Last page last time- part 1

Almost all my stories or poems are to do with characters not too similar with me. But in this one, i decided to do one on myself :P...of course the cynicism is a bit over-the-top, else i'd end up a loner...also i devour books, unlike Sachin here, n not a great of the tube, but besides that, its a little similar...n the premise of the story too is imaginary of course :P...

Last page last time

I was pissed. Yes pissed. After four months of vacations, college was starting again. No, I’m not one of those ‘oh-we-thought-vacations-would-be-fun-but-we’re-glad-college-is-starting’ types. I liked my joblessness, my numb hours in front of the TV, and my hours on the terrace with my I-pod way more than anything college could offer me. Sure I had friends, but I found in solace in solitude, and I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. We’d played basketball, gone for road trips, crashed weddings and god knows whatnot, but well, that wasn’t what I’d miss doing.

So when dad told me go all the way to Avenue road to get my books for degree course, suffice to say that even the ghost of a smile on my face was rarer than winter in the Sahara. Plus there was this deal wherein I got all my books real cheap as I bought them second-hand and sold them back or something like that. Anyways, bottom line; I hated study books and especially second-hand ones. So when I finally did get them one day I just threw them disinterestedly onto the bed, not sparing a second glance at the fact that they were all slipping and falling out of the bag. Anyways the physics book looked like it was crying out for help, with the prodigious chemistry book lording over it. So I just took it out of the pile, and for formality if nothing else, flipped through the pages.

Now here’s the thing with second-hand books. The people who own them before you have this obnoxious habit of writing their stuff in the pages, apparently unaware of the fact that these very same pages shall be read someone else who might not appreciate your divine discourse. Names, explanations, equations (most of them wrong) and most commonly, phone numbers. Of course, the last page was where most of the action happened. Needless to say, there were around five phone numbers on this book’s page. As I was about to chuck the book away however, an idea struck me. Why don’t I just try some of these numbers? Mess around a little with them. My time was pointless enough for me to indulge in such activities, so I reasoned, why not?

I sat down beside the phone and looked at the numbers. I selected one at random and dialed. After about four rings, a deep male voice answered the phone. I started.

‘Hello. Eh Naveen, you jackass. Where the hell were you an hour ago? I was waiting for you there!’

‘I’m sorry you’ve reached the wrong number. I’m not Naveen, but Rajeev…’

‘You *peep* *peep* (yes I can’t write them here, get the point?), stop playing around with me.’ And then I started off a tirade of vernacular slang and I assure you none of it was parliamentary language. The guy on the other end finally put the phone down huffily, and I had a hearty laugh over it. I decided to try another number. Yes, in case you did not notice (my god you’re slow), I’m a cynic; and a big one at that.

It rang, and then a female voice answered the phone. Frankly, I was speechless. The voice sounded so sweet and mellifluous, it was like flutes were playing in my ears. The accent was educated, cultured and yet it sounded like someone my age, someone Bangalorean, just like me. I wondered that if her voice was like this, how she would look. I had to know; and so thought of a plan.

‘Hello? Hello?’

‘Hello. Yes may I know who I’m speaking to?’

‘It’s Radhika here. Who’s this?’

‘Hey Radhika, remember your friend Vinay?’ (With like a million Vinays in Bangalore, everyone has a Vinay for a friend)

‘Oh yeah! What happened?’

‘Well, I’m his friend Sachin. I think you’d lent him one of your books that’s ended up with me. I was wondering if I could drop it off at your place or meet you someplace and give it. You might need it.’ I tried convincing her.

‘Sure, I live in Shanti Park, Jayanagar 9^th block. Call me on this number whenever you’re around in the evenings. See you.’

‘Bye.’ God, I really wanted to meet this girl. So the next day, I took my copy of Angels and Demons with me. This was the book I was going to claim was hers. Almost everyone had an Angels and Demons copy, so I figured it was a good bet. I made my way to Shanti Park and called her.

‘Oh you’re here already? Great; I’ll come to the gate, just wait there.’

And then she came. To put it in a single sentence, she was beautiful. Five feet eight, fair, she had real cute features, especially her eyes. And when she smiled, she got those dimples in her cheeks, and those eyes lit up. Deep brown orbs that could easily swallow you, that commanded you to look at nothing else but them. She moved with an artistic grace, like she was treading on air. She walked up to me, and extended a slender hand to shake.

‘Hey Sachin. How are you?’

I took a second to answer and immediately berated myself for it. She probably thought I was slow now.

‘Hey. Here’s the book that Vinay gave me.’ I handed her the copy and prayed that she would buy my story. She looked at the book for a whole minute, and then looked at me. Somehow a noticed a thread of suspicion winding its way through her gaze. I felt naked under her compelling scrutiny, caught red-handed.

‘So what’s the deal here Sachin? My Angels and Demons book is in my house, I’m sure of that. What sort of joke is this? Who are you really? How did you get my number?’

I wanted to scream and tell her that her beauty was already clouding my mind enough and making it difficult to co-ordinate my faculties to answer her endless questions. But instead I poured out a stream of truth, telling her exactly what had happened and what I’d done. The determined expression on her face didn’t leave me much of a choice anyways. Somehow she managed to look even more beautiful that way. At the end of it, she just laughed out loud, and my hair stood on end. It sounded like a chorus of angels.

‘So you did all of this just because you were curious to see me? So what do you think now?’ She posed and turned as if auditioning for a modeling contract. She seemed to be okay with it; looked like outright honesty did have its benefits. And fact is, much as a pretty girl will deny knowledge of, she knows if she looks good or not, so you’re not exactly giving them an epiphany.

‘It’s one of the smartest things I’ve probably done in a long time.’ I blurted sheepishly, grinning.

She smiled back. ‘So is there anything else you want to ask me?’ she added suggestively.

‘Sure…would you like to sometime, you know, whenever you say, sometime come…’ I’d never done this before and was finding it exceedingly hard.

‘Ok. Tomorrow at ten, Café Coffee Day, near the I-store?’

‘I’ll see you there.’ I said, and ran out of there, afraid that some passerby would pinch me and I’d find myself in my bed. I glanced backwards, to once again see her glide back to her house. That’s when I realized, shit, this girl was turning me into a poet!