Taste the thunder

Scene: Ancient Rome in a period we now know as 50BC. It tells us the story of the Gladiator, Marcell.

Marcell was the younger of two. As a child, Marcus, the elder of the two, had always given into his intellectual prowess. He quickly picked up Mathematics and Logic and learned to write from I to IX. Eventually he ventured into various other alphabets such as the ‘L’, the occasional ‘C’, as well the as dreaded ‘M’.

Marcell, however, sternly believed in the Olympian manner of life. Every waking moment he would spend exercising the muscle, and ironically, omitting the most important chunk of muscle of all - the Medullus. He stoutly opined that at every turn of the dial should be a prayer to the Temple of Mars, the god of war - at least that’s how much his brain allowed for him to think. He couldn’t tell an Atrium from an Asterix, but wrestled them all fondly with equal amounts of gusto. Needless to say, he'd never miss leg day.

Marcus passed out of the Augustus Roma University with a gold medal in law and had a comprehensive understanding of law and taxation. Marcell, in juxtaposition, had passed out (alive) out of the Syracuse Gladiator School with his specialized subject: Lion Taming studies. 

During this childhood, much to the chagrin of their mother and father, both were unwaveringly competitive. Marcell would often challenge Marcus to fist fights, which cause a lot of devastation to the house. It took Mother and Father a patient 14 years before they applied to the Department of declarations and had both of them declared as ‘FUBAR’.( Fucked up and beyond all repair). Needless to say, it took a toll on the Father's health.

After their college, Marcell went on to chase down a career as a lion tamer. A few years later, there came a day when the Father contracted the ill-fated plague of Old-age and but a few more breaths decided to throw him a sympathy-fuck. 

“How did this happen??” he questioned. “How do the years count backwards from 50BC to 1BC but I continue to age forward?” He would come to pass a few hours later, still puzzled at the conundrum.Mother wondered how he lived this long being this retarded. She instantly knew that the second had taken after him.

The blues of the above situation propounded a circumstance whereupon the two brothers would meet again, however, now aged and a little mature. By now, Marcus, the elder was of lesser fame, however his job of denying the Treasury of Rome of coin had substantially increased his own. Marcell on the other hand was a household Hercules name. His name resonated as much pride as it did fear in the hearts of parents and children alike. However, Marcell was of less means. He would still wake up perspiring in the middle of the night recalling the domineering laugh of the insurance company when he has requested them for a life insurance. 

“But.. but… You’re a LION TAMER!” they would exclaim, as if that logic alone were sufficient to deny him his cover. Years later, while he met his brother, he still had the unwavering fiery spirit, his body was still able and complete, with the exception of a few fingers and a chunk of his calf muscle. In his victories, the Emperor has liked his Facebook page a few times enough with the ol’ thumbs up to put food on the table, but not nearly enough to account for the scars on his back. Although denied life cover, he did get a medical insurance, with explicitly unfavourable terms.

Scene: Father’s funeral.

Marcell stepped up to the pedestal where the confused remains of their Father lay and met Marcus, where they sent him off to his ancestors. The brothers met again during the eulogy ceremonies when reluctantly, Marcell walked up to his brother to engage in one of those ‘it’s-been-a-while’ conversations. He mentioned how the coin he placed on his father’s eye was half of his life savings and the elder decided to help him out, and called him to his professional atrium, atop the his castle. 

After learning of his impoverishment, Marcus enquired, “Why dost thou get finger insurance?” Marcell proceeded to explain his insurance predicament in detail. “I only have a pinky, a pointy and thumb in both hands. My primary digit is my thumb as I need to grip my mace. But the wretch’d insurance will only cover finger insurance; and they say that the thumb is not a finger.” 

Facing this predicament, the elder sat down in thought for days. As the spiders in their webs got cozy enough to pay rent, he finally switched on his light bulb.

“By the power of Greyskull! I have devised a manner whereupon thy fingers AND thy thumb will be saved, Marcell!”

 

“Well, out with it!! Hurry now, Marcus!”

“Listen carefully: You will need to execute and notarize an affidavit whereupon you will solemnly swear that all three digits remaining on your hands are all fingers and not thumbs. They are all but digits anyway. Caesar will never be able to tell the difference; which is a thumb and which a finger!”

“You diabolical sunnvabitch. You. C’mere you.” 

 Hetrosexual Rome hugging ensued.

Marcell therefore set upon the diabolical course of action. Had the thumbs on both fingers declared as fingers, signed, stamped and notarized the affidavit. He even obtained a Royal Stone-tablet Certificate from the Department of Arms and Limbs to that effect.
 

His career blossomed like none other. His rise was meteoric and his tale retold as fairy tales to the younger. He no longer feared injuries to his ‘finger’ as he was duly protected and the lions started to adhere to his command. After a particularly epic battle, Caesar granted him the title of “Gladiator of First Chair” and he was at the zenith of his career; entertaining Rome with his claw, effective as any other predator. 

Days became months, and months became years and BC turned to AD.

Marcell’s hair grew grey and his legs weak. His claw was still potent as ever. However, the saying in Rome goes: “A Gladiator does not retire. He dies as Gladiator”

Burdened by age and the flailing gusto, his appearances in the Colosseum were hardly frequent, which angered Caesar. This prompted Marcell to fight on. As he grew older, the lions grew only more fiercer.

Finally, he was pit against the thug-iest lion on the block - Scar. Scar had a nasty reputation and, was a crowd favourite. He made a sumbitch of Simba and was looking for Naaaaaants ingonmayaaaan (or however the fuck you sing that).

As Marcell entered the arena, the crows were roaring for a good fight after a hard day of slavery work. The cage opposite him opened - Scar leaped out like a Jack-in-the-box leaving the aged gladiator stuck on his tracks. Marcell’s reaction to stimulus grew weak. Scar used a mean look and trapped him in the colosseum, dumb-founded. Three roaring attacks later, the aged gladiator was weapon-less and was on his knees, struggling, and out of all energy. He sensed his end. A pathetic sight for a once-great gladiator. A pathetic representation of the might of Caesar’s gladiators.

Bowing his head, he awaited for what was inevitable. The Final Death.

Scar kangaroo’d his legs to go for the final blow, when suddenly, his chains held him back and Scar was left with two paws in the air, testing the density of the chain. 

The crowd had gone silent. The Gladiator was puzzled. He looked up at the lion and saw he was bound down by chain and could not move forward. What or who caused this to happen? Who is my saviour?

He looked up for an answer. He found that Caesar had called to pause the fight, just before the final blow.

Caesar stood up

“The empire of Rome takes care of its subjects. The pathetic man you see in front of you, was once a great gladiator, entertaining the rulers and the ruled alike. He has served Rome well. However, he is now in the cross-roads between life and death. Rome, as a payback, offers him an option: A life with shame or a death with dignity.

A Gladiator, who lives on outside the arena, lives a dishonourable life, but a life nonetheless. A Gladiator who dies in the arena will be remembered in the history books forever. If you choose to accept this life, Gladiator, give me your affirmation. Choose now. Choose to live with dishonour, or die with honour.”

Marcell contemplated the options ahead of him (for like 2 seconds). ‘Fuck the bushido bull-shit. I don’t want to die mauled by a lion.’ He thought to himself. ‘I feel no shame in this. I have lived my life with enough honour to last me a generation or two.

Thank you Caesar! Gah! I could kiss you.You saved my balls, man!

He raised his head yet again to look at the vociferous crowd blanketing him. Imma do this with style. He spreads his arms apart, in a motion to mimic taking in the crowd. Cheekily, he looks as though he will miss their cruel faces and cheers. He looks at his final opponent. 
You ain’t getting me now, bitch. 

As a warrior, he gets up and tries to look as disappointed as possible so as to win the hearts of the crowd even after he accepts his life and not death. He finally stands up with his remaining energy. Wipes the perspiration off his brow and pushes it to the soil below. Slowly, with pride in his acting, he looks up, squinting at the afternoon sun and shows his affirmation to Caesar. Caesar looks at him.

“THEN, GLADIATOR, DIE WITH HONOUR!"

Within seconds, Scar is freed and picks him apart, limb to limb without strategy. The cheers from the crowd instantly increases, then the Gladiator hears his silence.

Why?

Why Caesar? I gave you my affirmation.

Why Caesar? Are you not a man of your word? Why Rome? Is Rome only worth so much? Was my life just a game to you, Caesar?

Why?

As the lion applied seasoning to body meat, things became clear to me.

Years ago, I had my thumb declared a finger. In affirmation, as I gave Caesar my good ol’ thumbs up, essentially, I gave him two middle fingers.

Done to death because of a court document. Done to death by an affidavit. A tiny piece of paper; the turning point. His death didn’t feel painful anymore -- Not as much as the irony at least. 

Irony. The irony was a horror.  

Thought for food

I – I am a morsel of food. I am garnished by the skill of my maker and I have many forms and sizes. Often do I go under the knife and sometimes, roasted to a crisp. 

However, I do forage for justice.

I am perceived by some to be a clogger of arteries, and some to be the epitome of succulence. Some derive pleasures of the tongue, and some call me bereft of spice.

However, I do forage for justice.

Some dip me in gravy, and some apportion me with rice.

By and large, I am clothed with saliva without a second thought, often to be a drop in the ocean of the gastric mucous. I often take my respectful blame for a growling gut.

However, I do forage for justice.

 

Some like me indigenous, and some prefer the outsourced.

Some like me wrapped in old newspapers, others like me bathed and served on silver platter.

However, I do forage for justice.

In the quintillion manners that I may be consumed, I am still foraging for justice.

When was it that I was looked at as a clogger, rather than a provider for a temporary solution for a permanent problem?

When was it more important that I be succulent, rather than cure the hunger so persistent?

When did I become toy of pleasure rather than the scant material of a famine?

When was I awarded with only expensive spice rather than the depreciation of my price?

There is no justice that I find here.

Nay!

I find the true sense of justice when upon engulfed by a man of low means.

The old beggar man - sitting on the road that’s feasting upon me devoid of fork and spoon.

The lesser-fortunate - who is only cognizant of where the bums would rest their heads for the night, rather than the manners of the table.

The old man, who is captivated by my allure simply because of my rarity. The fleeting moment, where god himself who would see in tunnel-vision – where the world would disappear with the scant exception of an old, defeated man and his consumption of the personification of the sympathy of another human.

The old man cares not of my spice, or the liquid gold that I enrich arteries with. He cares merely about the conclusion of the meal, which his efforts to earn have rewarded. The old man's hand does not waiver, in expectation of the missing pinch of salt. He cares not where I have been, or which cauldron has stoked me. He only cares of the fire in the belly that I seek to extinguish.

For it is only upon him consuming me, will my purpose would be fulfilled -- my purpose as a particle of edibility -- my purpose of a being a provider. Only my beggar would feast like a king. I would choose no other.

My liege is one who is not a chooser.

My liege is my beggar.

5 ‘o Clock world

Hickory; and the subsequent penultimate dickory and the concluding dock. The rhythmic rodomontade of the alerting siren of the cog-wheel contraption of the dial estimating the every static moment had a rather hypnotic - a rather derisory effect on a quad-ped rodent otherwise scurrying finally about. Contrary to the fight/flight axiom, the rodent rather chose to approach rather than reproach the indiscriminate ticking sound of the precise reminder of the man-made reference point of period.

The beguiling, pendular, oscillatory trance of the whatchumacallit stimulated a burning ascending desire in the rodent, which then acted upon its fetish cold blooded desire and chose a vertical path rather than the preferred horizontal, thereby causing a proximity to the tick.

Whereupon achieving elevation upon the masterful clock which is often associated with the patriarch two generations elder, the clockwork worked like clockwork, to protrude the reminder of the behaviour of tides, as does time herself, both of whom expect discipline in arrival.

As the needles crossed paths, and the minute minute hand blurred past the highest number on the dial, a singular tintinnabulation echoed across the insides of the clock - the sound of the gong bouncing off the internal acoustics of the clock, which thereby caused a robotic mayhem within the order so enshrined in the clock. The rodent, startled by the aural stimulus, then retracted to the earlier contradicted axiom of fight/flight and chose to perform the latter and in a manner most foolhardy, decreased elevation and descended the once-hypnotic apparatus and scurried down and retracted to the burrow from whence it exited, cognizant of the Rubicon just scaled and the fine that demarcates hypnosis and flabbergast.

Aren’t we all but slaves to time? Men - in a rat-race against time? Where does the 5 o’clock world begin? Which under-rug do I have to slither where no one owns a piece of my time? Where can I sleep in so I wouldn’t wake up in the morning just to keep a job and find my way through the hustling mob? Where do I white-noise the sounds of the concrete city on repeat in my brain while another day goes down the drain? We are all mesmerized by the tick of a fatter bank account. Our mouths drool o’er the plate, but get stung by the fork and the knife. The zenith of the allure is plastic, and factitious. So compelled we are by the tick, we do not insure ourselves against the tinnitus of the tintinnabulation.

There a little rat in all of us. We all scurry at the sound of a gong – we all live lives below the underbelly of wasted time – we are all cold-blooded. We thrive on shit and multiply in a geometrical progression.  Where is my 5 ‘o clock world?

Why do the Vogues have to be so vague?

Para-reh-hi-hiii- e- eee-eee-eee-yeah!

The note that could not be heard.

A little, diminutive note in his teens aspired to be a drop in the ocean of a great melody one day. He practiced long and hard to be a resonance of tintinnabulation into the pinna betwixt aural muscles. He quickly learned the steps to dance with his 3^rd cousins and his 5^th cousins and the occasional inbred far off relative minor cousins while he bore his sweat from sun rise to sun rise in his opaque isolation. He learned to draw melodies between the lines of the clef. He learned slowly to hashtag the time, which sometimes came naturally to him.

He pretended not to notice. Not to notice that notes quite similar to him were never picked. They were not the sharpest tool in the shed. They were the left over white noises of a well-placed rest.

He pretended not to notice.

He used to try to stand statue in the lines of a melody as his higher elders.

“Follow in the footsteps of them” Ma would say. While Pa would talk to Uncle Sa and Uncle Ga would just Gah.

He pretended not to notice.

One fine day, he met a note who knew a note who knew a note who wanted a particular note. Instantly, he knew he was the man for the job! After a quick introduction, he quickly acquainted himself with the parts of the other notes in the play and quickly found his relatives nearby. Yet again, by night and by day, he would practice till his was as still as the beat-less heart of an easily phobic man. He was going to nail this. He was going to dance can-can along the clefs alongside his relatives.

This would change his life. This would end the misery of the voiceless nomad. He would forte. He would mezzo Forte, and he would dance the piano. He hadn’t the best pick up notes, but he sure could fit in well in the lines of a melody.

There came the big day. He was excited. He could finally interact to others in a medium. He was excited. He dressed his best black and ink and would feature on every one of the 40 books before the performers. He pressed his suit, and he brushed his feet. He was humbled to see the hard work put in by the rest of his peers, ranging from the Fas to the Ah La Las.

 And thus began the symphony in D minor. 

The symphony started. He took his place at the end of the 20th bar, awaiting the whole clique of musicians to play him. He was ready. He was ready to show. 

The time was his. HIS time was here. His time was now!

Here came the 18th bar..... and 19th bar.....

Silence. 

He stood staring into space. Why was there silence in the 20th bar? Did the conductor have a fit in his arm? Was he mute? Was his misrepresented? Misprinted?

Looking at his chaotic confusion, the note next to him sang the reason. Instantaneously, it was clear to him.

“But You’re only 18, Hertz!”. The words resonated in his mind.

Was he merely a pixel? A blot of ink in the sheet music of a vast encompassing cosmos? Was he the mere carbon matter of a Sagan-esque multiverse?

Death is a pitch. He said while he faded away. Never to be heard. Never to be heard.

Amsterdammned

Upon questioning a true man of logic, he would state that the ends justify the means -- that the ends act as a prophet for the means -- and that the means by itself would hold no water. I was once such a man -- a man so riveted to logic that all forms of movement outside it's ambit would be met with criticism. All it finally took was a 48-hour encounter with a free spirit that shattered this foundation of my logic -- with the sledgehammer of character and the wrecking ball of a pretty smile. That was the 'ado'. Here comes the 'without further'. I shall now recount my story.

After a few weeks of drudgery in the court, I chanced upon a travel destination - B.R. Hills. I contemplated a few days of travel to a calmer, more natural environment. 'I really could do a few days off from foraging in this concrete jungle' me thought as I spoke to my buddy. Two overworked guys - a destination with no plans and 4 wheels of escape. All geared up. Packed a toothbrush and headed out. My cousin, who was well associated with the place suggested a particular hotel, just a stone's throw from the forest area. Apt, we thought, and disappoint it did not. Well, more on that later.

We hit the highway at about 10:00 AM. The little Fiat Punto car really had some power - Stopped for nothing except the morning grub and fuel, sifting through the torrid heat and dust.

B.R.Hills; finally.

At first sight, of the inconsistent  landscape, we knew. We knew this was our escape. The perfect one too. Home city, this is how you weather!. (It was terribly hot back in Bangalore, my home city). Still could use a little cool wind though. We found our roof over our heads for the night. Cozy little fucker. Hot water too! We then washed off the dust we had so bravely braved with soap and rested a bit. It wasn't until our stomachs started growling the song of it's people that we realized that we were famished. Profusely. Lunch was upstairs, we were told. We then climbed up -- step by agonizing step to replenish all we'd exerted the morning..... and there it was.

THERE IT WAS.

THERE SHE WAS. Sitting in her little chair, stuffing her face with food she clearly was quite unfamiliar with -- sitting there in a little pink spaghetti top - her eyes wide open and bold with the obvious confusion of the grub she was pondering o'er as to how to consume. Her auburn hair - still shining majestically despite the heat and dust she probably braved...... with 3 of her friends.

She glanced over at me as I was walking in and she went back to the food. Nothing of interest, I suppose. But my knees! STAND THE FUCK UP, IDIOTS! I suddenly became conscious of my gait . 'I hope she don't think I walk like a chimp!'. 
Ladies and Gentlemen, -- My brain -- No IQ, but a disabling sense of self depreciating humor. I then sat down in the table just behind. Magnanimous in my little victory. Phew.

What was that, Brain? It was just a girl! Y U NO BEHAVE NORMAL?

I became conscious of the way I ate, and pretty much every action I chose to undertake at my table. But.. I was hungry. Finally ate the food like a sophisticated dog and then stood up to clean my hands. It was about the same time that the girls group had finished too. I suppose all the awkward new food kept them occupied at the table longer. I washed up fast and walked up to the exit as I waited for Buddy to wash up and join me. The girls group started walking to the exit.

And then.... she looked at me! Aaaaaaah! Happiness! All fantasies of all permutations and combinations were running in my head. All the years of learning classical music did not match up to the romance playing in my head!

Then. She smiled at me! OH JOY! The delight! Areas of my brain which I didn't know functioned were now awake and shoving my face in the oblivion of fantasy. My heart was racing so fast -- I could feel it melt!

I saw her lips part. SHE WAS GOING TO TELL ME SOMETHING! Brain, if you fuck this up, I swear to death, I will kill you with alcohol! The sound from her belly rose up and her voice box accented it. Her lips contorted. Finally. I was going to hear the words that were meant for me! That smiley face! That stone-warm look! HERE IT COMES!!!!

"Thank you."

"Oh cool." I replied.

Aaaaahhh joy.

Wait.

Wait wait wait. Thank you?? THANK YOU?? SHE THOUGHT I WAS THE FRIGGIN' WAITER!? All that -- the stare, the smile, the acknowledgment of my diminutive existence was all for this?? and "Oh cool"??? What the fuck brain? I thought you were cool. You thought you were cool. What kinda stupid reply was that? STUPID STUPID STUPID! I could feel my brain banging itself on the wall regretting his enormus stupidity, in a vain attempt to numb the awkwardness.

My friend walks to me, looks at all my depression and my cyanide infested  hope and quips "The fuck happened to you, man?" The fuck indeed had happened to me.

Dejected, I crawled back to my room. Blankly staring at the ceiling, figuring out what I could have said in the situation. L'esprit de L'escalier. Cruel thing. As cruel as the reality that preceded it. 30 minutes later, I got a call from the manager of the hotel informing that the ride for the safari was ready. Brushing aside what had transpired, Buddy and I went down to greet the host for the safari. Surprise, Surprise! The girl group was downstairs too!

'I hope she doesn't mistake you for a driver this time'. SHUT UP, BRAIN! FORGIVE AND FORGET.

Buddy and I walked past them and spoke to the driver. He spoke about where we were going, what to do when we spot a wild animal, etc etc. After the briefing, as he sat in the car, to our pleasant surprise, the girls proceeded to sit in the car. There was place for 4. None for Buddy and I. But hey -- something to talk about when we got back. One of the girls offered us to sit in the back, and like every good guy who finishes last, we said "Nah man, It's ok. You guys be comfy, We'll follow y'all in our car."

Feeling all honorable and at the same time, like pussies, we sat in our car. Buddy, who by now as completely cognizant of my situation started to extrapolate his fantastic theories about having a good time in getting to know them. Yet again, I was bedazzled. The possibility of SOMETHING. Inviting. To know her name at least was in the offing.  Along the drive, the weather decided to agree with my feelings and there was rain in the greenery around. Picturesque. Heaven. I was in heaven. But Angel was riding on another cloud, as we majestically drove amidst the flora and fauna.

We landed in the safari's resort-of -sorts place for tea before the safari. It was basically another place to bunk for the night, except more expensive and it was in the middle of a forest. Rain had subsided to an extent and all 6 of us were being shown the rooms the resort-of-sorts boasted of. Buddy was his usual quiet self when suddenly, Angel came down to him and introduced herself. I was walking ahead  and couldn't quite catch the name. But we egged on. We finally reached a tree house. Angel, who was now slightly ahead of the others, but behind me, came to me doing a little jumpy dance step, cheekily and naughtily and asked me "Do you guys plan to bunk here after the safari?"

BLANK ~~ BLANK ~~ BLANK ~~ BLANK

 Her speech was hypnotic. Every time she said something, my brain finds the easiest way to fuck up. NOT THIS TIME, BRAIN. I SHAN'T LET YOU! All those classes on poetry in school that I was forced to learn by-heart. COME BACK TO ME, KNOWLEDGE! DO SOMETHING, MAN!

"Well, yes. But not today. May be someday I'm rich and famous"

All words in order. Appropriate reply. Made sense. Crisis averted. I had won. Social retardation subdued.

"Awwwwww, me too!". Yes. Conversation! Back and forth. This is how it's done!

The host then lead us back down to the entrance. I mustered up the courage to ask her her name.
"Hi, I'm Arvind.". She then told me her name and that they were from Netherlands. I also introduced myself to her other friends and soon after, we set out on the safari with the same seating arrangement.

The safari commenced- two different cars in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Peaceful. We couldn't spot as many animals for the first half  hour and the first few times that our host in the other car would spot one, he would stop the car to enable the girls to look at it while Buddy and I, completely foreign to the spotting, would frantically scan the area, which more often than naught, proved futile. Every time he spotted a wild one, after the exercise of looking around frantically, we would look to the car ahead of us for some hint, some gesture, as to point of interest. After while, we did get a few hints and spotted a few critters too! After the first 45 mins came the downpour. Started as rain and eventually, hail. In the middle of a forest -- Rain. Heaven even, wouldn't compare. Buddy and I were absolutely in admiration of it all. In a tiny, cozy car, in the forest while it rained. Need I even go on? The downpour continued till we reached the checkpoint from where we were to drive back. We did catch a few domesticated, chained elephants at the checkpost. We waited there for about 30 mins for the darkness to set in and the animals to come out of their burrows. The return trip allowed us the privilege of almost being gored by a Bison! But that story is for another day. Moving on... we finished the safari and the cars returned to the resort-of-sorts. The other car parked right at the entrance while we could only park far from it. We HAD to get into the resort. We did; all drenched from head to toe.

Upon our arrival, our presence was met with laughs and apologies. We were drenched -- as the girls did.... we had to take the fall. But all is forgiven. Buddy and I did our fair share of complaining about the cold to them. We were in conversation again! Their social consciousness said 'Converse, Converse' but their their eyes said 'Shit, I gotta talk to this retard!'. (Probably). The conversation was building up. Almost looked like the girls didn't approve of our self- depreciating, insulting sense of humor.... but we pulled through just fine and had a few laughs. We were then asked to move up to level 2 of the resort for food and snacks. It also meant the girls scurrying across in the rain and Buddy and I acting all macho-like and walk through the rain LIKE A BOSS.

By the time we reached up, the 4 girls had already taken to comfort on a 4-chair table, leaving us guessing whether we could join them or not. Buddy and I walked over to the window on the opposite side of the room to discuss further plans of action.

'Dude, think they want us to sit with them?'

'With your fat ass and my ugly face?, why the hell not?'

But Buddy didn't give a squat when it finally came down to it. He just pulled a chair to their table and sat right next to Angel, engaging them in the blah-blahs of an apparently interesting conversation. While I was busy ordering a coffee and snacks, I sneakily pulled a chair to their table and joined in the fun! SUCCESS! We talked about everything -- from insects in India to pungent smelling lotions and also a cameo from my heavily stereotyped Italian accent. While I farted along, I also complained about the cold to which one of the girls snapped 'You complain about everything! Are you on your period or something?'. A laugh at my expense. The sure-shot sign of an entry into a clique. Following the comment, Angel murmured something in their native tongue to which all the girls laughed, at my expense, I bet. I had NO idea what she said. Then, she looked at me -- and gave me a reassuring smile -- almost in way of saying  - 'It's all for fun, bob. No offence. Chill.' Her pretty smile! My brain had concocted a fantasy of me with a tulip in my hand muttering to myself the following lines repeatedly:

She loves me, 
she loves me not
she loves me
she loves me not........

Unlike her smile, however, the weather was cold. How cold? Cold as FUCK. My shirt was dripping wet and it looked like the zephyr had a score to settle with my hot bloodedness. Buddy suggested that I smoke a cigarette. I hate cigarettes, but given the circumstances, I couldn't think of a way to keep warm. So I smoked. Aaaahhh.. nice. Finished and went back to the table where the maidens awaited. As I went back, I got reintroduced to the paralyzing cold I just tried to escape from. I was shivering.

'Dude... even I am drenched. It's not that cold!' Buddy quipped.

'Yeah? Well, the cold's gotta penetrate 9 layers of fat before it gets to you! How will you know?'.

Everyone laughed that awkward I'm-going-to-hell-for-laughing laugh and one of the other girls asked me, 'How can you say that to him?' with a puzzled look on her face quite obviously trying to hide back a smile in futility.
'M'eh. Known him for years... It's how we communicate'
She probably hates me ever since.

While we continued to chat, the manager asked us to join the other guests in another room for a tribal dance show. At about this time, Buddy and I had offered the girls a drop back to the hotel as they camped right next to our room! THEY AGREED!! HELL YEAH!!

Just then, I heard an 'Awwwwww.... that so cute!". Angel had just found a tiny little baby lizard. With no inhibitions whatsoever, she picked it up and cupped it gently in her hand. I mean... IT'S A FUCKING LIZARD FOR GOD'S SAKE MAN!. Angel, right there, was the epitome of a free spirit for me. World can conclude as it wants... I'm a do what I feel like. What a human! (if really human).
She stood up and bought the cupped hand in front of me. 'Ready?' she enquired. We all agreed. With the tender gentleness of a new mother, she slowly un-cupped her mehendi-filled palm to reveal a little, tiny lizard. GOSH! It was little! We were all in appreciation of it's innocence....when suddenly..

"AAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHH!!" - Shriek in my ears!  Tinitus engulfed my pinna! Both my Pinna.. or Pinnai.

Why? The lizard had tried to sneakily crawl up Angel's fair arm and that startled the shit out of her! She probably had squished that little fucker. Hearing Angel scream, the girl to next to my other ear also yelped. All those years of heavy metal music had numbed my ears.. or so I was lead to believe. G'ah. Bull shit.

But still... Through it all, she was so gentle. Sooo gentle about it. The lizard was now on the floor again, somehow... and was barely moving; probably out of shock. It finally mustered up the courage, calmed it's nerves and slithered away. Dat gentleness. Me gusta. Nicest thing I've seen anyone done to any thing. - Hot blooded or cold blooded. Although, it ended more brutal than she would have liked!

That's what made her awesome. A lizard. Something that would freak most girls out -- a tiny little critter, was still entitled to the care of a warm palms of a newly wed mother -- Mother nature herself would be proud. She was as free as demand and supply in a free economy. She was as tender as the soft ears of an infant. She had the gentleness of a responsible Swarovski saleswoman. She was as uninhibited as a teenager with tourettes.(Sorry). Yet, she had the ambition of the clenched fist of Mike Tyson. She had the bravery of a lonely candle in the wind. She had the loving concern of a pair of warm socks in the dead of a Russian winter... and as I would find out later, she had the grace of a curtain on a windy night, the beauty of a proud goddess....and moves..... like Jagger. (Wait for it).

Minutes later, in the room where the tribal dance was to take place. they had arranged the chairs for us in a semi circle. The girls sat RIGHT in the middle seats. Buddy and I called our little board meeting to discuss where to sit. I seconded that we sit sandwiching the girls, but with a distance of  one seat either side. So, where do I sit?

I can read your mind, reader. you believe in fate don't you? ya idiot.

Well, 'fate' dealt me an ace of spades. It was Angel who sat next to me. Violins, cellos in my head, melodies of a simpler time... well, you know the drill.

After comforting my gargantuan ass, I leaned over and enquired, 'So, what do you guys do?'. Turns out, they were all medical students. Angel was interested in Neurology. The best way to man's heart is through his nerves. Literally. Sadly, I knew jack-schitt about Neurology. I know of Neurology just as much I know in Geography.

Hmmmmm.... Neurology... Neurology...What do I know about Neurology? Embarrassing as this was , the only thing I knew was that Dr. House had an intern who was a Neurologist. Bingo.

"So, you guys must be watching a lot of House?"
They did. Now, connect the dots. Angel and I went from House to Game of Thrones to Southpark to Dexter. If there was a heaven, I would want to be in it. It would PALE in comparison to a mutually interesting conversation with a lovely lady.

My brain juice was dripping fantasies. If only.... IF ONLY I were in a field in Amsterdam on the first days of spring, I would pick only the brightest flowers to give her... and elate when the pollen skull-fucked her nostrils. (Not a romance writer.)

During our conversation, our hands happen to touch a couple times. On purpose? Heart said yes yes. Brain said don't kid yourself.

Papppraappapappapaa.

Tribal music started playing. The tribal show was starting. A man then started talking about his tribal life and history in Kannada. I thought I would play translator, but another man stood up and shattered my little ambition. Couple songs later, there was a dance. Great! I hate dances. Especially the ones where they invite people to join in! I thought the girls would feel a little uncomfortable, but I was DEAD wrong. They ran up, joined in! No awkwardness, no social pressure to dance well, no nothing! Just a supreme feeling of having uninhibited fun. What sports they were! I still remember flashes of her grace, frozen in frames while she danced on and on by the moonlight with as much delight on her face, as much on mine. She had the grace of a curtain on a windy night. Her moves left me with trails of colours beyond the spectrum. I had no way to realize I as colour blind until then. She was radiating!



When it was over, the tribal people bade goodbye to us all and the exits crowded. IT WAS TIME TO DROP THEM BACK HOME! The girls said they'll go inform the Manager that he needn't arrange for transport as they were going back with us. He did not agree.

He insisted. Again and again. Insisted that only he drop them back. Having no choice, the girls finally gave in. The Manager made a very powerless enemy that day. Can't say I blame him. I probably would do the same. But I can't blame myself either.

The drive back was rather quiet. Least we'd meet them back at base, we'd hoped, but alas. 'twas not meant to be. The girls locked themselves in tight as soon as they arrived. Tired? May be? Scared of our intentions? May be. :(

Buddy and I retired to our cozy room for the night. Nothing else to do. The previous day, I had arranged for a morning walk with one of the hotel people who'd take us around the forests. Come morning, we had to wake early. Tired as I was, I finally won the battle against my heavy heavy eyelids and dragged my dead weight out of bed. Went down to find all girls all ready for the walk as well, but waiting for the Nature walk chap. Figuring we had some more time, we went up for some coffee and small talk.

Buddy was chatting with Angel by the window, as I made sweet sweet love to my coffee. Once done, we went down and a substitute came along and took us for the nature walk. Mr. Nature Walk however, was on a mission. He walked so damn fast! He had the gait of Usain Bolt, or the old school P. T. Usha. I followed behind as fast as I could, panting my lungs off and dragging my enormous gut along. We finally reached a view point. Beautiful landscape. There was a better one, but that needed a little spelunking. We all braved it, got down and snapped out instagram bottom-feeder gold. The climb back up was a bit of a challenge. The girls got back up first, and we had to follow. I got a solid footing and got back up without hassle. Buddy on the other hand, was a little stuck.

"C'mon! You can do it! Do it, Spiderman!" came the cheers from the girls.

"Spiderman wasn't fat!" came the reply followed by guffaw, as he struggled.

"Spiderpig was though!!" I yelled. Seems no one except Angel happen to hear it and acknowledged it pointing a finger at me, warm smile and she went back to picking flowers and leaves. (Mandatory Aaaahhh and music and sweetness all that.)

Buddy made it up, thanks to all the cheering! Applause all round! Climbed back up and walked back to the hotel. Exhausted as everyone was, we retreated to our rooms. I, meanwhile, realized that I had some spirit left -- Literally -- some alcohol in the car. Buddy got it up to our room and while we waited for noon, Buddy and I drank outside the room, which was basically the common balcony to our rooms and those of the girls. During our drinking session, two of the girls passed by us. We did offer them our drink, which they politely refused.

Almost done with my poison I was, while I stared into the greenery, when there came a cry from a few yards away. ANGEL!

"Drinking, eh?"

"Yeah! Want some?"

"No thanks"

"Ah, well! Cheers!"

I made like the Titanic and sunk that bastard.

Come noon, we were all packed. Buddy and I picked up our bags and made our way to our car.
While we we threw our bags into the car, Angel comes up to us and says, "Hey guys, listen. We're a little stranded. We gotta get to this place (points at map) to this place (again) and finally to here (yup). But there are no buses that go that route."

Geography. My one sworn enemy. Surely he would understand and let me dip into his enormous knowledge, given what was at stake. Buddy and I tried connecting to GPS from our phones, called people, even tried to find one of the hotel guys to take them there. We did offer them a drop them quite close to their destination as it was quite close to ours. ANGEL SAID YES! but then one of the girls muttered something in their native tongue and sure enough, from the expression on Angel's face, we knew it wasn't going to happen. Can't blame them. Society and shit. I had hoped I didn't seem too rapey. See? This is what happens, India. This is what happens when you go around rapin' everybody. A regular social retard will never get his fair share.

I finally did manage to figure out a much easier route with just one bus change and they decided to go as planned. The bus would come where we were only! Next bus was one hour away.

During this time, as we waited for the bus, there first came a frog, which filled our camera data cards and then came the cows. Just as one of them moo'd loudly, Angel started singing "Trouble, Trouble, Trouble!" (Taylor Swift reference. If you don't get it, you need to crawl out of the rock you're under.)

Smart, quick witted, free spirited. Damn, I was going to miss all that. All in just a few minutes.

The hour drew to a close, but still there was no bus! Buddy was getting visibly restless as we were getting late too, but I asked him to wait till the girls leave. It was evident to all that we were getting late as well. Realizing this, Angel comes up to me and asked "You're getting late, eh?"

"Yeah, but least, when the bus comes, I can leave with peace of mind"

"Hah! You guys were drunk! Good you two stayed back till you got ok. We can leave with peace of mind too"

Sounded like concern. Yeah. May be for other reasons, but just let me have this.

Finally, at a good distance, we could see the red monster approach. I told the girls that that bus would carry them to their destination. They picked up their bags. As the bus arrived, to reassure the girls that the bus would go to their destination, I asked the driver again. He nodded and the girls were ready to board.

Now, this is how the final conversation went:

Arvind: Yeah! This bus goes, man. Y'all can get in!

Angel: Thanks! Thank you so much!

Arvind's Brain: Dude....

Angel: C'mon guys, this is the bus!

Arvind's Brain: Dude....Ask her her number or something! or least give her yours!!

Arvind: Ok awesome! Happy Journey guys! Have fun!

Arvind's Brain: FUCKER... DO SOMETHING!! SHE'LL DISAPPEAR FOREVER OTHERWISE!

Angel: Come here (hugs me!) (F- yeah!)

Arvind's Brain:Ooooohhh... Hug. ARVIND,  LISTEN TO YOUR BRAIN!!

Arvind: (hugs back) You're welcome!

Other girls: Have fun guys! Happy Journey!

Arvind's Brain:YOU LITTLE SHIT! DO SOMETHING!

Arvind: Ummmmm......

Vrooooommm.

I was already talking to the dust that the bus farted in my face. The bus drove away into the distance. The distance being the connection between reality and fantasy. Everything from now on will only transpire in fantasy. No way to contact them. No number, no nothing. Just left behind a boat load of memories and triggers for fantasies based on the lines of 'what-ifs' and 'If-only-I-had's. The melodies of violins and cellos in my head were now replaced with threnodies.

I never did establish any contact with them after that. Almost as if Rajnikant hid them someplace as even Google couldn't find them. (Sorry for that reference). Days later, I found myself still escaping into the bold grip of fantasy.

Sometimes, I think of the fact that they are probably in Amsterdam now. Ever since I was a little kid, I was terrible at Geography. It was probably fate. Now knowing how far her presence would be from me would numb the pinch I would feel if I thought of the distance between us -- Mile by agonizing mile. No more tulips in the spring, no more free spirited acts, no more baby-lizard fondling.

48 hours. A boat load of illogical fantasies. There is not end-product to these fantasies. They are, and forever shall remain as means -- means with no ends. Just fantasies of things that can probably never happen.  Fantasies that come back and forth like the froth of a violent ocean.


Goodbye, threadbare, decrepit foundation of logic. I shan't need you any longer.

May be fate was never about meeting her. May be fate was about missing her.

As far as I'm concerned, there are no borders of landmasses named 'India' or 'Holland' -- She is in the same land mass as I -- the same Gigantic archipelago.

Now, all that she told me is committed to in writing. I hate to be a tattletale, but left with little choice. I hope I didn't have to do that. I've certainly not been the best of gentlemen in that regard.

Sorry, Sarah.