If you’re an Indian, you must be aware of this festival called Rakshabandhan. If you are not, let me tell you quite frankly – it’s a nightmare for the billions of adult boys in this country, especially those who do not have girlfriends and are desperately looking for one. It’s the day single-and-not-so-good-looking boys lock themselves inside the safe confinements of their houses and do not step out unless it’s tsunami rolling by in the neighbourhood.
We were petrified when the mess owner’s daughter declared that she’d tie Rakhi around the wrist of each and every guy in our apartment. We instantly made escape plans, and it was unanimously decided that on the 18th of August, we’ll remain out of the danger zone.
We woke up before 9, got dressed up by 9:30 and left the apartment in the stealthiest manner, clever enough to put jailbreakers to shame. It was drizzling, and we kept outpacing each other, racing against the raindrops. The metro station was comparatively sparser in population, and we got into the train without a hassle. The crowd poured in at Kashmiri Gate, where we had to change trains, and had a tough time making into the boggie. We reached Central Secrateriet in a few minutes. There were autowallahs shouting the ride-costs for customers. We decided to walk on foot.
The National Meuseum is located very near to the India Gate. As we walked along the Rajpath, taking in the beautiful view of one of the very few war memorials in India, my stomach rumbled with butterflies. The road was a glossy patch, with parks full of blue-colored dustbins on both the sides. We turned right at the crossroad and after a hundred steps, we were at the gate of the National Meuseum.
There were hot, white-skinned foreigners walking in, and so, for the first time, the meuseum idea seemed like a jackpot.
“They charge them 600 or something, which is 30 times what they charge us. “I said, and Mr. Selfie Addict turned to me.
“It’s less than 10 in their currency. “Mr. Selfie Addict said emphatically. He is a Bcom student, and he knows hell lot more than me about money and currencies.
We entered the first gallery, which had glass cases displaying ancient artefacts. There were pots and vessels from Harappan period, there was the skeleton of a married woman, and earthen chessmen, and jewellery and terracotta toys from that era. It was an astounding sight for a history student. Two galleries later, my brain crashed from information overload and I stopped observing deities and started clicking selfies with them in the background instead. Foreigners would walk in with headphones on – audio tour – and I kind of liked one girl. Thank God foreigners don’t have Rakshabandhan. Mostly, it was Mr. Selfie Addict who was the showman. As the name suggests, he took selfies like crazy. Of the 418 photos in my phone, 378 were his selfies.
We roamed around ceaselessly, and stopped 5 hours later, worn out and starved. And when we entered the well furnished canteen, hoping to relish ourselves with a variety of mouth-watering cuisines, the solitary pakodas in the menu broke havoc on our dreams.
“How many photos, Ravish? “Selfie Addict asked as the Gym Freak grumbled about the rats in his stomach.
“418. “I said, and he let out a triumphant smile. The Gym Freak stared at us with contempt and ordered two more Pakodas.
To be cont….