Tuesday, August 19, 2008


What happens when she leaves?

You sit and wait.

When I first met her she was wearing a brown jacket with fake fur lining the collar and the hood. She had matching suede boots pulled tightly over her spindly legs and she was drunk as hell on not more than one tequilla shot. That is what girls with spindly girls get sloshed on and thus manage to save money in their fancy bags just to buy more of them empty bags.

Her bag had a box of tissues with German inscriptions and she swore she never went to Germany. She had illusions about learning German but they died when she watched Frida and decided she liked Spanish better. Pity she never mastered the one language she was meant to exploit beyond what Shakepere did. At least that is what I believed, but I am not good with spotting talent. If I were, I would have found mine in the last thirty years I spent believing I had a calling, but nothing better than crowing like a lonely crow found me.

This is not a story about the girl or my capacity to be nothing but a hopeless failure in not just my own eyes but yours too. This is a story about the tissue box finding her way into her blue mock leather bag and how it killed her.

Yes, a box of tissues can do that, if you indulge me further than three paragraphs.

So when I met her, I tripped and fell over the above mentioned spindly legs as they lay sprawled outside an Institute's depressing yellow corridoor. The name escapes me, but it was not in Germany. It was a chilly Delhi winter and she was staring at the massive brown doors of an auditorium, watching them pushed open by revellers escaping the blast of the same old rock music, clutching on to cellphones for their dear lives. I can bet my thick hairy calves, they had shot videos of the incompetent performance with the bad lighting preserved in millions of pixels. But, returning to my tripping and falling flat on my nose, the loud flat thump made her recoil out of her fake trance and scream.


My nose was bleeding and she was teary eyed, not because of empathy for another fellow's pain, but because like I said she was drunk. She took out her box of tissues and gave me a whole bunch of them along with a bunch of sorrys.

I believe she was rendered incapable of threading together words into concrete sentences of remorse by her vagabond bloodstream.

(Will certainly be continued)