Let's go back in time. Retrogressive...no, not in the exact sense of the word. Simply that I am writing something that happened almost three months ago. And it might as well be news for some. (I wonder why I always write for others, and not for myself). December somehow always gets associated with things rosy, despite the gloom hanging heavy in the atmosphere. The rose in our case is quite a puffed one, and somehow manages to defy the famous Anarkali (yes, the one from Mughl-E-Azam) quote regarding thorns and roses.Such is the association with roses that their physical presence is almost unavoidable. We move through the path strewn with rose petals to the bed of thorns.
So, I went to his place. The Salim, I wouldn't hesitate calling him such fancy names, now that we know about his habits. And did I mention, this Salim happens to be my best friend. He has got this weird habit of laughing whenever he sees me. Half the times the explanation is supposed to be my hair, and the remaining half my shirt. This time it was no different. I had just done my hair, and courtesy that barber, who was so unwilling to cut my hair according to my wish that I had to be satisfied with the goose-flesh kind of hair that was left, and the white shirt I was wearing looked decent enough to fit 3 of my size. Somebody remarked that I was looking no better than an urchin, and only 4 days later did I realize this when I was frisked by the mahila police at the Guwahati station. The possible explanation could only have been molestation, I thought. The sky blue jeans went well with my Bata slippers. He was no fashion icon either. He uncannily looks like a jackal, with that mole somewhere near his nose, and that shabbily done facial hair. The hair on his head comes not even metres close to Salim's but still somehow, with the rosy Anarkali, he would do a perfect Salim.
He was supposed to come to my place before we went to the rose garden, (I hope you get the drift), but Salim, rose and drowsiness go hand in hand. I knocked on his door, and the lady that opened simply kept staring at me. I had never seen his mother, and simply took her to be her.
"Can I see Salim....?", enquiringly.
"Sorry...we are not mughal gharana", the door shuts with a bang.
"Oh, please wait, (Jodha bai, I whispered under my breath)...I meant Anurag"
"He is sleeping"
"But he is supposed to have woken up by now. Would you mind doing the needful ma'am"
"Let me see...oh! and you can come inside"
Thank you very much, rajputani.
He comes in black boxers, and the hair which should have been undone is perfectly groomed. After a second I realize that it is Salim that I was looking at. The Salim with over 800 wives in his dreams.
He quickly gets ready, and without surprise, he did not need much time. Just a pair of trousers, ugly creamy ones and I found myself travelling at 40 kmph on the elegant Splendor.
"Dude, we are really going...I can't beleive"
"Why don't you concentrate on the road ahead?"
"No, I mean her father is a professor at such and such place, and I am afraid..."
"Shut up chicken shit, and let me do the talking if he pulls up a gun, alright?"
"But...OK"
I was carrying a monkey cap to pose as a credible explanation for my hair. The sudden draught was enough to get me shivering, and that retard thought I was nervous. Anyway, we were greeted with a no-expression-on-my-face look, by someone who I came to know only seconds later was the supposed gardener (if you get the metaphor), and that prevented me from second thoughts. We had come to meet her, but that Salim utters his name, the brother's, and I have to see the unforgiving face of...whatever. My only words were her name and the reaction was a confused look. He more or less understood. We were left in the company of the unflinching father, and four chairs. I was looking around to make myself at home and he was concentrating on the door the brother went through. All of a sudden, i see her peeping from behind the trees, from her terrace, and the only sound I heard was "O! Shit, they actually came"
Yes, she had someday asked me to come to her place. And as it always is with December, the previous day I had a brief sojourn with the other lady with the same name. I do not remember much after that.
No comments:
Post a Comment