(contd from The
Girl - II...)
"Infatuation
is a chain reaction, a chemical precursor that triggers the onset of an emotion
designed specifically to overwhelm logic and reason, an emotion that blinds you
from the simple an obvious truth- she’s not that into you and there’s nothing
you can do about it..."
Memories of the walk came back in flashes as all sorts of cosmetics available in the room were utilized in optimum amounts, irrespective of their legitimate owners. It had taken him his best vocal skills and reasoning to convince his 2 getting-suspicious-roommates. The wait up to 2 pm was marked by curiosity more than anxiety. Putting on the cleanest pair of jeans, the smartest ‘T’ and his relatively new ‘Nike’ boots, he set out to 1up his pseudo-relationship-status with ‘the girl’.
100
possible scenarios would have zoomed through his mind in the 7 minute
slow-cycle ride to the local market. He had had a light lunch, as required in
50 of them and reduced his bank balance by half grand as demanded by the other
half.
He
scanned the desolate afternoon market area for her whereabouts. Passing by one
of the famous ‘hanging out’ spots, his eyes whizzed past a sketch on its wall
which, he knew, bore an inscription at its bottom. Although illegible from that
distance, he knew that it was a ‘sign’. He chose to ignore. 2:23 pm- not yet.
Just
as he was about to pop out his N3710, he saw a rickshaw stop at a distance. No
second thoughts were required to ascertain who had hopped off it, his soaring
pulse was evidence enough. Legs, almost in reflex, started advancing in the direction.
What he failed to notice was that she did not pay the rickshaw puller, who also
seemingly uninterested in money had instead chosen to turn the vehicle by full
180 degrees. Her hair was unkempt, and she seemed in a hurry. As the difference
between the two was reduced to talking distance, she started with a sigh-
“Hey,
thanks a LOT for coming yaar.”
The
‘LOT’ was even more pronounced this time round. Before he could open his mouth,
she resumed- “Yaar, see there’s this thing. Something urgent has come
up...”
What she said after that in a single breath over a wide decibel range is unimportant. What’s important is, 7 minutes later, he was left stumped, with a letter in hand and a form addressed to a senior Professor, waving goodbye as she boarded the same rickshaw back to her hostel. He was supposed to deliver them to the Prof, the same evening, and she was supposed to be in the 2045 train to Dehradun!
While
the dust trail spewed by the receding rickshaw settled on his new Nike boots
and body sweat got the better of the Axe deodorant, he was left dumbstruck,
revising the 3 set instructions she had hastily poured into his ears- deceived
or dejected, not sure. He felt like his jeans, ‘T’ and wallet were mocking at
him. Collecting himself back together, a cool consoling breeze gushed past him,
as if urging to move on. As he hopped onto his cycle, he felt several
questions haunting him. For instance, how on earth did she know he had an
equation with this Professor?
In retrospect, he thought perhaps the inscription in the picture WAS a sign- ‘The female of the species is more dangerous than the male’. The letter and the enclosed form in his pocket made him grim. ‘The brain is like the most outstanding organ’, he reprimanded himself, ‘it works for 24 hours, 365 days, right from your birth until you fall in love.’ He raced past the place, paddling harder and harder now with each stroke...
