The Waiting room

And then to the eyes’ delight entered a bengali beauty covered in a blood red sweater. Suddenly she was the only face worth looking at. I knew she was Bengali because she looked so much like Aishawarya Rai. Or did she look more like Rani Mukherjee? Eh, err, let me just leave it there.

There she sat, right in front of me, though about thirty feet away, leaning on the wall parallel to the one my back rested upon. Her silky black neither-too-long-nor-too-short-hair perfectly matched her flawless fair skin (and in case there were flaws, I was far enough to notice them).

I could see her talking fast, the way almost every Bengali girl does. She wasn’t close enough for me to be able to hear her. But I am sure her voice must have been as soft as cotton. I couldn’t listen to her but her lips were moving, so I knew she was talking.

Her lips! Where do I begin from? I guess the color of the lipstick should be a good idea, except that I am not too sure what color it was. The lips looked dark and were definitely reddish, and oh so inviting. Had she looked at me then, straight into my eyes, and swirled her tongue across her lips, I would have rushed to her, then and there, in a fraction of a second, and planted a forceful kiss with a passion she never could have experienced before in her life. But then, she didn’t do anything like that. Forget about her swirling the toungue, she didn’t even notice me looking at her. So well, I continued looking at her.

Okay, wait. Something was obviously wrong about her being a Bengali. If she was a Bengali, then what was she doing in an all-chinky-girls group? The probability of a Bengali babe having a nice time surrounded by chinkies was low enough to force me to observe her features closely.

On close observation, she was a chinky beyond a shadow of doubt. In fact, as a matter of fact, every close-to-good looking girl who I had see that day so far, waiting at the Howrah Station Waiting room, had been some chinky!

She however was no ordinary chinky. She was the most beautiful chink babe I had seen with my naked eyes, in real.

The way she seemed to be lost in her own world, sitting close to a window that ran over her head, her head resting over her right hand, she reminded me of someone, I am not sure who.

And then, in the blink of an eye, she was no more lost in her world. Almost in the manner a dhanusha had appeared in Arjuna’s hands, when Lord Indra said ‘thathastu’ on being asked to gift him the ultimate weapon, a cell-phone had appeared in my fair chinky lady’s hand. The goddamn cellphone! I found it so distracting when she started playing with the gadget with her delicate fingers that I soon lost all interest in her and her beauty.

And then to the eyes’ delight, entered another chinky beauty. Suddenly she was the only face worth looking at.

7 replies on “The Waiting room”


I am sure you did miss its! 😀 And the next shitoons up.


Nepaali nahi aati mere ko.


Ah, so Aish aint bengali? My G.K is bad! 😐 😥


Who ain’t? 😀

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