My Flatmate Goes on a Date 😂

Accounts of a disaster.

My flatmate, the Kota Guy, is seeing a girl these days. Today they went on a date. Or whatever it was. 
Let me give you a nice little prologue here. A few days ago, he dropped in my room and began telling me about this girl on whatsapp who wouldn’t blink an eye before forty billion Goodnight exchanges. 

“I went to sleep at 4 in the morning. “He said. His eyelids were the first victims of a freshly brewing love story. 

It reminded me of Heer, so I told him about her. No personal details, just the story. Five minutes into it and he was bawling with laughter. I narrate my tragedies very well I guess. It wasn’t even that funny, I mean you already know how shit happens, you just have to add humour to it. 

“Did you get something in the end? “He asked, seemingly excited. He meant if I fucked her. 

“We kissed. “I said, “on her ex-anniversary. ”

God! Is that even a word!?

He gave me a puzzled look, so I told him about the shit that happened on 19th February 2016. 

He told me he was going to meet his whatsapp girl soon. And that he really wanted to fuck somebody. 

“You could go to Qutub Minar. Nice romantic place. “I suggested, imagining Heer and myself plodding through the quiet graveyards. 

“It’s very far. “He said the other day. 

“It’s worth going. “I said, “You don’t have to worry. It closes at 5 pm. No safety issue. ”

He didn’t seem too happy about it. 

“I’ve asked her for a night out. Chances are less that she’ll accept, though. “He said. “We shall go to CP, probably. ”

Ah, the CP. Such a shame people would choose those glitzy blocks in place of beautiful rotting monuments. I mean you can go have your pretentious little dinner in an air-conditioned hall with fancy tables and fancier walls, but you can never feel the love you do while walking under the bowers that have witnessed a million love stories for more than 800 years..

If I ever go out with a girl again, it will be these royal ruins where we shall head to. 

Anyway, my flatmate did go on a date, that’s what I thought when he left the flat. I had already given him a few do’s and don’t’s, and he had repeatedly said he wasn’t looking for a relationship. 

“Tell me, Barbossa, how can I ask for sex on the first date? “He had asked. I imagined him in a little box on Republic tv, already branded anti-national and anti-women and anti-matter and anti-whatever by Arnab Goswami. 

I was sick of writing assignments so I thought I should have some fun. I googled dating tips for men and sent him half a dozen screenshots and links.

see, how I care for people!
Despite everything, there was a teeny tiny possibility..
In case……

 Then, I went back to doing my assignments. 

He dropped in in the evening, and said,

“She almost saw that shit. ” referring to my messages. 

“How did it go? “I asked. He began looking for a word to describe the experience, however, couldn’t come up with anything satisfying. 

“I saw the tips. And I realised I was doing exactly the opposite of what men are supposed to do on dates. ”

“Did you crack some jokes? “I asked. 

“Yeah. Lame ones. “He said. 

“Like? ”

“Like I told her have you ever wondered that CP sounds like ‘see pee’? ”

He told her what!   

“Oh my God! That’s terrible. “I said, shell-shocked.

“That’s what she said. ”

“I mean it’s so terrible that..that…ughh it’s not even a joke, it’s a joke’s death. “I retched and laughed for a solid 15 minutes, wondering if the girl would ever go out with him again. 

“The worst part is that I had practised that joke. ”

“And when she asked me if I played sports, I told her I play chidiya ud. ”

I nearly fell off my chair laughing. I wanted to ask him if he got laid, but I thought I already knew the answer. He laughed too. 

“What did you guys talk about? ”

“The same shit as yours. About her ex-boyfriend. “He said, “She kept telling me about this ex-boyfriend of hers she was very good friends with. They dated for about 3 years and stuff. Then she told me about this cute boy she dated yesterday. ”

At this, I sprang off my chair. 

“Dated when? ”

“Yesterday. She said he was a cute boy. “He said. 

“Oh my God. “I looked at him with wide-opened eyes, “I thought nothing could nullify your lame jokes but this so does. ”

I asked him if he was sure they were on a date and he shrugged his shoulders. Poor guy! Now I knew for sure they didn’t fuck. Had the Kota Guy followed my advice and took her to Qutub Minar and saved himself from being an unfunny comedian, he would have definitely scored. Hell, I had sent him stepwise guides to approach a woman. There was guaranteed success at the end of it. People don’t listen to my advice. Disappointing people. 

“After a point, I didn’t even know what I was doing. I felt like a dumb person.  She said she had never been to CP but she kept showing me the shops and lanes. Starbucks, Cafe Coffee Day, big words. Those fuckers charge 40 bucks for water. Can you imagine? ”

I could. Even though I am generally poor, I am familiar with the 40 bucks water thing. 

“I ate chicken, though. It costed 260 bucks. “He groaned. 

“It was bad I suppose. ”

“Barbossa, I will have to work on my jokes. “He said. “Chuck it. I will ask her directly if she is interested in fucking. We had a little sex chat, by the way. ”

Okay, that got me hooked. I asked him to elaborate the whole conversation and he said,

“She asked me if I knew they played porn at Rajeev Chowk metro station a few months ago. ”

I puckered my face to show my disgust. That’s not what you call a sex chat. Hell, that’s not even an information. That’s…that’s just shit. 

I wondered if I should suggest him a cigarette date, but then, decided against it. Some things are better kept secret. 

(Have I ever told you about this world-famous cigarette date I went on?) 
Anyway, the date, or whatever it was, was an epic disaster. And as my flatmate confessed, the chicken was more pleasing than the chic. And also, if you’re really interested, he did not get laid. 

Latest Fad on Facebook 

sarahah and stuffs… 😑

When I imagine my Facebook wall, I imagine diversity. I imagine a Hindu Extremist screaming for a Temple, I imagine Cricket fanatics fighting over the greatness of Dhoni and Kohli, I imagine a new unfunny Sarcasm post, I imagine my friend’s girlfriend’s feminist and why-you-should-consider-yourself-lucky-if-you-are-a-Bengali posts. I also imagine Shashi Tharoor’s jibes, Kumar Vishwas’s poems, Leonid Afremov’s landscapes, all painting my wall in a mural of diversity. I love variety. I love the whole color palette, and not just one. 

So when everybody went crazy and started sharing sarahah.com posts, it pissed me off. If there’s one thing I hate about social medias, it’s the Indonesian Forest nature of this medium. Light a match and acres shall burn. The diversity of my ecosystem has been compromised because of this godforsaken app. And what does it even do? Well, it lets you message people anonymously. Or so they say. I don’t know why anyone would say anything to anyone anonymously, unless you are discussing Formicophilia or something. Some people say it’ll urge people to confess, but I’d rather stick with the school of thought that says it’ll encourage cyber-bullying. Not because I have really done a case study on this, but because I don’t want it to disrupt my peace. 

From AIB to stupid friends of mine, from hot girls to intellectual ones, everyone’s hooked to sarahah.com. Everyone’s asking everyone to go drop a question and know them inside out. What the hell! 

Recently, I’ve observed this tendency of social medias. The tendency to make things viral, the tendency to make momentary crackerworks. Fire, explode and extinguish. Poof! Right from the sky you drop, a single speck of dust, a tiny grey ash, you float, struggle for flight, yet another ascent, but you only fall…. This is the dark truth of social media, and the only thing it reflects is our nature. The people who’d stick to anything fancy. The people who’d share the same shit over and over and then forget all about it. Of course you can’t keep all the junk inside your mind, but you don’t have to swallow the junk in the first place. 

Ughh. What I’m saying is it’s fine for me if sarahah.com makes you wet in the groin, everybody’s got fetishes, you don’t have to fill my home with those stuffs. Just post your normal bullshitry. Don’t ask me to message you anonymously and ask for something. Because there’s nothing I can’t ask with a face that I can without a face. 

 Alright. I think I should go on a vacation. Damn social medias. 

Diseases of My Life

Beautiful idle thoughts…

1

I had scarlet marks on the shoulders, so I wondered if I should be worried. The reason I was reminded of those was that I was half-naked, sweating in my chair, observing things so that my brain doesn’t collapse into dysfunction. The fan had stopped due to power cut and my Samsung Galaxy J2 had almost slipped into unconsciousness. It was sweltering hot and I started following my sweat beads out of boredom. Then, I noticed the marks. Red as molten prenatal daggers. Then, I decided to use up the remaining 11% of my phone’s charge and as I was flicking through the web, I googled my symptoms. 
Five signs that you have cancer – It said. 
Fuuuuuck.

It’s still okay – I thought, at least it’s not in my testicles. Yet. I don’t have a problem with cancer, but I’d rather not have it. There’s nothing romantic about cancer unless you’re kissing Shailene Woodley in front of 50 people in Anne Frank’s house. 

Talking about cancer, my mother would probably take that deal. Once she got a 6000 buck test and the reports declared – everything‘s normal. She was so disappointed she went for a second opinion which costed another fortune and gave the same result. 

She then called Goldy’s dad, who is a chemist but who my mother has more faith in than she has in a doctor, and asked if there was, by any chance, a teeny tiny possibility of her having a disease. He said no, but my mother insisted so he asked her to take pomegranate juice twice a day.

“Didn’t I tell you? There was something wrong with me. “She told us later. 

Anyway, I dismissed the very possibility of cancer. Why?
2. 

I read horoscope. There are only so many things you can do while taking a dump. I used to listen to radio, but since the birth of jio, I usually browse through news and stuffs. I read horoscopes too. Horoscope of today, of the year 2020, and which career suits my personality, and if a Sagittarius, by any chance, is the ideal match for a Capricorn. It never mentions death. Never says – Blah Blah Blah, and oh, maybe you’re dying today. It talks in hints. A few years ago, the newspaper horoscope asked me, for a whole month, to be careful on the road. Then, there was this Facebook post that promised to foretell exactly how one was going to die. The person had to type his name along with a few random letters and post it as a comment. 

When I did it, it suggested accident as the cause of my death. 

I have been so careful on roads since then. I avoid busy roads and walk on the extreme left of the footpaths. Sometimes you’d even find me in the hedges by the sidewalk, hacking my way through, plodding carefully to avoid any truck that might be running in the bushes. With trucks, and Salman’s driver’s car, you can’t take any chances. A National Highway runs through my city and the newspapers often publish the reports of entire huts getting trampled by insane trucks, killing everybody inside. Imagine you are cooking Biryani in your home and an 8-wheeler drops out of nowhere and squashes you like a lemon. That’s a nasty way to die. At least you get to see a hospital in cancer, and your body remains intact, in a single piece. As my stars suggest, when I die, I’d probably be lying in pieces, bloodied and cold. 

So I had to dismiss cancer. 
3. 

When I decided I didn’t have cancer, I felt kind of lonely. I am so single that even a disease won’t go out with me. Roads reminded me of Heer, and something crossed my mind, and this was the funny thing. I would always ask her to get on my left when we were walking. I thought it would be safer for her. The bikes would often graze my sleeve, and I’d almost wet my pants, but I’d keep her on my left anyway. 

Things you do for love!

Thinking of her made me even sadder. I needed to eat. When I’m sad, I eat in tonnes. I wanted to be locked with food, and AC. 

I was drenched now. Delhi is a shitty place, I tell you. And if you ever build a house make sure you don’t build it like my apartment. The heat was unbearable, so were the memories. 

I thought about Doctor and all the possible dots on earth where she could be. I was bored so I typed her name on Google and clicked search. It talked about the word origin and its meaning and NGOs by her name. I memorized the names and purpose of a few organizations. 

Things you do for love!

Happy Friendship Day 😑

I don’t know why I wrote this. 😂

See, I have no problem with people celebrating fancy days – it’s their constitutional right, as is uploading dog-filtered photos on social media. But I too have a constitutional right – to not participate in this circus. It has nothing to do with nationalism or whatever, for I don’t celebrate Holi or Eid either. It’s just that, as a person, I don’t like celebrating festivals or events. Except for Diwali. Because it’s much more than a festival – it’s a metaphor, it’s a poem, it’s blinking lights under dark sky. I mean don’t you see!

So it was a pretty tough morning when all of my social media apps went crazy. My phone went on a buzzing spree and I felt an urgent desire to bid farewell to the wordly pleasures and start for Himalayas. There, I’d don saffron and sit for penace. Then, I’d be distracted by a heavenly angel and we’d end up exploring each other inside those caves. How amazing! 

Happy Friendship Day – the photo said in fancy fonts. These people didn’t even care to write a message, they just forwarded the whole goddam photo which had been doing rounds from one person to the other. I imagined them clicking share on their screen and choosing select all when it displayed the contacts. It made me madder. So, how much do you mean it when you send me that photo or GIF? Do you even give a fuck about me for the rest of the 364 days? 

So I did the same. I typed the text same to you and then pasted it everywhere. That was all. 

First-time 

When Sargeant went out to score and be a man…. 😂

​”How was it? “I asked, pepped up as hell. He kept a straight face, let a feeble grunt followed by a sigh, a dramatic slump of shoulders and a slow shake of head. A few beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. And it was hard to believe he had sex just a day ago. 

“Mmmm…Great. “He said, his face exposing a drought of excitement. 

Had I put my dick inside a lady for the first time, I’d have stood on the top of Mansi Niketan with a banner and done a victory lap. I’d have distributed Kaju Barfi in the whole area. Hell, I’d have adopted Bangladesh or something, I’d have been so euphoric. After all, first sex isn’t merely an activity, it’s an event. 

Something was fishy here.

It happened in the latter part of my life in Ranchi. I had practically dissociated myself from the group and had only Lord Evans, The Rana and Heroine as friends. The rest of them weren’t my enemies either, but if I had a pack of Dairy Milk with me, I’d have certainly not shared it with them. The reason, the primary one, was that they were not my kind of people. I was an introvert. They were not. I liked to be alone. They liked to disturb me. I believed that God’s existence was questionable. They believed I was going to hell. Anyway, initially, they used to ask if I’d like to join them in their outings and adventures, and since I was happy just walking down the streets of Shyamli, I’d always decline. Soon, they got that I wasn’t a dreamy wanderlust like them but a lazyass bastard who would stand on his feet only because he is afraid of bed sores.

So they made a plan towards the end of the session. A two days stay at the tourist hotspot of Bihar – Gaya. Gaya is famous for the Bodhi Tree (It’s under that tree* that the most important event in Buddha’s life took place. No, not sex, it was enlightenment). Gaya is also famous for the Sarai Road and a dozen other red light areas that glow in close vicinity. Even a furniture would have guessed that they were not going for pilgrimage. 

“We are going there to pay our respect to lord Budhdha. “Protested one of them when I tried to extract relevant informations like rate-charts and everything. 

“Ah..I see. “I said, not wanting to argue. I wasn’t much interesting in fucking prostitutes (STDphobia and moral reasons and saving-it-for-someone-special shit) but apart from that I’m a pretty curious animal. For example, I have always wondered how many red-lights does it need to make a place a red-light area. And if they have a tv in brothels. What does a whore do when she is not doing her job? Masturbate? General curiosity about their lifestyle and everything. 

“Alright. Maybe Sergeant will fuck a nice little whore. “He admitted after a while. Sargeant’s lips stretched wider than the combined lengths of Nach Baliye winners. His blackish teeth reminded me of coal mines of Dhanbaad.  

“What is it like? “I asked Hymenchoo (I know, weird petname, but he was a veteran in fucking whores, a regular customer at Sarai, and it was his idea to travel to Gaya. )

“Aahh…aaahh….Oh My God…yeah yeah….aaahhh.. “He made moaning sounds that people made during tooth extraction before the era of anesthesia.  

“No. Not that. I know that. I mean how is it like visiting the place? ”

He stared at me like you stare at a maths problem. Then, he said,

“There are rooms. But first they show you a catalogue. Then they show you a room. If you are rich they show you a different catalogue. That’s why always go in my Holi clothes. Once they mistook me for rickshawpuller Ramkhelavan’s son.  ”

“What are the rooms like? “I was getting pretty excited now. 

“Tiny. Suffocating. But you won’t feel it when your cock is hard. “He laughed. 

“Oh. And? Are they pros or what? I mean what about Blowjob? ”

He burst into another bout of laughter.

“It’s not America. They don’t do such things. Most of them are experienced, but still not suck your dick. If you press hard, they’ll charge double or even more. I had asked a girl once. She slapped me hard. They are so angry all the time. But there was this little girl once. Frail and innocent. She started stripping as I entered. Totally flat. I asked her how old she was. She counted on her fingers and said 12. I was so disgusted I ran out. Then they showed me another room. “He said. 

It’s not as if I didn’t know a number of kids are thrown into prostitution, but hearing the live account of it is much more disturbing. 

“Who is Sargeant going to fuck? “I asked. 

“Not a minor, for sure. “He said. “Actually, I’m gonna give him my woman. “He winked at Sergeant. 

I wished them all the best and asked Sargeant to remember the event vividly. 

And since the moment Sargeant had returned, he had been mum as a mummy. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything? “I asked him again. Nothing. 

Another day, Hymenchoo came to my room and asked if I had a brand new extra toothbrush. I shook my head and asked him about Sargeant. He laughed for about 5 minutes and said,

“Poor guy went in with a tonne of confidence. Said I’d fuck her so nicely that she’d pay me. Came out 5 minutes later. Drained and exhausted and groaning like a dog. The whore was laughing inside the room. Red swollen penis is what he complains of now. ”

“HIV? “I asked.

“Premature ejaculation. “He said and laughed. 

♥The Girl in the Train♥

A journey pleasant and not so pleasant. 😌

We drove amid the downpour for an hour to reach Katihar Jn. The loud splashes at the window and the faint music in the car sort of swirled into a nostalgic lemonade, throwing me onto the glowing streets of Ranchi – Airport road and all – and I ended up thinking about someone I shouldn’t. I was also missing my mother a lot, because she’d always come to see me off in all these years and that day was an exception. It was plain nostalgia, but it was pretty awful.



The train arrived, trundling with an ebbing musical roar, well before time and I picked my luggage up and started towards B8. Red coaches, white lights, blue seats – Rajdhani offers you weird amusements. The last time I travelled by this train, I swore never to come back here. But you know my mother, right? She thinks Rajdhani is Noah’s arc and so I was here, yet again, jostling through the crowd to find my seat, my mind doubtful and my soul uneasy. 

That’s when I saw her. Black top, dark blue jeans and rectangular frameless specs. There was a man by her who I suppose was her father. They both didn’t look related at all, though. She was pretty and he looked like the normal middle aged guy who acts in teleshopping commercials. My seat was just above her and it was kind of comforting. No, I wasn’t filled with lust instantly like I am supposed to. You see, when you are missing your guava trees, erection is impossible. 

I sat on the edge of the seat and twenty minutes later, the dad bid her bye and got off the train. Okay, now I was curious. I scanned through the boggie and found just one competitor – the guy on the side upper berth. He seemed like a narcissistic moron, who would spend a hundred bucks on haircut. But he wasn’t much interested, it appeared, and that escalated my chances of getting to strike up a conversation with her. 

I had it planned. I’d pretend to look out the window, but just so well that she knows I’m pretending to look out the window, and check her out, just so well that she knows I’m checking her out. Then, I’d check her reaction. 

Yeah! That was it! This trick never gets old. How else do you think Roman knights wooed their damsels? They pretended to look somewhere else. 

Er..As it turned out, though, the girl took my acting seriously and started looking out the window herself. She thought I saw something fishy, like a flying baby or something, so I stopped peering out and let a behemoth sigh. This idea tanked like Bombay Valvet. 

I thought about giving another try. I pulled out my sleek golden Galaxy J2 and plunged my earpieces in and fished through my albums for a girly romance. There was none, so I played Lootera. I was halfway through the movie when I realized I had to only pretend to watch the movie, and not actually watch it, and just so well that she knows I’m pretending to watch the movie and well you know the rest. Ughh…this was proving to be a lot more difficult than I’d imagined. 

The train staff arrived with samosas, and just ten minutes later, a family stepped in. There were five kids in that goddamn family. Perhaps the news of the invention of condoms had not yet reached their village. Five kids who looked alike and wore the same dress. I bit the samosas with trembling jaws as I calculated how many hours more to go with those imps in the next boggie. Delhi was yet a billion light years away, but I hoped they’d realize they’d boarded the wrong train and get off at the next station. That didn’t happen anyway. 

The bastard – the other guy in his late twenties, with receding hairlines and all, who looked like an Insurance agent you shouldn’t trust – on my opposite seat took advantage of my nervousness and tried on the girl. First, he called somebody on the phone and started conversing in lame English. There’s this English that you speak from your heart, and then there’s this English you speak to make your copassengers guess if you are the illegitimate child of Warren Hastings. This guy was getting an accent in his conversation, and that pissed me off. 

Then what he did was completely out of the book. He hung up and asked the girl if she was from DU. 

“Galgotias. “She said and I almost laughed.

“Oh. “He said, “My cousin studied there. ”

Like fuck he did! Like fuck he had a cousin! 

“Oh nice. “The girl said. Now I was getting worked up, and to add to my ire, the five kids in the next boggie started crying together. There was no symphony in their wails and it jabbed my ears and gave me cerebral aneurysm. I loathe kids. 

The man started talking about his cousin and this teacher who she would probably get to know in the second year, and I just pretended to look at my Galaxy J2 while I gritted my teeth in rage. 

The only comfort was that the girl wasn’t interested much. 

The kids stopped howling after their mother thrusted a lollipop each in their mouths and I felt like asking why she hadn’t done it already for the last one million years. Parents are dicks, I tell you. 

I finished Lootera and concluded that love is bullshit after all and nobody’s going to paint leaves for me, so I climbed up onto my berth and tried to sleep. I couldn’t because the blinding white from the flush mount ceiling light was giving my soul a third degree torture. I considered switching it off but the girl had already opened The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by now, and I was pretty sure she couldn’t read in the dark. Damn. 

Late at night, when people were about to sleep, she asked me if there was an extra pillow on my berth. I felt like giving her my own pillow. Umm…not really. Sacrificing your pillow is the zenith of virtue. This Ranchi girl I dated once asked me to come over to her room so that we could sleep together (in the most innocent manner possible) but get my own pillow because she wouldn’t share hers with me whatsoever. 

Anyway, that bastard got off his seat and went to the train staff and demanded a pillow without the delay of a breath. 

“I’ll rate this train a big 0, I swear. “He swore, and I could see the girl’s face and I almost laughed at how she wanted to jump out the emergency window. 

“Is he your brother? “I asked. She looked at me, pretending to be thinking about it, but just so well that I knew she was pretending to be thinking about it and said,

“That would be a nice proposition. ”

He brought two pillows with him and asked her to tell him if she needed anything else.

“Thanks Bhaiyya. “The girl said. 

They never talked again. 

An hour later, I thought about giving it a shot, this time, without any pretense, and so I poked my head down, but she was asleep and beautiful and so I just smiled and got my head back on my berth and slept. 

Till the kids started crying again. 

A Day in the Bank

Yes. There was a girl.

A few days ago, I had to visit the SBI office in my city to report a minor bug in my message alert facility. Given the triviality of the issue, I thought dressing up would be a bit too much. So I just slapped my face with water and touched my hair a bit. I haven’t had a shave for two months, and I looked like a person you would rather stay away from on the subways. I wore the same short pants and shirt I was wearing a few weeks ago when I ran into Doctor. If you really want to know, I wasn’t somebody a girl would masturbate to. 

“You know what, sometimes I wonder if you’re adopted. “Said my mother, who never leaves the door without wearing eyeliners and lipsticks and Shehnaz Hussain 24 Carat Gold Facial Kit. 

I went in, and to my surprise, there were a few hot girls waiting in the chairs. Tight black clothes in the month of July – they must have been aliens for pulling off this – and no hint of sweat. They kept moving their head around aimlessly, presumably bored with the unending wait. Their eyes would pass through me as if I was invisible. Sometimes I wonder if girls have an auto-reject button inside their brains. They spot you and then totally ignore your existence. I touched my beard – it felt no different than pubic hair – and wondered if I had made a mistake. 

I went ahead towards the counter and oh my God! There she was, A Goddess in glasses! Parrot green suit, parrot green specs, and a face made out of snowflakes. She was a girl you see in movies, beautiful and intelligent and oh my God. I started to sweat profusely. I felt like running back. How I wished I had been to a salon before dropping here! 

I moved back a few steps and turned around. I cleared my throat and whispered to myself, 

“Ahhmm..Excuse me miss. ”

No. That’s too cocky.

“Ahhmm..Mam. ”

Are you going to ask her a calculus doubt? 

“Ahhmm…”

Stop coughing for Santa’s sake. 
“Hey listen. ”

She’s not your clingy ex.

“Ummm..”

Confused moron.

“Uh. ”

Dumb fuck.

“Argghh. ”

Goon.

“Fuck. ”

Molester.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll just go and speak whatever comes out of my mouth. ”

That’s always landed you in trouble. 

I switched off the other-me and turned back to walk upto her. I stopped at a glass door and pretending to be a curious art lover who just hit upon a masterpiece, started checking my hair. As already mentioned, I was invisible to the girls. As I was fixing my hair, trying to give those frail strands artificial erections, I saw two ugly eyes staring at me through the glass door. 

“What the fuck! “I flinched. A short round face, pencil mustaches and tired sunken eyes. He looked like someone with a terminal disease – so like myself, only older by a thousand years. I glared back at him for a good 30 seconds and then I looked above at the small plate on the door. 

Manager – it said. 

I slid away like Tom the cat. 

I went to the angel at the counter, who had defied the concepts of blackheads, pimples and dark circles long ago, and who was waiting just for me. She would have been 5 years older at most, and I was sure that that wasn’t much of an age gap to start a family together. You see, when girls say, “Boys just care about sex ” they are wrong. They have been with wrong guys all the time. If you go out with me, I will treat you with all due respect, like those polite males in Ekta Kapoor serials. We could have sex – umm, make love – every Holi, blitzed out by Bhaang, with the most romantic chartbusters in the background, as a result of a conspiracy planned by your nemesis or something. Wait, getting back to the subject, there she was and there I was, a transparent yet impermeable glass between us, and how amazing she looked… All those stupid ions in my body started having their own Hedron Collider experiments. 

“Yes? “She said. 

Will you marry me? – I almost blurted out, but I told myself to maybe start with the basics first. How about a

“I am facing difficulties with my registered number. Could you help me? ”

Wow! That was easy peasy. 

“Write an application. Get a xerox copy of your id proof. “She said. So romantic! I imagined our babies playing with debit cards and singing SBI theme songs in their cribs. So nice! Hunky dory. 

Hmmm. I had written applications before. But in all those applications, I was either terribly sick or had to attend my relatives’ marriage ceremony. Why don’t they ever teach you the actual applications you’ll need to write?

I googled and Google helped me without a hiccup. I wrote the application as if I was designing my tombstone epitaph, making swirly Ys and all, and it took me half an hour to write it full. I was sure she’d be impressed – I had devoted my entire artistic experience to this boring job, so it was only fair of me to assume she would get my handwriting xeroxed and save it in her secret album. Boy, was I confident? 

I erected my hair again.

And strutted upto her with full confidence.

She saw my application and yawned. She covered her mouth with her slender porcelain fingers and said,

“Get it signed by the manager. ”
“The who? “I asked, just to make sure I heard it right.
“The manager. There. “She pointed to the office I had found my older version in. Damn.

The manager had a good look at me once I went in. He interviewed me like Chanakya IAS academy does to UPSCE aspirants. And then he asked me to go fill the Net Banking form. 

All in all, it took about 3 hours. By the time I got the kit from the gorgeous lady, I was a miserable heap of sweat, not sure anymore if she’d still go out with me.