Daily regular borrriinnggg stuffs

Neighbour, girl and Christopher Nolan. πŸ˜‘

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Exams, guys. πŸ˜‘

That apart, I think I’ve run out of topics. From love to commode, I’ve touched upon every spectrum of life that seems worthy to be touched upon. Yeah, I haven’t written about crabs, or NASA’s ongoing endeavour to successfully pave the way for intergalactic meme exchanges, or GST, but you wouldn’t really care about those petty stuffs. I really don’t know what to write. At times, I want to write about neanderthals and slavery, but there’s no fun in that.

So let me shower upon you the daily regular monotonous stuffs of my life.

1. My neighbour lost his admit card. Almost.

Well, such things pretty regular when it comes to my neighbour. It is the first day of exam and he thinks, ‘oh well! There’s no reason why one should not have spring roll on the first day of his exam.’ So he goes to this little corner by the park, munches on some nice little spring rolls and while pulling his wallet out, loses the admit card. Two minutes later, all the spring in his life turns autumn brown. And then he darts around like a blind bee, wishing for x-ray vision or something. He is already late for the exam.

A shopkeeper shows him an MP’s secretary’s door, who writes vague orders on his writing pad, that supposedly allowed him to sit through the paper without being harassed by the examiner. Then he races upto the college with the speed of light, thus proving Einstein’s thoery wrong, and makes two rounds of college to find his room. He eventually gets in, and finishes the paper before everyone else. Adrenaline!

Later he finds his admit card posted on Facebook with a lost and found notice, with love reactions and all, and people praying for its safe return.

Happy Ending.

2. This girl is back with a bang.

She was pretty insignificant in std. 6. I mean they all are ugly little annoying things in std. 6. Look at Doctor, for example, even though she was never ugly – I mean even the ultrasound photos of her foetal form could inspire artists and cause world war 3 – she was pretty annoying. Like, remarkably annoying. And evil. Like, if she had a choice between a lifetime free coupon to Baskin-Robbins and watching us choke to death she would happily quit ice cream.

Anyway, this other girl I was talking about was kind of invisible, despite being my friend’s supposed girlfriend. Flat chest, single pony, plain features. And fast forward 8 years from then, and oh my heavens! I ran into her on instagram and found this short video. No it wasn’t sexual, it was just her expressions, and my pulmonary veins spasmed with the thud of a lifetime. My eyes bulged out with escape velocity and my jaw sank into earth and pine trees grew behind my molars and I was still not in my senses. My neighbour saw it too and he was impressed as well.

I texted my friend that he was the dumbest ass in the multiverse for leaving a beauty like her, to which he replied, “she friendzoned me. ”

O you poor thing!

I told this other friend of mine who was busy ogling his hot neighbour showering naked with lights on and so he didn’t pay attention. Later he told me she has been in a pretty great relationship for the last two years.

Tragedy.

3. I watched memento.

Christopher Nolan hands down is the most intelligent movie director of all time. He is so intelligent that when they were launching Cassini, they hid pirated copies of his movies inside, so that if aliens hit upon the vehicle, they do realise we are intelligent species.
So I watched memento and realised how awfully Bollywood had copied the theme from a south Indian copy of the movie. They just made it a romance-revenge drama, where it was the thriller of the century. I was mondblown at the end of the movie, turning and twisting in my bed like a poisoned dog. I googled and tried to understand the theory. It took me a while. Then, the Jio Guy saw the movie and he barged in last morning.

“Barbossa, what the fuck did I just watch!!?”

Fifteen minutes later, we were hunched over the notebook, trying to figure out the ending with the help of diagrams and flowcharts. We did a little research on anterograde amnesia and discussed all the perspectives and possible cases. It was like preparing a thesis. We even watched the movie, this time in a forward order, wondering if Leonard’s version was fabricated.

Another neighbour dropped in and seemed quite impressed with our nerdity. Or maybe he thought we were idiots. Anyway, he congratulated us for making such a deep contribution to the development of nation and exited. We couldn’t reach a concrete conclusion though.

Confused.

Gangs of Wasseypur Effect

My neighbor watched it…finally!!!!

Writing blogs when you are 4 days away from your exams is an Ongbak level stunt. At the same time, it’s secretly  exhilarating, like murdering your thickhead uncle who keeps dropping at your head monotonus career advices. I’m not that concerned this time though, and that’s the reason why I have been busy picking literary devices from a friend’s English assignment question yesterday. Euphemism is when you say I’d miss the boat instead of I’d flunk in exams. I’d study religiously for the next 4 days is a Hyperbole.

Anyways, I am writing this to tell you about my neighbor’s aka flatmate’s aka The Kota Guy’s latest stunt. He is the queer man you tell your grandkids about, his queer-ness queer-y enough to stretch their eyes wider than Kardashiyan butthole. After the date debacle, he’s sort of gone bonkers. I had been badgering him to watch Gangs of Wasseypur as there never was a gangster movie before or after, that has surpassed the swag pinnacle touched by this movie. I have never seen a gangster movie so gangster. I mean when people told me Godfather was the greatest gangster movie ever made, I watched it and later had to google why the fuck it was the greatest gangster movie. I mean the marriage scene lasted for probably half the movie. Dumb people. But when I saw Gangs of Wasseypur I was mindblown and speechless.  

But needless to say, my neighbor wasn’t convinced. He is the guy who keeps half a dozen movies in his phone but never watches them until they rust into flakes. And he is the guy who watches the whole movie forwarding and jumping scenes before watching it in one go. And he likes to give away spoilers of the movies he’s already watched. Basically, he is the guy you’d rather discuss integrals with. 

But boy a boy! Did he go nuts after watching Gangs of Wasseypur! All he has done since then is watched the movie on loop. He keeps singing Chi Cha Leather and Electric Piya all the time. He even practices Rajkumar Rao’s steps in isolation. 

“Barbossa, “he says, “people are so stupid. They travel to stupid places. I want to go to Bihar. ”

The other day he was asking me if I had a pistol or something in my cupboard. When I gave him a quizzical look, he shrugged his shoulders and said, 

“Biharis are dangerous people. ”

I took it as a compliment and decided not to ruin the respect the movie was fetching me. 

“I want to be a goon. “He said dreamily, as if he was wishing for candies. I wondered if I should shake him to reality. But then, I remembered Apple-philosophy and realized consciousness is complicated and realities can be warped and so I should probably not give a fuck. 

About Apple-philosophy? Well, if there’s a fruit philosophers love, it’s apple. Like a mad scientist’s poor cat, apples are the victims of thought experiments. So there’s a question – if an apple is consumed does it cease to be an apple? Now, it may seem like a child’s play, but if you look deeper, the question gets extremely bewildering. Aristotle is much like this 9 year old cousin of mine, who believes his shoes are actually dwarf cows. 

“What make it a shoe?” That little rug asked me when I told him it was a shoe and not a cow. Now I could have given him a little smack on the temple and he’d have agreed it was a shoe, but I chose to be a good influence and explained to him that cows have horns and a tail. 

“Just because my cow don’t have tail and horns don’t make it shoe. “He argued and ran away with his cow, I mean shoe. I was left puzzled. 

Is it a shoe, I wondered. Or it’s a cow? What do we call a cow who’s lost the tail and the horns? At what point does a cow stop being a cow? 

I never disturbed the kid again. 

Anyway, all my neighbors friends have watched the movie and they flock in the hall and rehearse profane dialogs. The scenes are discussed in great details, as if the movie is a central theme of their research paper. They keep interrogating their Bihari friends if they know gangsters. 

I wondered if I should cook up gangster stories and tell them but then it dawned upon me that I do care about exams and so I let them rot in their gangster debauchery and shifted my focus to agrarian expansion of early medieval India. 

 

Me and Mosquito #just a rant

πŸ˜‘

Here I lay in my cold November bed, listening to a Sonu Kakkar song, wondering where those times went when words flew out my mind to the wicked white screen, when I wrote witty whirlwind stuffs and felt the sheer undiluted awe. Yeah, I just tried an alliteration here. 

As I punch onto the screen the words that don’t make sense and have never heard of coherency, a lone mosquito dances in front of my eyes. It’s about midnight and it’s quite lonely here. The only source of light is this wicked screen, with its charge dipping faster than Airtel shares after Jio explosion. 

My phone has been sick for some time now. It’s dying of senescence, like we all are. You see, I am trying to get philosophical here, but I can’t. I don’t know how to be philosophical without being borriinng. I’m out of words. This is just a rambling probably. I’m simply typing my ideas. Everything that’s going through my head. And actually, now I feel good. Wow. Wo! Umm..okay. Wait. I need to think something. 

Yeah, the mosquito. The mosquito is a female one, because it’s buzzing. I suppose female mosquitos buzz. I don’t know much about their anatomy or behavior. Doctor knows them quite well. She draws mosquito appendages in the last pages of her copy. Okay, that was made up. A lot of things I say about Doctor are made up. But the imaginations still have their root in realities. Okay, that was philosophical. Kind of. 
Now I’m wondering about the mosquito – the only living soul in the entire universe amidst this impregnable darkness, besides me. How lonely! But there’s a certain mutual respect we share. She is bobbing here and there at lightening speed, almost like a quantum thingy which Neil Degrasse Tyson has been trying to explain in his shows for centuries. It’s wonderful but annoying. Wow! What an amazing paradox. 

Why the hell am I thinking about a mosquito? Seriously! I could think about anything. Like I could think about Pisa’s leaning tower, that giant phallus on the belly of the earth. I could think about ships and stars, about Dragons and Dinosaurs. But all I’m thinking about is a petty mosquito, who I could squash with a flick. 

I wonder what the mosquito is thinking. Mosquitos think, don’t they? But they think differently from us. No they don’t. It’s amazing to think how they think, though. 

Now I am blank. I could say I saw a nice movie a few hours ago – Monsoon Wedding. I could say the Desi Chinese girl is dating my dumb Manipuri classmate (and now my gang is planning his assassination). I could say how the Mount Zion School reunion plan went down the commode. I could say that my neighbor is head to toe in debt (thanks to poker). I could say many things, but I won’t. I just want to rant. Rant rant rant. 

And yeah, I just squatted the mosquito with my bare hands. And now I am alone, all by myself in this unending blackness, amid this infinite silence. 

Happy DiwaliΒ 

Not so happy πŸ˜‘

My eyes are full of tears as I write this. No, nobody died. It’s just that the blockheads who live on the second floor have been performing some fucking yagna for the last few centuries. As ancient Romans would call it, my apartment is gravioris infernum now. All I see is veiled objects, smoke billowing in and out of every window and door, and I don’t even have Asthma. It’s just that my eyes are a bit sensitive and more than that my brain is. I was happily watching Reaction channels on my mobile phone when my eyes started to hurt. Four minutes later, I was sure I was going blind. 

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from phone? “My mother would say and I wouldn’t be able to see her. I wouldn’t be able to draw naked ladies. Every time I’d admire a beautiful woman she’d know I’m lying. How awful to be blind! 

I pulled myself up from that nightmarish thought and blinked profusely. I ran around like a pesticide-stricken honeybee, unaware of my destiny or senses. I ran for air but every inch of it was polluted, like they show in disaster films. The pigeons at my window had already flown away, and I with a complete lack of wings, was flailing my arms because that’s what you do when you are dying and don’t have wings. Those fucking pigeons! I rushed to the bathroom and splattered a sea across my face but it didn’t help. It felt like there were ants running on my cornea with katanas attached to their bootsoles. I started sneezing as well. The whole thing was like a Stephen King novel. 

Restless and dying, I soaked my towel, wrapped it around my head and stood at the bathroom door like a B grade remake of Tutankhamun. I was also cursing in muffled voices and bobbing and shaking my head out of irritation and pain. And then I heard the shriek of a woman. 

I removed my face bandage and discovered my landlady standing horrified, her face paler than a fish, her eyes two big meteor craters. 

“Aunty..I..I was just..”

And she scooted away. Perhaps she had come to ask for rent. Perhaps. Perhaps she’ll soon find a new renter. 

I thought about going down to the 2nd floor and confronting them, but they have an animal named Lucy. They say it’s a bitch but I am sure it’s a Leopard or something. Goddamn Lucy. I couldn’t go there. So instead I imagined my empty dustbin-carton was Lucy and kicked it till it crushed like a Styrofoam cup. Now feminists will say it’s misogynistic but I don’t give Santa’s fuck. I was dying. I could kill a bitch. Or whatever she was. 

There’s this sink in our apartment which we don’t use, as it leaks. The water flows directly into their flat. I thought about peeing in the sink but then I didn’t have the required urinary urge. I didn’t even have water. 

So I wore a shirt and went to fetch a bottle of water from my neighbor, or as I’d like to call her affectionately, my landlady. There she was, brewing tea peacefully. As I entered she froze like a spider. When I passed her she trembled. The minute that passed filling the water was the quietest minute in recorded history. It was so quiet scientists heard Big Bang waves without those byzantine radios. It was so quiet libraries and hospitals went into shock and Zeus rubbernecked through clouds to check if everybody was dead on earth.

I filled the water and my landlady asked, staring into my red eyes with stark fear. 

“You didn’t go to home? ”

“Hehehe..No Aunty. Hehehe..My home is very far. It’s so far…”I thought about adding humour but she was gazing me like sheeps gaze at a murderous lion, so I left. I went back and the mist hadn’t melted yet. I sniffled and sneezed and cussed and decided to write thise grumbling post. 

As I finish this, the pigeons are back on my window. And they’re fucking each other like it’s the end of the world. 

Sometimes I wonder how spectacular my life would be if I were a pigeon. 

And yeah, Happy Diwali

Long Day #1 : Birthday Cake

We decided to celebrate it…formally.

Index – Following are the petnames of people in my group :

  • Netaji – Hailing from a political and gangster background, he wants to become the president of India.   
  • Popatlal – Otherwise a genius, his skeletal frame makes him look like a grasshopper. 
  • Danger – I have no idea why he is referred to as that. 
  • Ummm, I don’t know, but we have a petname for his future wife – Begum Noor Jahan. For the sake of convenience let’s call him Dick
  • The Aggressive Guy – He so desperately wants to pick a fight that when he’s got no enemies he kicks empty air. 
  • Laddoo – well, that’s what they call me. Because I’m fat. 

 It was Netaji’s birthday recently and so Popatlal decided to throw in a surprise. Yeah, we are so single that we plan birthday surprise for our male friends. Danger called me and we agreed to a deal. We would get him a cake – that would be, essentially, for consumption. There are people who buy cakes for face, which, if you ask me, is the worst use of money after Pablo Escobar’s famous logfire. Anyway, we decided for a small cake (chocolate -> MANDATORY). It’s just that when we went to the store nobody had money. Cute. 

“That will be 220 rupees. “The shop owner said with a smirk.

Popatlal looked at me, I looked at Danger, Danger looked at Dick, and Dick stared at the duststorms left by the glamorous cars that zoomed by. 

“I don’t have that much. “Popatlal said. “What you all got? ”

“Umm..let me check. “I fished in my empty pocket, “Nothing. ”

“I was born poor. “Danger said. We all loked at Dick, who stood there, pale and flaccid. 

“We don’t have enough money in our family to buy a pen so that we could apply for Ration Cards. We are Bangladeshi immigrants. “Dick said. 

The Agressive Guy waited for somebody to ask him so that he could turn it into an argument and pick a fight, but nobody said him anything. 

“Here’s the money. “The Aggressive Guy gave in eventually, “If I don’t get it back soon, I’ll break all your teeth. ”
We happily accepted the money and I chose a beautiful cake with a dark chocolate layer at the top and two more in between. 

“Do you want to write something on it? “The owner asked. 

“Netaji. “We echoed. He smirked.

“No wait. ” I said. “Write Chutiya. ” 

They all stared at me. A pause. And Popatlal nodded. 

“Yeah. That. ”

The shop owner smirked again. There was something fishy about that guy. He took the tube and wrote the word on it. While he was doing so, his phone rang and Saare Jahan Se Achcha started playing in the air. The customers looked at us, the old ones, as if we were the reason why God sent Earthquakes and Floods in this world. 

But we got the cake anyway. 

“Wait, I’ll go first. “I said, as we stood outside his alley, “and when I say ‘All Clear’, follow me. Okay? ”

They nodded like a good battalion. But didn’t follow my advice. 

Netaji was already leaning on the rails of his balcony when we entered the alley. So that just ruined the surprise. He was dumbfounded to see the word Chutiya though. 

“Whoever wrote this, I’ll get him hanged when I become the president of India. “He vowed. 

After the formal birthday song was sung, Popatlal divided the cake into 4 parts – as the Aggressive Guy had a fast, Netaji wasn’t interested in cakes –  which he claimed were equal. They would have been way more equal had a bee, with a knife tied to its tail, divided the cake. Fight broke and I grabbed the 2nd largest piece. I licked all over it before I began to eat, in order to safeguard my possession from any possible foreign invasion. 

“This is unfair. I got the smallest. “Said Dick.

“You are a Bangladeshi immigrant, remember? You are lucky to even get a whiff. “

The Editorial πŸ˜‘

Imagine going through this every morning….😑

1

Editorials are monotonous as fuck. When I was a kid my tuition teacher advised (ordered) me to read An English Newspaper everyday, especially the Editorial page as it’s rich in knowledge. I was 14 then. I had Ben 10 Alien Force stickers on the inside of my pencil box! Ugh..I had a pencil box!! My perception of knowledge wasn’t very clear back then. I mean I knew about Null-Void, but was that something that constituted knowledge? It was all so confusing. I watched insect wars on Discovery. I don’t know.

Anyway, I subscribed for a morning daily. The Times of India. It was either this or The Telegraph, and the latter didn’t offer glitzy Sunday supplements, so I went for the former. 

Now there are one or two things you need to understand here. I lived in a small non-English city of a small non-English state of a fairly large English country. The aforementioned newspapers didn’t have many readers around and so they weren’t published in a nearby locality. 

“You’ll get it a day late. “The hawker said as he sipped the free tea, sitting like a crab in my favourite little chair. Have I told you about my little chairs? Okay, I’ll. 

“Okay. “I nodded. It’s not as if I had a choice.

And so, it started. My teacher was the happiest person on earth the day he heard this news.

“I’m so glad that you got the paper. Now nobody can stop you. You will touch skies now. Just wait and see. “He said, his eyes two little balls of wildfire and then suddenly soot, “And oh…I’m leaving for Delhi tomorrow. I got a job. ”

Whaattt!!?? How the fuck was I supposed to read that goddamn paper now?

I knew nothing to begin with. Words like Corroboration, Logistics and Heterodox gave me anu…anue….aneu…Holy Santa claus….aneurysm. I wasn’t born an Angrez. I had received my primary education in hindi medium, so English words swam like stoned jellyfishes in front of my eyes. I didn’t know why cat meant pussy but pussy didn’t mean cat. I mean according to Euclid, they should have been same. 

Anyway, I began reading the paper. There were some Chetan Bhagat articles, devoid of humour. There were no jokes in his pieces, all he did was trying to make sense which didn’t make sense. I mean I knew him as a story-teller. There were goliath articles, each the size of Indian Ocean, and I’d find twenty thousand difficult words before I could finish the first paragraph. It was a struggle, it was like decoding an ancient script, only without the possibility of winning a Pulitzer. 

I tried a few more articles and then I gave up. Except for Jug Suraiyya’s tiny comic pieces, nothing in those pages made sense. People wrote monologues on political, social and economic issues. Nobody talked about Null-Void. Nobody talked about how cool a KameHameHa wave was. So, I found an alternative use of the paper. I started cutting out sceneries and made an album. When my mother saw it she admired my work wholeheartedly. 

“Wow! This is so amazing! “She said, as she flipped through the album,

“Also, no paper from tomorrow. ”

2.

Fast forward to 2017. I have subscribed for The Indian Express. If The Hindu is the iPhone of newspapers, The Indian Express is the RedMi. Poor people read this and try to compete with The Hindu readers. This paper belongs to the phylum UPSCE of species Newspapers. People who want to crack CSE perform fellatio on this newspaper and then swallow it like a Black Widow Spider. I too have been licking it for some times. It’s not like The Times of India – full of ads and hot women and hot topics and that shiny Sunday supplement with raunchy series like the Diary of a Single Girl. On the contrary, The Indian Express is almost completely Black and White, with a complete absence of perky breasts, sparkling cleavages, screaming matrimonials and Hashmi Dawakhana ads. It is full of something which you’d rarely find in a newspaper – news

The editorial is boring as hell, still. There’s one event of national importance and bam! Everyone’s got their tits out and long and endless articles appear days after days till the issue is squeezed to the bones. In the recent privacy verdict, the front page was full of supreme Court judgement. Then, there were half a dozen pages full of explanations, detailed coverage of the event, history of privacy, interview of the heroes, future scopes, shit, poop, etcetera, etcetera. Then there was the Editorial page. Then there was the Ideas Page. I was so flummoxed I took a leave from the college for a couple of days to finish reading it and still had six pages remaining by the time my short holiday ended. I was disgusted. 

Most of the articles are similar in structure, they carry the same tone, and have the same appeal to the reader. Stirring articles – Yashwant Sinha‘s latest, for example – are rarer than Spontaneous Human Combustion. People wait, with telescopes, in their balconies, for such articles. Even Halley’s comet passes by Earth thrice before such an article shows up. Rest of the days, it’s just people ranting and rumbling, criticising or defending the government, pointing out how dalits are oppressed, how women are oppressed, how farmers are oppressed, how Muslims are oppressed, how immigrants are oppressed, and recently, how journalists are oppressed. They talk about the problem, mention a failing scheme/law and provide general solutions. Now if you’re learning how to make a soap such a narrative would be fine, but being a history student, a blogger and a novel maniac, this narrative doesn’t work for me. I have to read those like people read H C Verma – with care and guessjobs. 

Yeah. What else? There’s Sudoku. Well. And comic strips which are not The Wizard of Oz or Dennis the Menace. There’s Sports page without the column that’s usually reserved for a tantalising photograph of an athlete’s girlfriend. They discuss Dengue Prevention schemes on page 3. I mean, you get the picture, right?

I hope you understand how life is. But I’ve to plough. Because – to conclude with a cheesy English line – no matter how ugly the shipwreck, the Heart has to Go On. 

Okay. That was damn cheesy. 

My Flatmate Goes on a Date πŸ˜‚

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.