Engineering Love : Chapter 1 : Part IX

I’d never smoked earlier, but from trusted sources I’d heard that the mind felt at ease after a fag. This tryst with destiny was coming to an end, I said to myself. Soon Saswati would board the ladies coach on the metro, I’ll say a decent – “Bye” and it shall all be over. She’ll swear not to recognize me again – and every time I approach her to talk in the next four years of my dull B.Tech life, I’d have to remind her that we met on the first day of college, with the typical – “Remember Me” tone. All this ran through my head as I waited for Saswati to emerge from the frisking booth.

After a couple of seconds, she came out with a tinge of laughter on her face. I was so disappointed already with the separation that awaited us that I didn’t bother to ask why she had that smirk. I did realize later though that it was a matter of muted obligation to be curious about a person’s unwarranted change in expression. We took the stairs to reach the platform.

“By the way – where do you put up?” -  She asked. I almost feared this question. And I’ll have to freeze time here to tell you why.

For the next five minutes you’ll be a part of a social experiment. Imagine that somebody came to you and told you that they lived in a place called – “Patparganj”. What comes to your mind about the place?

Since this is monologue - let me guess on your behalf. You probably imagined a stinky lower middle class suburb with ill constructed houses stacked shabbily next to each other. The symmetry in their asymmetry stood out. The in-roads are narrow with sewers running on both sides. Most of the houses had an old Bajaj Chetak parked outside. Exactly one of the houses however had a brand new Maruti Alto parked right outside the gate; the best guess is that some recently married guy got it in his dowry. The plastic sheet on the car has been carefully preserved. And one person in the family always keeps sticking his nose out from the balcony to ensure that the car is unharmed. There’s a wire mesh floating all around the area. Most of the houses have a wire hooked on to the sole electricity pole standing in the lane. At the end of the lane, there stands a parched hand pump that lives to serve as the batsman’s end for the kids playing cricket.

Patparganj, in reality and unlike what the name may suggest, is the hub of all high end group housing societies of East Delhi. And I wouldn't be too far off if I said that it’s decently posh.

“I.P. Extension” – I said. It’s a close and much more respectable alibi that the similarly disgruntled Patparganj junta had resorted to.

“And where would that be?” – She asked.

Now why would a girl be interested in knowing that? – I said to myself.

“It’s the area on the left side of the east Delhi highway” - I answered hoping to put a full stop to her curiosity about my residence.

“You mean – Patparganj, right.”

I opened my mouth just enough to say – “Yep”.

This girl knew the Delhi roads. Impressive.

Engineering Love : Chapter 1 : Part VIII

Both the cigarette and the path had come to an end. It was a rather silent last hundred meters. She must have realised how unmanly I felt walking besides a smoking hot girl – or should I say, a hot girl smoking and not smoking myself. Perhaps she understood the Indian prejudice of men expected to be doing all the wrong things. Or perhaps she didn’t care. I was hoping for the latter. I wanted to keep the chat going.

We were about ten steps away from the metro station. She started looking here and there for a dustbin to throw the tiny leftover cigarette butt. I didn’t want to stop her – but personally, I wouldn’t have rattled myself for throwing that much garbage on the road. In fact by doing that I would take pride in making the jobs of the municipal jamadaars worthwhile.  But no, this girl was persistent.  She couldn’t find a dustbin so she took copy out of her sling bag, tore away a page and wrapped the cigarette butt in it. To be thrown later in a dignified dustbin – I assumed. Either she respected her cigarette too much or she had an environmentalist bone in her body.  

“Can you believe it - these guys don’t have a garbage bin outside a metro station. Now how ridiculous is that?”

 “I know.” Well clearly, that was the best thing I could have said.

The fifteen minute walk to the metro station had stationed my thoughts completely away from my own life – my otherwise ignominious life. My brain, as if, was taking notes observing her every move. For those fifteen minutes, I’d forgotten who I was in making sure that I did not forget what she was like.

We stepped inside the metro station towards our respective frisking booths. Every time she fizzled out of my line of sight, I feared she might pounce on the opportunity to escape my company. I wouldn’t have minded that. Actually I would have, but compared to her being rude straight on my face and telling me that we’d rather not talk again – I’d have preferred that she left without letting me know. This was indeed the longest conversation I’d had with a girl in a long time. And I wanted to sleep with this thought tonight. Also, I thought this would be closest I would ever get to sleeping with a woman.

I have to time out here to describe what an agony the frisking booth is like. Did you really think it Delhi Police frisked people to search for pointy objects and weapons? Well, let me break your myth. That’s not even remotely their intention. It’s to make you aware of how unfit you were. As soon as you stand on that elevated step – they would, in all certainty, press hard against two spots on your body: first, the love handles and second, the butt. A man’s love handles are not be messed with. They are, quite ironically, the handle to his door of agony – if not given their due respect. I have to say though that the whole frisking business is undoubtedly a good security strategy. Even terrorists wouldn’t like to be man-handled in such a way. I wondered if the women’s frisking was any different.