All characters, persons, places and events in this story are real and bear strong resemblance to people living,
not dead. Any relation to readers casually stumbling onto this blog is
deviously planned and articulated. Had it not been for the persistent attempts
of passive prodding by the protagonist of this curious tale, an Unkempt
Sophomore would not have cared enough to put his bum on a chair for something
as crass and twisted as this. Readers who can’t care less can close the tab and
go back to the porn.
“Xtrmly sry yr! Hope u undrstnd!
Pls dnt tel it to nyone”, fretting and
sweating profusely, he could almost hear her
voice ringing in his head now, as he scrolled down the peculiar message on his cellular
phone. The number was not on his contacts but he knew exactly who it was.
“I understand. Don’t worry”, he texted back clueless, puzzled by the most
prolific WTF moment of his freshman year at college, as he locked and steadied
his bicycle on the stand and marched into his hostel.
“Thnx a lot yr! N m sorry agn”, his cell buzzed, moments thereafter. The blatant
use of slang and abuse of the short hand was not half as perplexing as those weird
circumstances.
“It’s OK”, he replied and pushed the phone into his pocket-
enough for a day. It was the other girl
and until barely 10 minutes ago they hadn’t even spoken to each other, ever...
About
16 minutes earlier…
Those
were days when he was juggling lives, skipping classes, scribbling exams,
flouting rules and getting a hang of the circus people used to call the
college. He had just made truce with the fact that 5 misplaced OMR dots were
the only reason he was passing days saving his ass- from mosquitoes that
floated over filthy toilet seats in the morning, to the loathsome warden whose
awkward mood swings were over shadowed only by his hilariously croaky voice. There
wasn’t much running well for him back then, apart from his bicycle, so he often
used to spend the evenings mapping the shortest route between two random points
in a university that boasted of the second largest campus in the world.
It
was a warm summer evening in the wilderness
and he was on a routine way back. He had almost traversed the blunt curve
around an administrative building, when he saw the other girl (with an-other
girl) on what seemed like a casual stroll back to her hostel- the exact
geographical opposite to his destination. In the ‘eyes-meet-O-I-know-that-person-must-look-away’ drill that generally
transpires within micro-seconds, every time you stumble onto a recent
acquaintance of the opposite sex, everybody recognized each other from the same
class.
He
had just raised the load on the paddle to cross the two girls on the street and
almost completely negotiated the tight turn when he heard a soft, sweet call behind
his back. It was the one word he’d heard the most in his life but expected the
least at that point in time- his name!
Now,
had it been the chaos of the classroom, where all sorts of proper nouns keep
floating around, there could have been room for doubt. But in the silence of
the empty street, the one syllable call was unmistakably him. He rammed the
breaks hard as the accelerating ride came to an awkward halt and a few yards
separated the girls and him. He looked back and realized it was indeed
happening- two of his batch mates who had never shared a word with Mr. Virtually Nobody, in some rare feat
of mid-summer madness, had apparently come up with an impromptu conversation
starter!
“Can
I talk to you for a while?” the other
girl called out from that distance.
Bewildered,
he hopped off and turned the two-wheeler, struggling to put some sense into the
scheme of things. Her friend followed her across the street, the ladies approaching him at
twice his own speed. He had barely moved a few steps when the three came within
an arm’s length of each other, the bicycle neatly separating the two genders.
“Hi…
Actually… I wanted to talk to you about something…” she resumed instantly, as
if narrating well rehearsed words with perfectly timed deliberate pauses, a
pretty little smile- a cross between innocence and playfulness- illuminating
her determined face.
“Eh…
Yeah sure…” he muttered, visibly perplexed and stupefied.
Now what transpired thereafter is
pretty hazy and been reproduced from an amputated long term memory of the
series of happenings.
“Yaar I love you …”
She
smeared his brains all over the dusty sidewalk, punctured his wind pipe,
smothered the last cc of air off his lungs, ripped the heart out of his chest,
stuffed it into his hands, snapped the spine, plucked his entrails in one fluid
motion, severed his limbs and watched in humorous amazement while the rest of
his mortal remains disassembled into a conscious-less lump of carbon, calcium
and iron. Or so it felt… Frankly, a direct request for a post-mortem would have
been more comprehensible and less disturbing.
Not
many understandable group of words sound like the above sequence of syllables.
It was that peculiar combination of letters which seldom lead to very pleasant
conversations or circumstances, especially between virtual strangers, and that
too only in the realms of film fare, fancy or fiction. There was neither a follow-up
myoclonic jerk nor any subsequent ‘kick’ to jostle him out of the confines of a
misconceived dream space- this was as real as the sun setting behind his back!
“She’s
doing it!” the girl’s companion, hitherto a silent spectator, had regressed a
few steps and engaged an unknown third party in a voice call on her cell phone.
“Yes! She said it!”. She was a designated witness cum correspondent providing
live telephonic coverage of the attempted assassination to yet another
stakeholder.
“This mustn’t register on an
emotional level”, he recalled an
RDJ line from the iconic ‘improvisation fight sequence’ in the first Sherlock Holmes flick he had watched a
few nights ago (kidding, he didn’t!)-
Reboot vital functions- assess immediate
surroundings- investigate chances of mischievous scheming- re-establish eye
contact- devise a pragmatic conciliatory response- break awkward silence-
reinforce argument with persistent verbal follow-ups- acknowledge sidekick-
exit scene with closing verbal social niceties. Physiological recovery- 7
minutes. Full psychological recovery (after regaining self esteem) - 7 hours.
“At
least say something…” he snapped back to reality. Her lengthening smile and the
mind-numbing cacophony of noises amidst the heightened dosage of feminine
attention damped any vestigial sounds that emanated from his voice box. (With dozens of eyes of female models, printed on ‘beauty
packets’ stacked all around the room doting incessantly on his startled form,
the closest he’d ever been to female attention was at any barber’s shop!)
“It’s
a yes isn’t it?” she exploded with
belittling pitch and scathing determination in her voice. ‘Trick question?’ he thought, still struggling with a response. For
reasons, that will always come to bite him in rare fits of awful flashback, he
couldn’t utter a ‘Yes’, or ‘No’. Instead he nodded in such sheepish reconciliation
that would make even an emasculated Rajesh Koothrapalli seem like Hugh Hefner.
“Yes, it is. See…” she proclaimed to her much enthused companion who had over-exhausted her day’s quota of entertainment.
“Thanks
a lot yr and I am sorry!” she said as the curtains were burnt down.
He
gathered his scattered psycho-emotional remains from the pavement, one bit at a
time, piled them up in a useless lump and stuffed them in before balancing
himself on the ride. Those last 6 minutes had just wrecked and shoved all his Disaster Management lessons right out of
the window.
He
clumsily climbed on the bicycle and let the paddle do the talking- What the hell
was that! Several questions
ravaged his mind as he kept rewinding the sequence of events to tie them to
some discernible logic. It was an exercise in futility- some of life must be
for ‘Once upon a time…’ experiences.
He shrugged them all off his mind while a relaxed smirk played on his lips.
He
felt he could almost hear the loud jeers of the other girl behind his back, as the speeding two-wheeler caressed
through the evening breeze…
