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.