Ambushes in the name of wedding invitation

“Wake up, your friend’s come.“, mom yelled.

It was a blissfully sleepy Sunday afternoon. At that hour even God comes second to sleep. A true friend doesn’t show up as a mark of friendship. An enthusiastic acquaintance from school days isn’t even supposed to be there. Yet there he was, immune to common courtesy. I wanted to train my rottweilers on him. Too bad they seized to exist outside my imagination.

Grumpily I snuggled out of the warm confines of my bedsheet. I checked the phone and there were two missed calls from him. So my right cheek didn’t develop a sudden ability to vibrate in the dream after all.

“Tell him, I’m not home.”
“Too late, I’ve already told him that you’re. He’s waiting in the hall.”, my mom walked out, switching off the fan.

My mother was unleashing this rude social experiment at me on a Sunday afternoon. So long to maternal promises of unconditional love.

After adjusting my hair, I reluctantly walked into the hall to see the perpetrator gleaming on my sofa. He had more gold apparels on him, than Xerxes from 300. On a casual weekend, he could be a bullion reserve to a third world country.

“Hi. I was asleep.”
“Ya da, your mom told me.”
Yet you’re here without a glimmer of discomfort.

“I called and you didn’t pick. So I just came.”
Wow. Decent people check if someone’s at home, before blessing them with their presence, asshole!
“That’s….sweet.But you could’ve just given me a call and I’d come to the wedding.”

“I wanted to see your parents and give my wedding invitation.”

Not see, ambush. And dude, the last we hung together, my balls were bald. And as special as you think our relation is, we’re not friends. As for my parents, they acknowledge the existence of the lizard on the wall above, better than yours,

He gave me what was supposed to be his invitation from a thick stack. It embodied everything that was him-his overall colorfulness,his sledgehammer subtlety and the obscene opulence. Had it been any more embellished, I could’ve pawned it for a home loan.

“Would you like some rosemilk kanna?”, mom interrupted our tête-à-tête with her host hat on.
Before I could turn that offer down on his behalf, he nodded willingly.
Maaaaaaa. Your rosemilk means ten more painful minutes with this prick from a scarred childhood, who doesn’t get the fuck-off on the forehead.

“So when are you getting married?”
“Not anytime soon da.”
“Then you’ll get married after thirty is it?”
Dude you’re really pushing it now. Not only are you overstaying an ungiven welcome, but stepping into unchartered territory to cover rosemilk leadtime.

“Why man. Do men hit menopause at that age?”
“No…..but it’s just”
“I’ve got a few things to do. So not anytime soon.”

The hall was loud with the awkward silence between us. And in a coordinated roll of the eyes I took a glance at the almost empty rosemilk glass and the clock. And voila….he finally got it and got up. God is omnipotent.

“Ok da. I’m starting. I’ve got a few more places to be.Come without fail okay.”
Atleast don’t surprise them.
“Even if meteors are falling, I’ll make it da.”

I opened the door for him and my resistance had finally paid off with his hard earned exit. I felt the relief that generally comes with a good dump after hours of constipation.

“Accompany him to his car and send him off properly”, mom mumbled while picking the tray.
“I don’t do that even for a friend. And definitely not for him. Maybe I can go to his car to ensure he doesn’t come back.”
“I think I’ve brought you up badly.”
“I can’t change that now, but my brand of courtesy ends at the door.”

Another disagreement on the count of courtesy with mom. No food and beverages at home for the next few days.But the threat of his visit had stop looming over my life.I had weathered the storm. Now I can go back to the heart of sweet sleep and try to undo the longest twenty minutes of my life, that I was never getting back. And also hide the rosemilk syrup from my mother.

 

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The first time I met Kamal Haasan

 

All of us have a set of things to do and words to be spoken should we accidentally bump into God or a favorite personality, to make the most of the time without remaining awestruck for too long. I’ve always thought about how I would shake hands with Kamal with a firm grip without grabbing them, the first time I meet him in blood and flesh. He’s been my God cum favourite personality since the first time I stepped into the dark of a theatre playing Aboorva Sagotharagal. Ever since, his steep sand paper voice has changed in its meaning in my life from being just a lullaby to the very sound of my conscience. He’s the matinee idol, I’ve over the years come to subconsciously imitate in my articulation and gesticulation out of affection and some kind of entitlement. So I should’ve ideally genuflected at the sight of him, like a minion at the first sight of a mountain.

But coming to think, what I actually did when I met him for the first time was a lot different than just reverential. Funny in fact. But weird most certainly. So he was the chief guest for my school culturals that year, 2005 I suppose. With a moustache that only looked thick next to a girl my age, a mushroom cut for a hair statement and trouser worn just an inch below the chest, I was in the eleventh grade and looked every bit a junior artist from a tacky B grade.

To leave a startling first impression on Thalaivar, I had left no stone unturned. I would’ve done a fifty more push ups that day than usual to look firmer in my uniform, shampooed my hair to a bouncy extent and wore a neck piece that— coming to think of now — made my sexual orientation questionable. I didn’t know how my chest being firmer or my bouncy hair smelling fruity was going to make his trip to my school any more special. But at sixteen you’re allowed your share of screw ups at trying to impress.

Anyways I was there since morning by the doors of the auditorium. Sadly I wasn’t a volunteer. Had I been one, I could’ve been a part of the entourage to take him to the dais. Luckier, could’ve stood next to him for the whole time. But wretched me wasn’t. So I had to do the next best thing to get the front row seat to the shindig.

I’d heard before that Kamal was a chronic late comer to events. I didn’t take it seriously till his car appeared outside the venue, three hours past the scheduled time. People from outside were trying to percolate into the hall, which already— with crowd ballooned inside beyond it’s capacity — was a couple of members away from a stampede. Evergreen tracks from his movies were inundating the air, which by then seemed to transmit electricity from the collective palpable excitement of wolf whistling teenagers. As soon as he walked through those doors, all hells broke loose as the roof came down with the raucous. Sporting a black V-neck half sleeve shirt with a pair of black chinos, he was every bit the debonair presence that had captured the imagination of more than a generation from the silver screen.

At the aisle of a row, I was still a several seconds away from him. He was sauntering in my direction. The seconds in my time frame became slower than minutes, as my demigod was about to cross my path. As I was taking in every bit of the moment, I was ruminating the things to do when I would be parallel to him.
Should I ambush his trajectory for a shake hand or an awkward hug? It felt a little too outrageous for my sensibility. And not only that, it would’ve drawn a lot of attention, which makes me uncomfortably nervous. Maybe I should just wave at him. But that would be too generic an expression of my unconditional love for him.
The window for decision had closed as he was a row away.

I’m going to leave a mark on him, like the way he did on me.

Before my brain could process that course of action, the index finger in my right hand had already began to act. In one quick motion, I swiftly scratched his ample forearm with my nail as he went past me. It took a moment for him to realise that he’d been scratched, by then he was a row before cursing the charlatan who’d done that. I didn’t know what I was thinking, thankfully the deafening crowd around, kept me invisible.

I did manage to leave a mark on him!

Every time I reminisce this anecdote, I can’t get myself to stop laughing. What a stupid seventeen year old have I been. Wish I had known figurative from literal back then, Thalaivar would’ve been one scar less.