Nov’13

1. Study for IIFT.

2. 14^th Nov – Drums

3. 15^th Nov – Octopads

4. Open Demat Account.

5. Start PD Classes.

Dec’13

….

….

“Ah! This is so boring!” exclaimed Sush.

She flipped back 2-3 pages and opened to the page I had scribbled in black. My eyes widened in both fear and excitement.

“Don’t read that part!” I cried in an alarming tone.

“And why shouldn’t I Nanduuu…” she said stressing on the last syllable.

My pseudonym sounded so sweet when she made that sound rounding her lips.

“I won’t like it Sushmiii,” I said answering her alike.

“Ooo I see…what have you written on this page?” said Sush, imitating a curious teenager.

“It’s our story in bits and pieces,” I replied.

“Ohkay!…and what’s before it?”

“It’s mainly my story from 1^st year of college to job to you…to us,” I added, one thing to another.

She flipped open to the page titled ‘1^st Year’.

These things don’t count

But time and again it reminds me…

…

…

Of the late night chats

The birthday hats

…

…

The full-moon and the stars

And chocolates ‘n’ cookie jars.

“Fuck! You are a nice poet man!” she said pacing her finger fast, skimming through the lines.

“Who is this Shreya you have talked about?” she continued.

“Ah! I had a crush on her…back in high school. I met her in Doon club and was enthralled by her beauty…and curly hair of course!” I recalled.

“Did she like you?” Sush said, narrowing her eyes.

“She said so. But it never seemed that way. We used to talk but then she suddenly disappeared.”

“You never tried to contact her back?”

“No, I got busy with my debates and other sundry interests.” I chuckled.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t stalk your first crush, you liar!” she shouted.

“I didn’t,” I said softly, just to ensure that she kept her voice at same levels.

“I DONT trust you… AT ALL!” Sush hooted, defying all my attempts to hush her.

“Let’s see what this loser has written next.”

Today is that tomorrow which you thought about yesterday!

 “Now, who has quoted this? Einstein?” she suggested. Her sarcasm was obvious. Clearly, she did not expect to read these sorts of things in my diary. Even worse, she was not allowed to read ‘Our Story’.

“I don’t know. I overheard it in a conversation at the library, in college.”

Do daily and hourly your duty…

…

…

–     James H. Aughey

“Blah blah blah!” she said in a monotonous tone.

“Wrong section I guess?” I indicated feebly.

“You are hopeless!” she snapped back.

“Yeah…just skip 20 pages.”

1^st March ’11…she got committed. It feels like someone has snatched my Toti from me.

“Who’s Toti now?” Sush demanded.

“Won’t tell you,” I said shaking my head.

“Why?”

“I don’t have answers to all your questions!” I retorted.

I hung my head. She had touched the wrong nerve.

14^th April ’11…I want to be a billionaire and get listed in Forbes magazine.

“Hmm…do you really think you’ll get listed in Forbes?” she questioned doubtingly.

“It’s my dream and I am sure it will come true,” I said reflecting a shine in my eyes.

“Then how much will I be the owner of? Tell me…” she asked eagerly.

“I can already claim to be a future millionaire at least…can’t I?” Sushmita giggled.

I kept silent. When you have no answers, you keep silent. Whenever, I think of silence, I remember our P.M. Dr. Manmohan Singh. I am sure even he doesn’t have answers to many things. Thus, he maintains tacitness.

“Oye! Tell me…” said Sush, her voice wavering this time.

“I don’t know Sush. I am too ambitious. I don’t know how long we’ll be together…how long I will stay in Odisha…how often I will come to Vizag, just to see you.” I explained my predicament.

“Take me along wherever you go,” she snivelled.

“Don’t kid yaar…I am serious. In another 2-3 years you’ll be married off. I still need another 7 years at least to be successful, to be me.” I stated bluntly.

“We can be successful…” she suggested hopelessly.

“I don’t know…you distract me…A LOT,” I said, distracted by her childlike face once again.

She closed my diary and thrust it in my hands and made off in the other direction.

I watched her go. I let her go. I knew she would come back. She didn’t turn and headed straight towards her parked car. She had made her mind; there was no stopping her. Still, I sprinted on my joggers to stop her.

“Sushmi! Wait…please…” I puffed breathlessly. She had tears rolling down her eyes. The kohl-blended tears trickled down her chin to the ground.

“You are no one…no one to stop me!” she croaked. “Here take your jacket. I don’t need it.” she said, pulling it off her shoulders. Her sobs continued as she moved on, maintaining her pace.

“Sushmi please…”

“Don’t call me that!” she screamed back. She opened her car door with a jerk and tried to get in. I stood in between, preventing her from entering. With a final outburst of tears she fisted 5-6 heavy punches on my chest.

“Don’t try to stop me or I’ll call the police!” she threatened. I gave way and begged her to listen to me. Tugging the car door shut, she sped off and in a few seconds all I could see were the rear lights of her Swift. Even in this serious moment, I couldn’t help remembering this new Swift ad…’We the Swift, Swift and Shout’. It is funny but ‘a good sense of humour’ seems to mock back at us sometimes, even when we do not want him too.

I waited there motionless. I was confused and still replaying the last 10 minutes over and over again, in my head.

Was she angry at me for not letting her read ‘our part’ of the diary? Was she jealous of Shreya or curious about Toti…did the billionaire thing trigger it…I don’t know. I can’t even call her, I know she won’t pick it up. I returned back to my cousin’s Navy apartment. We had a hearty dinner. I have always had a good appetite and good food makes a good day for me. But now I realised that a hearty dinner cannot fix a broken heart. We slept at 11 p.m. after watching a movie on TV. At 2 a.m. in the night, I suddenly woke up. I couldn’t sleep. Grabbing my phone, I typed hysterically…‘I am sorry baby. I love you.’

“Nandu delete the last line. Don’t mess things up!” my inner voice said. Touching the backspace key 10 times I pressed the send button.

To be continued…

I dipped the last bite of sandwich in ketchup, painting it all red.

“You don’t have a single etiquette of fine dining,” she roared. I think the couple seated in the cosiest corner must have heard her too, for both of them looked at me and giggled in amusement. I am sure they must have created many similar scenes here, and the giggles were just a gesture of a warm welcome to their club.

“I know,” I said, pretending a sigh.

I signalled to the waiter to clear our table and produce the bill.

“So, you were here just to feed that stomach of yours! All you care is about your food, your milk, your hobbies, your interests, your EVERYTHING!”

Many people now shifted in their seats. A few of them tried their best not to make me conscious. Others on the other hand were straining their neck 180º to get a view. I was a bit angry and a bit sad. I was sad because it was my first date and no one likes to be screamed at, on his debut. I was particularly angry at the mention of ‘my milk’ in public. I have been in love with milk since birth and will be till death. It is one big necessity I can’t live without.

She on the other hand was getting ready for another bout.

“I am sorry,” I said in a low voice trying to sound convincing. The waiter standing with the bill cleared his throat. They take the order from the miss, and bring back the bill statements direct to you. OK! This is how it goes. 

Sush lurched forward to see the bill. I hid it with one hand and took out my wallet with the other. She pricked the back of my hand with her pink-painted fingernails.

“Is that the best you can do?” I challenged her with a grin.

She raised her wrist, fisted a punch and hammered it onto my fingers. I yelped in pain.

“Fuck! What is that?” she said in an alarmed tone.

“Nothing…” I replied trying to cover my blistered fingers.

“Show me, show me…my God! How did you get those?” Sush demanded. She took my blistered fingers and rested them on her palm.

“Do they hurt?” she continued her concern.

“No I am used to having them every now and then,” I replied carelessly. But she wanted an explanation. I told her of my back to back performances on the 14th and 15th and practising for both overnight.

“Show me your other hand, the right one.”

I extended it. Did I have any other option.. 😛

“Haww…this is even worse!”

I jerked both my hands out of her palms. One thing I don’t like is too much of care and concern; it suffocates me. We left the table and moved onto the street. The street was lonely except for a few cars passing by. Sush moved next to me. We walked silently. I was waiting for her to break the silence. I kept mum for 2-3 minutes expecting her to say something. Finding her still silent, I felt that I would have to initiate this time.

“Where have you parked your car?” I questioned.

“Oh! It’s on the other side,” she said, still lost in her thoughts.

“Ok.”

“Do you like star-gazing?” she asked.

“Yes, I do sometimes…one of my friends told me…when we see the moon and stars we are actually watching the past.” I suggested watching the sparkled night sky.

“How?” she said pouting her lips and brushing her curly locks aside.

“See…the light which is reaching us at the moment had been radiated some million light years before.”

“Ooo…yes!”

Both of us were now watching the starry sky, like ten-year-olds. Our eyes skipped from one star to another. The cars had stopped passing by and there was complete silence. Suddenly, I saw her looking at me. She made a sensuous eye contact. I could see the moon’s reflection in her eyes.

“You have the prettiest pair of black eyes I have ever looked into…and I can see myself in them,” she breathed.

I held her hand in my corned one. I could feel the softness of her palm in mine. Her hand was ice-cold due to the chill in the air; mine was warm as ever. A cool breeze started to blow. She crossed her other hand to her shoulder to sheathe it. I had seen this in many movies: the hero often used to swaddle his girlfriend with his jacket. Like a vicarious professional at it, I performed the sensational scene in no time.

“It smells of you…and you smell nice,” Sush said, guiding her hands through the sleeves. The jacket was clearly oversized for her sleek body. It was hanging off at the hands and drooping down at the shoulders.

I didn’t know what to say. After thinking for half a minute, I managed a ‘Thank you’.

“What’s this in your right pocket?” she said taking out chewing gum wrappers and earphones and my diary.

“Ah! I don’t throw toffee wrappers on the road. I throw them somewhere where I am certain that someone will pick them up.”

“And what do you write in this diary?”

“Anything, any thought which comes to mind, any nice quote etc.” I replied.

“Can I read it?” Sush asked. She could not wait to open it.

I don’t know why people are so keen on reading personal memos and diaries. The discovery of others’ secret gives so much pleasure to them.

“Yes but only some parts. There are some things which I won’t like you to read.” I said in a low voice.

“Okay writer! Tell me, should I open it from the front or back?” asked an eager voice.

“Open it, where I have kept the strip-tag,” I directed her.

To be continued…

We chatted over the phone for the next whole week. She knew when to call and was never a minute late in calling.

“Hello, who’s this?” I hushed cupping the mobile phone with my left hand.

“Your sweetest dream,” she replied romantically. As a matter of fact, I had still not saved her new number; needless to say it offered cheaper communication to both of us.

I shot one glance at my boss and lowered the incoming call volume frantically with my middle finger. I don’t know what exactly triggered his anger. It could be because I had not kept my phone on silent, could be because he may have overheard Sush (yes…that’s what I call her), could be because of the rapid middle finger movement. Whatever, he is short-tempered and I don’t blame him; he’s a workaholic whereas I am quite the opposite.

Coming back, Sush’s timing was spot on, to the nearest minute, but today’s day was different. I was being reprimanded for the poor performance in all the 6 days of last week. Listening to his harsh criticism, I reflected subconsciously how my last week went. I recalled how Sush told me about her dream to open a fashion store. She wanted to introduce this new range of ‘fashionable formals’, something one could wear to office and flaunt before his colleagues at the same time. Wiping off the spittle showered at regular intervals at my face, I looked down at my safety shoes – unpolished, wearing off. My formals too had stains of red mud on them and the trousers’ colour had faded off by many shades. Could she make them cooler I wondered…

“We should meet…soon” she had added the ‘soon’ after a long pause, I reminisced from our last night’s chat.

With his final spill of spit my boss shook me out of my reverie.

“Sir, I want a leave for two days…please sir,” I begged. Before even waiting for my boss’s response I hung my head low and started to walk off.

“Nandish, take it,” he replied. Half-willingly I plucked my folder from the pile of sheets on his desk.

“I mean the leave beta, you need it desperately” he grinned showing his tobacco stained teeth.

“Thank you sir, thank you so so much!” I bubbled.

***

As planned, I reached Vizag by the first train available and within half an hour I was waiting at the table at Cafe Coffee Day. I didn’t have time to change and I was in my default wear – dry-fit T-shirt and track pants and jacket. Sitting at the table, I tried to act patient. I had read their menu for the 10^th time now. ‘A lot can happen over coffee’…really?

“Surprise me,” I mocked flipping over the display pamphlet.

I have heard about coincidence but this was too much. I saw a familiar face as the pamphlet slipped out of my fingers.

In her majestic model-like walk she approached my table. In her bright red one piece dress and jet black low heel peep-toes she presented her full self, before taking a seat opposite me. I scanned her face. She had a clear face, unlike me. No pock marks, no wrinkles, no bruises anywhere. I checked her eyes. There was a hint of eye-kohl and now she was wearing frameless spectacles with golden temples. Her curly hair rippled to the shoulders covering them completely. The lip gloss, the diamond ear-studs and her glass lenses made her countenance so effulgent.

“What is it?” she snapped her fingers between my eyes.

“You look so…” I was searching desperately for a suitable word.

“So…?” she replied amused.

“Chamkeeli,” I said slowly and hesitatingly.

She laughed away showing all her pearly whites. I gave her a sheepish look.

“I should have dressed better,” I murmured with the same look on my face.

“Arey! You look cool, pretty cool” she tried to comfort me.

I could well speculate the eyes around me. They were all zooming in on the beauty sitting on the opposite side of the table. To add to my woes the waiter addressed the lady, taking absolutely no notice of me.

“What will you have ma’am?” he asked politely.

“I will have a Cappuccino and sir will have…” she pointed to me.

“A Gourmet Hot Chocolate,” I recited, trying to sound like a regular customer. The waiter smiled maliciously and moved on to the other table.

We were having a light chit-chat, when the waiter returned with our drinks. He placed her cup-plate softly on the table and thrust my glass right between my hands. I felt like grabbing his throat and pounding his ribs but then I realised…‘you are being observed Nandu, be your best’.

I tasted the hot chocolate; it was tepid. Regardless of her presence, I tumbled down the entire glass in one go. I had had nothing for lunch and only a light breakfast. My stomach ached for more. On the other hand, Sushmita was still sipping her coffee, avoiding big sips.

“Have you ever been on a date before?” she asked closing in her eyes on my lips.

“No,” I replied truthfully. I realised that a milk moustache must have formed on the upper lip. Taking a napkin I carefully wiped it.

The waiter arrived with our second order. I had ordered a tandoori chicken sandwich and a brownie. She seemed content with her coffee declining to eat anything. I helped myself with the sandwich nodding and rocking my head at all her comments, questions and suggestions. I didn’t know what to ask her and loved being the passive partner in the conversation.

“Do you realise that you seem very silly with that big bite of burger inside your BIG mouth?” she asked rhetorically.

“It is a fandwij, and fanks,” I replied with my mouth still stuffed with cheese.

“What thanks? I am not appreciating you paagal!” she said irritated.

With this comment she sat cross-handed with a sad face. I oblivious to the sudden change in her mood was busy squirting out ketchup from the sachet.

To be continued…

Note – The lines of your hand only predict the probable future you will have. By working on your present you can change them. Yes its true!

About the author – The author himself does not believe in numerology although surprisingly ALL of his deductions are correct most of the times, so he’s still in doubt whether he should believe in numbers or not. Actually he has two apprehensions:-

1. Either he makes too general statements.

2. OR it’s the people who over-relate things.

How it all started?  This started as an accident. I was searching for something to read in my summer vacations of class 8. I need something to read every now and then… and I can read anything. So, when I was brushing off the dust through a pile of old collections in the small, little library we have at home, my eyes fell on two very old copies of Cheiro.

One was Cheiro’s book of numbers and the other Cheiro’s language of the hand. I read through both of them and sort of imbibed them by heart at first read. When you are interested in something it happens! Happy with the new found wisdom of palmistry and numerology I returned back to school with a halo over my head. 😀

Within no time I became a sort of baba at school, fortune telling for free. The truth was, I really liked holding the hands of over-eager girls who would be over-curious to know their future. Seeing their lips part in amazement…sometimes biting it with their teeth…I enjoyed the attention I got. It was very new for me. Being those shy sorts, I had never been popular among girls. My male friends on the other hand were so jealous. They thought I was making a fool of them; playing with their superstitions. But honestly, I told them whatever I had read. I never told them a lie.

The news spread and girls from other sections crowded around me in the lunch break ‘with their hands’ and I accepted each one, at a time, according to my own discretion. Some waiting for their turn…some discussing how bright a future they had…they stretched out their palms towards me, like children demanding candy. I liked resting their hands on my palm, tracing those lines of luck, heart and life. Their eyes would twinkle, their mouths agape when I told them about stars, islands and Solomon’s ring. Softly and silently and patiently I augured their probable future. But after a week or so, things turned mawkish. I would hear ‘kya bta dia uss ladki ko tune…wo to muh latka ke baithi hui hai 2 din se’.

And it had a saddening effect on me too. I felt that I was responsible for making her ( or anyone) sad. So, I stopped examining hands and switched to numerology. But my patrons had lost their interest by this time…and so had I. After all, I had had enough of foretelling and foreseeing.

* * *

I am a fanatic when it comes to numbers so that wasn’t the end of numerology although I was fast losing interest in palmistry. There were 2 reasons for that.

1. Girls in class 9 suddenly mature into adolescents whereas boys like me are still fighting over ‘jenga cards’ (we used to get it free inside Uncle Chips)…I still have them…and don’t give them away. I know how I have earned them!

2. My English teacher spotted me more than once, holding hands of another girl, in her class. She was so furious! I was a good boy in her books and wanted to maintain it. I still can’t forget the look in her eyes. It was threatening, to say the least.

The interest in numerology revived in 2^nd year of college when I came across some well known articles on the same. I began taking notes, started comparing interpretations, jotted down the common points and points of contradiction. I read extensively about my number ‘3’…which surprisingly is the number of extremes and the worst number to possess. People with number 3 have bipolar disorder and frequent mood swings. The degree varies from individual to individual. They can be very nice and very mean at the same time.

Then I read about the family of 3 and its interactions in the family (which includes the numbers 3, 6 and 9). Then I went on to study the magical number, number 7. I read about how powerful a number it is. I delved into all the references and spun a world of numbers around me. I absorbed birthdays, anniversaries instinctively. Calculated totals, deciphered them. But all this while kept the results to me alone. I wanted to be absolutely sure of this science before I made it public.

I can go on and talk about all the numbers and give a discourse on them. But for want of space and time won’t continue. Still if anyone is hell bent on knowing their ‘probable future’ feel free to text/mail/comment/call and you will be entertained.

At the risk of sounding cliché, I would still re-iterate…

The fate is always in your hands and you can well change it in any direction you like, anytime! We only tell you what you’ll be having in the future from the things you have at hand. It’s more like showing you the projected score of an innings from the current run rate, simple. 🙂

Hi folks!

          This post is for all those who just like me, like to fall in love OR like to have that feeling, this time round when the winter is setting in and we have the autumn season dying out. Warm bubbles of love seem to be floating in the cooler air. Read on LOVERS!

This is not a work of fiction. Characters described in this event may bear strong resemblance to two living persons.

I was sifting through the new range of kurtas, the Ranbir Kapoor ones in fashion nowadays.

“Don’t try this one! Go for this”, boomed a high pitched voice. There was both caution and concern in her tone.

I had absolutely no intention of buying any. But she made me feel so good about myself, that I was forced to reconsider.

Picking a maroon kurta from the display stand, she thrust it against my chest to see if it suited.

Bad move! I am allergic to feminine touch. I can talk about really intimate things. I can tell someone even the best/worst of my fantasies (you know what I am talking about)…but when it comes to touch I back off at once. It seems too sacrosanct an action to me. A handshake is fine. A pat on the shoulders or back can be tolerated too but any other form of touch gets onto my nerves. I feel conscious of my bodily existence, each and every time without exception; don’t know when I am going to get over it.

Still as the scene goes…I lifted my eyes to acknowledge the person who had made this comment.

Bright, white shapely teeth…a slight hint of lip balm (those glittery ones)…her lips were naturally light pink…black framed spectacles…eyes didn’t have any kohl or mascara…THANK GOD…I HATE them! There was nothing very special about the eyes. Quite ordinary: normal lashes, normal shape.

But wait. Curly hair, check…extremely curly, check.

if(length== 80% of waistlength)
{

perfect;

}

No, this check failed. Length =60%…OK, satisfactory. The extra curls make up for it.

She was wearing a maroon kurta with borders at the neck line, nothing fancy. Below, she wore a slim fit jeans and sports shoes. It was funny but we were wearing the same shoes, only the string colour was different. Reebok all leather, black shoes with red laces; hers were with pink laces and a feminine cut of course.

She rose to my eye level in height. 5’6″ 5’7″ maybe. She had numerous accessories on her body which I would hate to describe. Attention to detail is a disease which I have and don’t like to spread. So, as I was putting her up for a dentist/engineer/model…etc. in my mind, she put an end to my curiosity in a second.

“I am from NIFT, FT stands for fashion technology.”

“But, excuse me…did I ask you?” echoed the voice inside my head.

“No, I thought that you would mind my comment on the kurta you just lifted for trial,” came her swift reply, observing my quizzical look and the implicit expression it suggested.

Believe me, I never mind beautiful girls, especially the ones with curly hair. And am I even listening when they paralyse me with their tongue, lips and glottis movements?…Yes, I am with double the attention.

“What would YOU suggest?” I retorted stressing on the ‘you’.

“You are not that fair.”

“I know that. I do not even classify myself as fair,” the voice inside me frowned.

“And this shade won’t suit you. Try this maroon one, no” she continued.

I hinted at her dress and then back at her face, suggesting a fallacy in the statement.

“Aah, I can wear anything and …….”

I think I heard ‘nothing’ soon after that…don’t know. I must be imagining things, didn’t quite follow up. But yes, she did say something ending with ‘ing’.

I have always been bad at selection and have a tough time picking and choosing things. Not that I know which one would suit me best. But I busy try to figure out where all I would be able to wear it. I decide most of my clothes according to my place of work/play and existence at large. Track pants always seem to check all criteria; maybe that’s why I have a fetish for them. And I need to stretch my legs every now and then. I need to dance, flex, jog/run; and they provide me with the complete freedom of movement. I love track pants. No wonder they called me the ‘pyjama boy’ at college and I loved the title. It is so me. Uniquely me. Only me.

I timidly, responded to her suggestion. She commanded authority.

She made me try 3 to 4 similar pieces. I had my heart on 2 of them.

Just when I was about to make the payment she said, “Wait, don’t buy! This is overpriced!” pointing to the tag.

I had wasted close to 1 hour on finalizing the 2 kurtas and now she was telling me to drop the idea altogether. I have this strange habit of picturing things well in advance. I could see myself flaunting the kurta on a windy weekend. A pair of blue jeans at the bottom…strolling down the road…hair partly flying and she smashed my colorful picture in a jiffy.

“Why? I like this and I will buy this,” I declared.

“Arey! I will get you better ones from Fabindia and Pantaloons. They offer a wider and better range and their cotton is good, quite good. If you are buying expensive stuff then it’s better you buy the best!” she said in a single breath.

I looked at her. Still confused; I was confused because we had not even exchanged names and here she was, offering to accompany me for shopping…and MY SHOPPING not hers…a point to note guys.

“Sushmita”

“Nandu” I blurted out, preoccupied in these thoughts. “Sorry, Nandish!”

Sushmita laughed it off. She knew she had caught me noticing her face yet again.

We exchanged numbers and one good look at one another and then she left at once. She waved me goodbye from the see-through display. I didn’t know what to do. The hands assumed an identity of their own…and they rose. My cheeks rose too and I grinned and waved a heartfelt goodbye.