Pleasant Wednesday night. The bus rumbles on the giant freeway that is Mount Road, inviting wafts of breeze potent enough to disorient my hair (Yes, it's grown back alright, after this escapade. I am glad to say I've gotten back to using a comb since the past week). I point my gaze towards the biker speeding past my M7 bound for Thiruvanmiyur. He's clad in a T-shirt that says 'Drive like you've stolen it'. Three seconds later, he's flown out of sight like a jet. So have the past 365 days. It's exactly a year since I bade goodbye to college life. I've come across a few extraordinary people while I was on campus. And bus journeys like these spanning an hour or so provide just the right amount of time for me to reflect on the happenings, particularly specific incidents when I was made to look like a joker with rotten eggs spattered all over my face.
*****
September 2007. I've just ordered a Shikanji at Skylab and taken my usual place under the usual tree, looking for the usual dog that haunts the joint for crumbs. I look around me, and spot The Samurai beckoning towards me. I seat myself beside her, and indulge in smalltalk for a few minutes before she decides to deviate to a more interesting topic, although in good time it would retrograde into something that might have made a lot of people raise their eyebrows everytime I walked past.
The Samurai : You know, sometimes I think I love sloth. What a vetti sem da! I mean, look at all the movies I get to watch and not feel an ounce guilty about not having to study! That's psenti-sem life, in a nutshell!
I nod my head in reply. Aah, of course. Sloth. I tell her about my latest blog post, where I've conveniently listed my activities for the world to read and envy. The conversation continues.
The Samurai - You know, given the choice of a Deadly Sin to bring about my death, I'd probably pick sloth!
"Ahem, really? I don't think I'd choose sloth if I were you..."
"You wouldn't? Which one, then?"
Me: (without waiting for the next millisecond to end) Gluttony...!
Looking back, that was when I thought the engine caught fire. I should have just shut up and let things be right where they were, but no, I had to say it. What was at the tip of my tongue had to be spat out...
"...or you know, lust wouldn't be such a bad thing to die of...."
The Samurai stares at me. Blinks to check if she's heard right. Lust, I'd just said.
The bout of laughter that follows turns quite a number of heads. And when she comes to, she gives me a sorry look.
"But you're incapable of lust!"
Sheesh. While such candid statements put you in the good books of any onlooking 45 year old woman who's looking for a nice, home-grown, incapable-of-nefarious-activities-match for her daughter, it is downright insulting coming from a woman who's your age. I choke on the Shikanji and cough for the next five minutes, and tell her that I need to fix an appointment with the physician, excuse myself and leave.
*****
October 2007. The cultural festival is here. My best friend and advisor the Pharaoh (who, by the way, can be found here) is in the room giving me company by helping me tick all those movies off my still-to-watch list. It's Scent of a Woman tonight. We watch the blind Al Pacino doing one of his masterful dance moves, taking out any visible trace of effort. Flawless swings. Our jaws drop. After the movie, the Pharaoh reminds me of the Salsa Workshop, and tempts me to venture into something bold and daring, by asking Violet out for a dance.
It takes me three walks around the hostel to make up my mind. I nervously dial a number which I've never dialled before. 10 rings and out. The bird's not near the phone. Ah, this makes things much simpler. I leave a message. No reply for the next half an hour. And then the beep, or the kela as campus lingo goes. She's really sorry, she just got asked out by someone else. But she says that the Jam Queen is still not taken, and I could ask her. All the nervousness drains itself in a split second. I redial confidently this time, and mutter that it's okay. I later ask the Jam Queen out for the dance over a pre-arranged dinner, and she's gracious enough to say yes.
Turns out, the dance involves a lot of really complicated body maneuvers that would never have crossed my imagination. Nevertheless, it opens out into a real fun session, where couples start fabricating the moves to suit their respective body capabilities. The initial tension about the dance now non-existent, lots of jokes follow from my end in between all the dancing. And stories about last year's Salsa too, about how the Pharaoh had screwed up his face in concentration, making his lady copy the movements of the instructor precisely down to the last detail. The Jam Queen giggles, and mentions something about 10 pointers being the conformist type. Maybe the Pharaoh mind-read her. He made a 7.5 that sem.
Towards the end of the dance, the woman is supposed to nest herself in the man's arms at the sound of the last beat. So far things have gone off well. Yes, clumsy, but no major mishaps. Unlike last time. Subconsciously, I smile. This prompts a questioning look from the woman.
(Looking back, I should have said nothing and continued. But no, I had to say it. When things that are at the tip of my tongue...you get the drift)
I let slip that during the previous year's Salsa, Good-Golly-Miss-Molly had rammed into the floor, after my fresh and slippery hands had failed to grip on to her waist. That was it. The dance met with a premature end. I guess I should have held my tongue, but well. Where's the fun without a little screw-up!
*****
As I alight at Thiruvanmiyur, I snigger to myself. I am reminded of a couple of other instances that might make me stick my foot in my even bigger mouth, but they shall wait for another day.
Credits:
1. The Samurai, who I hope, has no longer any questions about my virility.
2. The Jam Queen and Good-Golly-Miss-Molly, with whom I've shared very clumsy, albeit awfully entertaining dances.
