abstract, airport taxi, airport taxi from hell, bangalore airport, BIAL, comedy, communication, entertainment, fiction, funny, general ramblings, hawaiian girls, hickeys, humor, laughter, life, long distance relationship, love, love bites, love scratches, love stories, lust, men and women, meru cabs, mis-communication, narration, nikhil kumar, people, random, relationships, seduction, sex, stalkers, stalking, story telling, thoughts, violence, yu suk
There is mystery in the air. Stop whatever you’re doing and sniff the air around you. If you can ignore the fish and the next guy’s sweat, I think you can smell the mystery in the air. I know I can. I think I am being followed by an airport taxi. Everywhere I go and everywhere I turn, there’s an airport taxi lurking near by. I think there is a conspiracy afoot and yesterday, I thought about it long and hard and I have a feeling that I’ve hit upon the truth.
Once upon a time, I was in love with a strange girl from Hawaii. Her name was Yu Suk, and she was perhaps the third most beautiful woman in the world. We loved each other very mush much and though we were separated by more than 5000 miles of ocean, we believed that one fine day we would be together and live happily every after. The long distance relationship proved to be arduous and drained the both of us completely, and I decided to end it. That’s when she decided to fly down to Bangalore and meet me and show me just how much she loved me. I was over the moon!
I dressed up in my favorite yellow T-shirt and blue jeans and drove all the way to the airport on the day. I reached an hour early and paced up and down, waiting for Yu Suk to arrive. I could hardly stand still in my excitement. I was nervous and feeling a bit horny at the same time! I guess it’s natural.
Finally, the flight monitor indicated that the flight from Hawaii had landed and that passengers were at the customs line. I was waiting right in front of the exit gate, standing behind the ubiquitous group of white-uniformed taxi drivers who were holding up cardboard placards with names of their guests written. Slowly, one by one, the passengers from Hawaii walked out into the bright Bangalore sun, shielded their eyes from the glare and searched for their respective receptions.
The taxi driver in front of me was chatting with his colleague next to him about his wife. He was saying, “What can I do, brother? She just cannot be satisfied every night. I feel she’s draining me out!”
To this, his colleague replied, “You want some help, brother?” and winked and they both burst out laughing. I cringed at the crassness of their conversation, but couldn’t help overhearing it. The first driver continued, “If anyone, ANYONE, mentions the S-word again, I’ll kill them personally!” and they both started guffawing heartily. I just figured that the guy was totally and completely asexual and pitied his wife.
Just then, in the throng of the crowd, I saw her! There she was! Graceful and beautiful and as sexy as ever – wearing her favorite yellow tank top over a flowery knee-length skirt that flowed all around her. Her face was the embodiment of all the love and lust in the world – the high cheekbones, the sexy blue-green eyes, the straight black hair that fell in small fluffy curls just below her shoulder, those petite hips, those firm breasts, those long beautiful eyelashes, oh, I was so much in love!
She looked around her, scanning my waiting crowd from her moving crowd, looking for me, searching for the face of her lover. I waved my hand frantically and called her name out, “Yuuuuuuuuu Suuuuuuuuuuuuk!”
I started running towards her in slow motion. The crowd around me dissolved into fields of poppies, with butterflies fluttering around, the sun shining down with it’s golden rays dripping with love, drenching the two of us in that moment of ecstasy. Her face broke into a beautiful smile as she saw me and she ran towards me in slow motion, through our very own field of poppies. I held out my arms to embrace her, and she held out her arms to run into mine. At that moment, I felt something hard hit me on the back of my head and I tripped over myself and fell face-down on the hard concrete floor of the airport. The field of poppies and the butterflies disappeared and I could just see dazed stars all around me for a few moments.
I was aware of distinct voices – one angry and one concerned – around me. I looked up and saw Yu suk arguing with a taxi driver. It was the guy who was standing in front of me, discussing his wife. I sat up and rubbed the back of my head and saw an old but heavy boot lying next to me. He had thrown a boot at me! That bastard!
“Hey!” I cried standing up. “What the fuck were you thinking throwing shoes at people?” I geared up for a fight.
“You bastard!” he cried. “You abused me verbally!”
I was confused. “Eh, what? When did I do that? Stop talking nonsense!”
“Shut up, you punk! You said, ‘You Suck!’ so loudly that the whole bloody airport heard it!”
So, thus began a hatred, rooted in mis-communication, that spanned the better half of the next decade – a decade that involved a lot of stalking, prank calls, threatening calls and three trips to the police station and one to the hospital. It got so bad that the cops finally had to request me to stop beating him up every time I saw him. I reluctantly agreed and made a deal with the bastard – I’d leave him alone if he accepted that it wasn’t my fault to begin with. He was lying with three broken bones in the hospital bed, covered in bandages from head to toe, when he agreed. I could see hatred in his eyes.
It’s been four years since I’ve heard from him or seen him, and recently, I think I scratched his car by mistake while I was parking my bike near my office. I did not notice the number of the car, but I am damn sure it was him, because when I came back after work, my bike wouldn’t start – there were sugar lumps in the petrol tank and both my tires were flat.
I began noticing his car everywhere I went – the bastard is stalking me! I think it’s time I remind him who the better man is. I think it’s time for him to visit the hospital again. :D
Moral of the story: Do not believe everything you read on MirrorCracked.
Open Question: If a love bite is called ‘hickey,’ what’s a love scratch called?