Retournéz
Finally, I’ve come out of my writing shell. It might rain after all, tomorrow — perhaps a hailstorm. Sorry for ruining the weather, folks, and a quick word of apology directed and hurled at the Met office too.
And what brought about the change, did you ask? Well, you didn’t, but here’s me giving it to you anyway: coffee. Yes, holy, blessed coffee.
So, um, in the last few months, shit happened, to say — or write — or blog — the least. A few health issues, with myself. Mom went through problems of her own, kidney-stone, the likes (which is, by the way, all fine now). Someone extremely important — to me, atleast — decided to leave the city. The friends I used to hang out with — the gang — decided to just turn anti-social. Was left lonely, bigtime. In a space of two days, then, I lost a very, very close friend in a freak bus-accident in Chennai: something that many of us haven’t entirely recovered from. We still scrap him on Orkut, hoping he reads it someday, knowing fully that it isn’t going to happen.
Now that *that* is out’a the way, on to the climaxial metamorphosis.
So, after aforementioned lifecrap hurled at yours truly, I had two options: take it on the chin, bravely, and move on — or retract into a shell. I, wise and uber-intelligent as I am, picked the latter. All that amazing know-how of how great it is to be by yourself. And honestly, I kind of enjoyed it too. The long drives all by myself at night (well, not exactly *all* by myself, if you consider the playlist and an overload of Evanescence, MLTR, Westlife, the works). I’d start to spend late-nights at work, and though my worse days had started, the firm’s better days arrived automatically. Project were over before deadlines, people started recognizing me as Mr. Dependable at work. Things like that happen when you have issues.
Issues. Too light a word, methinks. The right word to describe my behaviour is something else, however, I’m blessed between my legs, as a result, it just isn’t technically accurate. So let’s just say I had issues. Mood swings, would keep randomly mum, not laugh at crazy jokes, you know? Yes, exactly. Periods.
But *that* was until one fine day, when I decided to try something different. A shot in the dark, or to be precise, at sunset. Hopped along into CCD and invited someone I don’t hang out with too much. To quickly introduce her, she works in my building, stays close-by, is a Mozzy, is a Mount Carmel product and can talk. The guy at the Nandidurga CCD went, “Sir? New gang today?”
“No gang. Just one and she’ll be here soon.”
“Oh. And what will you have sir?”
“Cappucino. Extra shot of Espresso, please.” I had two vodkas, the previous day, and suddenly the idea of vodka and caffeine turned me on with espressolust.
The coffee arrived, and so did she. And like most women do, late. In no time, her rear was rested on the black CCD couch (okay, I just got racist at a couch, forgive me Mr. Barack Osama, but I was being descriptive). I asked her if she’d like some cake, while quickly glancing at aforementioned rear to figure out if it would make a difference. Unlike the coffee, the rear wasn’t all that heavenly, and I’m sure her frame could live with the crime of a slice of Chocolate Fantasy.
Fast forward to a few minutes, when the cake had arrived. She wasn’t a great looker, and I instead eyed the hard horizontal chunk of chocolate at the top of her cake, as the lips made chocosexual contact with that extra shot of coffee.
The woman, however, swallowed down the Fantasy in no time. I made a quick mental note and update to my in-memory proverb dataset: a hungry man is an angry man, and a hungry woman is a bitch.
She had to rush, apparently. So we rammed into the car (into, not *in*, we didn’t ram *in* the car, the word was *into*, so stop that thread of thought right there) and headed out. That’s when she struck a little albeit signpost-like conversation in my life.
“I was wondering … you’re different at work, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Formal and all professional. No curses, and here you are, a different person. Five years younger too.”
I’m glad she said ‘five’. Two years more and she would be calling me a minor. I hate being called a minor.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s like that. You should see me at night though.”
No, I didn’t mean that. A clarification beckoned, instantly, and even as I started it, the inquiring eyebrows were out.
“I mean, when I’m alone, by myself, I drive out, late at night. To … contemplate things.”
“Hmm.”
I’m a firm believer in the thought that the word “hmm” murders conversations. However, in her case, I was wondering if she knew what “contemplate” meant. I didn’t think Carmelites were too bright, but hey, forgive me: it generally looks like all babe and no brain when you drive by *that* college, you know.
“You’re not a bad guy, you know? You need to just … be yourself, I think.”
Bing! A perfect stranger and she said the words I wanted to hear. I’d started to think, and feel better. Before my fornicated piece of mobile communication decided to ring, and before my fornicated idea of requesting her to hold on to my blessed, virgin Espresso materialised, and took effect.
“Hello?”
It was aforementioned-important-person-who-was-then-leaving who wasn’t entirely pleased that I was in CCD with female company who just didn’t happen to be her. Oops. So I focused on the call. What I didn’t focus on, of course, was the evil, mother-effing pothole lying in stealth on the road ahead. Sure enough, I went over it.
Now, normally, when a vehicle goes over a pothole, you’d expect people holding coffee to take protective action. You’d “expect” it, won’t you? Well, I did. And what I got in return was an ‘oops’ followed by a nice, big stain of coffee on my lovely white t-shirt. Provogues, for the record, is a second-skin. I think I was born with it, almost. Like Karna and the Kavacha and Kundals, you know?
And, because my middle name is Muriel and my surname is mighty close to Bing, I couldn’t resist a crazy pick-up line.
“There are *better* ways of getting my shirt off, you know?”
She laughed. I thought she’d apologize, or even better, wipe my shirt for me. I mean, if I spilt coffee on her top, I’d lick it all back. For the coffee, of course.
So, with half the coffee wasted and a Provogue white shirt ruined, I dropped her at home pronto and rushed for a change. That was certainly the last time I met her. It doesn’t matter if her rear was firmer, or if she assumed the shape and form of Giselle Bundchen. I would *never* date a girl who doesn’t share my respect for coffee and Provogue.
But she made me think. And think I did. Until I realised, that hey, I perhaps just *must* be myself. So here’s a little thank-you to the carmelite who I haven’t spoken to since. ‘Thanks, girl.’
Meanwhile, I’m on a roll since. New friends. Very, very, important and much needed new gang. Old gang looks like it’ll shape up soon. New-found rhythm at work. No more ‘issues’. And while the car does have *her* periods — she heats up, refuses to budge, and now isn’t honking, just isn’t horny enough — I’m on a little roll of myself in life with the occasional day off-colour. Happens to the best of us, you know. (as I quietly suggest, unknowing to you, in a fleeting moment of self-praise and boastfulness, that the best of us is me, or unknowing it was until I just pointed it out a few words back).
Tell you what? A lot can happen over coffee after all.
