Straight Lines

Arrows don’t fly that straight

Posted on: January 13, 2012

‘Look how cute she is!’

I did. I was pleasantly shocked. Pleasant because I was relieved that she indeed belonged to the fairer sex, shocked because she was as cute as a pig on a roller coaster. My sincere apologies to anyone who fancies pigs on roller coasters, Oink-ing at different pitches is just not my thing.

‘Eh?’ With such lucid emotions running a 100m race in my mind, that was the only noise I could think of emitting.

‘What do you mean, “eh”?

No one in his right mind would answer that. A change of topic was well warranted.

‘There, look at that!’

‘What? Where?’

‘Right there!’

‘Where?’

To spare you the details of this A&Q that went on for quite some time, I succeeded in staving off the matter about “cute” girls for quite some time.

Quite some time was apparently 8 minutes.

‘Dude!’

‘What?’

‘Look over there!’

‘Where?’

‘Right there!’

‘Where?’

I can sense the good old déjà vu creep into your bean. But then, you belong to the Backstreet Boys generation. If you could listen to their lyric-repetitive songs over and over again, you wouldn’t mind a little déjà vu. Or if you want a more compelling reason for me not caring –

I don’t care,

Who you are,

Where you’re from,

What you do..

Pulling you back right into the story, there was that girl again. The “cute” one. She was peeling oranges and spitting the seeds on the path. Pigs on a roller coaster are better behaved.

You may say, ‘Oh, but come on, maybe she’s beautiful on the inside?’ The answer to that was essayed about two minutes later, when she burped.

The next few days were agonizing to the point that I had to depend on Arnab Goswami to drown out the love-stricken friend’s voice as he coochie-cooed to her over the phone.

‘Aw, come on, they were in love!’ you might say.

A small transcript of their chat over the phone might suffice to answer you. Just to be fair, I imagined all her answers:

Him: So, what are you up to?

Her: Cutting onions.

Him: Oh, how? Into thin slices, or small-small bits?

Her: Thin slivers.

Him: Wow, I love onions that way!

Her: Tell me, will you eat onions if I cut them in small-small bits too? :) (Though I have no sure way of confirming the smiley, had this been a chat, I am sure there would have been a dozen of them)

Him: Of course, baby, I would eat the onion whole!

Her: Peeled or unpeeled?

Him: What do you like better?

Her: Hmmm, choose a finger.

Him: Hmmm, the thumb.

Her: No, choose another.

Him: Index?

Her: Ok. :) (It isn’t hard for you to imagine a smiley, is it?)

Now, there are two main reasons why I hate the above conversation. One, he loved onions as much as the British love coffee. Two, even though I am a big fan of choosing fingers, I didn’t know what the index finger was for! One just has to know, else it will be like the time when my distant uncle had me choosing between two fingers and then walked off a cliff! When I put it to the love-struck lad, he showed me the neighbouring finger. It was not his thumb, to make things crystal.

Their love deepened. I moved on from Arnab Goswami to multiple recordings of Dhoni’s press conferences after impressive losses. When bouquets of flowers and multi-coloured chirping birds in cages started arriving, I reached a new low by shifting my focus to a management lecture on youtube about Kolaveri. Then the photo frames with their smiling faces in front of monuments, waterfalls, malls, random road, etc. started adorning the walls of our house, the walls whose previous tenants had been Michael Schumacher, Katrina Kaif, Angelina Jolie, David Gilmour, Albus Dumbledore, and Sauron. That’s when I began praying for a miracle to happen, but God apparently works in mysterious ways. Two days and I still wasn’t granted my wish to go blind.

Weeks slipped into months. They found each other cute in ways never thought before. He found her nose cute. She found his handwriting sweet. Her way of chewing food was, and I quote, “lovey-dovey”. She referred to him by different classes of rodents which were by no fault of their own, cute, when he ferreted around looking for his car keys, or he forgot the turn to his office, or the floor number on which our house was situated. He abused adjectives left, right and centre by singing praises of her digits. The little hair ringlets at the back of his neck were now given names.

‘Dude, do you know what I am going to do?’, he asked me one fine morning, just as I was contemplating whether one could slip into a coma voluntarily.

‘There is something else you can do?’ I was hoping he would hear the italics.

‘Yeah, I am going to dedicate a song to her on radio!’

The italics, it seems, were conveniently ignored. This was a double whammy to me, as I’d shifted to listening to the radio in the past few days. Watching the TV was unbearable, considering that he now hung a huge poster above the TV that said, “Love you, Forever” with a baby’s mouth erupting with blood-red hearts.

And then he went about his big plan of dedicating a song. He made it seem as if the whole world was waiting with bated breath to watch what transpired – there was a brief hiatus in dictator-dying, stocks flattened out, Sachin stayed at his 99th international century, no new Rajnikanth jokes were born, and so on and so forth.

The D-day arrived. The whole apartment was painted pink with hearts here, there and everywhere. Confetti dropped at random intervals, giving the whole thing a jazzy look. Speakers were set up to give the surround effect and the whole neighbourhood was intrigued. He wore white and white, looking like a butler who was out of a job. She arrived, dressed in black and a collective gasp went around the society. She wasn’t stunning, and yet, they were stunned. She was led blindfolded into our apartment and made to sit on a heart shaped couch.

A long speech erupted out of his mouth, much like the baby on the wall erupting hearts. The clock struck 5. It was H-hour. He took her palms in his.

His smile faltered a bit. His face screwed up into an amoeba. He dropped her hands like a bungee cord giving up on its owner and put his clenched fist into his wide-open mouth.

He couldn’t remember the frequency of the radio station.

And this manner of forgetfulness, apparently, was unforgivable, however cute a rodent he might be.

The next day, Albus Dumbledore was smiling at me from behind his half-moon glasses. Smiley?

3 Responses to "Arrows don’t fly that straight"

“My uncle asked me to pick a finger, and then proceeded to walk off a cliff.” Hahahah,very witty and sharply written.
Also, i agree. Baby-talking couples are the bubonic plague of this millenium!

ha ha Quite funny! Hearing the italics and seeing the smileys is a good touch.

Nice man.. you come up with amazing scripts for possible short films. Try making one also, please.

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