I was but a boy of 15 years, brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-faced and brawny-physiqued, staring wide-eyed into the great Indian dream of getting the best Indian education and then leaving the great Indian subcontinent for good; firstly, because there seemed to be no space left in this blessed place and I was literally tired of running into my clones four times a day(15 year old brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-faced and brawny-physiqued, dreamy boys with the same: percentage of marks, aptitude, achievements, caste-category, social-status, thought-process and future roadmap), and I swear, it was one of the worst things that could possibly happen to one’s well-fed ego, and the second thing was that being a socially-aware boy, I knew what was in store for me here- a life of balding and paunch-prominent babudom or wiry corporate servility, an arranged marriage to the highest bidder, dissemination of my genetic material adulterated with that of a person not of my choice, and then teaching my progeny to repeat this traditional and socially-respectable exercise. No sir, this is not what I was going to waste my youth for. Education- that I would acquire- but love; the future of that was bleak. You wonder why I should say so at the golden age of 15, but had you truly fallen in love at that age and also known that it never stood a chance, you would have known how I must have felt like. And since everything in my life has been about her ever since I have known of her existence, it is about her that I must now talk.
She was Indumati- like her name nothing short of the luminous moon. She was not my classmate, not my neighbour, not even my teacher. She was not an actress, a model, a singer or a sportswoman either. She was a writer; a very well-acclaimed one actually, and when she spoke, she’d leave even the most dim-witted in awe. She had all the virtues a woman could possibly have and virtues which no other woman could have. When it came to looks, her eyes were hypnotic and her mane silken and lustrous.  Many a heart were captured or broken when she nonchalantly flicked her luscious locks aside, and she did that quite often, much to widespread devastation. So what if she was 45 and a mother to triplets? So what if her triplets were older than me. What does love understand of all that? No, I did not suffer from Oedipus complex nor did I have any lascivious interests in her well-proportioned self. I loved her for her qualities which made her only more scintillating and seductive to my eyes. Oh yes, I did have plentiful thoughts of passion and romance but beneath the crude desires burnt the eternal flame of a faithful heart. The only problem between our union was that she was married while I was 15 and had more chances of being adopted by her than being taken as a lover. So I waited for Mother Nature to take her course and turn me into a man worthy of her, while I embarked on a journey to intellectually better myself. The boys of my class were astonished, the fragile vanity of the girls injured and my family much relieved when they noticed I had no interest in the opposite gender unlike most of my age. But did I care? I never have. So I continued to march ahead on my path to self-actualization while pining every nano-second for Indumati Nair.

If you are familiar with the Indian education system, you’d know scoring good marks is rather easy if you’re one of the three i) A great Indian mugger (Tut, tut. Not the robber, and not the heavily snouted freshwater crocodile either, I am talking of the variety that will tell you that light travels a distance of 299, 792, 458 meters every second in a vacuum. Yes, I too remember that, so you can call me a part-mugger as well) ii) A philomath – someone who studies for the love of it- not that common. iii) The early tutee: Someone who has been tutored forever for his planned career. It can start from any age: 13, 8, 4 or even -0.5. You have heard about Abhimanyu, right? While it is yet to be proven whether one can learn how to code or how to crack IIT in the womb, it does not mean that parents are not going to try that either. And if you miss that, you can always start at 4. The sooner, the better. And you’d have to be awfully out of sync with the current trends to not notice that.
Anyway, let’s come back to me because it’s all about Indumati and me in this story. I, my dear reader, had been a mixture of all three; 15% mugger, 30% bright,  40% an early-tutee and 15% everything else because there is no such thing as 100% productivity, and even by the laws of science some energy must always be lost to the environment. -These attributes ascertained that I had the potential to fulfill the first step of the great Indian dream that I had earlier agreed to. The desire to match my Indu’s great intellect further pushed me towards hard work and the ensuing success. Also, since Indumati was happily living with her triplets and Caucasian husband in the United States, this seemed to be the best way to make some use of my lovelorn existence-I mean, haven’t you guys seen those 50’s/60’s Indian flicks where the hero turns to academics, self-imposed seclusion, social work and a vow to embrace lifelong bachelorhood when his heroine marries someone else-  so, taking inspiration I first took a degree in Mechanical Engineering and then did an MBA with a specialization in finance, which honestly,  did not make sense at all, but that’s how things work in the typical professional world here- if you can make it to the best school, you take it, no matter whether it makes sense or not, no matter you give a darn or not. I have to admit, I quite enjoyed myself till my engineering but after my MBA I was as lost as Shri Hanuman was on the Dronagiri parvat searching for the Sanjivani buti. There was no suspense, no thrill left in my life, and of course no purpose. All I had to do was to go to my office, get most of my team do the work, make a grave face and take decisions on how and where to spend the money. I also had to try and not get distracted by the ample leg and curve display by other members of Indumati’s tribe, because determined though I may be, I am but a human and humans have hormones.
To avoid the occurrence of any profane thoughts, I thought it would be best to try doing something new but then the question was what that should be. And the art of thinking is something I have always lacked. After all, I never had to do any creative-thinking of my own because as I said earlier, my career choices were pre-decided and whatever I did to realize it was pure practice- that’s what science and mathematics is all about, or so I have always thought. Thankfully, I knew just what the most creative place to head to was – the Indian news channels! Trust me, they are more creative than the entire Bollywood, Tollywood, Mollywood and Tellywood put together. You don’t believe me? Let me tell you what I saw when I opened the news channel. The first thing I saw was a very catchy headline, “Pyaar me dhokha, raste par thoka”, which translates to “Cheated in love, bashed on the road”, followed by highly dramatic visuals of two young girls beating up a boy. Brilliant! I mean, are these news guys poets or what. The next headline was even better, “Do aliens come to drink cow’s milk? Watch carefully, it could be your cow too!” I was stumped! Like, even if it was absolutely ludicrous, it does take certain amount of creativity to come up with something like that.  Anyway, as I moved on to the next channel I got the biggest surprise of my life- It was Indumati! And on an Indian channel! It turned out that she was moving back to India and wanted to do something for the betterment of our nation. The news anchor talked about speculations of her possibly being offered a Rajya Sabha seat by the ruling party, but then that she did not talk about. And then another miracle happened- I got a brainwave about what I could do- it was to write, of course! Now you must wonder about my considering writing as an option when I have already admitted to having a significant lack of creativity. Well, but you don’t really need to be creative to be a good writer- what you need is experience and an MBA. Surprised? So was I, when my batch mate whose entire range of creative spectrum consisted of 13 ways of wooing the principal’s daughter, ended up becoming a best-selling author (Actually, it was 13 ways of doing something else, but since I am an exceptionally decent fellow, I am resorting to this euphemism, but I guess you get it) Those days you could see him judge dance shows, beauty contests and appear on political debates. No, I was not being jealous of his success, just that I have never been a supporter of mediocre talent, and in his case it’s even the lack of mediocrity. Why then was I thinking of doing so myself? While, I was scrupulous enough to admit that fiction was clearly not my forte, I absolutely had no problem with non-fiction. I could easily write a book on management or on mechanics or I could even write one on how to utilize the laws of mechanics in day to day life! Whoa! I never knew I could be so innovative! Was it because of Indumati’s auspicious darshan? Whatever the reason was, I was happy.

**********

It was just the beginning of spring and I was extraordinarily happy- Indumati was getting divorced. Her curly-locked, Caucasian husband who had shifted to India had been feeling home-sick. Some said that he was badly missing his hamburger to the point of depression, and you know we don’t eat beef in India, at least in the North. Some said he was allergic to the poop of Indian pigeons, and again that was something quite unavoidable, just like the pigeons themselves. You think I am making it up? Well, if not directly, dried pigeon poop is almost about everywhere where the pigeons are, mixed with the air so there’s no escape, or what another news channel said, and I don’t want to challenge them. That’s again not my forte. Talking about pigeons, there’s something remarkable about them. Nothing seems to get them. The sparrows disappear, so do the bees and even less likeable creatures like snakes, alligators and vultures, but the pigeons, oh no- it’s like they have determined to outlive everything. And well, I wouldn’t mind them as much had it not been for their poor pooping habits, but since it is getting rather disgusting discussing them, I must stop. Coming back to the divorce, a third news channel also said that Indumati’s husband was most likely experiencing inferiority complex because both men and women of all ages had been prostrating themselves at Indumati’s feet ever since she stepped on the Indian soil, while ignoring him completely. If we were to talk about him, apart from being a rather handsome man himself, he was also a well-acclaimed writer (which made sense why he was her husband after all!). But the fact is, things were so bad that once when a young and rather attractive young woman scaled the boundary wall of Indumati’s villa all to get an autograph, not only did she fail to recognize Indumati’s husband but also  mistook him for the butler and promptly demanded two mugs of  Bournvita while she chatted with an amused Indumati. While the poor fellow had eyes only for Indumati, this was a great insult to his literary talent and physical appearance. Of course, this is what a news channel said, and you know by now that I quite trust them. I mean why would you debate about something you have no clue about. That would be absolutely stupid, isn’t it? And then Indumati is actually quite popular here. She is literally everywhere- on the social media, on the news bulletins, in the literary circuits and in the party circuits. People want to sign her up for shampoo commercials and people want to sign her up for movies, her 19th book is also lined up and the news of the Rajya Sabha seat also turns out to be correct. Of course, not everyone likes her, a woman like that is bound to generate sentiments of jealousy and resentment, but no one can deny that she is simply unignorable. She is the storm that has not only swept my life but also the nation.
She is now 60, and I, 30, but that has not changed a thing. If only time has done anything, it has increased my resolve to seal my love and make her mine. And as the great romantics have said, a corporal union is not everything and I know that my spirit has and shall always belong to Indumati, although I don’t mind the corporal thing either!

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You know I might manage to get Indumati after all! My book is almost done. In fact, a top publishing house has agreed to publish it as well. I have linked the laws of mechanics with spirituality and blended it with self-help, and the book is called, “The revelation: How the laws of mechanics help you achieve your greatest desires.” Talking of greatest desires, I am to speak at the Jodhpur Literary Festival and you know, Indumati will be there too. And now that I am all set to join the league of well-known authors, if I play my cards well, I might as well impress Indumati and propose to her when I get the chance. In fact, I am thinking of writing a poem for her (Yeah, I know, I am not too good with fiction, but some years back I did not know mechanics either, which I know rather well now. So perhaps, this will be a start to a literary career too. Who knows?) I have to edit my preface and send it to my editor as well tonight,  and that gives me a mighty good feeling too. And to top it all, I am not leaving my mainstream career either. This is what one calls in Hindi- ‘all fingers deep in clarified butter’ (Profits from every quarter).
To celebrate, I have acquired for myself a bottle of wine and a bottle of whiskey. So far, I have lived a life of abstinence, but I don’t see a need for it any more. After all, what would be a more opportune moment than this to foray into the intoxications of drink while my soul drips with the intoxication of love? Wait, how are you supposed to drink them? I guess I need to just pour them out and drink them in turns.

********

“Indumati, your face is as resplendent as the full moon,
Your hair is like the silk from the finest cocoon.
Your eyes are  hypnotic and magnetic
You are like a rare dish exotic.”

…..And some other lines- that’s what I sent in my drunken stupor to Indumati. Honestly, I am a little worried that she might think I am some sort of a sleazy, illiterate villain who is constantly objectifying women. I mean, that’s what comes to my mind when I read my own creation. Plus, my head is hurting rather badly. I think that I overdid the intoxication bit. I am hoping that she does not report me to the authorities. No MBA or bestseller or any law of mechanics can save you if you misbehave with a woman, and I have to admit I quite agree with it myself. I can only pray that either she does not read it or if she does, she simply laughs it off.

********

I was making a fruit salad in the kitchen when my phone buzzed. An email. It read, “Thanks a lot, beautiful.” Well, honestly even though I might be called a rugged, browny-brawny handsome man, no one has ever in my life called me beautiful. My head was still pounding as I strained my spectacle-bereft eyes to look at the sender. It was Indumati!
The plate of fruits dropped from my other hand in a typical Bollywood-heroine fashion. I cradled my phone and bounded towards my study and opened my laptop to have a look at the mail properly. To my disappointment, it read, “Thanks a lot. Beautiful.”, and not “Thanks a lot, beautiful.”, but it surely was from Indumati. Did it mean an acknowledgement to my love or was it simply a form of encouragement by her kind self to a 3rd grade writer like me, to keep trying. At least, she wasn’t reporting me and that was good enough for now. And then I realized I had more mails. The next mail was from my editor. I hoped he was not going to ask me to redo the preface all over again. But what it said was:

“Dear Nirvan,

I was expecting you to send me the preface of your upcoming book but you have sent me some manuscript you seem to be working on. While it is funny and can be a potential comedy novel, I am currently more interested in the preface. If you can send it by tomorrow, it will be great.

Yours sincerely,
Larry Lavania”
 
Oh, so that’s what I had done! Not only did I write a horrible poem but also swapped the intended recipients. Although, when I think about it, it seems to be a good thing they got swapped. I am not exactly a person who likes to take risks, after all. Although, had the poem on Indumati been a well-written one, I would have really wanted to send it to her. But I have to admit, it’s going to take some time till I get there. Sometimes I feel I shall never have her. She is simply out of my league. Maybe, she is always going to be the person I will pine for but never get – an inspiring, seductive and ageless  enigma, who floats in and out of my best dreams and brings out the best in me. All the other days, I am my optimistic self, devising plan after plan on how to approach her and impress her. In fact, that reminds me, I could always ask Larry Lavania to introduce us. Or maybe you. Well, do you know her?