Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

candlelight dinnerShe wore a very pretty, pink, long-sleeved sweater that hugged her body and showed off her curves quite well. Her jeans were a couple of sizes too small, which was perfect for me, for obvious aesthetic reasons. She walked towards me from across the crowded bar, with a lovely smile on her lips – blood-red lips that broke into an easy smile that wrinkled the corners of her hazel eyes and made her look that much more beautiful. She was a little under 5’10” tall, and easily one of the tallest women in the room.

She moved with a graceful, relaxed-yet-sexy walk, with her brown-streaked curls bouncing up and down with each step she took. She walked over to me, her smile widened as I stood up and hugged her tightly for a couple of seconds, and held out a chair for her. My fingers deliberately brushed her shoulders and her waist as I helped her into her seat, leaving no doubts in her mind what my intentions were.

“A gentleman,” she said. “You guys are hard to find these days.”

Her voice was sweetness personified.The lilting tones put my head into overdrive and even before I could say anything, I felt a stirring in my loins, an almost animalistic urge to pounce on her and take her roughly, right there in the crowded bar.

I smiled my best smile and said, “Then I’m glad you found me.”

We spoke of this and that, made small talk, and flirted quite a bit. I think my best line was, “I wish I knew Braille.” Since it was a blind date,  she got my meaning, and blushed deeply. Her lovely face turned bright crimson when I said it. We ordered a couple of drinks and a bite to eat. I reached my hand over to hers and held it there for a few minutes. She didn’t retract her hand. Instead, she locked her fingers between mine and we sat there, looking into each others’ eyes. Was this love at first sight? Was I really doing this? Meeting this beautiful woman, holding her hand, looking into her eyes and steadily falling in love?

The waiter handed me the bill, and just as I was about to pay, she reached over and snatched the bill away from me.

“I’m paying,” she said with a sweet smile.

I couldn’t react because I had seen something that had sent a shiver down my spine and in an instant, filled my very soul with terror. I wish I hadn’t seen it and I hoped I had imagined it, but I knew it was wishful thinking. I had seen the most terrifying sight that threatened to make me into a sniveling coward.

“Uh,” I said. “Look, I – I have to go. I am running late for a meeting.”

She stared at me coldly, stunned, unable to comprehend. Even before she recovered, I stood up, hastily threw down some money on the table and muttered something about it being my treat, stammered an apology and like a fool, I stumbled out of the bar and ran for my life. I did not take a cab, I did not even bother looking for my bike that I had parked close  by. I ran the three blocks to my house, in full sprint, not looking back. I was scared and I was not going to stop until I reached home.

After what seemed like an eternity, I reached my front door, out of breath and wheezing heavily. I rang the doorbell and almost collapsed into my roommate’s arms. Being one of my closest friends, he was obviously shocked and worried. He helped me into the chair, gave me some water and helped me calm myself down. My kid sister, who was also home, came out of the room and stared at me. I looked a total mess. They asked me what happened and demanded an explanation. They even offered to call the cops, thinking I had been mugged.

“No, don’t call the cops. They won’t be able to do anything,”  I managed to say between deep breaths.

“Nikhil, you’re scaring me,” said my sister. “What happened!?”

I looked into their faces – my sister and my best friend – anxiously looking at me, and waiting for an explanation. So, I told them my story about how I had met the perfect woman, the wonderful time we had had, the drinks and the dinner and the conversations. Then I reached the point of the story where the bill arrived and she had reached out to snatch it from my hand.

“What happened? Why did you run when she took the bill??” asked my roommate.

“Dude,” I said. “She had body hair!”

***

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Twenty-Four Hours

If  you knew that you had only twenty-fours hours more to live, what are the things you would do?

I know it’s a morbid question, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since I heard about the guy who died three days back. Well, he was a guy in the prime of his life, much like I am, and he was on his way to work thinking, I’m sure, of all the little nuances we think about when we drive to work – the meetings we have planned, the way things are headed, last night’s dinner, the last person we had sex with, whether or not to buy the new phone, whether or not you can trust these online dating sites, whether or not its time to get the car serviced, etc. Out of the blue, he hit a particularly nasty pothole, lost control of his motorcycle, got thrown in front of a speeding bus on the opposite lane. I shudder when I imagine that it could happen to anyone.

So, to occupy my free time these past two days (and I seem to have a lot of free time), I’ve been making a list of all things I would do if someone told me that I had only 24 hours to live. It’s sort of a bucket list, but not exactly. It’s more of a death-row wishlist.

I would probably start off my last day alive with a hearty breakfast without any stops, without any of the usual healthy crap. I would stuff myself to my heart’s content and head out to get some action. I would probably sleep around all day with different women, and in the evening, drive up to a beach and drink some cold beer, watching the sun set. I would end it all by walking out to the sea and start swimming towards the horizon.

But that’s just me.

I’m sure you can think of a lot of better things to do than having a lot of unprotected sex on your last day alive. Anything interesting that you care to share? Free beer for the best one, if you’re a guy. Free date with me, if you’re a chick.

The City Of No Goodbyes

Warning: This post contains language and description not suitable for minors. Please proceed only if you are above 18 years of age. MirrorCracked and it’s author do not take responsibility for the consequences of ignoring this legally-required warning.

Author’s Note: I wrote this a while back, for someone special, who appeared fleetingly into my life and left an indelible mark. This one’s for you, and no one else. I hate time, distance and all those other Physics 101 terms!

I could feel the stress coursing through my every muscle as I rode my bike back home through never-ending traffic, monstrous trucks belching black fumes of smoke right at my face and millions of people running around on the roads, darting in between the rushing cars and bikes and trucks without, it seemed, a care in the world. I had had enough. I was burnt out and I could feel it – with every breath and every heartbeat. My arms ached as I finally pushed the bike up the incline to my house and parked it beneath the awning. I stood back, stretched my back and burst out laughing.

There was a reason I laughed out that day. It wasn’t very profound; strange, rather. I knew I would quit my job. I had made my mind up on the ride back home and I had had enough of being a needle in a haystack. I had had enough of being a software developer in a country filled with so many software developers that someone had once that if you throw a stone into a crowd in India, you either hit a stray dog or a software developer. I had had enough. I was burnt out and I wanted out.

I took a long, hot shower and washed the grime off my body and stood there under the running water, leaning against the wall and contemplated what I’d do. It was seven in the evening on a Friday and I wanted to unwind. Making my decision, I put on a tee shirt and a pair of jeans and hailed a cab.

“Sports bar, Colaba,” I said and leaned back against the soft leather seats, feeling the air-conditioner blasting on my face and closed my eyes with a blissful smile on my face.

I saw her standing at the other end of the bar, nursing a beer and talking to a few friends. The sports bar in Colaba has a corner where people can play mock basketball and make fools of themselves, and I preferred the more mature game of billiards. A beer in my hand and some spare betting cash can go long way in making a good evening better. I had just won my third table in a row, when I noticed her standing there. She was wearing a white dress that came up to her knees, billowing around them, and I couldn’t help but notice her long legs and the pretty white shoes she wore. As I took my gaze up, I noticed her perfect body, the firm breasts, the slender neck, her heart-shaped mouth, her long lashes and her long straight hair that came up to her shoulders and did a poor job of hiding her smile – the smile that even from that distance, made me want to reciprocate.

It is said that we are all born with a sixth sense, and that we can actually sense someone’s gaze on us. Even in that crowded bar, even amidst the noise and the soccer cheers and the crazy yahoos, she sensed my gaze and turned to me. I stood there, leaning on my cue stick and holding the beer in my hand, and smiled at her. What happened next remains, to this day, my most memorable memory of the city that never sleeps.

It was back at my place, at eleven in the night, when we first kissed. Her lips were on to mine in mid-sentence and there were no awkward pauses and no drum-roll as we drew closer, unbeknownst to each other. Her wet, tender lips were crushing against my rough ones, frantically trying to accomplish something in a savage battle for dominance, her tongue found mine with scary ease and wrestled savagely for the same unsettling prize. We were sitting on the couch, my hands in her hair, hers on my face and we kissed long and hard, and with no apparent end to the lip wrestling in sight, we groped for each other‘s clothes. I struggled out of my shirt, and she, out of her dress, while still kissing with a kind of otherworldly passion.

I managed to get out of my shirt and I fumbled with her brassiere. I unclasped it with one hand while fighting her panties with the other. Her hands found my trousers and forced them down. I broke contact with her lips and traced my way to her neck, still kissing and licking and sucking on the sweet, soft skin and she moaned with pleasure. She threw her head back and moaned louder as I cupped her breast with my hand and kissed her gently on the nipple. I could feel it harden in my mouth as I nibbled on them softly. She screamed in pure pleasure as I bit down hard and gripped my hair and tugged on them.

I entered her in one swift motion and she gasped. She looked into my eyes and I, into hers and we began a slow rhythmic dance of carnal proportions, with gasps, moans and screams. We picked up momentum and soon we were hurtling along the tunnel of desire at breakneck speed and burst through the clouds of mist and emerged into the bright sunlit skies of satisfaction. We lay back on the couch, thoroughly spent, sweating and exhausted. She nestled her head under my chin and I could smell her sweet shampoo mixed with my coarse deodorant. Her hands closed around mine and we fell asleep there, on the couch, just as midnight struck the sensual city.

“Let’s not say goodbye to each other,” she whispered as she went to sleep. “Ever.”

Two weeks later, when I had to leave Mumbai for the last time and move back to my home town, I called her. She never answered. To this day, I wondered whether if I had stayed back there, I would have had the chance to do something about this woman who had come into my life in a whirlwind of passion and shown me the best two weeks of my life, and disappeared without saying goodbye. I wondered about all the things that we had talked about and about all the things we didn’t. I most vividly remembered the nights of intense passion, where we would turn into animals and feast on each other until we were both thoroughly satisfied. I wondered if she missed me.

To this day, we haven’t said goodbye. Yet.

The Yamaha Enema

Reshaped Hip BoneTake my advice – if you have to travel for more than 3 miles inside the city of Bangalore, do not – I repeat – do not ride pillion on a Yamaha bike. Its been three hours since I’ve gotten off the bike after a 15-mile ride and I’m still walking slowly with my legs wide apart, wincing at every step and groaning at every fart.

I woke up at my friend’s place after an awkward evening with some close friends and my ex girlfriend. See what I mean by awkward? We ignored each other thoroughly (it was surprisingly easy to do) and spent the evening at opposite corners of the room, making conversations with common friends and our scotch glasses alternatively. I am usually very comfortable in social situations, but in this case, I was surprised we didn’t kill each other with blunt objects. It was a bad break-up and yes, you guessed right. It was one of the many reasons why I haven’t blogged in a while. Some people are hard to get over in life, and with the kind of history we’d shared, trying to forget this woman was particularly hard. But I’m glad it’s over and I’m glad the hate has trickled out of me to be replaced with the warmth of indifference. 🙂

Anyway, I digress. I woke up in the morning in my friend’s place and took an auto home, showered, shaved, put on some underwear and went out again. This time to the bank. After which, for some unknown sin of mine, my ass was subjected to torture the likes of which Guantanamo Bay has never seen before.

I was riding pillion on a friend’s bike – I was sitting on a bike after a good two-month break and it felt strange, alien. We had an hour’s journey ahead of us and I managed quite well, with minimal squirming. Each speed-breaker was a gift from heaven as I could jump up with the bike and shift my buttocks a bit to ease the gnawing pain. Once we reached our destination, we got some work done and headed back. One more hour’s ride in Bangalore traffic. My ass died a painful death. I’m lying on my stomach while typing this.

I got off the bike on reaching home, held my legs apart and felt the blood rushing into my ass-cheeks and the soft tissue just above the knee (I don’t know what this part of the body is called). My hipbone had undergone a major structural realignment and it is now shaped like a bike seat. Refer to the image for a better understanding.

So, I’m here at home, on my tummy, waiting for the world’s greatest woman to come online and dreaming of perfectly-shaped hipbones. Sigh.

Image Courtesy: Secret Government Labs. I can tell you but then I’ll have to kill you.

Five Questions And A Domain

mirrorcrackedA week ago, after a heavy meal, I was sitting on the pot and contemplating the evolution of snowmen, when I had a thought – I decided to take the plunge and get my own domain. With Joel guiding me every step of the way, literally telling me where to click and what to type, I purchased MirrorCracked and set up a hosting on SurpassHosting. I was so excited yesterday that I printed out the URL in big bold letters and stuck it in my cubicle! I plan to migrate to that domain pretty soon, once I get the hang of it.  It’s quite a pain to install themes and plugins and all that shit.

It’s funny how I started and ended the last paragraph on a shitty note.

Anyway, back to the main purpose of this post. I’m a well-known tag killer, as many people have realized the hard way over the past months. I frown upon being tagged and I hardly do any tags, because I usually have a backlog of posts going up to 10 to even 15 drafts at times – posts waiting to get published. On busy days, I log in, go to my drafts, pick a post and hit the publish button. In the midst of all this, Apar came up and requested an interview.

Ok, ok. I literally begged for it. She was grateful enough to spend a lot of time in thinking of questions for me, and today, at 7:19 pm, just like a Nadal forehand, slapped the questions on to me. I felt obligated to answer them immediately lest I forget.

1. Do you always choose matchboxes which are larger than your cigarette boxes?

Bigger Matches

Interesting history to this question. I think the image would explain better. I was desperate for a smoke and I did not have a matchbox/lighter on me. It’s very frustrating to be stuck with a lot of cigarettes and nothing to light them with. And a ridiculously huge pack of Home Lites matches was the best that Spencers was able to offer me. Sigh.

So, to answer the question, I’d have to say anything goes for me. Big or small, as long as the thing burns, I’m happy. But, of course, I prefer hot women to larger matches.

2. Where do you get your sense of humor from?

I wish I knew. I don’t even know if I have one. There was a time in my life when I was strung up by my underwear, from a rusty nail on the wall, and slapped around by my headmistress for calling her a fat moron. I guess that traumatized me enough to treat everything around me with a sense of awe-struck indifference.

3. How many personalities do you possess apart from the “God” persona?!

Ah, this is an interesting one. No one believes me when I say that I’m God. They think it’s either just a phase in life that people go through believing they’re divine or that I’m plain crazy. Denial will only fuel the fire, so I’ll refrain from making any sort of comment. I’m God. Period.

4. Since you claim to be God, what does nirvana mean to you?

Something that smells like teen spirit and tastes like beer. You know what I mean?

5. Beer on the dance floor or wine on the beach? (options do not include “both”)

Beer. Any day. Anywhere. Any time. Any mode of consumption. Any amount. I hate wine.

Beers, Laughs and WordPress Themes!

Thursday night was a blur – it was May 1st, Labor Day, and I was working hard in office till almost 8 pm. If that wasn’t ironic enough, then try this: I had to attend a press conference the next day and I was supposed to go in complete formal wear and be on my best behavior – so, I got drunk that night, celebrating Labor Day and went to the press conference in an unpressed shirt and carrying a mega-hangover! I know a lot of people will read this and judge me and call me an irresponsible jerk who doesn’t deserve to be employed, but in my defense, I didn’t plan on getting drunk and I don’t have formal wear! I wonder if this argument will hold up in court or if I’ll be thrown in a mental asylum to be evaluated. Hmm… 😀

Anyway, that night, I met Rags and Panday – two of my closest friends – and we went to this place called Tavern. The place was quite empty when we reached at 8.30 pm and by the time we ordered the second pitcher of cold draught, the place was overflowing and the music drowned our voices. We laughed and laughed and remembered all the strange things that have happened to each one of us, and wished time could stand still…

By the end of the night, this is how we looked:

Rags looked quite sane because all she drank was two mugs, constantly being paranoid about her health cehck-up as part of the Australian Visa thingy! And Panday is a regular fish-tank when it comes to booze, and we both gulped down most of it. I felt so buzzed that I decided to change my wordpress theme!!!

Ok, here’s where logic is thrown out of the window. I was high on alcohol and in that dazed state of mind, I realized that my wordpress theme looked gay-ish. 😀

I’d better change it!! So, here’s the effect! A new theme that’s here to stay, hopefully as long as my old, faithful Light did.

Akhil and Chucks, if you both are reading this, then we missed you both big time!

Cheers!!! 😀

Hangover!

For almost three minutes after I opened my eyes, I didn’t know where I was. I was confused and my head was spinning. I looked around me and didn’t recognize the room where I was sleeping. My arms and legs felt strangely numb and there was a strange metallic taste in my mouth. I realized I was thirsty. Extremely thirsty. The morning light was seeping through the curtains and I could see a bottle next to my bed. I drank the water and felt a bit better. The headache reduced a notch, but was still persistent enough to make me nauseous. Then, slowly and intricately, I began to recollect the events of last night.

I had driven up to my friend’s place at around nine in the night and we had been thrilled at the seeing each other again after a long time. He was still working in the same company where I had been and where I had met him a year and a half ago. We reminisced about old times and decided to drink to our good health.

“Just one beer,” I said. “No more.”

“Sure, buddy,” he said.

One beer, two beers and three vodkas later, I was numb and ready to pass out. I’ve never been drunk in my life before, and this was the closest I could come. We ate egg curry at two in the morning and promptly fell asleep in a drunken stupor.

My first hangover and my best one yet – the whole day passed by in a haze and in slow motion. Around evening, the headaches finally stopped and it felt good. I vowed never to get hung over again. There’re a couple of parties lined up this week. I wonder… 😀