Bloody Love

slitting the wrist and stuffs…πŸ˜‚πŸ˜…

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Yesterday, I came across this melancholic poem by Sameera, which made me kind of nostalgic. So I’d like to share this crazy memory.

I remember those crazy teenage years when I pined for Doctor. Gender-based animosity had perished by the time we reached class VIII, and in IX and X, my classroom was more like a lovers’ lane, where couples groped each other in the back benches as we (the monks) crammed French Revolution for upcoming exams. Love was in the air, and if you inhaled it enough, Cupid would himself get down to earth and push you into deep shit. It was a hormonal high for us – everything we felt was an overdose. We loved like nobody ever had, we hated like nobody ever could.

One of my friends fell balls down for this really dumb girl. He proposed her with a diary milk, a rose and a letter – with three grammatical mistakes – written in his own undiluted blood. Needless to say, the girl agreed. They all agree when they are in std. IX. Try proposing the same girl after she’s like three guys down, and you’d know how poverty feels.

Anyways, both of them, and the others really liked this bloody game. Every time they had a tiff or had to prove their love, they’d steal a blade from their dad’s shaving kit and give a small slash on the wrist. Blood would ooze out and all the misunderstandings would miraculously evaporate and they’d be groping each other in the back benches again. Sometimes I wondered if the girl was a vampire. She saw blood and it calmed her tits.

So yeah, blood sacrifice was a common ritual to resolve a conflict or to celebrate sadness. The deeper your cut went, the greater your melancholy. They were all reading Ravindar Singh back then, what would you expect.

So this friend of mine had cut marks all over his forearm. When there was no space left in the left hand, he moved to the right, and when that was filled up as well, he went to the left arm. Before he could move to the right arm, they broke up.

Slitting the wrist was such an important marker of love and grief that I thought I should give it a try. Cuipid had touched me by now, and I was head over heels in love with Doctor ( or so I thought). I really believed love was powerful enough to overwhelm your mind and make you do absurd things. I mean, according to cheesy bestselling romance, what’s love if it doesn’t kill you in the end. Damn those novels!

One day in November, when Doctor probably had her PMS or whatever, we fought and she stopped talking to me. So I thought it was quite depressing and I had to slit my wrist. Writers promise that physical pain helps you forget the mental agony. Plus, it was autumn and I had no porn. Plus, I was really addicted to her texts.

So I got a brand new knife from the local store. In the evening, I decided to do it. I googled how deep a cut would be okay, and it started sending me suicide prevention links. Anyways, I breathed in twenty gallons of air and got down to the business. I swear to God, the moment the blade touched my skin, all the veins became clear to my eyes. I could trace each of them, branching off right under my translucent skin, carrying life in a fluid red. The blade seemed real sharp. I dropped that idea. I’d seen in movies how people spasm when their jugular vein is ripped. Too scary to attempt!

I mean yeah I could die a Romeo’s death and maybe prove my love for her, but hell, I hadn’t even had sex yet. I didn’t want to go to heaven and find out that had I survived, I’d be having a kinky threesome with Janice Griffith and Keydon Kross ten years later. That would be really depressing.

But I was sad. So I had to hurt myself. How else would I be relieved! Everybody writes poems on debris, so I had to be one. But knife was too risky. So I’d to find something else.

There was another trend that caught me as quite romantic. Scribbling the lover’s name on your hand with a sharp object has its own elegance. I had seen depressed people do that in movies. And I was depressed. Damn I was heartbroken.

But Doctor has a really long name. One alphabet short of being a south Indian name. I could write her nickname but nobody would know if it was a real name or some secret, acronymed message for the illuminati. Moreover, I liked her real name more. So I chose to doodle her name on my wrist with a pen, and then to overwrite and overwrite till it was all bloody. I did it. Ah! Don’t ask me how. Annddd…

Fuck those novelists. Really. Goddamn. Physical pain and mental agony have different spots inside the brain. You can never forget a dead wife by amputating your pinkie, for example. Goddam it. Also, go for a goddam slash if you really want to.
Scribbling hurt for weeks. And I cursed all my friends who thought slitting wrist or torturing yourself had a point. I mean it wasn’t half as pleasurable as BDSM.

Our class had over 15 couples in std X. Almost all of them have broken up by now. No, Doctor is still clinging to her boyfriend probably (no idea). Teenage love doesn’t last long.

We don’t slash our wrists anymore. A few friends of mine guzzle beer or smoke Goldflake. I watch porn or try to learn something new. You don’t have to hurt yourself, because talking can heal deep wounds. This I have learnt.

If you ever feel depressed, start talking. If you don’t find people, talk to yourself. It helps. Well, you can always go back to blades. I mean I’m no judge but give yourself a chance. Love does not kill, emotions do. Get hold over them.

Okay now I have begun to sound like Sadguru, so I’d shoo off.

Bye bye.

My parents’ wedding anniversary πŸ˜‚

my parents are the last people you would club together as a couple…..

Yesterday, my father threw me off by asking me to bring a dozen samosas from the market after I was done fooling around in the stadium. Junk food and my father are antonyms, but he had to compromise his ethics to save his marriage, as my mother had declared him an ‘unfit’ husband at 16:34 because he did nothing special on their 22nd anniversary – and anniversaries before – which was a shame because Rani Mausi’s husband takes his wife to Darjeeling every year on their marriage day. My father coolly turned another page of the newspaper, scratched the vest over his stomach, yawned and deadpanned,

“He really wants to push her off the cliffs. ”

That apart, he did not even help her find the Hanuman Chalisa in the morning, which was a sin given that it was their marriage anniversary.

I am a product of arranged marriage. And I can vouch that my parents are weird couple. They are so different they are not even meant to be together. I’ve imagined several parallel worlds where my parents don’t meet until 2018, and I can see my mother, young and lively, breezing past my grey-haired father, like Rajdhani passes by dilapidated halts. I can’t believe they’ve managed for so many years without getting into nasty fist fights or court cases.

My parents are so opposite in nature you’d assume their marriage was a social experiment. My father is a sweet, composed man who has never shaved off his moustache, while my mother is a moody, peppy woman who is currently donning her thousandth hairstyle. It’s not just about their physical appearance, it’s also about their character and what they want from life. My father hopes for a little garden and a cow, and a honey brown book shelf with framed glass doors when he retires. My mother dreams of a business class seat in an aeroplane flying over Paris, and poor hostesses asking her if she’d like to have something.

‘Nothing but a spa. ‘She’d say in her newly acquired British accent, and the hostesses shall escort her to an attached cabin with an elegant spa, where a Jacuzzi surrounded by candles would have Ecuadorian rose petals floating over lukewarm water.

My father finds content in small things, eating a mango, for example, where as my mother could have handkerchiefs made of gold and she’d still wonder why she is so destitute.

I am not my father’s advocate. My mother is emotional, where as my father is a stoic. He doesn’t have a taste, nor does he reveal his thoughts too often. Sometimes, he’s difficult to get. We didn’t even know when his birthday was until a few years ago. When we asked him, he turned another page of the newspaper and said,

“I’ll look that up in the certificate. ”

On the other hand, My mother speaks her mind. No, she screams her mind. If you don’t want to know what she’s thinking at the moment, she’d still tell you, even if it’s a dumb idea. She likes to exhibit all the colours of her emotional pallette and also pokes at us to know the finest details of every happening in our lives. Yesterday, she wanted to know if Dolly aunty saw me on the way and if she said anything.

“Who is Dolly Aunty? “I quizzed, to which my mother gave a really long answer, which included enriching informations like the design on her son Tinku’s 2nd birthday cake and her current waist size which was large enough to circumscribe two soccer fields.

So yesterday, I went to this old fast food joint, Rangeela. They sell samosas at 7 rupees a piece. We tripled on the scooter and zoomed to Rangeela. On the way, we saw a hot girl riding a scootey.

“If I were the son of a Dubai Sheikh, I’d have turned. “PC said. Since fuel prices have gone up, PC takes extra care in his movements.

Also, I’d say don’t triple on a scooty. If you do, don’t sit in the middle, as your penis will have to struggle against the butts of the rider, and your butts will be pressed against the penis of the person behind you.

The joint had been revamped. The counter was glistening with polish. There were fancy watermelon bowls to hold Sprite bottles. There were tokens to facilitate the transaction. The bar table was clean and shiny and there were three bottles of chilled water at each table. Well, time changes things, you see.

We bought Samosas after waiting in a long queue. After that we relished the chaat and scooted off.

At home, everything was hunky dory and my mother didn’t grunt much when I emptied the rasgulla can down my stomach. There wasn’t much celebration because my mother was kind of tired from all the cooking and marketing. I massaged her feet with two oils and she asked me to get a wife who won’t fight with her.
My father was busy putting grease on the door handle meanwhile, because that could, in a way, make our life better.

Two Days of Winter : Day 1 #the toilet

Another struggle on the fore…

The first thing I saw when my eyes opened was our conductor collapsing like a dead pine. DJ RonCruz was quick to react, and he grabbed the semi-dead man by his collar before he could roll all the way down through the door and experience a really cool freefall into the valley. Yes we were in the pass again. On my left was the rocky mountain and on my right were the terraces. The terraces reminded me of Boticelli’s Mappa dell’Inferno, only that these were not grotesque. There were resplendent houses with sloping roofs, sometimes only two at a level. Surrounded by coniferous trees and monkeys and birds, these cottages could anytime pass off as one of the best honeymoon spots in the world. I didn’t waste any time and began picturing my honeymoon with this hot Arabian diva I’d seen on YouTube the other day.

It turned out that the conductor was just sleepy from the overdose, and he suffered minor trauma which could be cured by two rounds of Iodex massage. Everybody went back to being crazy once DJ RonCruz resumed playing sexist but popular and upbeat songs. Girls looked like plastic surgeries gone bad and boys looked as usual- ugly and gross. Back in the stern, a feeble cry was demanding the bus be halted instantly for a piss break or somebody might jump, but it was suppressed by the mind blowing music and ceaseless cheers. And ten minutes later, the guy actually jumped.

The bus screeched to a halt. Everybody went quiet.

“He jumped! He jumped!” shouted the third year guys from the stern side.

Girls look kind of cute when they are gobsmacked. You might view this as a sexist statement, but I swear I have observed this. And science backs it too, because your eyes expand when you’re surprised, and big eyes are beautiful. Applying deductive reasoning to the two statements, we get that girls look beautiful when they are surprised.

Anyways, the guy was alright. He said he’d jumped from vehicles before. Once he even jumped from Brahmputra Mail and rolled like red carpet for a few feet and then got up alright.

“When I stood on my feet and brushed off the dust from my shirt, people gazed at me wondrously, as if I were the incarnation of a divine being. They clapped and whistled, and I knew I was invincible. “He elaborated. He also shared with us some techniques to jump off a moving vehicle, and talked about how he was thinking of contacting Guinness World Records for the highest number of safest exits from running trains. It is a talent, in the same way being able to pass snakes through your nostrils is.

Mr. Gabbar did not scold him much, because he could understand the motivation – the insuppressible urge to pee, which can make men move mountains.
Girls began demanding a pee break as well. These little struggles for equality worth being mentioned, because these tiny pixels would, over time, grow into a vivid mosaic. The problem with girls demanding a pee break, though, is you’ve to find a proper toilet, which the government of India has failed to build in sufficient quantities over 70 years because Muslims used up all the marbles and all the good architects migrated to Dubai to construct tall towers. It’s not government’s fault if you see it that way.

The bus did not stop for another hour. And when it did, all we could find was a dilapidated toilet with enough holes on the door to use it as a makeshift sieve for filtering tea at community gatherings. And the toilet policy was such that you had to have breakfast at the owner’s little joint in order to be able to use that shabby cabin.
So we ordered around 50 chais and got them hot in small papercups. The taste was awful, similar to railway food. Junior girls had brought fancy noodles, packed at home, and it triggered a riot when they opened the box. People shoved forks in each other’s nostrils to keep them away, and dug their hands in the little tiffin box that could feed not more than two pigeons. In not more than one blink of eye, the noodles were sliding down people’s small intestines for further digestion. We got plenty of photos clicked and Neta insisted I capture his shoes clearly. He had to send his photographs to his long-distance girlfriend, who is not much into him, if you ask me, or him.

The selfie sisters, after having relieved themselves, took twenty four million selfies and when their storage space ran out, chased this iPhone guy for a free photoshoot.

“For 3 years they never gave a fuck about me, and now they want my iPhone. Bitches! “The iPhone guy secretly told us later.

Once everybody came out and a head count was done, DJ RonCruz sat back at his place and resumed the music. And such vampires my friends were, they, once again broke into unstoppable mad dance.

Two Days of Winter : Night 1 #the restaurant

The Drama Queen smiled at me again, as if I was the cutest thing ever, and I felt my red antenna rise in alarm….

I woke up to the dazzling phosphenes whirling in front of me in an graceful tango. As I opened my eyes, I could see a giant LED signboard on my left. MANNAT. It was a posh restaurant, with a chain of candy shops on one side and a cafeteria on the other. The people around seemed to belong to a certain level of social hierarchy. The air was suddenly grim with sophistication. People started filing out to take in some fresh air, chai and food. Also, they must have desperately needed to pee. I was too exhausted to get up, as I usually am in a journey, so I decided to move my neck to the other side and fall dead as a log.

“Are you staying in, beta? “Mr. Gabbar asked.

“Yeah. Yes, sir. “I quicky bolted back to consciousness.

“Good. Watch my bag. “He said. He had a red American Tourister casual backpack and inside it was all the fund we’d be using up in the trip. It was a tough job, like babysitting, only that money doesn’t make noisy wails.

Alright, that was not exactly why I wanted to stay inside. Watching over a bag full of cash required hawk-like focus, and I was only slightly more alive than a dead limb of a tortoise. Anyway, duty was duty – as Military Man had taught me – so I stared at the bag like Arjun had stared at the fish and wondered how much money it had and what would it take for me to steal it. Not that I’m a thief, but at such points of acute thoughtlessness, you do get such imaginative ideas. That apart, everything has a price. I’ve heard people say love has no price, but that’s not true. Give me enough money and I’d buy two bags of love for all of humanity.

I was jolted out of my idle reflections by a break in. It was a well known gang – the Mad Trio – which was travelling with us and had gotten out with everybody else. Now they were back to steal lunch boxes. These three people were infamous for such felonies. There was another secret informer in their gang, who coordinated from inside the Mannat, giving them updates regarding the situation there. They saw me, and this girl – miss Drama Queen – smiled at me the smile you’d witness only in toothpaste ads. I’ve never believed her smiles because she is a shady girl. She uses her beauty and cuteness to blind people and get her job done. Like those bimbos who work as distraction tools in Vin Deisal heist movies.

“Do you have Manika’s Moong dal ki kachodi? “She asked, her voice saccharine.

“No. I don’t. “I said. “But in case you find some, drop one for me. I’ll keep quiet. ”

People, I love Manika as a friend, and she’s caring and kind, but everything has a price. And kachodis are precious enough to put people on mute. I’d probably make a very bad civil servant, to tell you the truth.
The Drama Queen smiled at me again, as if I was the cutest thing ever, and I felt my red antenna rise in alarm. She’s trying to bewitch you, be careful.

“Sure. “She said.

“Oh hey! Here’s something. “I heard Gola squeal. In his hand was a Black Dog Centenary which he’d fished out of a senior’s bag. Kalakaar went forward and observed it from fourteen different angles.
“Black Dog it is! “He professed.

“I don’t think you should leave your fingerprints there. “I said, not sure anymore whether I was on a college trip or a crime syndicate expedition.

They frisked a few more bags and found nothing. They called their informer to get some info out of Manika. The informer called back two minutes later and said she was taking selfies with teachers and hence, it was kind of risky.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw us. “The Drama Queen said. She was hot, and that she was evil made her even hotter, but she lacked assets. I gently nodded and looked out the window, telling myself it wasn’t sexist to point out a pair of missing boobs. I mean I could develop feelings for the Drama Queen, or Manika, but thing is that I am not interested. Plus, I like boobs – how is that even demeaning? Girls too have weird criteria.

They alighted after a short wait, while I wondered if it’s bad to like boobs.

In a while, Neta dropped back in and said he would take up my job from here and I could go out and freshen up. Suddenly, I felt an urge to pee. You feel that when somebody mentions it.

The restaurant was flooded with the light of extravagence. The people were rich, so were the waiters. I found the alley to the toilet and went inside the fancy establishment. It shone like the marble of the heavens. Only that the tissue papers lying around were smeared with shit which were now dry like pastels. I peed carefully and flushed the yellow piss. I might be diabetic – a thought crossed my head.

Outside, I met Popatlal and the rest of our gang sharing the dining table with the teachers, and it seemed all hunky dory. The breeze was moving like a shrewd serpent, carefully dodging me. But there was an unending darkness, and a comfort lay in the imagination that if I walk close enough, I could dissolve into the black ether.

The crowd rushed back in soon. Manika looked at me lovingly, which was a weird act because I am not that great a person.

“Thanks for keeping it safe. “She said.

“Keeping safe what? “I asked, my eyebrows pulled together like a bowstring.

Moong dal ki Kachodi. “She whispered as she pointed at my bag. I gingerly opened the compartment and to my disbelief, there it was, a box full of Kachodis!

“Don’t open it. The rats shall smell. “She said. “Don’t eat it all. Sharing is caring. “She said.

See, if Manika had bigger assets and had she been as evil as she was sweet, I’d have definitely asked her out.

Anyways, Mr. Gabbar asked me if everything was okay, and I nodded like a cool secret agent. He plugged in his earphones and slumped into a sprawl, and as the bus moved forward, I took an antinausea pill and wished the drudgery was over soon.

Two Days of Winter : Prologue

prologue to a journey of self – discovery.

It was final that I was going to Shimla when my mother told me that she was not like other moms who’d stop their kids from going places. In addition to that, she asked me to be a brave boy and not deny myself such life-changing opportunities. To crown it all, she sent me 5000 rupees to buy a shirt and a brand new shoe. I mean where do you find such mommies?

“You see how good a mother I am. I am sending you to Shimla. You should not forget this when I’m old. Buy me a nice pair of glasses and take me to America. Since I was a kid, I wanted to take selfies with white people. ”

“When you were a kid, there were no mobile phones. “I reminded her, about which she thought for a moment, and said in a flat, non-apologetic tone,

“You also have to repay the 20 lakh loan I took for our new home. ”

Fuck.

My intellectual friend came to my room one afternoon and we began shopping on Myntra. Buying a shirt had never felt so confuzzling before. I am one of those guys who’d go to a sale and say, ‘light blue shirt’ and come home with the first one thrown at him. I often imagine myself suited up like George Clooney, but as you should have already known by now, I imagine a lot.

The problem with buying clothes to impress others is that you have to go through a lot of Maths. Something you like would either be too pricey or would have bad reviews or would demand delivery charges that could buy three large underwears at Palika Bazaar. We scrolled through hundreds of shirts, and my intellectual friend started using salesman jargons – chinese collar, SMXXL – so I felt kind of dozy. While buying shoes I looked for a pair of blue casuals with holes on the sides – because my intellectual friend had those – but it went over budget so I dropped the idea of holes.

The package arrived early and I wondered if I was excited or not. I mean yeah, I had clothes and footwear and girls would rise from their graves to shriek with ecstasy for such a deal, but they were just clothes and footwear. I mean the best things happen when you’re rather naked. Or dressed in latex.

So yeah, shopping was done, and by the morning, Neta was ready to join in. He had been throwing tantrums since the beginning, however, we were able to convince him. We told him that there would be lots of Bhojpuri songs and woofers, and that was it.

So everybody slept in the noon – except me of course – and in the evening they flocked at my doorstep, right when I began wondering if I should catch some sleep. I borrowed a press and watched YouTube tutorials on pressing clothes and realised things are not so easy in real life as they make it seem on youtube.

We then went to the college – after everybody agreed that we shall not overeat (as the bus was to go in circles at an altitude) and then we overate because the Military Man’s lunch was delicious as heaven – and found hot girls wearing hot dresses and waiting near the parking. Okay, that was a positive side.

But to be honest, I was kind of toey and miffed with the idea of me being in Shimla. I am not that wild wolf who tears through snowy pine forests, I’m a wise old tortoise who imagines he’s a wild wolf that tears through snowy pine forests. I can picture a lot of things – and for a long time this philosophical question has peplexed me :-

If you can imagine an apple’s color, shape, texture, taste and every other quality, is it worth to actually eat that apple?

Anyways, with time there were more and more people showing up and it became difficult to accommodate everybody. I just wanted a window seat in the front. And I would bury myself in my blanket and pretend to be dead.

The bus showed up at around 11. Before that there was a full-on baaraati dance, and people shook as if they were dying of electrocution. Senior girls were making sultry moves with their rotund assses and it was kind of intoxicating. As the bus honked at the gate, we charged like wild wolves. I was able to capture a window seat. I took out a Feviquick and stuck my ass right there.

Next, people started filling in. And it was crowded and suffocating. The couple in front of me was busy massaging their feet with odomos. I wondered if they also had condoms inside their bags. There are lot of places in Shimla where you can do some jiffy-stiffy jig-jig.

The bus moved after a few million years. First the college vanished behind me, and then the lights and the bridges, and then I stopped looking back, wondering when the cities would stop and the mountains would begin.

To be contd….

My Brother is Back…with 4 large bags.

our crazy family gets even crazier… πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

My mother called me from somewhere underneath her blanket. When I went to her room, the first thing I wondered was,

“Where’s her head? ”

“You know what, I’ve got this great business idea. “Her voice came from the other side of the bed.

To be honest, I’d far more important jobs to do, like unlocking my phone to check if Dale H has made any moves in our three-day match at chess.com, but I chose to listen to her great idea. That’s how good a son I am.

“I was thinking of designing a full body winter suit, which would cover you from the tip of your hair to the nail of your toe. And it would be skintight to keep you warm.”

“Well, such suits already exists. “I said. In porno.

“Really? Who wears them? ”

“Lara Latex. “I said, and then I realised my mother knew how to search names on google, so I quickly covered it up.

“He’s a superhero. Like Batman. ”

“They have funny names. “She said.

“But I am designing it for common people. Like really common people who can’t afford a stove, for example. It could make me rich. ”

“People who cannot afford a stove would rather save money so that they could afford a stove so that the whole house could be warm. “I said. The silence that followed after suggested that my mother understood my point but didn’t quite like it.

“Check if your brother has reached Katihar. “She said.

My brother was on his way from Kota with 4 large bags. He has travelled that distance before, but my mother was worried for him, because he has never travelled with 4 large bags before. You see, mothers’ worries kind of make sense. I checked the running status of the train.

“It’s budged one and a half station from where it was three hours ago and is right now parked at some godforsaken halt which has a funny name. ”

“Really? Who the hell is driving it anyway? ”

“No idea. ”

My brother’s homecoming, unlike mine, was an event. Boxes of Gulaabjamun were happily perched in the refrigerator and despite it being my birthday, I was not allowed to consume more than a couple of those. They’d got his brand new phone out and already put it to charging so that he could feel special and loved. My mother had, by now, called four of our relatives to tell them how brave he was for travelling alone with 4 large bags.

And my brother did arrive safe and sound in the morning, with all his bags. And wished me a belated happy birthday. When I asked him for a gift, he presented to me an unused bottle of mineral water which he’d purchased on train. I vowed to gift him a pink hanky on his birthday. My mother kind of jumped on him and hugged the life out him. I could hear his bones crack, it was so brutal. Then he asked for his love, his phone and my mother told him to first take a good little bath. My father asked him where his other shoe was.

“Oh I lost it in the train. “He said. They pretended as if it was normal to lose shoes in trains and carried on with further conversations. I faked a stroke but they completely ignored me. Then I went back to Dale H because that’s the only human being who literally responds to every move of mine, and I don’t even know his sex, or anything else apart from the fact that he/she is married and has a kid.

It was rook to C4, attacking my queen. I moved my queen away, to D5.

After all the talking, he fished out a polybag from one of his large bags and threw a shirt at me. It was red and sexy. I looked at him blankly while he stood there with a big smile. Damn. He is love. I would have hugged the bones out of him but it was too cold so I decided to do it later.
He fished out another shirt and gave it to our father. It was blue and it had buttons and a front pocket, exactly like my father wanted. The real surprise came after he fished in his bag for the third time and took out a glitzy slim silvery bracelet watch and gave it to our mother. My jaw dropped and made a hole in the floor.

“Have you started selling drugs or what? “I questioned. He just laughed.

“I saved it.”

My mother hugged him even tigher. I swear I heard a spine fracture this time. The last time I had saved money, it was in a piggy bank, to buy Spiderman trump cards. There was no way he could have saved that much. I mean it’s twenty first century, even oxygen costs, like twenty bucks or something. His polybag must have some magical properties, I told myself. It was a more believable prospect.

When he was done I asked for the polybag. I wished for an iPhone, spelled some charms I’d learnt from this Bengali magic book in std 4th, and fished for it in the bag. Nothing came out. He laughed harder.

I quietly slipped back inside my blanket and played chess for the next two hours while my mother discussed the great business idea of full body winter suits with him.

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.