Remember the moment when you are really hot, own chiselled abs, look like Michelangelo’s sculpture, and a hot girl accidentally discovers your naked body?
So very Sizzling!
Yeah, except for the shattering facts that
1. You are not exactly hot.
2. You don’t have abs, you have a tummy.
3. The girl is your classmate.
So yesterday morning was when I came to empathize with the victims of wardrobe malfunction. I’ll tell you about it. But first, the prerequisites.
I am a bachelor who lives in a flat adjacent to a girls PG. And it’s not like two separate buildings, but two separate flats on the same floor of the same apartment. I just have to open the door and I see the staircase that’s common to all the residents of the apartment. Both girls and boys use the steps as a couch while talking to their boyfriends/girlfriends. And most of the time, the girls occupy the couch, wearing hotpants, and talking like MI6 agents through the phone. It does sound like something out of an xnxx.com story, but it’s true.
I woke up at 9 in the morning, completely unaware of my surroundings and my identity, and squinted my eyes. I came back to my senses with a blast as the pipeline that stands outside my window started leaking the poisonous stench. That goddamn pipeline is full of shit, and that’s all I get to see through my window, apart from a small ventilatory window on the opposite that’s never been opened.
Anyway, I got up from the bed, stretched myself, squeezed some toothpaste out of the tube, rolled it on the brush, held the brush between my teeth and came out. Since I had watched Barfi till 4 am, the songs were still resonating inside me. And so I sang, holding the brush as if it was a mic, fully aware that I wasn’t in the bathroom and that my previous concerts have led to deaths and people shifting to moon. And singing flowed into performing and I pirouetted like I was stoned and spotted. Hotpants-Girl. Sitting. On. The. Steps. Gaping. At. Me. In. Horror.
I checked if I was naked. Well, almost.
I ran in the opposite direction of my room and hid behind the water tank. She was wearing an orange top and creamy leggings. She looked fresh, like the aftermath of a monsoon. And I looked like one of those minions who hover behind the villain’s worthless son in a south Indian movie. What’s worse was that I was a minion in sky-blue boxers, clutching a toothbrush, and moving my legs as if my shoes have been tied together, all while braying the lyrics of a beautiful song to nobody.
I hid there like a rat, mortified and red, and waited for her to get the hell out of the stair so that I could get back to my room. She didn’t move for a few seconds and then she laughed and punched something on her phone. I gulped in horror.
I checked if I had abs. I didn’t. I checked if I was handsome. Fuck, I wasn’t. So clearly, this incident was creepy for her.
I wondered if she would tell this to her boyfriend, and if she would, how she would cook it up. It wasn’t fun, but well, it kind of was.
She kept talking to somebody on her phone, and I brushed the hell out of my teeth, grew grey hairs, witnessed microbiology revolution, and left the earth twice before she got up from the steps.
I rushed back to my room, dressed like it was December and I was in Antarctica, and stepped out the room. There she was, sitting on the step, again.
“Are you nuts? “Mr. Selfie Addict said groggily, as he rubbed his eyes and stared at me. Only a pair of boxers adorned his hairy body. I gave him an eye signal, he clocked the girl, the girl clocked him and scrunched her face as if we molested kids every weekend.
Mr. Selfie Addict vanished in the air, and the next time I saw him, he looked like an astronaut dressed up for a space expedition.