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.
Nandu speaks 
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