I must have hardly taken a few steps, when I heard the same wheezy, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” I noticed that my voice came out an octave higher, what was commonly called a squeak.

“We detect fear. Are you a-fear?”

“Afraid. The word is afraid,” my TA instincts took over, “And the answer is yes. I don’t talk to disembodied voices everyday, you know!!”

“No, no! You have gotten us all wrong. We are not dis-whatever-ied. We are humanoid voices!”

“Humanoid?”

This seemed somewhat familiar - thanks to all the sci-fi novels I’d devoured. And familiar territory always helps calm jangled nerves. I silently thanked all the Asimovs and Clarkes for being there.

“Yes. We possess shape-shifting capabilities. We look and sound very human. You will never recognise the difference.”

“Well, in that case, how about giving me a demonstration?”

“Demonstration? How is that?”

“No, you don’t have to appeal for a wicket. Just come out of the shadows and say a simple ‘Hi’ or whatever it is that you Humanoids say by way of civilized greeting.”

“Greeting?”

“Yeah, greeting! You know the random things you say when you meet someone for the first time??”

“Oh those! But we did greet you the first time, in the exact Earth custom of the humans, didn’t we?”

“You did??”

“Yes we did! We said ‘Excuse me!’ like all the other Earthlings!”

Earthlings? EARTHLINGS?? That meant…

“Listen! What do you mean by Earthlings? What planet are you from? And why don’t you show yourself, whoever or whatever you are??”

The entire exercise was getting a little frustrating. Also, the realization had dawned upon me, that the direction the entire exercise was taking, any attempts at channel-surfing the telly and that cup of hot coffee would have to wait another day. And that exactly, was what was frustrating about the entire exercise.

“Well, we can’t tell you where we are from. But we can show ourselves, provided you promise NOT to - how do you say it - free-caught?”

“FREAK OUT, you mean.” TA instincts again. “Yeah, I promise.”

Before we continue to the exciting part that follows, I must mention that this silly habit of mine, of going ahead and promising has landed me in trouble many a time. And I am not referring only to the more aesthetic samples of the female species. I mean the whole concept of saying the stupid phrase, in general.

Just as I did in the paragraph earlier to the explanation.

I wasn’t really ready for what I saw.

In my defense, I’d say, no one could have anticipated what I saw, let alone prepared for it.. And though I had been amply fore-warned, the scream that left my throat could easily have earned me one of the top 3 spots on the list of THE Ten Scariest Blood-Curdling Screams of All Time.
*****
To Be Concluded.
—–
No. Honest. I have had enough of not finishing stories. So I am gonna CONCLUDE this one with the next post.

Missed ya, all!

No, really. I did.

It happened like this.

I was on my way home after a long day’s work. And I was really looking forward to some R & R, mindless channel surfing on the telly coupled with a hot cup of coffee and jelly-filled cream biscuits…

Along the way I was cogitating - thinking, that is - about the problem I had left half-solved on my lab desk.

The solution to it was just around the proverbial corner. Except, the proverbial corner was not in proverbial sight, far as the proverbial eye could see.

Too many proverbial what-have-yous spoiling the proverbial whats-it-called.

Engrossed in my thoughts thus, I was traversing my daily route, almost robotically, when I heard a wheezy, “Excuse me?”

I stopped to see who it was that the voice addressed.

Oddly, there was no one around. That meant only one thing - I was the one being addressed. And if I was the only person in that place, then the voice that was addressing me must be devoid of a body to go with it.

Certain paranormal and supernatural entities immediately lent themselves to reason. However, the brain decided to do a little more of the Sherlock exercise before jumping to finalities.

The part of the city I had reached in my perambulations was what one would call partially deserted. Partially, because it was architecturally bestowed, but the architectural efforts had never seem a human complement.

As I stood there pondering about my next move, I heard the same wheezy voice, and the same words, “Excuse me?”

Thoroughly confused, I said the first words that came to my mind, “Yes? How may I help you?”

That is what a Teaching Assistant’s job does to you.

“Erm, thank you for your kind assistance. You see, we are slightly lost…”

A weird thought crossed my mind. Talking to voices was exactly like teaching in a classroom full of sleeping students. They are there, but not THERE.

“Oh, ok! Go straight down the road, take the second left and the first right at the traffic signal, you’ll reach the Train station. Hard to miss.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you, but that’s where we just came from.”

“Ooops sorry, kinda jumped the gun!” I said grinning away to no one in particular.

No one in particular.

No one in…

No one.

That’s when the thought actually hit me in its entirety.

“Hey, wait a minute! Who am I talking to?”

Silence.

“Hello? Are you there?”

Silence.

I could have sworn a voice just spoke to me and said that they were slightly lost.

THEY??!!

Beads of sweat were beginning to form on my forehead, as the gravity of the situation came crashing down on me.

Very slowly, I started to back out, throwing occasional glances all around, trying to ascertain if the voice-without-a-body was just that, or if it had other surprises in store, hidden away somewhere.

I must have hardly taken a few steps, when I heard the same wheezy, “Excuse me?”

To be continued…

*****

I know you hate those three words by now. But I LOVE them…

*Evil Grin*

Too many things to say. Too lazy to say them all.

The most memorable birthday of my life and no pictures, whatsoever. Imagine that…

Disturbing images and worrisome thoughts.

We know what films are releasing this weekend, but we don’t know the headlines of yesterday’s newspaper.

Hungry for news, and thirsty for information. No retention, please, we’re Indian.

Babies born. Babies dead. Babies born again.

One murder per page sells so many copies. How many murders before you can sell them all?

Everybody knows what’s wrong with the world. Nobody knows what’s wrong with everybody.

They all get their 15 minutes of fame - Standing, sitting, lying down… How far does one go?

Push it to the limit. And then pull it back just a little. Call it breathing space.

The young ones learn to fly. They fall down and die. We light candles.

Assumption. Accusation. Action. Acquittal. The new cycle of life?

Music is a recourse, not a discourse.

Roads. Rages. Road-rages.

Itching for a brawl. Macho-ism? Masochism?

Curiosity. Voyeurism. Call it what you want. What’s the difference, anyway?

Yearning for Green. Searching for Peace.

Searching for Green. Yearning for Peace.

Friends. Online. Offline. Invisible. Network. Community. Scrap. Thread. Notify. Wall.

Too many things to say. Too lazy to say them all…

Or am I?

Hmm. Not quite the way to start. But does keep the reader guessing. Sure, let’s keep it. No wait, let’s modify that a little.

I have been terribly busy.

Yeah, give yourself that importance. You self-centered pompous freak!

I have been tied up with certain things that take most of my time.

Right. And the whole world is out fishing. C’mon!! The truth can’t be so bad.

I have been quite lazy these last few weeks. So lazy, I have found it difficult to do the one thing I love the most – write.

A tad too much, eh? What the heck. Let’s just give it to them plain and simple.

Being an RJ is like… like…

Now, where is a good simile when you want one??

…like practicing for a big game? Nah, too sporty!
…like shopping for matching shoes? Nope! Too shoppy!
…like trying to eat a vadapav and a burger? Nay, too sloppy…
…like eating and burping at the same time? Ewww, disgusting!!
…like wearing a Tie on a T-Shirt?? Huh?? WHAT??
…like playing Base-ket-ball

Yeah, that kinda fits.

Being an RJ is like playing Base-ket-ball. Too many rules, too few players, and no idea of who’s doing what. But somehow, at the end of a play, you gotta earn points. Brownie points. And I don’t even like Brownies.

Yeah, that’s a good start. Fits like a glove.

An RJ, depending on whether s/he’s on contract or payroll, puts in around 4-9 hours of work each day.

Scratch that. Sounds like an article for Radio & Music.

I start my day pretty late…

Scratch that, too.

I work hard for my show, and harder after it ends.

Better.

I work hard for my show. And even harder after it ends. Every moment I spend on air has to be crafted to perfection and embellished with the right amount of garnish and adequate spice, and yet, not leave a bad taste in the mouth.

Hey, this one beats the Base-ket-ball simile hands down.

And that leaves me little or no time to spend for myself.

Yeah, straight on!! No chance to block the jab. Just knock ‘em out!

Worse, it has now taken me more than a month to upload this post.

That’s right!! Make them feel sorry for you. Let them have pity on you. Not sympathy, P-I-T-Y, pity. Sympathy is for dogs and cats.

Makes you wonder, is it all worth?

Good! Sow the seed of doubt. Let them feel guilty for having pestered you.

Well yeah! RJ-ing is fun. You get to be a celebrity without having to worry about NOT having a private life. You see, nobody knows you. You are just another person, lost in the sea of humanity. Just another face.

Cute. A sneak peek into the life of a pseudo-celebrity. Pummel on!!

And when people do recognize you, it’s a different high altogether!

Okay, that’s enough. Stop gloating.

But, you do have to adhere to strict timings. You have to live by the minutes and the seconds. Those who have spent an entire life-time watching train time-tables like a hawk (read: Residents of a metropolitan suburbia) would understand this perspective.

The only difference – as I see it – there are no trains on the RJ-ing track. Only stations – Radio Stations.

Guess what, good similes do appear when you get into the groove!!

The schedules on these stations – Radio Stations – are tighter than the trains of Suburbia. There are no delays. Every thing has to – and does – run on time.

Beware of overkill.

So, adhering to such time-tables gets kinda hectic and tiresome, even if you have to do it religiously for only a short span – say, four hours a day.

Slip it in. Quietly. They will never know when this hits them.

Imagine having to watch a clock and a pressure gauge simultaneously, answer calls, make witty speeches, interact, watch out for treacherous software, pesky interruptions, listen to rants, pacify superiors, and yet keep a smile on your face.

That’s right. Rub it in.

Sounds like a regular day at the office, eh? Yeah, it does…

WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!! That is suicide!!

Now try doing all of the above when 20 lakh people are watching every move you make. Or rather, listening to every breath you take.

Brilliant!! I eat my words!!

Yeah, that’s what I do for a living. Fun, no?

Short, crisp and concise. Killer finish!! You will have them eating out of your hands!! You ARE a ROCKSTAR!!! Long live the King!!

*****

Yup! I have finally lost it.

Just when you think life has unloaded its supply of lemons on you.

Just when you think it couldn’t get worse.

Just when you think fate has dealt you all the wrong cards.

Just when you think there is no hope for the world.

Just when you think life has been impartially unfair to you.

Just when nothing more could go wrong.

Just when you are beginning to lose faith in everything – you, your fate, your destiny, your family, your friends, the people around you, the world – there comes a moment.

A jiffy of existence that manages to turn everything upside down.

Lose hope. Gain hope. Despair. Repair. Suspicion. Trust. Believe. Criticize. Ridicule. Support. Agree. Disagree. Confusion. Clarity. Perspective. The bigger picture. Understanding. Misunderstanding. Error. Correction. Sinister. Simple. Diabolical. Divine. Ring out the old. Ring in the new.

A year ends. A year beckons.

People live. People die. People are reborn. Or are they?

Perspectives change. We lose the old one, gain a new one. Change the perspective to suit you, or change yourself to suit the perspective. Or get a totally new one.

When one loses hope, someone else gains it. Does hope also follow a law of conservation? What was it that someone said, “Hope is eternal,” right?

Do we have free will? If we have free-will, is there destiny?

Does fate deal a raw hand to everyone, now and then? Are people entitled to large or smaller shares? Is it based on a system of points decided by karma? Or is it random? What is random? How can we be sure the Universe is not plotting the course of events?

Perfectly normal paranoia, as Slartibartfast/Zaphod would say.

If paranoia is abnormal, why does everyone have it? If everyone has it, why isn’t it normal? What is normal? Is it conscious or sub-conscious? Does consciousness stem from a series of synaptic impulses? Or does it go beyond that?

I don’t know what exactly I wanted to say. I just wanted to say something.

So I said it.

*******

I hate to end it on this sour note. So I’ll just copy-paste this line from the movie Crash (2004)

“Any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people. People bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We’re always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other just so we can feel something.”

That’s all that was remaining. And a gulp was a life-line.

Should he use it now? Or should he wait for things to get a little clearer. But, using it now would mean that they would get clearer. Yeah, he’d use it.

No, wait! What if things would get clearer anyway? What if using it was actually wasting a perfectly good gulp? And the only one? No, he decided. He’d wait.

The horizon stretched before him, and his vision was sort of blurred at the edges. A trick of the light, he told himself. A few meters more, and I’ll find it.

Find what, came the question. Whatever it is that I am supposed to find, went an answer from nowhere, to nowhere. An oasis, another question was instantly shot back? Yeah, maybe. Just keep moving.

And so, he kept moving.

The desert stretched as far as his eyes could see. Actually, it stretched farther than his eyes could see. But he didn’t know that.

He also didn’t know that he’d been walking around in circles. The shifting sands of the desert always covered his tracks as soon as he made them. Every hundred steps, he’d end up where he’d started.

And he would, probably, never know.

Treacherous place, the desert.

His eyes scanned the landscape. Nothing new. Nothing distinguishable. Nothing certain. Except for one thing. The thought filled him with a sense of dread. He shook his head, as if wanting to clear the thoughts. Not that it helped, but at least it was worth a try.

Darn all those books he’d read.

He made a mental note to write a letter to all authors requesting, nay telling them, that shaking one’s head does NOT clear any thoughts. Hell, it doesn’t anything even remotely similar. If anything, it leaves you with a headache. And a headache is a bad thing to have in the middle of a desert.

Back to square one.

He looked skywards. No change.

Silly planet, he mused to himself.

What quirk of cosmic fate would have two suns at exactly opposite positions in the sky at all times of the day? The suns merely seemed to circle around each other, like birds of prey. And what was worse was, the imaginary center of the circular path of these diametrically opposite suns seemed to be exactly overhead.

Was there even a day? Did this planet even rotate? Or revolve even? Will this planet have a permanent dark side like The Moon, too?

Maybe the universe does have a sense of humor, he thought.

He raised his flask, and took his last gulp.

*******

I received this mail from my past self.

“Dear future self,

Geez! I WAS smart back then!!

INDIA, COME BACK!

And now, the lengthy discourse that usually follows a simple message…

As of a few hours ago, Harbhajan Singh, a.k.a. Bhajji a.k.a The Turbanator a.k.a. the Wizard Of(f) Oz a.k.a. “Symonds, go back!” was reportedly banned for a duration of three Test matches, for a racist remark dealt to Andrew Symonds.

Symonds has faced Indian ‘racism’ before. Indian fans at Vadodara and Wankhede repeatedly pestered him with monkey chants during the One-Day series in late 2007.

Cut to, circa 2008. The Sydney Cricket Ground has been a witness to some memorable moments in cricketing history. Another moment was added to the list, withe Symonds-Bhajji spat on Day 4.

Reams and reams of paper, Unimaginable tape lengths and gigabytes and terabytes of data will be spent trying to reconstruct the incident.

Not one will come close to what happened.

Simply because, the truth is a secret closely held by three people - Symonds, Bhajji and Sachin. (Yeah, he was there too, remember?) Here’s a clearer (not unbiased, mind you) account of the incident by AdelaideNow. (Do read the comments too, they make for interesting reading.) Here’s the situation as I percieve it.

Day four. India on a roll. In spite of umpiring setbacks and sloppy footwork, Sachin and Bhajji are going strong. Ponting who has never seen a Day Four happen on an India tour of Australia, suddenly finds himself in uncharted waters. (*smirk* *smirk*) And thus, the mind-games begin…

I condemn racism - unequivocally, unabashedly, unconditionally.

I also condemn sneaky manoeuvres - unequivocally, unabashedly, unconditionally.

Ponting claims, “There is absolutely no doubt this match has been played in the right spirit.” Kumble responds, “There was only one team playing in the spirit of the game, that’s all I can say.” (via The Daily Telegraph)

My heart goes out to the guy.

What kind of a person would look at Day One, look at all the Umpiring Bloopers, and say, “It’s just Cricket!” and move on?

What kind of a person would choose not to lodge a protest after all this, if only as token?

What kind of a temperament must he have to not lose cool even when a batsman stands his ground after being cleanly caught in the slips?

What does it take to not erupt when the umpire takes the opposing captain’s word and not the 3rd umpire?

A very, very large-hearted person, that’s who. No wonder he’s called Jumbo - must be his heart, three sizes bigger and all…

And the Indian Cricket Board has decided to stay and complete the Australian tour. Not for the money, I presume. There’s a lot more in endorsements. I suspect, it’s only to ‘maintain relations’ with Cricket Australia - or whatever it is they want to maintain.

What power on earth gives these pompous S.O.B.s the right to cry wolf about something they have been doing day in and day out for years and years together? Who told them that they could make their own rules and change them if someone used it against them? Who gave them the right to make rules, anyway?

Somebody tell them that the M in MCC stands for MARYLEBONE, not MELBOURNE.

Ask a psycho-analyst to profile someone with these characteristics, and the answer would, in all probability be - a mentally-retarded three year old with acute over-possessive tendencies.

Not too far from the truth, eh?

I think Team India should walk out of the remaining Test matches. Turning the other cheek and all that is fine - we did it after Day One and the saga of bad umpiring decisions. But when that too, is done, it’s time to follow Munnabhai’s example. We will stand by you whatever happens after that.

Why this sudden patriotic fire, you ask?

Well, we the people of India, were shown a dream on the 24th September, 2007 at Johannesburg. Silly, gullible, idiots that we were, we believed it then.

And, we believe it now…

COME BACK, INDIA!!

Alright, alright, it is a woman, to be precise.
——–

She watched the events warily as they happened

Each time the universe collapsed, she had distinctly felt an almost uncontrollable urge to snap her fingers.

Of course, she had no clue that doing that would bind her irrevocably to three other destinies that she had been following closely – albeit, merely out of curiosity.
Mercifully (and surprisingly) she had not yet given in to her almost uncontrollable urges - snapped her fingers, that is.

She had observed the entire proceedings right from the beginning. Her interest, however, had been piqued when she saw the duo collide.

Before that she had been vaguely aware of six cups of black coffee being delivered to the same table – all within a short span of two hours. Only, she wasn’t sure if the coffee was being consumed by the same person each time.

You see she was trying to focus her Chi. So she couldn’t really have noticed. You can’t focus you Chi if you are busy noticing inane things such as six cups of black coffee being delivered to a table and wondering whether they are being consumed by the same person. Tut, tut!

But when the collision happened, all her attempts to focus her Chi were abandoned in the hope (or promise) that an interesting scene would follow.

However unlikely it may have seemed at this point, the promise of an interesting scene remained just that – a promise. Yes, she was to be deprived of any interesting developments that might have resulted out of the collision.

As both the characters (the ones involved in the collision) went their separate ways, she was suddenly conscious of that urge yet again. She managed to overcome it with some difficulty.

It was no coincidence, she thought to herself, that he occupied the same chair that the girl had vacated.

And it was certainly no coincidence, she thought, that the girl had left her phone (distinctive ‘apparel’, she chuckled to herself) on the table. Not that he seemed to take any heed of it.

As she was noting these observations to herself, she wished she could jot them down for future recall. Rummaging through her haversack, she found a piece of paper, but no pen. Strange, she thought, and turned to call the waiter to ask for a pen.

It was then, that she noticed him standing outside the café.

One glance at him told her that some minor catastrophe had befallen him, especially, looking at the manner in which his clothes had been messed up. More than coffee, he looked like he needed a bath.

What struck her instantly though, was this – his face had a clearly hateful expression.

And it was directed towards the new occupant of the aforementioned table, the same one that had seen six cups of black coffee being delivered. What’s more, the new occupant had apparently ‘discovered’ the existence of the ‘appareled’ phone.

And then the waiter swooped down and came up with the scarf. A beautiful scarf. She felt a twinge of feminine jealousy, for a short moment. But the moment passed soon enough, and she was herself again.

Her rational brain her swung into gear by this time, and she quickly assessed the situation. Making all the correct observations and drawing all the right conclusions was a simple step. And having followed these steps, she arrived at a perfectly normal conclusion.

It was all a misunderstanding, and she could easily clear it.

She felt that urge again, but she shook it off determinedly. There was a task waiting to be done. She would question and analyze her own urges later. And having decided thus, she returned to concentrate at the task at hand.

So what was she supposed to do?

Ah yes, clarify the situation to the two characters involved in the silent drama. One, who was oblivious of the other, and both oblivious of the fact that it was a huge misunderstanding. But how was she to do it?

Voila! She could simply bring the two of them face to face and explain the situation, and they would easily see reason.

All she had to do was call for the waiter!!

She called for the waiter.

And, in doing so, the universe was recreated.

———-

I have a strong suspicion, this is leading nowhere. And if so, I better move this story to some place else.

What say?

Anyone care to make the necessary changes and give it to the Coach of the Indian Cricket Team? (The ‘official’ BCCI XI, of course!)

Wait, do we even have a coach?

Well, anyway, here goes:

सत्तर मिनट.
सत्तर मिनट हैं तुम्हारे पास.
शायद तुम्हारी ज़िन्दगी के सबसे ख़ास सत्तर मिनट.
आज तुम अच्छा खेलो या बुरा,
यह सत्तर मिनट तुम्हे ज़िन्दगी भर याद रहेंगे.
तो कैसे खेलना है, आज मैं तुम्हे नही बताऊंगा .
बस इतना कहूँगा की जाओ,
और यह सत्तर मिनट जी भर कर खेलो
क्योंकी इसके बाद आनेवाली ज़िन्दगी में
चाहे कुच्छ सही हो, या न हो,
चाहे कुच्छ रहे, या ना रहे,
तुम हारो या जीतो,
लेकिन यह सत्तर मिनट तुमसे कोई नही चीन सकता, कोई नहीं.
तो, मैंने सोचा की इस मैच में कैसा खेलना है,
मैं तुम्हे नहीं बताऊंगा, बल्कि तुम मुझे बताओगे. खेल कर.
क्योंकी मैं जानता हूँ की अगर यह सत्तर मिनट इस टीम का हर player
अपनी ज़िन्दगी की सबसे बढ़िया hockey खेल gaya
तो यह सत्तर मिनट खुदा भी तुमसे वापस नही मांग सकता.
तोह जाओ. जाओ और अपने आप से, इस ज़िन्दगी से, अपने खुदा से,
और हर उस इंसान से, जिसने तुम्हे – तुम पर – भरोसा नही किया,
अपने सत्तर मिनट छीन लो.

{Thanks a ton to Google Indic Transliteration. They always manage to surprise me… :)}

Just in case you couldn’t read that, here’s the entire thing in Roman characters.
Sattar minute.
Sattar minute hain tumhare paas.
Shayad tumhari zindagi ke sabse khaas sattar minute.
Aaj tum accha khelo ya bura,
Yeh sattar minute tumhe zindagi bhar yaad rahenge.
Toh kaise khelna hai, aaj main tumhe nahi bataunga.
Bas itna kahunga ki jaao,
Aur yeh sattar minute jee bhar kar khelo
Kyunki iske baad aane wali zindagi mein
Chahe kucch sahi ho, ya na ho,
Chahe kucch rahe, ya na rahe,
Tum haaro ya jeeto,
Lekin yeh sattar minute tumse koi nahi cheen sakta, Koi Nahin
To, maine socha ki iss match mein kaisa khelna hai,
Main tumhe nahin bataunga, balki tum mujhe bataoge. Khel kar.
Kyunki main jaanta hun ki agar yeh sattar minute iss team ka har player
Apni zindagi ki sabse badhiya hockey khel gaya
To yeh sattar minute khuda bhi tumse wapas nahi maang sakta.
Toh Jaao . Jaao aur aur apne aap se, iss zindagi se, apne khuda se, aur har uss insaan se, Jisne tumhe – tumpar – bharosa nahi kiya, apne sattar minute chheen lo.

Translation:
Or something like that….

Seventy Minutes.
You have Seventy Minutes.
Maybe the most special seventy minutes of your life.
Today, [it won’t matter] if you play good or bad,
These seventy minuteswill stay with you for the rest of your life.
So, I am not gonna tell you today, how to play [your game]
All I am gonna say is, Go!
And play these seventy minutes to your heart’s content.
Because in the life that is about to follow, [irrespective of]
Whether things are right, or wrong,
Whether things stay, or go,
Whether you lose, or win…
Nobody can take these seventy minutes away from you. No one.
So, I decided that I will NOT tell you how to play [your game] today.
Instead, you will show me. By [actually] playing it [out].
Because I know that if each player on this team
[manages to] Play[s] the best hockey of her life
Then no one, not even God can demand these seventy minutes back.
Go. Go and grab these seventy minutes from yourself, from God,
From all those whom – who – wouldn’t believe in you.

Quite good, is all I have to say.

Note:
The additions in square brackets are to aid better English and create a semblance of Proper translation.
Or so I believe, anyway.

——
The Story so far:

Nothing much, really.

A girl who drinks a lot of coffee. A guy immersed in Tarantino-Kubrick-Greenway films. Another guy who does not believe in omens. Put the three of them together at one coffee shop and what do we get?

Nothing, really.
——

He couldn’t see him, since he had his back to the entrance.

The waiter approached him and without warning suddenly swooped down towards his leg.

The first thought that flashed in his mind, was typically Tarantino. Is this waiter a were-wolf? Is he gonna bite my leg off? His questions ended up in disappointment as the waiter retrieved a pretty silken scarf and held it in front of him.

It was definitely pretty. Colors seemed to jump in and out of it. It would have looked pretty on any girl, even the librarian. It would have looked even prettier on the girl who had just collided with him, a few minutes back.

A faint thought rumbled in the deep confines of his brain.

He remembered thinking about olives when they had both fallen on the floor. Now he realized why. The girl had been smelling of olives and lemon. Maybe it was her perfume, maybe it was her shampoo.

And then, another thought rumbled in the deep confines of his brain. This one was quite far from the first one. But somehow, with a mighty effort, his brain managed to co-relate the two, and he brought the scarf near and sniffed it.

And then, the Universe collapsed, again.

****

As he stood at the café entrance, debating whether to go in or wait for her outside, a ray of hope suddenly parted the clouds of despair.

He took out his cell-phone and called her.

As he dialed the number he scanned the café area though the transparent glass door to check if he could spot her. And then he saw it.

Was it a coincidence? Was it…

The sweatshirt looked excruciatingly similar. And why was he not answering the call? Was he afraid? Apprehensive? Guilty? Worried? Would he reject the call? Would he answer it?

If he did answer it, he’d surely get an earful. If he rejected it, he’d move straight in and go one-on-one with him. He was in fairly good shape though he had stopped gymming a few months back.

And then, he hit the silence button.

Why did he do that?

Wait, here comes the waiter. What is he pointing at? He’s picking it up now. Is it… Is it… No it can’t be! Oh, but it is… the scarf!

The silk scarf he had so lovingly gifted her. The first gift out of his first salary and all that jazz. Why did she do it? Why him? He looks so… so… weird!

So that was why she was acting weird. That was what the entire charade was about. She’d been two-timing him, the bitch!

Wait, did he just smell the scarf?

That’s it! I’m gonna crucify him. I’m gonna tear him from limb to limb! I’ll kill him, strangle him, slit his throat, cut him up…

Wait, what’s the use? What’s he done? He must have fallen prey to her foxy ways. In many ways he’s in the same position as I am. No, it’s not his fault. And anyway, he looks weak. I could probably blow him away with a puff.

It’s all her fault! She’s the one to be blamed. She’s the one who should be killed, slaughtered, strangled, slit, cut up, etc.

His entire train of thoughts came to an abrupt halt at this point.

As he turned to leave, his eyes were clouded. And it wasn’t just hate.

—–

Author’s Note:

Mental Block reached. Trying to overcome it. Might be successful in a few days, hopefully. Wish me luck…