Masti--the fully faltu way

       “Faster, faster you thicko,” I screamed with increasing loudness till I reached the finishing line of my vocal cords.

       “It’s a bike, not a scooty. I also have to change the gears,” retorted Pranay.

       “Then do it.”

       We sped through the narrow lane with people, in the government quarters on either side of the lane, gazing at us. Our éclat heightened due to the monotonous yet crowd attracting ‘music’ that followed us…. the police sirens. The PCR was hot on our trail and it kind of gave the fleeting feeling of us being some ‘Dhoom 5’ antagonists eluding cops. Only, our crime paled in comparision to that of any super-thief. Its sometimes fun to break traffic laws, but to violate them with a PCR nearby-that’s so very uncool (and irritating too, courtesy of the sirens).    

       “Are you sure you can give them the slip?” I asked, a bit nervously.

       “Relax. You worry more than those daily-soap actresses. Just see how calm I am,” he replied.

       “Then why are you sweating so very profusely?” I said in a rather pestering tone.

       “Perspiration brings out the dedication. You understand, de-di-ca-tion.”

       “No, it rather brings out the I-didn’t-shower-for-a-week-tion.”

       He gave a corner of the eye look in the rear view mirror, which was obviously intended for me. Then he went on, “The cops of 11 countries are searching the whereabouts of this Don…”

       “Why? Did you smuggle some of that life-threatening sweat into those countries?” was what I wanted to say, but rather satisfied myself with “Don-ald Duck, you mean?”

       Another ‘eye-attack’ reflected from the mirror, this one slightly more intense. But I was not the least interested in the attacks, leave alone countering them (another reason might be my amateurship in this ‘optical warfare’). Only 10 minutes ago the PCR was following four bikes with the 8 of us (Yeah! whenever we break rules, we do it in a group). Its not that my friends are the traitor kind (this wasn’t the girl-staring time), but the wise guy sitting in front of me had dispatched the ‘brilliant’ idea of splitting up. Little did he know that this bravado would boomerang back to him. 

       Probability was my most despicable subject in high school. I barely touched the topic at all. And now, after so many months, it finally had vengeance, thrusting the odds against me.

       Inertia threw away my thoughts, as Pranay took a sharp left, doffing the narrow lane behind and bringing us to the Market road alongside I.G. Park. The PCR did not show any signs of losing interest in us.

       “Damn, we just disobeyed a traffic light. Is that such a serious offence in Bhubaneshwar?” I complained. Then suddenly, my memory brought to my notice the old habits of my friend, and I added, “Unless someone has provided them with some really good reasons to get pissed off.”

       “I didn’t do anything this time. I swear,” Pranay replied. “well…unless you consider making faces included in those really good reasons.”

       “You what?” I shouted, stunned. “How could you make faces to a police officer! That too after violating a traffic rullll….wow! She’s pretty. No. She’s far better than pretty,” my tone metamorphosed into one of its most soothing avatars.

       The girl in the blue salwar kameez was enough captivating to make me, infact anyone, forget about the PCR, the speed and the tension (well, in fact the whole world).

       “Who? Where?” cried out Pranay.

       “Shut up and focus on the bike,” I replied nonchalantly. My head rotated involuntarily as we passed her, and my eyes announced an indefinite strike from blinking. She gave a look of surprise on seeing the PCR behind us, but hey, at least she looked at me. That one glance was enough to bring out the flood of feelings, which always awoke whenever I observed any member of the ‘beutiful gal’ specis (Damn! Just remembering that face brings my writing into chaos. Forget her! Forget her!). However, when my head had almost reached its limits of rotation, I could see the PCR closer than ever.

       “Dude, you really need to do something fast. They are catching up on us. This speed won’t do.” I patted Pranay.

       “Ahh…now you remember me. Enjoying scenery in the back seat while I do the donkeywork. Why don’t you call your Miss Pretty to your rescue?”

       “If she were with me, her charming face would have definitely persuaded the police to spare me. But damn my cursed luck she isn’t with me…you are! And since your face isn’t up to that mark, your bike-riding skills better be.”

       He smiled. “Don’t worry. We are near Master Canteen. This is my area. I know it like the back of my hand. No one can get me here.”

       In the next 10 minutes, Pranay took us through lanes and alleys, which I didn’t know had existed before. Some lefts mingled with some rights and lo! The PCR could neither be seen nor heard however hard I tried. I must confess my jealousy towards him. His knowledge of the roads of Bhubaneshwar was unmatched. And no matter how much anyone beleaguered him, no one could ever question his motorcycle adroitness (or his friendship!).

       Having successfully thrown the PCR off our trail, we headed for the decided rendezvous spot. The others were waiting for us there. As Pranay was parking his bike, Plaban queried, “What took you so long? We have been waiting here for centuries.”

       “That’s because you were lucky enough to get a clean path, while we were the ones taking the heat.” I replied.

       He shrugged his shoulders and left way for me to stride to the others. He was tall and swarthy, with a face which somewhat resembled Morgan Freeman, only a lot more…uhhh …cute (well, no other word would have described better. I, myself hate using this word…makes me sound so very girly).

       “Well, when luck favours even the impossible gives a ‘clear path’ and this time it did favour us over you two,” said an insouciant Sujit, and added “My uncle, the head chef of ‘Tempting Taste’, was once preparing a cuisine for some special guests of the manager. He failed to notice the cockroach that fell in to the pressure cooker, along with the lizard chasing it. The dish was served along with the dead insects, and yet, he was promoted to his present post of head chef.”

       “The manager wanted revenge on his guests?” I asked, puzzled.

       “Nope. The special guests turned out to be a Chinese couple. They in fact, praised him for the special ‘insect toppings’ and recommended him for the post of the head chef.”

       “Yuck!” I grimaced.

       “Luck!” he replied, aping my countenance.

       “Luck it is,” I acceded, and turning to Suman asked, “Is the table reserved?”

       “Yup,” he replied. “You don’t expect any errs in my birthday treat. He he he.”

       “I hope you didn’t forget about the ‘Saheed Nagar Don’ while making the reservation.’ I said, trying hard to ignore the irritating ‘he he’s in the end.

       “There’s no way I can forget Abhijit. I have even called him and he told me he’s on his way. Told you, no errs in my birthday treat.”

       “It’s my birthday too,” butted in Pranay.

       “Sure it is,” I said. “Let’s go.”  

Past Prevented

            It was just another Sunday morning and I badly wanted a cup of coffee, but as I neither had the ingredients nor the cooking equipment, I decided to give up. It was raining cats and dogs and the downpour was so heavy that it seemed that the sky would crash down. Then I began rummaging for some biscuits instead. But luck was in no mood to avail me some. So I decided to dare the rain god and bare the extreme weather for my ‘Sunday lifeline’-my coffee. I cloaked myself in my armour-the raincoat, took a hundred rupees note from dad’s shirt pocket and stepped out of the front door into the rainy realm.

            We had recently shifted to this new locality and my mom, an ardent gossip devotee, had in a week gathered more information about it than what the CIA ever could. She had yesterday told me about the small market place towards west, and that was what I fixed as my destination. The houses on either side of the road were huge but were also obsolete and dilapidated. I, for the first time, felt proud of our small, yet trendy dwelling.

            I could not have dragged myself more than 50 yards, humming my favourite tunes when I thought I heard something. I directed all my focus to my ears and – yes, there was something. It sounded more like the roar of a machine than anything human. I withdrew all the focus from my ears and pumped them into my eyes. It was difficult to trace out anything in the blurry atmosphere but then I saw lights-a pair of them and knowledge pinched me of the approaching object. The sudden blaring noise of horns cleared all my doubts, and along with them, my wits. I froze cold in front of the speeding car, my feet scared to numbness.

            In my presumed end moments something happened. I couldn’t perceive it cause it was too fast for my mind to interpret. The next thing I saw was myself lying on the sidewalk. I could hear the nefarious vehicle speed away. I checked my body for wounds. There were none.

            It was then I saw him, that hefty figure standing besides me. He was wearing a raincoat darker than my brown one. He was tall, about 6 feet, with blue eyes that kind of sparkled even in the poorly lit environment. He gave me one calm glance and began walking away. After gaining triumph over my confused self, I pursued him. He did not seem to hear my calls and kept striding in a nonchalant fashion into the respectably large maroon-painted abode, which lay in front of us. Without emitting any response he went through the front door. I paused for a while, but then, seeing that he did not shut the door behind him, I scooped the liberty of following him into the house.

            The interiors of the house were just too captivating. I had never before seen such a proportionate blend of antiquity and modern artistry in any of the interior designing magazines, which I quite admirably followed. The drawing room walls boasted of a vibrant blue shade studded with the best jewels of painted art. The sleek furniture design with its intricate carvings could embarrass any super-model of her figure. I was so lost in this inanimate beauty that the purpose of visiting this ‘Art-house’ slipped from my mind.

“Good ones, aren’t they?” A sudden mild voice tore through my thoughts. I turned around and saw my savior leaning by the wall besides the front door. His face still bore the super calm look and I couldn’t perceive any trace of curvature on his lips. But I could definitely see the smile in his eyes-eyes satiated with the feeling of saving someone.

            I opened my mouth but before the words could flow, his voice cut me short.

“Tea?” he asked.

 “I would prefer some coffee instead,” I replied.

            He smiled and went inside while I busied myself with portrait admiration. I turned my eyeballs to every possible direction with the sole intention of savouring as much art as I could. A bronze statue of an armoured knight drew my attention. I walked towards it throwing glances that would have made any young girl feel uncomfortable.

 “The mid-ages’ knight. My personal favourite among this collection.”

 I turned around and saw my life-giver extending a cup of dark brown liquid towards me. I accepted the coffee with a smile of gratitude, which wasn’t only intended for the coffee. Then he gestured me towards the sofa and I plunged into the soft cushions. He made himself comfortable in the armchair.

 “Are you still in the army?” I asked.

            He gave me a puzzled look. “How did you…” he murmured, but this time I cut him short, that too only by pointing towards the small photo frame above the fireplace. It housed a black and white photograph of a man saluting in an army uniform.

He smiled. “Smart,” he said in a tone of admiration. I gave a smile of self-satisfaction at having shown my detective skills to an army man.

            “No, I am retired,” he replied, slowly sipping his coffee.

            “You seem to have a liking towards the medieval ages,” I said. “Most of the portraits and statues here represent that period.”

            He laughed mildly. “You are a good observer, kid. Hmmm I am fond of that era and craftwork depicting it-was perhaps the time exuding the most unblemished loyalty and honour. Such honour is rare in today’s world. Only witnessed sometimes in the battlefield. For an ex-soldier, these are what gift him the momentary emotions of battleground pride and sacrifice.”        

“Well history repeats itself. That same honour is bound to reappear sometime in the future,” I said, trying to act philosophical before the army man.

            For the next 20 minutes we limited our conversation to cricket and politics only.

I always tried to further in views in a debating tone but his serene words would always triumph over my arguments. I kind of felt jealous of his cool attitude. After having finished my coffee I took leave and walked towards the door. I paused on reaching it, smiled, and turned around. “I absolutely forgot in your hospitality sir. Thank you for saving my life,” I said.

            “And not for the coffee?” he said, his face still in its innate smiling guise. 

            “Also for the coffee.” I laughed.

            I began striding towards the street through the cemented lawn way. I was halfway when I heard his voice. “Hey kid.”

            I turned and saw him smiling even more.

 “It’s sometimes better if the past doesn’t recur.” He winked and without elucidating, closed the front door of his abode leaving a semi-confused me.

            After returning home, I narrated the entire incident to mom and dad. To my utter disbelief they started laughing, in a fashion, which would have made the mythological demons renounce their distinguished reputation. After moments of unexplained hysterical guffawing, my dad finally said, “Nice one son. Heard a lot of your sympathy-drawing fiction after you take money from my pocket but this is the best one till date. The only mistake you made is that you chose the wrong house. The maroon-coloured house you are talking about belonged to Mr.…sorry…late Mr. Rahul Rathod, an ex-Army Captain, who, quite unfortunately, died 5 months ago, in a car accident just in front of his house.”