Forever Untitled

For best results, he squeezed from the bottom and intended to flatten as he went up. An undecided amount of hair gel oozed out. Unsure, he rubbed it between his palms expecting blue foam but none formed. He wondered if it was adulterated but running his fingers through his hair proved otherwise. His hair now stood on their ends, “Rather like Tom administered an electric shock by Jerry,” he smiled. “Wow, these days disheveled just-out-of-the-bed look is hip. Strange are the ways of the world.” He looked at himself from toe to top. Newly purchased Reebok shoes, Levi’s faded jeans, red Nike t-shirt, L’Oreal hair gel and reek of Armani cologne. His branded appearance for one night was worth Rs. 15300, excluding taxes, parking fees and miscellaneous. He extended his hand forward, mimed lifting a palm and kissed the air. “Nikhil Arora. Would you like to dance with me?” Then the chivalrous tone changed to a more determined one. “I’ll show it to them, I’m not a loser.”

3 months ago, I would never have even dreamt that I, a habitual coconut oil splasher, plain or chequered shirt and formal trouser flaunting bumpkin, will one day even think of asking an unknown girl for a dance, one thing being constant in the transition that all I knew of the aforementioned art-form was raising an index finger out of fist and performing up and down in periodic motions. But as they say, when in Rome, act like Romans. Similarly, when in Mumbai, act suave and “For God’s sake, get a life.” Ouch, the multiple worded suffix by Aditya still salts and peppers the wounded emotions.

***

I ironed my lucky dress- plain cream colored full sleeved shirt and black Quadra pants. “I will get it,” I murmured words of encouragement to myself. Unlike my present colleagues, this habit of self-communication never bothered my parents. Now that I come to that, let me take a moment to tell you about them. My father was a Physics teacher at a not-so-prestigious college. The pay wasn’t much to boast about so we were, politely put; of meager means- not that it bothered me though. My mother was, as typical Indian post-marriage ladies go, a housewife, no, wait- a homemaker, the former supposedly being a derogatory term as I had realized during my stay in Mumbai. My life with them mostly involved expectations, me fulfilling them, and an oft-repeated quote- “If there’s someone who will bring the Arora name to limelight, its you, dear child.” See, I was the apple of their eye.

I smelt mom preparing my favorite kheer for me. The delicious aroma of vermicelli being roasted in pure ghee tickled the pleasure nerves in my nostrils, which, now when I think about it, fills me up with nose-talgia. Damn, I’ve been reading too much of the Page 3 nonsense. I covered my torn vest with the warmed shirt and headed towards the bedroom to wear the pants. That was all my house had. A straight path-which led from the main door, opening which you land straight on the street, to the bathroom, had the living room, the kitchen and the bedroom all to its left. I passed an idle glance while going towards the bedroom to my mom’s gourmet preparation. She seemed busy. As I came out, she had laid out on the floor my early lunch. “Tuck in, beta,” she smiled as she saw me and pressed holy ash on my forehead while muttering holy verses in an undertone, as was our before meal ritual. I obeyed.

“Okay mom, I’m leaving,” I said, wearing my black leather shoes polished the previous night, which I must confess, were wearing out from overuse.

“Wait,” she cried out from the kitchen and her puny frame skipped out with a spoonful of curd. “Best of luck. You’ll get it, I am sure of that. Love you, my child! Do well.” She blessed me as I touched her feet. She handed me a fifty- “Take a rickshaw today.” Before I could protest, her next words rendered me mute out of overwhelmed affection- “Now we can afford it.” The interview call from the Microsoft had changed it all. My parents had already started believing I was the next Bill Gates.

Sigh.

So much for their aspirations.