet I wasn’t ready to sleep with him. What can I say?! I’m a complicated person.

It happened after we had driven to another part of the country on a whim, up against the wall of our hotel room. He told me that he loved me the entire time — in whispered yet urgent tones and while biting down hard on my neck and shoulders. And this time, the shivers down my spine were welcome and knee-buckling. It was just like our relationship — intense, passionate and tipped over the edge by crazy promises that fed a hunger we didn’t know we had. The large pack of condoms I had brought on this trip “just in case” were all used that night.

I woke up in a blur of post-coital bliss, wrapped in the arms of this achingly beautiful man, that despite everything, swore to adore me for the rest of my life — and I knew at once that this was the day I would leave him.

Because as with most things in our relationship, this night of passion had been a pendulum swing from the other end of an unhappy spectrum — a correction to a horrible evening spent packing my bags and screaming for reasons that had nothing to do with orgasmic pleasure.

And so, despite his passionate protests, I did leave. I got on a bus back to my life of backpacking, innocent flirting and beach visits that were more about a lie-down with a good book than they were a man. I did so with the promise that I would return, but even as I made it, I knew it wasn’t one I could keep.

I never turned back.

Although even after finishing my trip and returning to my home in Berlin, it took me months to properly unravel myself from Ajay and the relationship that took only a moment of carelessness and two extra strong drinks to build. I guess in one way it could be seen as the worst (or at least longest-lasting) holiday hangover and one that could have spanned a lifetime.

But still, when my tongue meets the salt on the rim of a margarita, causing a familiar sting to my lips as if I had been kissing for too long, I can’t help but smile. So I raise my glass, to the beautiful boy to whom I accidentally said yes and the absurdity of what almost was…

The End