"Based on a Series of True Incidents"
“Baal waali ladiki”. That was the name I decided to give her when I saw her for the first time. You might start wondering, why the name “Baal waali ladiki”, why not anything else? Well, the answer is simple; she has a huge tuft of hair on her head, which is iconic (That doesn’t mean all the other girls living nearby my house are bald, their hair isn’t iconic that’s all). I read a fact somewhere that the human eye can detect a match struck 52 kilometers away in an undisturbed environment. I’m not pretty sure about that statement, but I can detect the “Baal Waali Ladiki” even from space. Every morning she is the signal of my luck. If I find her in my bus stop, that means I didn’t miss the bus, if don’t that means I have to choke my wallets and literally drain out the last of its contents. I have been watching here since the last fifteen months, day in and day out. But I act as if I never know of her presence at all. I don’t even remember a day during our daily mix up at the bus stop where we even exchanged a look. I wouldn’t have bothered about this “Baal Waali Ladiki” if not for extremely charming and cute looks and not to mention, her fuckin father.
Here enters one of the many villains in this story, dressed in a pair of overused shorts, with hair which is in contrast with his daughter’s, white and all scraped down. If the daughter’s hair could be compared with the African rainforests then the father’s resembles the grasslands in midst of the Sahara (how green it is!). With a sick and over protective haughty feeling, this man drives his daughter to the bus stop every day, drops his daughter and moves ahead only to park his car a few feet ahead. Every fuckin day I feel those evil eyes glaring at the daughter, through the rear view mirror. Fuck man, what kind of father is so protective these days? After all eve his daughter has a life, and also the poor fellows looking at her daughter also have a life. I stand in that self pitiable situation, with a “what the fuck” look on my face, for fifteen minutes every day. I can’t do anything except to drool and dream, drool inconspicuously, as I believe any trace of saliva below my lips could start a nuclear war with her father as the villain, or what’s more, he could even run me down with that rusty old Maruti of his.
After a year and half of nonstop drooling, a small voice inside my head, asked me to go a step ahead. In one of the many day-dreaming encounters, I felt her black locks of hair fall across my face. The routine duets sans the beautiful panorama and glitzy costumes. These day dreams inspired to get more out of the situation. But Alas! The Gods decided to play their game of chess with me as the King. I was sitting a square away from the queen, with an enemy king in the middle. It was either check mate or ‘fuck’ mate. There lay trillions of possibilities for a miss, but only one move for the queen. My grey cells went into swift action, they devised a plan.
The next day I morphed myself into a self obsessed fashion avatar. The trendy pair of Adidas replaced the routine formals, and I gave myself a chic hunk (I was faking it, by holding up my breath for a little more than normal) and strode down the road to the stop with a pride so superfluous that it would make every King on this earth hang his head in shame. But I didn’t realize that fate would play marbles with me, as I neared my goal post, the ball vanished and as I approached the bus stop, the girl vanished signaling a tragedy. I missed the bus. What followed later can be accounted under the section “Post tragic trauma”, but as I don’t have one in my blog I guess we should move on.
No, I’m not going to give a Jurassic twist here, but it is just the stage for the classic entry of another person. Here enters the second villain of this titanic ‘tragic’ story Mr.Dickhead aka Dinosaur. The reason behind his seemingly gigantic name can be attributed to his bloated face and a peculiar mass of hair above his head which reminds one of the head of a Stegosaurus (One need not be paleontologist to know what it is, watch Jurassic Park). One look at him and you will firmly believe that Man evolved from Chimpanzee’s of Africa. So Mr.Dickhead, as his name seems to suggest is a pervert, and mighty big shameless flirt, who could handle multiple love stories with girls in his own class without getting caught. Every day Dickhead purposely sits behind our dear old “Baal Waali Ladiki”. What starts with a small smile proceeds to become peals of laughter and our usually reserved young lady shares some really happy moments with him, much to my amusement (I forgot to add, the girl under observation i.e. “Baal Waali Ladiki” is a very reclusive person, and Dickhead is one of the few people whom she talks with, presumably as Dickhead is her senior).
So one day with firm determination, I confronted Dickhead and indirectly gave him a hint, “Dude, please do leave some girls for us, please!”
I expected a harsh reply but Dickhead never lost his cool, “Hmmm, it’s a rat race mate, chop chop or might not get anything, try try till you succeed, which girl are you talking about anyway?”
I didn’t quite understand what he said, but I got the essence of his speech, and it didn’t take time for me to realize that perverts can be professional too.
A bit of research into his background gave me interesting results. Every day while flirting with B.W.L. Dickhead used to secretly follow another girl in the bus (popularly referred to as AIDS patient, as her physique just endorses the fact, Err myth!). Talk about hitting two birds with one stone, dudes like this one are the greatest threat to the male kind, the overuse and later recycle. And recycled products aren’t exactly the ones which match my taste. For a while I envied Dick (head), later I realized that flirts like him are best to be ignored, because ignorance is the only thing he can expect in the future.
The title misleads right? I know about your sick, pervert mind. Well, my mind is equally sick too, the title conveys the actual crux of the story, follow it in whatever manner you may, you shall be blessed.
A little after I stopped ignoring Dino’s Dick, I found peace. Let me describe you the reason behind all my fantasies for asking this girls name. She is about 5 feet 9 inches tall (No, I didn’t take a tape and measure her, a rough estimation!), cute, fair (I wouldn’t bother about the color, but she is what she is!), cute again and super sexy. The only thing which brings out a shiver in my knees is that, she is from a pucca Hindi background and me from an out and out traditional Telugu family. Well, being born in a traditional family does not necessarily mean I should hate Hindi, but I hate (on the contrary, my entire family idolizes Hindi, it sucks!). One of the very few words I know in Hindi include “Tere Maa ki”, *beep* *beep* *beep*. Apart from that, I should be truthful; I have enough courage to break windows in front of the whole college but not enough substance to talk to a girl. That is the sole reason, why you are bearing this five page ‘hormance’ (horror romance) here.
After a few days, lady luck decided to bless me. Cupid also felt that the time was ripe for setting his weapons into action. Poor dude, in the world of laser aided nukes, our little old underwear (?) clad boy is still relying on the love tipped ancient African arrows. No wonder, the divorce rates are high.
I was walking down the huge hallway when suddenly I found B.W.L. sobbing silently. One look at her and you will be cheated, but my ultra thick celled brain detected a chance. I strode up to her in a casual way, and asked her what the problem is. In a barely intangible voice she replied, “I lost my record”. Well, talking about records, what the monitor is for a computer, the record is for a student. It can be billed the entry card for Lab session and as the report card for the overall performance. Many a time, these records end up being written by friends, neighbors or even sisters, but nevertheless in India anything can be gotten for a chocolate. I asked her when the lab was,
“In the afternoon session”, another intangible reply with the sobs increasing in intensity.
With an air of induced confidence, I told her not cry (while my sadistically motivated eyes were admiring the beauty of her eyes) and sat down on the staircase and sat down to work. A record generally is a conglomerate of a random 70 pages of shit aided with diagrams. Whatever you write it should fit in 70 pages. One can liberally use obscene language, pepper the scientific formulae and even rape the subject no one bothers. Three hours, thirty five pages. It wasn’t easy, but for her I could do anything.
Three hours (fifteen minutes) later, I looked up.
We got up, arranged the pages in proper order and looked into each other’s faces.
“Thanks, without you I would have flunked in the lab exams”
A little balloon rose from the bottom of my heart and ended as a pop somewhere in between.
“Never mind, I did my duty, friends?”
She extended her arm, and touched my hand.
A shot of acid ran through my nervous system, true to the name, I became nervous.
And then she took her arm and,
Slapped me right on my face.
I woke up, only to hear Anuraag shouting “Ma****hod, bus mein bhi ghusa de be, mere record laya ho kya?”
Sad, it really was.
Edit: An Epilogue: Vipul posted an excellent comment which blended with the mood of the story and I feel, it's another worthy ending! Here it goes!
"All the best with ur cupid tale.. i hope u talk to the BWL nd suddenly the 'maruti' uncle jumps in - "Hey beta.. i've been waiting at this bus stop for so many mnths in the hope tht one day this cool guy will talk 2 my girl. Will u marry her?" ;)"
[Till date I haven’t talked to B.W.L., I seek help O my fellow bloggers. Drop in your suggestions.
P.S.: If you are the “Baal Waali Ladiki” mentioned in the above story, I’m sorry about being a bit abusive about your father, I couldn’t help it! Moreover, you look cute!
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