Twelve hours

How often do you sit to write at four thirty in the morning just after having walked fifteen kilometers? But when you do, you know your life is not all that bad. There are nights when you actually are happy. Happy from inside. The last twelve hours, and the way they were spent shall be inscribed in the ruled pages of my heart for a long time.

One thing leads to another, they say. My encounter with Bala during Gowri Ramanarayan’s Flame of Forest production lead to all that I did in the last twelve hours. And what the heck, I did a lot. I walked from the main gate all the way to the Park Sheraton; must have been about three kilometers. I guess I like walking alone.

She turned up. She took me to her home. I played with her cell-phone on the way. She offered me fags and mints. She made me feel at home. The sleepy she. She could not crash.

Her friends joined. Our friend joined. The sleepy she. With half closed eyes, she drove. Peak time traffic sucked. Peak time traffic ensured all of us were late to the play by half an hour.

Though half an hour late for a play by a college that Bala directed, we didn’t get bored. Yesterday was the last show. The show was decent. The lead actress was good. Looked a lot like Saif’s sister. What’s her name? Soha Ali Khan. Yeah, she looked like Soha a lot. I could also see another girl on stage who I had flirted with for few minutes on the inaugural day of Saarang. I am getting better with girls, I tell you.

Returned the book to Bala (oh yeah, I had his collection of short-stories book with me since quite sometime which he needed back finally and it was Bala who had messaged me earlier in the day that a show was there in the evening). Ran into the girl, upon whose shoulder my head had rested for few hours on the return trip from Mysore. Saw the girl who I had given the first prize when I was called to a college as a judge. I should have said hi to her. Why didn’t I?

He drove this time. The sleepy she. She was too sleepy too drive, wasn’t she? But she was awake enough to guide us to the restaurant that we happened to love. What we ate was good. Kaju, bhindi and masala Pepsi had never tasted better. The evening joke was mostly about Koffee with Karan. Sleepy she.

She loved us. We loved the food. We loved the long hours of chit chat at her place. And by the way, though this piece of advice might sound like a bolt out of blue, do remember this: if it’s your mom’s birthday and you want to wish her happy birthday bang at twelve, avoid fagging with interesting folks who have interesting stories to tell. 😀

I got a call. It was she who doesn’t call much these days. She is busy in her own life with folks who of course are better than me. She asked where was I. I said I was in room. She never asked whose room. Sometimes certain words are taken for granted. But a room need not be my room, right?

Sometimes I look up at the sky, imagine a God up there and ask him, ‘Bhenchod, do I really not deserve anything more than what you offer me?’. He smiles. He asks me to be nice, have patience and wait. Total bhenchod, I tell you.

She doesn’t call much these days. She cannot message. She is busy in her own life with folks who of course are better than me. Or so I believe. Never mind.

I made tea. Three mugs. He liked it. She liked it too. And yaay, I opened up. I filled the gap between the two Saarangs. The tea was finished. We left her.

I walked. He walked. We walked.

How often do you decide to check if a four star hotel is selling fags at two thirty in the morning. Hell, we actually got fags. Heaven, we actually sat inside the lounge and fagged. The red colored water melon juice was red and tasted sweeter than blood.

Dhuaan jhata khula gagan mera, nayi dagar naya safar mera, jo ban sake tu humsafar mera, nazar mila zara

Yellow lights from the tall neon lamps spread all over the roads of Chennai spelled their charm. We spread our charm. We walked more. We walked on the dividers and slipped on footpaths. Did I tell you that most footpaths in Chennai smell of pee?

It feels nice to sit on a flyover edge at three in the morning and watch the speeding cars pass by as you blow smoke. It feels nicer to listen to the flowing water in the canal running beneath the flyover that creates that typical flowing music of running fluid.

Twelve hours. Bliss.

Update: Pictures of the long walk back to IIT taken by his cell-phone

Did I tell you that most footpaths in Chennai smell of pee?

It feels nice to sit on a flyover edge at three in the morning.

We walked on the dividers and slipped on footpaths.

Heaven, we actually sat inside the lounge and fagged.