(short story. comments welcome.)
(this is a part of a series. premature endings may be taken up later.)
"It's been many years. I need to get this off my chest."
The voice almost woke up the counselor, who was too tired to concentrate on what the girl just said. The last appointment of the day, he thought, and sighed. It was always the last appointment of the day that turned out to be the most interesting.
"I wanted to travel around the world.", she spoke in her soft voice.
The counselor wasn't yet done admiring her cute face. She didn't have what he would call a 'pretty face', but there was something in those eyes that forced him to look at them again. This girl was ... different.
C: "That is a wonderful hobby or passion, whatever you choose to call it. I myself wanted to do that when I was younger."
G: "What did you do about it then?"
C: "I realized I didn't earn enough money to do both - save and travel. I decided to keep my travel plans on the backburner for a few years. Those few years are still continuing after many more years, I'd say."
The counselor smiled as he said this. Ginny would know what he is talking about.
G: "That's what I didn't want to do. So I came up with a method."
C: "Nice to hear that. Tell me more about it."
G: "I calculated that I could only afford the travel cost of the air tickets from my own savings, and sometimes not even that. How would I take care of the accommodation and actual travel expenses? That was the main problem."
C: "Hmm...So what did you do about it?"
G: "I got this idea when my second boyfriend traveled with me to Russia. I didn't realize before that..."
C: "What?"
G: "...that I could just focus on traveling and enjoying, and my boyfriend would take care of the expense."
C: "I guess you two shared a great relationship."
G: "It lasted for three months."
C: "Oh. That's a bit short...what happened?"
G: "He couldn't afford the next trip to Thailand."
The counselor felt speechless for a moment. The girl continued.
G: "At that point I realized that if I could just take my 'enthusiastic' male friends along with me, my travel plans would become a reality."
C: "I hope their pockets could afford that. How did you manage that?"
G: "In this world, a girl doesn't have to do much to make men dance, you know. A little bit of flirting, a little bit of cleavage show, and sometimes bend down to show your inner-lines coming out of jeans backside, and you get friends. Friends who would never admit they want you, but would do anything that takes money to make your passion of traveling fulfilled. These are the ones who never miss those little opportunities to touch you whenever given a chance."
C: "That is a pretty broad generalization you got there."
G: "Yes, and it stands true. Who says strategy only works in business? Many of my friends are now working in the most exotic locations on this earth. Who do you think will bear most of the bills if I casually tell them that it has been my dream to visit that particular country for a long time?"
C: "I guess it will work once, but not twice with the same friend. Would it?"
G: "Generally, it doesn't. But I've got loads of them, so I never needed the same one twice."
C: "Do you still travel a lot?"
G: "No, I don't. After that happened, I never got back up."
C: "That...?"
G: "I started feeling cosier towards this particular friend of mine, whom I had convinced to accompany me to the Caribbean. He has been a friend for a long time now. He is quite popular, has a great body, and is a fun person to be, overall. He even knows about my adventures with boys, so with him it was not seduction, but straight-talk about going and enjoying in the place of desire. He agreed."
The girl paused for a moment, but continued before the counselor could utter a sound from his mouth.
G: "Like all good boys, he planned to bring his girlfriend along, but she couldn't. She works in a busy office, and sometimes career commitments have to take precedence."
The counselor slowly moved his wrist to check the time. Five minutes over, he thought, and coughed. That brought the girl's attention to the wall clock.
G: "Oh, I didn't realize. You got more time today?"
C: "I would have liked to do so, but I have my girlfriend waiting for me. I would not like to get late."
G: "I understand. So I'll come back next week?"
C: "Sure. Check with Tina for the schedule."
As she left, the counselor was still trying to imagine what all could have gone wrong between the two friends. He wouldn't know until next time....
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Saturday, November 3, 2007
I Counsel - 1
(short story. comments welcome.)
(starting a series with this one. that's why it's called '1')
(special thanks to whoever made that video for this song. I love the concept.)
The counselor twitched. This was his last appointment of the day. Right now, Ginny would be getting ready for their movie date later in the evening, he thought. The blurb of random thought didn't stay for long. It was interrupted by the voice of the person who had his eyes closed.
The counselor was intrigued by the personality of this visitor. An average Asian guy, probably Indian. The voice didn't seem to have an Indian accent though. He thought for a moment, and realized it didn't have any particular accent at all! This boyish man seemed to pronounce Indian, American, French, Russian, and Dutch tones at once in the same sentence. "Must be something wrong with my ear. Ginny puffed too much air in there last night.", he smiled as he swayed away into random thoughts for a moment.
He focussed his mind back to the voice. He wasn't surprised that his hand was still writing down the important points from this session. Others would have found it amazing, but he knew what his mind was capable of - he could think of random things while he took notes of what the 'boy' was saying. It would be a flawless display of parallel use of mind, but he chose to keep it to himself. That he had an off-the-charts IQ but always described it as "140-ish" to avoid intimidating friends and dates. 140-150 is 'safe range' - people think you're intelligent enough to observe the world, but can be naive enough ("mad scientists"?) to not know how to deal with the world yourself. People with very high quotients know that they either become one-day-geniuses and get sought-after by researchers and intelligence agencies, or stay low-key while trying to live an 'ordinary' life.
He had opted for the latter path.
He looked at his notepad. "Scribbled enough?", he cogitated for a few seconds.
"Okay .... let's see....", he cleared his throat. Spicy Asian food the last night had done its wonders, no doubt. "Are you still angry?"
The boy opened his eyes and stared at him. "Angry? At what? For what?", his voice was still cold.
C: "That you and this woman couldn't go together for long."
B: "Is that something to be angry about? I told you it's not like it happened yesterday. It's been a while."
C: "Yes, but it's difficult to get over bitter separations. People come to me all the time and..."
He was cut short. The boy apparently knew what he was coming to.
B: "It was difficult. It was a bitter separation. I am not like rest of the people who come to you. I am not mad at her."
C: "Good. So let's go over it again. You are this happy, life-loving man approaching the not-so-early twenties with ambitious plans for life. You then date this girl, and your priorities and personality changes. You two are then separated, and you totally 'lose it', or as what you said, 'become a loser' for a while."
B: "Yes."
C: "Did you fall for her?"
B: "Would there by any other reason in psychology books to explain my reactions later?"
C: "umm...I don't think so. Have you read psychology?"
B: "Lots. Back in my teens."
C: "That's ... nice. I had that interest too in my teens. Look where I am right now.", he smiled calmly, "So can you describe the relationship?"
B: "In two sentences: She was the mature one who kept her balance in the relationship. I was the 'boy' who at once thought he had found the one for himself."
C: "Does that mean..."
B: "It means that she knew it was not going to work out. She kept the relationship going for a while because she didn't want to hurt me. Or may be she was just enjoying the 'seduce and dump' play."
C: "I'm surprised that you are aware of that term. That approach usually backfires for both."
B: "Well, I don't see how it backfired for her. For me, well, yes, it did. I grew closer to her all this time, falling even deeper into love."
C: "Did she lose it too sometime?"
B: "No. That's what made it interesting. She planned the exit. And it came slowly, and finally hit me."
C: "So you didn't foresee it?"
B: "What do you think I am? A total loser? Probably not. I knew exactly what she was doing. How she was trying to get to me again and again. Finally, one day, I gave in."
C: "hmm. How did you react after the separation?"
B: "Depressed. Tried to cry, but that didn't help - most Asian guys are not conditioned to get better by crying. Did many things that would make me look a lot more stupid than what I am."
C: "You seem like a balanced, intelligent man. A good IQ is usually accompanied by a good EQ. You know, emotional quotient."
B: "How about you say it a bit bluntly - that I had a 'girly' quotient in me?"
C: "Well, that's not how I would like to put it..."
B: "I was naive. High or low, IQ doesn't help in the matters of the heart."
His choice of words struck the counselor.
C: "It's been a while now, isn't it?"
B: "Yes."
C: "How did you deal with it all this time?"
B: "Part of my depression was a self-doubt over my personality. I brooded long hours, "Isn't it enough to be a good, helpful, well-intentioned person anymore?" The answer, as I found it to be, was 'No. You can be a nice guy, and you can be loved as a person. But you have to be a practical, sharp, skilled, macho, nice guy to be loved and desired as a partner, be it life or bed.' "
C: "That's a bit too many things in there, don't you think? I remember a good joke..."
B: "That I've also toiled the time since my realization in pondering the meaning of life, thinking deep into humanity and relationship - probably would add to your joke."
C: "Oh. I didn't mean the joke as a comment on..."
B: "Doesn't matter. After it got over, I underwent this phase of self-doubt over almost everything. Was it my personality as a whole? Was it my social behavior? Was it my idea of 'fun'? Was it my performance in bed? What the hell was it?"
C: "Well, sometimes people are just not compatible enough..."
B: "Wishful excuse. I know. You know what I ended up doing over the last few months to get rid of that self-doubt?"
C: "What did you do?"
B: "I went back to studying human relationships, human temptation, and what drives even the strongest of minds. I got rid of my doubts about myself. All it took was many bold steps this nice guy never thought he would."
C: "Well, most such people I know are the ones who stayed away from relationships till their late twenties, and then got hurt in one or more relationships. Then went on to become...."
B: "I know the theory. Tell me something new. Wait a second - I am here to tell you about myself."
C: "Yeah, you are. It's therapeutic for you."
B: "So after having achieved this, after having become the ' who can make his way through anything, what do you think I should do?"
C: "Are you asking me, or testing me?"
B: "You're the counselor, not me."
C: "Did you end up becoming a heartbreaker yet?"
B: "Not yet. I flirt. I get what I desire. But I don't take risks with hearts."
C: "Damaged hearts sometimes get a tendency to become heartbreakers."
B: "Funny. The woman who broke my heart was herself damaged a long time ago. But here's the deal. I got many occasions in recent past where I realized that women were falling for me. I made things clear to those women right there. They realized. They stopped. I gave them enough leeway to save face before it got too gory."
C: "Sounds good. Not many people have that kind of control over their desires."
B: "Tell me about it. It's hard to be close to tempting women, and then turn them away because you know any further will hurt them hard. Heck, if I were Howard Roark, I would have never turned a single one of them away."
C: "You seem to have read Ayn Rand philosophy a bit."
B: "A bit? Well, forget Rand. Forget objectivism. You've heard of Nietzsche?"
C: "The one behind existentialism?"
B: "Yes, which one do you think put his/her arguments logically?"
C: "I can get lost in any kind of philosophical debate very fast. Let's get back to your life."
B: "What else do you want me to talk about?"
C: "What do you want to do with that relationship now?"
B: "The one that never really existed for long? Nothing."
C: "Absolutely? A lot of people who recover from a breakup want to get back to the 'ex' someday."
B: "That's what makes them 'a lot of people'. I don't want to do that."
C: "Good to hear that. I think you realized..."
B: "I tell you what I realized. I realized that if I get back to her, it'll be her win. I realized that if I keep thinking about getting even with her, I would have to be beneficial to her somehow, since whatever she did ultimately proved beneficial to me. I realized that the best way to get revenge is to never let her know how my personality changed. I realized that nothing could be better than letting her know 20 years later what she missed out on."
C: "That's .... different."
B: "I was never smart with money, or women. That is why probably I wanted her so much at that time. Now that I am careful with money, better with women, hang around with the most powerful people in the cities, do things that people could just dream of, I don't want her any more. I want someone even better."
C: "I sense overconfidence. You know what they say .... 'Women rule this world.' "
B: "Only because men let them."
C: "Well, that's ...."
B: "That's what a seductress recently told me, when she failed in her attempts."
C: "Okay, let's get back on track. So you got over her. What's next?"
B: "So...I looked at my life and my mistakes, and realized the reason I ended up being manipulated was that I needed other people."
C: "We all do..."
B: "Here's the thing. I have worked at it, and will continue to work at becoming someone who doesn't need others. Women - I'll go after the one or ones I want. Emotional and emergency support - I'll get it from friends. Fun - I've got loads of people around me to get that."
C: "You sound too ideal to be true now."
B: "I'm just an ordinary guy. A nice guy."
The counselor looked at his watch.
C: "I guess we're almost up with the time. How about I see you next week?"
B: "Yes, sure. It was nice talking to you. It helped."
C: "One last question before you leave. Ever tried any IQ tests?"
B: "Yes. You can say ... I'm 140-ish."
The boy smiled at him, and left.
The counselor didn't respond. He was dumbstruck.
(starting a series with this one. that's why it's called '1')
(special thanks to whoever made that video for this song. I love the concept.)
The counselor twitched. This was his last appointment of the day. Right now, Ginny would be getting ready for their movie date later in the evening, he thought. The blurb of random thought didn't stay for long. It was interrupted by the voice of the person who had his eyes closed.
The counselor was intrigued by the personality of this visitor. An average Asian guy, probably Indian. The voice didn't seem to have an Indian accent though. He thought for a moment, and realized it didn't have any particular accent at all! This boyish man seemed to pronounce Indian, American, French, Russian, and Dutch tones at once in the same sentence. "Must be something wrong with my ear. Ginny puffed too much air in there last night.", he smiled as he swayed away into random thoughts for a moment.
He focussed his mind back to the voice. He wasn't surprised that his hand was still writing down the important points from this session. Others would have found it amazing, but he knew what his mind was capable of - he could think of random things while he took notes of what the 'boy' was saying. It would be a flawless display of parallel use of mind, but he chose to keep it to himself. That he had an off-the-charts IQ but always described it as "140-ish" to avoid intimidating friends and dates. 140-150 is 'safe range' - people think you're intelligent enough to observe the world, but can be naive enough ("mad scientists"?) to not know how to deal with the world yourself. People with very high quotients know that they either become one-day-geniuses and get sought-after by researchers and intelligence agencies, or stay low-key while trying to live an 'ordinary' life.
He had opted for the latter path.
He looked at his notepad. "Scribbled enough?", he cogitated for a few seconds.
"Okay .... let's see....", he cleared his throat. Spicy Asian food the last night had done its wonders, no doubt. "Are you still angry?"
The boy opened his eyes and stared at him. "Angry? At what? For what?", his voice was still cold.
C: "That you and this woman couldn't go together for long."
B: "Is that something to be angry about? I told you it's not like it happened yesterday. It's been a while."
C: "Yes, but it's difficult to get over bitter separations. People come to me all the time and..."
He was cut short. The boy apparently knew what he was coming to.
B: "It was difficult. It was a bitter separation. I am not like rest of the people who come to you. I am not mad at her."
C: "Good. So let's go over it again. You are this happy, life-loving man approaching the not-so-early twenties with ambitious plans for life. You then date this girl, and your priorities and personality changes. You two are then separated, and you totally 'lose it', or as what you said, 'become a loser' for a while."
B: "Yes."
C: "Did you fall for her?"
B: "Would there by any other reason in psychology books to explain my reactions later?"
C: "umm...I don't think so. Have you read psychology?"
B: "Lots. Back in my teens."
C: "That's ... nice. I had that interest too in my teens. Look where I am right now.", he smiled calmly, "So can you describe the relationship?"
B: "In two sentences: She was the mature one who kept her balance in the relationship. I was the 'boy' who at once thought he had found the one for himself."
C: "Does that mean..."
B: "It means that she knew it was not going to work out. She kept the relationship going for a while because she didn't want to hurt me. Or may be she was just enjoying the 'seduce and dump' play."
C: "I'm surprised that you are aware of that term. That approach usually backfires for both."
B: "Well, I don't see how it backfired for her. For me, well, yes, it did. I grew closer to her all this time, falling even deeper into love."
C: "Did she lose it too sometime?"
B: "No. That's what made it interesting. She planned the exit. And it came slowly, and finally hit me."
C: "So you didn't foresee it?"
B: "What do you think I am? A total loser? Probably not. I knew exactly what she was doing. How she was trying to get to me again and again. Finally, one day, I gave in."
C: "hmm. How did you react after the separation?"
B: "Depressed. Tried to cry, but that didn't help - most Asian guys are not conditioned to get better by crying. Did many things that would make me look a lot more stupid than what I am."
C: "You seem like a balanced, intelligent man. A good IQ is usually accompanied by a good EQ. You know, emotional quotient."
B: "How about you say it a bit bluntly - that I had a 'girly' quotient in me?"
C: "Well, that's not how I would like to put it..."
B: "I was naive. High or low, IQ doesn't help in the matters of the heart."
His choice of words struck the counselor.
C: "It's been a while now, isn't it?"
B: "Yes."
C: "How did you deal with it all this time?"
B: "Part of my depression was a self-doubt over my personality. I brooded long hours, "Isn't it enough to be a good, helpful, well-intentioned person anymore?" The answer, as I found it to be, was 'No. You can be a nice guy, and you can be loved as a person. But you have to be a practical, sharp, skilled, macho, nice guy to be loved and desired as a partner, be it life or bed.' "
C: "That's a bit too many things in there, don't you think? I remember a good joke..."
B: "That I've also toiled the time since my realization in pondering the meaning of life, thinking deep into humanity and relationship - probably would add to your joke."
C: "Oh. I didn't mean the joke as a comment on..."
B: "Doesn't matter. After it got over, I underwent this phase of self-doubt over almost everything. Was it my personality as a whole? Was it my social behavior? Was it my idea of 'fun'? Was it my performance in bed? What the hell was it?"
C: "Well, sometimes people are just not compatible enough..."
B: "Wishful excuse. I know. You know what I ended up doing over the last few months to get rid of that self-doubt?"
C: "What did you do?"
B: "I went back to studying human relationships, human temptation, and what drives even the strongest of minds. I got rid of my doubts about myself. All it took was many bold steps this nice guy never thought he would."
C: "Well, most such people I know are the ones who stayed away from relationships till their late twenties, and then got hurt in one or more relationships. Then went on to become...."
B: "I know the theory. Tell me something new. Wait a second - I am here to tell you about myself."
C: "Yeah, you are. It's therapeutic for you."
B: "So after having achieved this, after having become the ' who can make his way through anything, what do you think I should do?"
C: "Are you asking me, or testing me?"
B: "You're the counselor, not me."
C: "Did you end up becoming a heartbreaker yet?"
B: "Not yet. I flirt. I get what I desire. But I don't take risks with hearts."
C: "Damaged hearts sometimes get a tendency to become heartbreakers."
B: "Funny. The woman who broke my heart was herself damaged a long time ago. But here's the deal. I got many occasions in recent past where I realized that women were falling for me. I made things clear to those women right there. They realized. They stopped. I gave them enough leeway to save face before it got too gory."
C: "Sounds good. Not many people have that kind of control over their desires."
B: "Tell me about it. It's hard to be close to tempting women, and then turn them away because you know any further will hurt them hard. Heck, if I were Howard Roark, I would have never turned a single one of them away."
C: "You seem to have read Ayn Rand philosophy a bit."
B: "A bit? Well, forget Rand. Forget objectivism. You've heard of Nietzsche?"
C: "The one behind existentialism?"
B: "Yes, which one do you think put his/her arguments logically?"
C: "I can get lost in any kind of philosophical debate very fast. Let's get back to your life."
B: "What else do you want me to talk about?"
C: "What do you want to do with that relationship now?"
B: "The one that never really existed for long? Nothing."
C: "Absolutely? A lot of people who recover from a breakup want to get back to the 'ex' someday."
B: "That's what makes them 'a lot of people'. I don't want to do that."
C: "Good to hear that. I think you realized..."
B: "I tell you what I realized. I realized that if I get back to her, it'll be her win. I realized that if I keep thinking about getting even with her, I would have to be beneficial to her somehow, since whatever she did ultimately proved beneficial to me. I realized that the best way to get revenge is to never let her know how my personality changed. I realized that nothing could be better than letting her know 20 years later what she missed out on."
C: "That's .... different."
B: "I was never smart with money, or women. That is why probably I wanted her so much at that time. Now that I am careful with money, better with women, hang around with the most powerful people in the cities, do things that people could just dream of, I don't want her any more. I want someone even better."
C: "I sense overconfidence. You know what they say .... 'Women rule this world.' "
B: "Only because men let them."
C: "Well, that's ...."
B: "That's what a seductress recently told me, when she failed in her attempts."
C: "Okay, let's get back on track. So you got over her. What's next?"
B: "So...I looked at my life and my mistakes, and realized the reason I ended up being manipulated was that I needed other people."
C: "We all do..."
B: "Here's the thing. I have worked at it, and will continue to work at becoming someone who doesn't need others. Women - I'll go after the one or ones I want. Emotional and emergency support - I'll get it from friends. Fun - I've got loads of people around me to get that."
C: "You sound too ideal to be true now."
B: "I'm just an ordinary guy. A nice guy."
The counselor looked at his watch.
C: "I guess we're almost up with the time. How about I see you next week?"
B: "Yes, sure. It was nice talking to you. It helped."
C: "One last question before you leave. Ever tried any IQ tests?"
B: "Yes. You can say ... I'm 140-ish."
The boy smiled at him, and left.
The counselor didn't respond. He was dumbstruck.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
10 glasses
(short story. comments welcome.)
I see. I see all of it everyday when I step down my 10th floor apartment in the morning, and when I drag self up in the evening.
My new home is on the 10th floor. My colleagues are jealous. It was just yesterday when Kim said, "I am planning to get a house there. My husband and I are working on the financing. How much rent do you pay for it?" for the third time in the day.
I know Kim. She is a planning-addict, not an execution one. She plans, and I let her.
This apartment is building is indeed a complex (pun intended) purchase. All the houses in this building have a transparent, bullet-proof glass main door. People who purchase an apartment have to sign an additional clause in the agreement that they will not try to replace the transparent door with another one, or try to curtain it up. The apartment authority takes care of any replacements for damaged glass doors (if there is, ever, since the glass is bullet-proof), and the owners renting out the place make the tenants sign the same clause in the agreement (I did too!) It is scary, to have your living room visible to anyone passing by your door. It carries a certain thrill that entices people to buy or rent homes here. I cannot narrow down my feelings to something in particular, but in the end, I got a house on rent.
It's a new morning. Again. How many mornings do I have to wake up to emptiness next to me? I think I know the answer, but I'm too afraid to know that I know.
The same shower. The same perfume. I am getting ready.
As I move around the living room to prepare the breakfast, I glance through the glass door if anyone is peeping in. There is nobody. There has not been anybody for long.
I turn the door knob, and come out. It squeaks. I oiled it three days ago, and it started squeaking again. Why do doors have to behave like humans?
I glance quickly at the door near the stairs. Raz is exercising again. I could never understand two things about him. Why does he have a name that sounds like a dog's? And why does he exercise in his living room wearing shirt and jeans? We have one of the most well-quipped gymnasium in the town, but Raz prefers his living room, fully-clothed.
My legs are stretching up to the stairs today after the long weekend.
9th floor. I don't even have to glance to know what's going on behind that glass door near the stairs. Still I do. I see smoke coming out of the toaster in the open kitchen besides the living room. If I stand here for 5 more seconds, Dorothy will come running and will try to take out the blackened loafs of bread and will drop one of them on the floor in the process. I never bothered to check what happens to the one that falls on the floor. She works in the office next to me, and I sometimes wonder if she actually sprints to the office everyday to reach there at almost the same time as I do.
8th floor. Why would an old couple live in a 8th floor house at a time when 2nd floor ones are available? Mrs. Parker cannot operate the buttons in the elevator, so she uses the stairs every time, stepping one by one painfully. She is knitting a sweater for her granddaughter, who lives far away. It's a blue one today; I saw the red one almost finished on Friday. I don't know where Mr. Parker is. I rarely see him going out anywhere. He probably prefers his bed and TV most of the time.
7th floor. Jenny is talking loudly on her phone. I can hear her, but can't see her. She's not in the living room, but she usually talks very loud to her boyfriend every morning. That's the only time they get to talk it seems. She is a bartender in a nearby pub, and comes home early morning. I sometimes think it's funny her boyfriend still keeps up with her. Their work timings do not allow them to meet regularly even over the weekends. I don't know what drives their relationship.
I take a halt here. 30 seconds of motionless comfort. My legs need that; I can't walk or run continuously for long. Doctors tell me it's a problem with my knees, and at this early age, I have to be careful.
6th floor. I don't know their names, but the two women who live here are rumored to be married. To each other. I haven't seen them talking to other apartment neighbors, though I don't know whether it's them who don't like to socialize, or it's the neighbors who prefer to stay away. Both of them work in a big reputed bank, and are pretty successful at what they do, from what I've heard. Smart, savvy women of this century - I don't wonder much why they preferred each other instead of resorting to men. I see one of them reading the newspaper, while the other is singing loudly while cooking in the kitchen.
5th floor. Peter is not in his living room, but I know he would have just returned from his night patrol. He is well-respected in the community, for he is the one who single-handedly captured two robbers when Mrs. Parker screamed from 8th floor. A police officer, a strongly built man, and a sharp mind - you get it.
I take another halt. Some say it's love that makes people go weak in knees. I am not sure if that's what driving my knees crazy.
4th floor. I hear the song, and I recognize it. "eh eh eh ... under my umbrella". If there's one person who would be dancing to Rihanna's cool dance singles at this hour of morning, it would be Parry. That's his nickname I know this Indian by. He is a drummer and occasional vocalist for an Indian boy band. I have never known him to go to 'work' except for watching some of his performances at the local community gatherings.
3rd floor. I walk hurriedly in front of this glass door, trying to steal a quick glance. Mike, the drunkard Englishman, has probably beaten up his wife again. Amy is Chinese, and has a successful career as a consultant. Somehow, she turns weak when she is at home. She's lying on the couch, sobbing in silence. I see Mike's shoes besides the couch. He must have returned in the morning drunk, and I don't want to imagine once again the scene I witnessed one morning when I started early.
2nd floor. Nobody lives here. Sammy, the brilliant, suave, and sexy lady who committed suicide in this particular house last month didn't leave a proper will behind her. Her siblings are still fighting over who owns the apartment after her unexpected death. I don't think it was unexpected though. She was a compulsive date machine - she never stood for long with boys who liked her, and she could not get the boys whom she liked. With so many heartbreaks behind her, depression was the only inevitable outcome. She finally succumbed to it. I don't know how her 'lovers' would have taken the news.
I curb the urge to take another halt at this point. It's just one more floor.
1st floor. Michelle, my friend, is getting her two kids ready for school. Paul is trying to perfect the knot of his necktie in the mirror. I never figured or asked Michelle why they kept the mirror in the living room, but I think it makes sense for a family that is running around to every corner in the morning. Michelle and Paul fell in love back in college, and it took them 7 long years of dating before Michelle was convinced Paul was the one for her. It took another 2 years for her to convince Paul she was the one. I hear them arguing all the time, but every time it's an intelligent argument, and they never take their arguments to bed, if I believe what Michelle tells me.
It's a sunny, cold day. I already know what to expect from these glass doors when I return in the evening.
I see. I see all of it everyday when I step down my 10th floor apartment in the morning, and when I drag self up in the evening.
My new home is on the 10th floor. My colleagues are jealous. It was just yesterday when Kim said, "I am planning to get a house there. My husband and I are working on the financing. How much rent do you pay for it?" for the third time in the day.
I know Kim. She is a planning-addict, not an execution one. She plans, and I let her.
This apartment is building is indeed a complex (pun intended) purchase. All the houses in this building have a transparent, bullet-proof glass main door. People who purchase an apartment have to sign an additional clause in the agreement that they will not try to replace the transparent door with another one, or try to curtain it up. The apartment authority takes care of any replacements for damaged glass doors (if there is, ever, since the glass is bullet-proof), and the owners renting out the place make the tenants sign the same clause in the agreement (I did too!) It is scary, to have your living room visible to anyone passing by your door. It carries a certain thrill that entices people to buy or rent homes here. I cannot narrow down my feelings to something in particular, but in the end, I got a house on rent.
It's a new morning. Again. How many mornings do I have to wake up to emptiness next to me? I think I know the answer, but I'm too afraid to know that I know.
The same shower. The same perfume. I am getting ready.
As I move around the living room to prepare the breakfast, I glance through the glass door if anyone is peeping in. There is nobody. There has not been anybody for long.
I turn the door knob, and come out. It squeaks. I oiled it three days ago, and it started squeaking again. Why do doors have to behave like humans?
I glance quickly at the door near the stairs. Raz is exercising again. I could never understand two things about him. Why does he have a name that sounds like a dog's? And why does he exercise in his living room wearing shirt and jeans? We have one of the most well-quipped gymnasium in the town, but Raz prefers his living room, fully-clothed.
My legs are stretching up to the stairs today after the long weekend.
9th floor. I don't even have to glance to know what's going on behind that glass door near the stairs. Still I do. I see smoke coming out of the toaster in the open kitchen besides the living room. If I stand here for 5 more seconds, Dorothy will come running and will try to take out the blackened loafs of bread and will drop one of them on the floor in the process. I never bothered to check what happens to the one that falls on the floor. She works in the office next to me, and I sometimes wonder if she actually sprints to the office everyday to reach there at almost the same time as I do.
8th floor. Why would an old couple live in a 8th floor house at a time when 2nd floor ones are available? Mrs. Parker cannot operate the buttons in the elevator, so she uses the stairs every time, stepping one by one painfully. She is knitting a sweater for her granddaughter, who lives far away. It's a blue one today; I saw the red one almost finished on Friday. I don't know where Mr. Parker is. I rarely see him going out anywhere. He probably prefers his bed and TV most of the time.
7th floor. Jenny is talking loudly on her phone. I can hear her, but can't see her. She's not in the living room, but she usually talks very loud to her boyfriend every morning. That's the only time they get to talk it seems. She is a bartender in a nearby pub, and comes home early morning. I sometimes think it's funny her boyfriend still keeps up with her. Their work timings do not allow them to meet regularly even over the weekends. I don't know what drives their relationship.
I take a halt here. 30 seconds of motionless comfort. My legs need that; I can't walk or run continuously for long. Doctors tell me it's a problem with my knees, and at this early age, I have to be careful.
6th floor. I don't know their names, but the two women who live here are rumored to be married. To each other. I haven't seen them talking to other apartment neighbors, though I don't know whether it's them who don't like to socialize, or it's the neighbors who prefer to stay away. Both of them work in a big reputed bank, and are pretty successful at what they do, from what I've heard. Smart, savvy women of this century - I don't wonder much why they preferred each other instead of resorting to men. I see one of them reading the newspaper, while the other is singing loudly while cooking in the kitchen.
5th floor. Peter is not in his living room, but I know he would have just returned from his night patrol. He is well-respected in the community, for he is the one who single-handedly captured two robbers when Mrs. Parker screamed from 8th floor. A police officer, a strongly built man, and a sharp mind - you get it.
I take another halt. Some say it's love that makes people go weak in knees. I am not sure if that's what driving my knees crazy.
4th floor. I hear the song, and I recognize it. "eh eh eh ... under my umbrella". If there's one person who would be dancing to Rihanna's cool dance singles at this hour of morning, it would be Parry. That's his nickname I know this Indian by. He is a drummer and occasional vocalist for an Indian boy band. I have never known him to go to 'work' except for watching some of his performances at the local community gatherings.
3rd floor. I walk hurriedly in front of this glass door, trying to steal a quick glance. Mike, the drunkard Englishman, has probably beaten up his wife again. Amy is Chinese, and has a successful career as a consultant. Somehow, she turns weak when she is at home. She's lying on the couch, sobbing in silence. I see Mike's shoes besides the couch. He must have returned in the morning drunk, and I don't want to imagine once again the scene I witnessed one morning when I started early.
2nd floor. Nobody lives here. Sammy, the brilliant, suave, and sexy lady who committed suicide in this particular house last month didn't leave a proper will behind her. Her siblings are still fighting over who owns the apartment after her unexpected death. I don't think it was unexpected though. She was a compulsive date machine - she never stood for long with boys who liked her, and she could not get the boys whom she liked. With so many heartbreaks behind her, depression was the only inevitable outcome. She finally succumbed to it. I don't know how her 'lovers' would have taken the news.
I curb the urge to take another halt at this point. It's just one more floor.
1st floor. Michelle, my friend, is getting her two kids ready for school. Paul is trying to perfect the knot of his necktie in the mirror. I never figured or asked Michelle why they kept the mirror in the living room, but I think it makes sense for a family that is running around to every corner in the morning. Michelle and Paul fell in love back in college, and it took them 7 long years of dating before Michelle was convinced Paul was the one for her. It took another 2 years for her to convince Paul she was the one. I hear them arguing all the time, but every time it's an intelligent argument, and they never take their arguments to bed, if I believe what Michelle tells me.
It's a sunny, cold day. I already know what to expect from these glass doors when I return in the evening.
Monday, October 1, 2007
The Other Side
(short story. comments welcome.)
(Credits: I just attempted to paint another side of Nutty's post. Read hers first.)
I don't know why my parents named me Keith. I never liked that name. Imagine schoolmates having fun at my expense, 'Keith Keith, Funky Teeth'. OK - I got some funny looking teeth in front, but so what?
But I do not plan to talk about myself. It's about this lovely lady who lives in the apartment complex across the street from my bank. I first noticed her walking to work from the window next to my seat. I always wanted that window seat, and that day I realized why. I could just watch her in morning walking brisk, looking at her wrist watch every few seconds. My boss never knew why I started showing up early in the morning despite my Kirsch hangovers. She was the reason.
One day, I saw her walking in to our bank. Was she our customer? I didn't know THAT. It turned out she wasn't. She had come to see one of my colleagues - Marc. I saw Marc and her having a quick chatter, which seemed to turn into an argument. I couldn't listen much through the glass, but both of them looked annoyed towards the end. She did not have a good expression on her face when she left. Neither did Marc.
I finally dared and asked Marc over lunch, "Who was that woman that came to see you today?" He stopped eating, and stared at me. Then after a few seconds, he suddenly blurted, "Oh her? She is a good friend." I sighed in relief. I dreaded hearing something like "She's my girlfriend" or "fiancée". But Good Lord - she was just a friend. Marc is known to be an honest and open person, so I trusted him at that. I didn't ask anything about their argument. Instead, I opened my position, "She is very pretty." He stopped eating again, stared at me for a while, and then smiled. "She is very nice too. You like her?", he put the question forward. I was not expecting that. "Umm... yeah. I want to know more about her.", I somehow managed to articulate that. He drew me closer and whispered, "Why don't you go ahead and talk to her? I know she hurt her foot today, so very sure she is not going to work for a few days. Why don't you send her some flowers?"
OK, I am not the kind of guy who would send a bunch of blossoms to a woman I never talked to. I can be very open and confident, well... sometimes, but this is way out of my methods. But I find myself nodding in affirmation.
After a full day of 'tutoring' by Marc, I had it all planned out. Send flowers. Present myself. Talk to her. Help her out. Be nice. Get to know her better. Marc warned me not to tell her about my conversations with him. I was supposed to refer to the 'cleaning lady' for any source of information I got.
Marc even knew what flowers she liked. He was the one who ordered and paid for them. I marveled at the details he knew about his friend. We saw the delivery boy go into the apartment building. I was ready to go. Marc tapped on my shoulder and whispered, "I have also ordered some donuts from the bakery she stops for coffee on her way to work. She loves them. And remember, she doesn't like it if you eat them before she does." How thoughtful of him! I never understood why a man would do all this for another, but this guy was wonderful. He was actually helping me out to get along with his friend. Such nice guys don't exist anymore.
The delivery boy was done. My heart was pounding loudly. I knocked. There she was. So beautiful, with her hair falling on her face, and a zing of sleepiness in her eyes. Her foot really hurt it seemed, because she was about to fall when I caught her inches from the floor. I can't explain what went through my heart and body at that time. The woman I had been watching for so long, was in my arms.
The rest, it all went as planned. I made coffee for her, and she liked it. The only unexpected part was the knock on the door, which turned out to be a delivery-boy with donuts. For some reason, he seemed like the same delivery boy wearing a different shirt. Was I going crazy with suspicion at that moment of time? I shrugged any such thoughts, and handled the situation at hand. She apparently wasn't expecting something like donuts for her breakfast, but she liked them. I think she had started liking my presence, except for an instant where she suddenly asked me to leave. I knew how to handle that situation; Marc had taught me well. I brought her phone's receiver and told her she could call the cops if she wished, and I would actually leave before it is even needed. I was there to help her. She understood. I could see the trust in her eyes.
After taking her pain killers, she was almost falling asleep. I think my coffee didn't work. I was massaging her foot. It was a lovely time - I would have lost myself in the beauty of the moment had I not heard another knock on the door.
Another knock. I hated to get up, and check who it was.
Marc. With two other men I had never seen before.
Marc hurried into the room. He looked at her and smiled. I couldn't understand what that smile meant. I had never seen Marc with that smile ... it looked vicious. He didn't pause for long though. He instructed the two men who had barged in along with him, "Go look for the photographs. I'll take care of her." Now, that alarmed me. What was going on? Marc clearly didn't seem to have good intentions here. Then something hit me from behind. I didn't know what, but I dropped on the floor.
Next, I find myself looking at the open sky. I am on a terrace - probably the same apartment complex. My arms and legs have been tied - I can't move. Trying to shuffle around, my right arm hurts. There's a used injection and syringe lying on a side. It seems they injected something - I can't figure out what.
I don't know what happened at her apartment after that. I hope she's still OK. The sky is getting blurry again, and my head is getting heavier. Is it what they injected? I don't know... I hope she's still OK.....
(Credits: I just attempted to paint another side of Nutty's post. Read hers first.)
I don't know why my parents named me Keith. I never liked that name. Imagine schoolmates having fun at my expense, 'Keith Keith, Funky Teeth'. OK - I got some funny looking teeth in front, but so what?
But I do not plan to talk about myself. It's about this lovely lady who lives in the apartment complex across the street from my bank. I first noticed her walking to work from the window next to my seat. I always wanted that window seat, and that day I realized why. I could just watch her in morning walking brisk, looking at her wrist watch every few seconds. My boss never knew why I started showing up early in the morning despite my Kirsch hangovers. She was the reason.
One day, I saw her walking in to our bank. Was she our customer? I didn't know THAT. It turned out she wasn't. She had come to see one of my colleagues - Marc. I saw Marc and her having a quick chatter, which seemed to turn into an argument. I couldn't listen much through the glass, but both of them looked annoyed towards the end. She did not have a good expression on her face when she left. Neither did Marc.
I finally dared and asked Marc over lunch, "Who was that woman that came to see you today?" He stopped eating, and stared at me. Then after a few seconds, he suddenly blurted, "Oh her? She is a good friend." I sighed in relief. I dreaded hearing something like "She's my girlfriend" or "fiancée". But Good Lord - she was just a friend. Marc is known to be an honest and open person, so I trusted him at that. I didn't ask anything about their argument. Instead, I opened my position, "She is very pretty." He stopped eating again, stared at me for a while, and then smiled. "She is very nice too. You like her?", he put the question forward. I was not expecting that. "Umm... yeah. I want to know more about her.", I somehow managed to articulate that. He drew me closer and whispered, "Why don't you go ahead and talk to her? I know she hurt her foot today, so very sure she is not going to work for a few days. Why don't you send her some flowers?"
OK, I am not the kind of guy who would send a bunch of blossoms to a woman I never talked to. I can be very open and confident, well... sometimes, but this is way out of my methods. But I find myself nodding in affirmation.
After a full day of 'tutoring' by Marc, I had it all planned out. Send flowers. Present myself. Talk to her. Help her out. Be nice. Get to know her better. Marc warned me not to tell her about my conversations with him. I was supposed to refer to the 'cleaning lady' for any source of information I got.
Marc even knew what flowers she liked. He was the one who ordered and paid for them. I marveled at the details he knew about his friend. We saw the delivery boy go into the apartment building. I was ready to go. Marc tapped on my shoulder and whispered, "I have also ordered some donuts from the bakery she stops for coffee on her way to work. She loves them. And remember, she doesn't like it if you eat them before she does." How thoughtful of him! I never understood why a man would do all this for another, but this guy was wonderful. He was actually helping me out to get along with his friend. Such nice guys don't exist anymore.
The delivery boy was done. My heart was pounding loudly. I knocked. There she was. So beautiful, with her hair falling on her face, and a zing of sleepiness in her eyes. Her foot really hurt it seemed, because she was about to fall when I caught her inches from the floor. I can't explain what went through my heart and body at that time. The woman I had been watching for so long, was in my arms.
The rest, it all went as planned. I made coffee for her, and she liked it. The only unexpected part was the knock on the door, which turned out to be a delivery-boy with donuts. For some reason, he seemed like the same delivery boy wearing a different shirt. Was I going crazy with suspicion at that moment of time? I shrugged any such thoughts, and handled the situation at hand. She apparently wasn't expecting something like donuts for her breakfast, but she liked them. I think she had started liking my presence, except for an instant where she suddenly asked me to leave. I knew how to handle that situation; Marc had taught me well. I brought her phone's receiver and told her she could call the cops if she wished, and I would actually leave before it is even needed. I was there to help her. She understood. I could see the trust in her eyes.
After taking her pain killers, she was almost falling asleep. I think my coffee didn't work. I was massaging her foot. It was a lovely time - I would have lost myself in the beauty of the moment had I not heard another knock on the door.
Another knock. I hated to get up, and check who it was.
Marc. With two other men I had never seen before.
Marc hurried into the room. He looked at her and smiled. I couldn't understand what that smile meant. I had never seen Marc with that smile ... it looked vicious. He didn't pause for long though. He instructed the two men who had barged in along with him, "Go look for the photographs. I'll take care of her." Now, that alarmed me. What was going on? Marc clearly didn't seem to have good intentions here. Then something hit me from behind. I didn't know what, but I dropped on the floor.
Next, I find myself looking at the open sky. I am on a terrace - probably the same apartment complex. My arms and legs have been tied - I can't move. Trying to shuffle around, my right arm hurts. There's a used injection and syringe lying on a side. It seems they injected something - I can't figure out what.
I don't know what happened at her apartment after that. I hope she's still OK. The sky is getting blurry again, and my head is getting heavier. Is it what they injected? I don't know... I hope she's still OK.....
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Dream
(short story. comments welcome.)
"I am moving to another city this week.", she said slowly, as she stirred the coffee.
"Moving? This week? Why?", his voice had the alarm she had anticipated.
"Work.", she didn't look into his eyes.
"When are you coming back?", was his next question.
There was no answer. Just the sound of a spoon stirring the liquid.
He didn't ask anything else. Work, as she always said, was her survival requirement, and was the first priority over everything else. He understood that, and never attempted to interfere in her professional commitments. They made a good pair, both accommodating and understanding partners.
He was an executive in a fast-growing startup company. His work hours consumed most of his daily consciousness. She never asked him about his work. Neither did he. They were aware that both of them had to work long hours and mostly met on weekends for some time together.
For the next one week, he met her everyday. They didn't talk about her departure and where she was moving to. He didn't ask. He believed in fate. If they were destined to meet ever again, they will.
He thought he will be able to handle her departure well.
He was wrong.
A week later, she was gone. She called him and said, "Goodbye. Let's move on." Those were the only words he remembered. It would be probably easy to move on, he thought. But he couldn't. Two days into her absence, and he couldn't bear it anymore. He wanted to see her for real - her photograph was not enough.
He resigned from work the next day. He told his friends he was going to be with the one he wanted. He will travel, and look for her. His boss looked at him in the strangest way ever, but didn't attempt to argue with him.
Four months later, he was still traveling. He had checked every nearby city, been to almost every major social joint and food joint there with her photograph. He knew she couldn't stay away from crowds - that was her weakness.
Her photograph was the only thing he had left with him. That he only knew her first name didn't help much. Only the first name? He never asked her. Probably she knew his full name - may be she had read it from his credit card when he sometimes paid for the restaurant check. She always paid in cash, so he never had a chance for this. Now he thought of advertising in newspapers or other media, but resisted the temptation. This would not be the way she would expect him to find her.
He had tried to get physical with her a couple of times, but she refused. She pushed him away every time, saying that she wanted the relationship to stay that way until they get to know each other well. Physical intimacy, she said, "leads to heartaches". He always responded with a joke, "So you want me to go a Madam's place instead?". She never laughed or smiled at the joke, just kept her silence which ultimately made him change the topic.
He never realized when he fell in love with her. She probably understood he was getting too used to her presence. Was this the reason she went away? Was she scared? He shrugged off those thoughts. It was all over for him. He had lost what he had, and could not see a way to get her back.
He was all alone. It had been four months that he hadn't talked properly to people besides asking them about a girl's whereabouts. He felt the want today - the emotional want. Probably there was a physical element to it too. He took her photograph out of his wallet and stared. His eyes were trying to ask something, but they knew what they were looking at - a still picture who wouldn't answer.
He signaled a cab to stop. The cab driver necked out asked "Where to?"
He didn't have an answer. He was too busy finding somebody in his thoughts.
Slowly, he muttered, "I....need...someone."
The driver nodded.
Fifteen minuets later, he was standing in front of a big house.
The cab drove away.
It was a Madam's house.
He knew he didn't have a choice over his decisions today. He stepped into the house.
"Would you like to see the girls? We have one with blond hair, tall, slim. Then we have....", the lady asked.
He said, "I don't know. Send any."
The lady escorted him to a room, and hurried off to call a girl to take care of him. He, meanwhile, had dropped like dead on the bed. He was still breathing, but he didn't care. He felt the photograph that was still in his hands, and closed his eyes.
There was a knock at the door, with the sound of the door opening and closing shut. A nice perfume filled his nostrils.
He opened his eyes.
Standing right at his feet, was her.
The dream he wanted to realize, had come true. This way, at this place.
So many months. So many dreams. And there she was. The woman he talked to for hours. Now, he didn't have any words to utter.
For a moment, he didn't want this dream. It was all over. She had been working as a..... He could never have imagined.
What should he do? Walk out? Or burst out all he wanted to say before he walks out?
Then, he thought again. He smiled.
An hour later, he handed over twice the amount of money he was supposed to pay.
Before leaving the room, he said, "Here, this is the last photograph of you that I had. I won't need to see it again, ever. Goodbye."
"I am moving to another city this week.", she said slowly, as she stirred the coffee.
"Moving? This week? Why?", his voice had the alarm she had anticipated.
"Work.", she didn't look into his eyes.
"When are you coming back?", was his next question.
There was no answer. Just the sound of a spoon stirring the liquid.
He didn't ask anything else. Work, as she always said, was her survival requirement, and was the first priority over everything else. He understood that, and never attempted to interfere in her professional commitments. They made a good pair, both accommodating and understanding partners.
He was an executive in a fast-growing startup company. His work hours consumed most of his daily consciousness. She never asked him about his work. Neither did he. They were aware that both of them had to work long hours and mostly met on weekends for some time together.
For the next one week, he met her everyday. They didn't talk about her departure and where she was moving to. He didn't ask. He believed in fate. If they were destined to meet ever again, they will.
He thought he will be able to handle her departure well.
He was wrong.
A week later, she was gone. She called him and said, "Goodbye. Let's move on." Those were the only words he remembered. It would be probably easy to move on, he thought. But he couldn't. Two days into her absence, and he couldn't bear it anymore. He wanted to see her for real - her photograph was not enough.
He resigned from work the next day. He told his friends he was going to be with the one he wanted. He will travel, and look for her. His boss looked at him in the strangest way ever, but didn't attempt to argue with him.
Four months later, he was still traveling. He had checked every nearby city, been to almost every major social joint and food joint there with her photograph. He knew she couldn't stay away from crowds - that was her weakness.
Her photograph was the only thing he had left with him. That he only knew her first name didn't help much. Only the first name? He never asked her. Probably she knew his full name - may be she had read it from his credit card when he sometimes paid for the restaurant check. She always paid in cash, so he never had a chance for this. Now he thought of advertising in newspapers or other media, but resisted the temptation. This would not be the way she would expect him to find her.
He had tried to get physical with her a couple of times, but she refused. She pushed him away every time, saying that she wanted the relationship to stay that way until they get to know each other well. Physical intimacy, she said, "leads to heartaches". He always responded with a joke, "So you want me to go a Madam's place instead?". She never laughed or smiled at the joke, just kept her silence which ultimately made him change the topic.
He never realized when he fell in love with her. She probably understood he was getting too used to her presence. Was this the reason she went away? Was she scared? He shrugged off those thoughts. It was all over for him. He had lost what he had, and could not see a way to get her back.
He was all alone. It had been four months that he hadn't talked properly to people besides asking them about a girl's whereabouts. He felt the want today - the emotional want. Probably there was a physical element to it too. He took her photograph out of his wallet and stared. His eyes were trying to ask something, but they knew what they were looking at - a still picture who wouldn't answer.
He signaled a cab to stop. The cab driver necked out asked "Where to?"
He didn't have an answer. He was too busy finding somebody in his thoughts.
Slowly, he muttered, "I....need...someone."
The driver nodded.
Fifteen minuets later, he was standing in front of a big house.
The cab drove away.
It was a Madam's house.
He knew he didn't have a choice over his decisions today. He stepped into the house.
"Would you like to see the girls? We have one with blond hair, tall, slim. Then we have....", the lady asked.
He said, "I don't know. Send any."
The lady escorted him to a room, and hurried off to call a girl to take care of him. He, meanwhile, had dropped like dead on the bed. He was still breathing, but he didn't care. He felt the photograph that was still in his hands, and closed his eyes.
There was a knock at the door, with the sound of the door opening and closing shut. A nice perfume filled his nostrils.
He opened his eyes.
Standing right at his feet, was her.
The dream he wanted to realize, had come true. This way, at this place.
So many months. So many dreams. And there she was. The woman he talked to for hours. Now, he didn't have any words to utter.
For a moment, he didn't want this dream. It was all over. She had been working as a..... He could never have imagined.
What should he do? Walk out? Or burst out all he wanted to say before he walks out?
Then, he thought again. He smiled.
An hour later, he handed over twice the amount of money he was supposed to pay.
Before leaving the room, he said, "Here, this is the last photograph of you that I had. I won't need to see it again, ever. Goodbye."
Friday, August 3, 2007
Perfect Courtship
(short story. comments welcome.)
This was the sixth letter he had received within the last 4 weeks. Who was spying on him? More importantly, who was trying to help him? And what's the use now?
Not that he was good at relationships, but he wasn't dumb either. Shelly had entered his life recently. They had been friends for a while, when she decided they should take a step forward. He liked the idea, but always hesitated to turn the friendship into something else. He hadn't had a 'proper' girlfriend yet, and while he was soon approaching the mid-20s, he wasn't in a hurry to grab a friend for this achievement.
Shelly once joked she was looking for that perfect courtship. She said she wanted to preserve the memories of the relationship, specifically the courtship period, forever for the man she would stay long-term with. He thought how screwed up her life would have been, had this been true. Was it the reason why so many others had attempted to impress this lovely, and not succeeded? Nah, they were just not good enough.
The day they started dating, he received a letter. "Snail mail? Who sends snail mail these days?", he mumbled while opening it. The letter didn't have too much text - just a note that one of his 'friends' was trying to help him in his romantic adventures, and a list of tips on how to behave on dates and how to win the girl's heart.
"Funny prank", he laughed, and tore the letter away.
He believed in being himself - the lousy, lazy, and careless geek he always has been. He wouldn't go over a list of tips to change his behavior. Never. Why would he try to present a fake cover which won't even come close to his real self?
He was slightly late for dates, forgot to call her many times, and didn't try to brainstorm too hard on where to take her for lunches and dinners.
Surprisingly for him, every few days another letter arrived. The letter would contain "how to"s of proper dating etiquette. A coincidence that it was usually about the places they had been to, or the activities they tried? Or one of his friends was actually playing a long prank? He was typically open about his relationship with his near and dear friends, but he would not expect one of them to play a joke like this!
Days went by, and he continued to be just himself. She would not say anything, except for a delight on her face when he did turn up on time, or brought a flower for her on some occasions. She had started turning crankier with him with each passing day. He started to sense there was something wrong, but didn't figure out what it was.
Yesterday, she called him. She quickly recited the standard "It's not working anymore" dialog he had heard in so many movies and TV soaps.
It was all over. He knew she didn't believe in second chances. Neither did he.
Today the sixth letter arrived. The letter just said, "There's always a next time, with someone else. Remember to read the letters again." He suddenly felt a burst of anger. The prankster hadn't even spared this emotional moment.
Then he noticed there was something else on this particular letter. A signature at the bottom. He recognized it. It said, "Shelly".
He realized someone, somewhere, would be getting prank letters right now.
This was the sixth letter he had received within the last 4 weeks. Who was spying on him? More importantly, who was trying to help him? And what's the use now?
Not that he was good at relationships, but he wasn't dumb either. Shelly had entered his life recently. They had been friends for a while, when she decided they should take a step forward. He liked the idea, but always hesitated to turn the friendship into something else. He hadn't had a 'proper' girlfriend yet, and while he was soon approaching the mid-20s, he wasn't in a hurry to grab a friend for this achievement.
Shelly once joked she was looking for that perfect courtship. She said she wanted to preserve the memories of the relationship, specifically the courtship period, forever for the man she would stay long-term with. He thought how screwed up her life would have been, had this been true. Was it the reason why so many others had attempted to impress this lovely, and not succeeded? Nah, they were just not good enough.
The day they started dating, he received a letter. "Snail mail? Who sends snail mail these days?", he mumbled while opening it. The letter didn't have too much text - just a note that one of his 'friends' was trying to help him in his romantic adventures, and a list of tips on how to behave on dates and how to win the girl's heart.
"Funny prank", he laughed, and tore the letter away.
He believed in being himself - the lousy, lazy, and careless geek he always has been. He wouldn't go over a list of tips to change his behavior. Never. Why would he try to present a fake cover which won't even come close to his real self?
He was slightly late for dates, forgot to call her many times, and didn't try to brainstorm too hard on where to take her for lunches and dinners.
Surprisingly for him, every few days another letter arrived. The letter would contain "how to"s of proper dating etiquette. A coincidence that it was usually about the places they had been to, or the activities they tried? Or one of his friends was actually playing a long prank? He was typically open about his relationship with his near and dear friends, but he would not expect one of them to play a joke like this!
Days went by, and he continued to be just himself. She would not say anything, except for a delight on her face when he did turn up on time, or brought a flower for her on some occasions. She had started turning crankier with him with each passing day. He started to sense there was something wrong, but didn't figure out what it was.
Yesterday, she called him. She quickly recited the standard "It's not working anymore" dialog he had heard in so many movies and TV soaps.
It was all over. He knew she didn't believe in second chances. Neither did he.
Today the sixth letter arrived. The letter just said, "There's always a next time, with someone else. Remember to read the letters again." He suddenly felt a burst of anger. The prankster hadn't even spared this emotional moment.
Then he noticed there was something else on this particular letter. A signature at the bottom. He recognized it. It said, "Shelly".
He realized someone, somewhere, would be getting prank letters right now.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Expectations
(short story. comments welcome.)
He sat there, staring into nothingness.
All that had happened was nothing less than 'life-altering' for him.
He had met her at the café. Introduced to him by a friend, she had a similar day-job in the nearby office. He had smiled at her in the past, and they had exchanged greetings, but never took another serious look at each other.
One day they happened to share the same table, and conversations took off. Was it just a one-off instance? They started meeting more often at the same table. The waitress now used to place their order even before they could be comfortable in their chairs. She would carry a pink-colored post-it notes diary along with her. She would scribble, draw randomly on it, and sometimes write appreciation for waitress along with the check.
Their personalities were different, and different to such an extent that it was inevitable they got interested in each other.
She had been through years of good and bad relationships. She joked about the number of boys in her life - nobody but she knew the actual number. She exuded confidence in what she had learned from mistakes in her life, and knew the kind of person she was.
He hadn't had a single romantic relationship in his life, except for countless crushes and 'interests'. For him it was a work-home routine for several years, and he just waited for that 'someone' to meet him someday. Slightly introvert, slightly extrovert, silent, talkative - he himself didn't know who the real 'him' was.
He was book-smart. She was street-smart.
As theory goes, both kind of 'smarts' need each other in the world.
As time moved on, their conversations grew mature - into arguments and debates. They both loved it. No topic on earth was untouched, and they both were good at dissecting every controversy doing rounds in news.
One day, he dared it for the first time in his life. He brought her a rose, got down on his knees (ignoring the ten café workers looking at him without a blink), and asked for her acceptance to their new relationship. She smiled. They both had won each other.
It had taken him some time to think about it. She was a 'been-there-done-that' when it came to relationships. He was a romance novice. What would he do? What was the right way to start a relationship with this wonderful lady? She had hinted about her night-adventures with boys in the past. Wouldn't she expect him to be aggressively good in romance and in bed? He had been thinking about it for a couple of days. What sort of 'boyfriend' should he be?
He decided to rise up to the 'challenge'. He would show her he was not a 'nice boy sissy'. He would match up to her expectations from her boyfriend.
The next evening, they walked past his house. He lived alone. No proximity to a close friend was probably one of the reasons he sometimes felt so emotionally empty. Was this one of the reasons why he grew so fond of her chatter so easily? He wouldn't think of all that. This was the evening to think of other possibilities.
He asked her if she wanted to hear him playing something on the guitar.
She smiled and nodded enthusiastically. They went inside, and he placed her comfortably on the bed while he sat there with his six-string on a chair. He played, and he played it well.
He also had something else on his mind this night. He moved closer to her, placing his head on her lap. She didn't object. He moved his fingers across her hair and pulled her towards him. They kissed. They had had it earlier, but this kiss was long. So long that she noticed his hands moving across her chest and trying to fondle with the flesh. She continued to kiss, and slowly pushed off his exploring hands.
"That's her way to tease", he thought. His hands tried again. This time, he felt a deep breath coming towards him. Then it stopped.
It was as if she was trying to stop time to think.
But he didn't have any time to waste; he had planned the evening. His hands continued to explore more of her body. She suddenly moved away. Startled, he looked at her. She looked directly into his eyes, trying to figure something out.
Then, she smiled.
Her arms were wide open. He somehow knew the signal. He stretched for the switch and turned out the lights.
He woke up early morning. He had enjoyed being close to her last night. She was the person he had been searching all along. It was not the physical satisfaction of intimacy, but the emotional connection he made with her. He wanted to tell her a lot more about things - everything. If there was one thing he wanted now, it was to be with her.
He looked, and she was not lying beside him. "Must have been to the washroom", he thought, while looking for his jeans by the bed side. Stuck to his jeans pocket he found a note.
A pink-colored post-it note.
It said, "Thought you would be different - someone I was looking for. Someone who would want the real me; someone who would care for much more than this body. I'm sorry, that didn't happen. I hope you match someone's expectations. All the best."
He sat there, staring into nothingness.
He sat there, staring into nothingness.
All that had happened was nothing less than 'life-altering' for him.
He had met her at the café. Introduced to him by a friend, she had a similar day-job in the nearby office. He had smiled at her in the past, and they had exchanged greetings, but never took another serious look at each other.
One day they happened to share the same table, and conversations took off. Was it just a one-off instance? They started meeting more often at the same table. The waitress now used to place their order even before they could be comfortable in their chairs. She would carry a pink-colored post-it notes diary along with her. She would scribble, draw randomly on it, and sometimes write appreciation for waitress along with the check.
Their personalities were different, and different to such an extent that it was inevitable they got interested in each other.
She had been through years of good and bad relationships. She joked about the number of boys in her life - nobody but she knew the actual number. She exuded confidence in what she had learned from mistakes in her life, and knew the kind of person she was.
He hadn't had a single romantic relationship in his life, except for countless crushes and 'interests'. For him it was a work-home routine for several years, and he just waited for that 'someone' to meet him someday. Slightly introvert, slightly extrovert, silent, talkative - he himself didn't know who the real 'him' was.
He was book-smart. She was street-smart.
As theory goes, both kind of 'smarts' need each other in the world.
As time moved on, their conversations grew mature - into arguments and debates. They both loved it. No topic on earth was untouched, and they both were good at dissecting every controversy doing rounds in news.
One day, he dared it for the first time in his life. He brought her a rose, got down on his knees (ignoring the ten café workers looking at him without a blink), and asked for her acceptance to their new relationship. She smiled. They both had won each other.
It had taken him some time to think about it. She was a 'been-there-done-that' when it came to relationships. He was a romance novice. What would he do? What was the right way to start a relationship with this wonderful lady? She had hinted about her night-adventures with boys in the past. Wouldn't she expect him to be aggressively good in romance and in bed? He had been thinking about it for a couple of days. What sort of 'boyfriend' should he be?
He decided to rise up to the 'challenge'. He would show her he was not a 'nice boy sissy'. He would match up to her expectations from her boyfriend.
The next evening, they walked past his house. He lived alone. No proximity to a close friend was probably one of the reasons he sometimes felt so emotionally empty. Was this one of the reasons why he grew so fond of her chatter so easily? He wouldn't think of all that. This was the evening to think of other possibilities.
He asked her if she wanted to hear him playing something on the guitar.
She smiled and nodded enthusiastically. They went inside, and he placed her comfortably on the bed while he sat there with his six-string on a chair. He played, and he played it well.
He also had something else on his mind this night. He moved closer to her, placing his head on her lap. She didn't object. He moved his fingers across her hair and pulled her towards him. They kissed. They had had it earlier, but this kiss was long. So long that she noticed his hands moving across her chest and trying to fondle with the flesh. She continued to kiss, and slowly pushed off his exploring hands.
"That's her way to tease", he thought. His hands tried again. This time, he felt a deep breath coming towards him. Then it stopped.
It was as if she was trying to stop time to think.
But he didn't have any time to waste; he had planned the evening. His hands continued to explore more of her body. She suddenly moved away. Startled, he looked at her. She looked directly into his eyes, trying to figure something out.
Then, she smiled.
Her arms were wide open. He somehow knew the signal. He stretched for the switch and turned out the lights.
He woke up early morning. He had enjoyed being close to her last night. She was the person he had been searching all along. It was not the physical satisfaction of intimacy, but the emotional connection he made with her. He wanted to tell her a lot more about things - everything. If there was one thing he wanted now, it was to be with her.
He looked, and she was not lying beside him. "Must have been to the washroom", he thought, while looking for his jeans by the bed side. Stuck to his jeans pocket he found a note.
A pink-colored post-it note.
It said, "Thought you would be different - someone I was looking for. Someone who would want the real me; someone who would care for much more than this body. I'm sorry, that didn't happen. I hope you match someone's expectations. All the best."
He sat there, staring into nothingness.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
The best for him
(short story. comments welcome.)
She woke up, sweaty. It was 3 'o clock in the morning. Shikha knew it wasn't the Van Helsing she read the last night. Something else had been keeping her awake since last weekend. She revisited the sequence of events.
Friday evening:
"Heyyyy...", she exclaimed. She spotted him. Along with him, was his new girlfriend. The girlfriend was well-dressed for the occasion; she was about to meet his boyfriend's best friend, who happened to be a pretty dame called Shikha.
"This would be the eleventh lady", Shikha sighed to herself.
That they chose The Reverence for dinner was not an arbitrary decision. He always called Shikha up to meet his new girlfriends at the same restrobar. He loved the place. Probably she did too, but he never asked.
She recalled the first time she met him through a common friend, at the same place. He was a lovable guy - macho, nice, and would have got any girl he wanted badly. But he didn't want Shikha. They became very close friends, and he made best use of her good 'personality judgment' (as he would call it) to evaluate his girlfriends. He would call her every month to meet his new girlfriend for dinner. They would talk about everything in the world, and in the end she would pass her verdict.
Typically the verdict would be announced over a phone call. That call would decide whether he would break up with the girl the same night, or continue to see her more for some days.
She marveled at how every time he managed to get a girl with a distinct persona.
And he would tell her later, "Did you notice the way she talks?" "I love the way she talks about all types of cuisine.", and she would nod.
He was leaving for foreign waters the next day. She wondered whether he had told the girlfriend about it yet.
She talked to the girl - about Hermione of Harry Potter, about Mandy Moore of A Walk to Remember, and about Dominique of The Fountainhead. The girl had no clue about any.
She switched topics to politics, golf, and stock market.
The 'girlfriend' just hogged and sipped wine while Shikha and he discussed hundreds of topics for another hour.
He knew what she was going to say. Still, he called Shikha while driving the girl back home.
"So.....?", was the rhetorical question.
"Are you crazy? What made you think about this girl? She's not even good enough to fake intelligence, let alone have any.", she almost shouted into the phone.
"Okay", he disconnected, and planned how to break up the same night. He was good at it now.
He got an early morning flight to catch, and the new girl did not know about it yet anyways.
Saturday Early Morning:
He had been waiting for an hour to see if she would come to see him off. There was no trace, and her cell phone wasn't responding. Then he caught a glimpse of her in the crowd. He ran back and hugged her.
They didn't say anything else for a while.
He started, "You never figured out what kind of girl I am looking for, did you?"
He had a smile, the fake one, she recognized.
She was startled by the question. She recovered quickly, and responded, "Not the ones that were, for sure. Not your types."
"Do you know why you were the person I wanted them to meet?"
"...hmm...because you trust me to know what's best for you?"
"I know who's best for me. And I know I am not the best for her. I never told her."
"Interesting. So why did you make all those girls meet me?"
"Now they all know who's the best for me."
He didn't say anything else. He turned and walked slowly towards the flight security check.
He didn't look back.
She didn't call him.
She woke up, sweaty. It was 3 'o clock in the morning. Shikha knew it wasn't the Van Helsing she read the last night. Something else had been keeping her awake since last weekend. She revisited the sequence of events.
Friday evening:
"Heyyyy...", she exclaimed. She spotted him. Along with him, was his new girlfriend. The girlfriend was well-dressed for the occasion; she was about to meet his boyfriend's best friend, who happened to be a pretty dame called Shikha.
"This would be the eleventh lady", Shikha sighed to herself.
That they chose The Reverence for dinner was not an arbitrary decision. He always called Shikha up to meet his new girlfriends at the same restrobar. He loved the place. Probably she did too, but he never asked.
She recalled the first time she met him through a common friend, at the same place. He was a lovable guy - macho, nice, and would have got any girl he wanted badly. But he didn't want Shikha. They became very close friends, and he made best use of her good 'personality judgment' (as he would call it) to evaluate his girlfriends. He would call her every month to meet his new girlfriend for dinner. They would talk about everything in the world, and in the end she would pass her verdict.
Typically the verdict would be announced over a phone call. That call would decide whether he would break up with the girl the same night, or continue to see her more for some days.
She marveled at how every time he managed to get a girl with a distinct persona.
And he would tell her later, "Did you notice the way she talks?" "I love the way she talks about all types of cuisine.", and she would nod.
He was leaving for foreign waters the next day. She wondered whether he had told the girlfriend about it yet.
She talked to the girl - about Hermione of Harry Potter, about Mandy Moore of A Walk to Remember, and about Dominique of The Fountainhead. The girl had no clue about any.
She switched topics to politics, golf, and stock market.
The 'girlfriend' just hogged and sipped wine while Shikha and he discussed hundreds of topics for another hour.
He knew what she was going to say. Still, he called Shikha while driving the girl back home.
"So.....?", was the rhetorical question.
"Are you crazy? What made you think about this girl? She's not even good enough to fake intelligence, let alone have any.", she almost shouted into the phone.
"Okay", he disconnected, and planned how to break up the same night. He was good at it now.
He got an early morning flight to catch, and the new girl did not know about it yet anyways.
Saturday Early Morning:
He had been waiting for an hour to see if she would come to see him off. There was no trace, and her cell phone wasn't responding. Then he caught a glimpse of her in the crowd. He ran back and hugged her.
They didn't say anything else for a while.
He started, "You never figured out what kind of girl I am looking for, did you?"
He had a smile, the fake one, she recognized.
She was startled by the question. She recovered quickly, and responded, "Not the ones that were, for sure. Not your types."
"Do you know why you were the person I wanted them to meet?"
"...hmm...because you trust me to know what's best for you?"
"I know who's best for me. And I know I am not the best for her. I never told her."
"Interesting. So why did you make all those girls meet me?"
"Now they all know who's the best for me."
He didn't say anything else. He turned and walked slowly towards the flight security check.
He didn't look back.
She didn't call him.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
The Nice New Guy Blog
Bienvenue! Welcome!
This is the first-ever post on this blog by a self-obsessed author (you've figured that out already).
Here is something about the person you're reading:
This is the first-ever post on this blog by a self-obsessed author (you've figured that out already).
Here is something about the person you're reading:
- Conversant in English, French, Hindi, and a couple more Indian languages
- Posts in English. Mostly.
- Has covered more than a quarter of the 100 years he'll live if he gives up the occasional drinking and smoking
- Won't give up the above two favorite past-times unless he wants to live up to 100, or he gets a girlfriend who nags and insists on quitting
- The above two conditions may not meet at all
- Has bought almost every book worth reading
- Hasn't taken the time out to read many of them
- Is now making an effort to read and enjoy the unread titles
- Is good at speed-reading
- Considers himself a movie buff
- Is not really one
- Is working on making himself one
- Is good at predicting movie ends
- Likes to travel
- With friends
- Alone
- With strangers
- Does not like people who are not informed
- What's happening all around
- About the philosophies of life (you need to have one or more favorites)
- About the fun part in life
- About the self part in life
- Believes that he needs emotional, sexual, and motivational support from ladies, but
- Does not fall for every nice (or bad) lady
- Believes in fidelity once attached
- Knows that he has to take care of himself in life and not be dependent upon anyone
- Is looking for the girl who believes in the 3 above, and is looking for him too!
- Loves Music
- But does not claim to be a music buff
- And likes to play, but not sing
- Loves Photography
- And still not too good at it
- Too particular about the cologne he wears
- And the shades of his belt and shoes
- Doesn't like wearing a pink tie
- Unless in a really bad mood
- Knows his martial art skills
- And how much he still doesn't know!
- Likes to be honest
- With friends
- With family
- With girlfriends
- With mentors
- Has done his part of 'faking' in this world, and is done with it
- Is overall a Nice Guy
- And knows that Nice Guys Finish Last
- But knows that he won't be yet another loser
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)