The voyeur in me had a field day for the next week or so. Bharat had grown bolder with every passing day. Life, as far as Bharat was concerned, was exactly like the erotic stories he’d devoured from the age of ten. His conversations with Maya had begun to progress along the lines described below–
Bharat: (drooling all over the phone, while his spare hand probably attended to urgent business downstairs) Vot you wearing?
Maya: (who barely tolerated these questions) Oh, a Salwar
Bharat:
After six days, Maya turned to me,
‘I’m ****ing sick of this guy. How many more ****ing days am I going to ****ing tolerate this ****ing b******, you bi**h? I can’t ****ing talk to that ****ing retarded b****** every ****ing day!!! Next thing you know, god knows what he’ll want to ask!!’
Maya always believed in expressing herself with a refreshing candour that turned the surrounding air a deep shade of blue.
(Note: Going by the contents of the above conversation, I was left with little doubt as to what he’d want to know next. Your predictions are welcome on the comment board)
I echoed her sentiments as well. I was getting tired of replying to messages which read,
‘Wat are u doing?’
‘I have never seen cute nice girl like you.’
‘ur voice is so sweet I am loving u now.’
Ad nauseum
Ad infinitum…
We called Bharat up that evening.
Bharat: (amorously – didn’t I tell you he was one fast worker?) Oh hello, &^&^*. How r u my honey? I am feeling so nice to hearing to your voice.
Maya: Listen, Bharat, my boyfriend saw one of your messages. He’s a very possessive guy. He’s got so angry that he’s just gone out to uproot a coupla trees and punch the plaster off the wall.
Bharat: Vot??
Maya: Yeah, he finds punching the plaster off the wall always has a calming effect on him. He always does that before his boxing matches.
Bharat: Why?
The usually loquacious Bharat was, for once, less interested in what ‘I’ was wearing, and more in what people would be wearing to his funeral.
Maya_: He is like that only…aaaaaaoooww..no!
At this point, Maya let out a realistic squeal that almost scared me shitless. And then she pushed the phone into my hands.
I was then suffering from the same ailment of the thorax that had vexed me so at my MICA interview. But on this day, sounding like Don Vito Corleone was just what the doctor had ordered.
‘How on earth can you talk to my girl? Who the hell are you? I’ll bloody stake you out, kill you and dance on the remains with hob-nailed boots. ‘, I shouted menacingly.
‘I have hob-nailed boots at home, and the hobs have big nails on them.’, I added rather cleverly.
I carried on in this vein for a few minutes, after which I ran out of breath and expletives.
When I paused, I half-expected him to confront me and fight me for me.
(He thought I was the female me, and not the male me that I actually was. Get it? Probably not!)
But what he ultimately said was something that I could have never have expected.
‘Vot is yuver name?’
I was nonplussed. Bharat had outmarshalled me. I was about to say something when he piped in yet again, ‘I did not understand anyding.’
I decided to slip into the vernacular, and told him in a few choice words that he would be placing his life and limb in grave risk of dismemberment if he dared call my girl again, who in this case was me myself. Well, that’s a moot point.
It was a chastened stalker that hung up.
Epilogue:
A few days later, when I recounted this story to my mother, she expressed a desire to instruct Bharat on a few home truths…
In spite of my protestations, she placed the call.
Bharat, contrary to my expectations, picked the phone up.
After my mother apprised him of how he had been bamboozled by her 20 year old son and his friend and that every woman in the Reliance directory wasn’t a lissome 18 year old nymphomaniac, Bharat had but one thing to say,
‘Vot is the number of the girl I spoke to, then?’
My mother hung up.
Bharat had won… The stalker always wins, goddammit.
Next time, I do the stalking.
P.S: Dai anybody has any good figuru number? Dai, then I can connect superbly no?
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