Rest of the hundred meters to the metro station went about in silence. Perhaps she'd realized that I was uncomfortable seeing her smoke. Quite honestly, I wasn't uncomfortable seeing her smoke. I was uncomfortable seeing so many people staring at us, who perhaps saw a girl smoking as a criminal offence. You can't expect any better from a Najafgarh village, I said to myself. I could have acted all saintly and apprised her of my reservations but stayed shut for two reasons.
First, she was probably self aware. And if she didn't give a damn about it herself, I wasn't going to play Mr. daddy - even if I fitted the persona.
Second is a rather painful memory from school days. This memory was of an era in which I last remember thinking of myself as slightly cool. This was also the era of accomplishing puberty. It was also the era of discovering the importance of porn in one's life. The era of having serious (c)rushes.The era of sixties in maths and eighties in English. The era of hiding report cards; the era before the tryst to become an engineer even began.
It was a friend's birthday party. And since I was perceived slightly cool then, I was invited to all the cool birthday parties. So were all the cool girls. The plan was to reach the venue directly from school, change into something more birthday like, and get on with the proceedings. There was a particularly hot girl in the group, who changed into something that took her hotness to infinite levels. It was black top with a net that tucked the bosom together. And my god wasn't she looking amazing. So much so, that if she had the carnal desires just for me in this world, and if at the same time, we were also locked up in a room indefinitely, I would faint out of sheer breathlessness. You would look at her and imagine a sex goddess kicking your balls to ignite the furnace of testosterone production. And then think of all male reproductive organs salivating together as a consequence.
What she wore wasn't particularly revealing at the outset. But if one was hard working and had the right (wrong) intent, one could get the view. I had it a couple of times myself. Most of us guys had had. But then when the sight had lost its novelty, my intrepid brain sought a plan to make her an accomplice. I knew she was way out of my league, but if you got closer to the queen bee, you're definitely more acquainted with bee hive.
With a saint like demeanor I approached her. When I thought I had the space, I whispered to her in a hush voice : ' I think your dress is a little too revealing. You should change you know.' She looked at me in disbelief. And then she looked at her breasts. I looked at her breasts too and then she looked at me again, this time a little enraged. She obviously hadn't taken it in the right spirit, but didn't say anything then. I realised a girl who'd just about entered her teens, felt as accomplished of her breasts, as a guy felt of being able to masturbate. Perhaps she'd bought the dress a while back, when there was hardly any seismic activity on her body. I didn't have the guts to make eye contact with her again. The next day when I went to school, the word was out : 'He's such a pervert, he was looking at my boobs all the time.'
So much for getting all pally with the queen bee. Never give a hot girl an honest advice, I thought to myself.
As much as wanted to tell Saswati that she shouldn't smoke so blatantly in public, I restrained myself. I couldn't risk her not taking it in the right spirit. Because if she didn't , I didn't know whom I would talk to tomorrow.
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