Part-Time Devdaas... (22 page)

“It’s all about dreaming...” Jane Brandy, Professor for Advanced Screen Writing was saying. “The more you paint your dreams, the more you train your brain to imagine...”

“Painting dreams, I do that quite brilliantly. The only difference is they just remain dreams,” I said and laughed to myself.

“...
w
hen you write a story, you actually write the fates of the characters. There will be billions of permutations and combinations to take your story forward, but what makes you a good writer is making the correct choices of combinations.”

“Whoever wrote the story of my life would definitely be a highly paid writer up there...”
t
hanks to Radhika, my mind’s gibbering had officially resumed.

“Psst... R-jun...” Leo my classmate elbowed me to get my attention. “We are going to Gordon’s after class.
i
t’s Gina’s birthday, you coming?”

“Only if you let me crash at your place...”

“For that you’ll have to sleep with me.” He winked, I laughed.

There is no better way than dousing your bleak mind with a gallon of alcohol, I thought.

The welcoming vibe at Gordon’s reminded me of Pyaasa. There was a twenty feet long bar in the centre of the floor serving alcohol of all brands and types. There was an elevated stage for live music in the corner. The music was playing at a deafening volume and the amply-spaced dance floor was open for the drunken souls to swing. After the first celebratory shot, Gina began pushing drinks down anyone and everyone within her reach. The drawback of being the odd man out is that you are always the centre of attention, and I being the only desi in the group, garnered all of Gina’s attention. In just thirty minutes, she’d forced four tequila shots down my throat. It put me into a substantial daze so all I could see was revolving images and feel random hands sliding right-left through my waist. I watched the rest of the group joggling their heads to the music. An hour of country music later, the band packed up and the stage was thrown open for singing enthusiasts. I was in the loo relieving myself when I heard a commotion outside in the bar.

“Abey kitna pakaoge yaaar... bas karo tumhari… Aaa Aaa, Ooo Ooo...”
a female voice was yelling at someone who was yodelling on stage. I wasn’t the only one around who was buggered by the annoying yodelling.

“Listen to this now...” she said.

“Inhi logon ne... inhi logon ne... hey hey... inhi logon ne le leena dupatta mera...”

The yelling female was singing now. Whoever it was, was really drunk and a very bad singer. A few minutes later the commotion began again.

“Give it to me... give it...” I saw her tussling for the mike with the bouncer as he dragged her out of the place.

“Gayatri?” I said to myself.

Cut to 2001:

It had been seven months since my father had gagged and thrown me into engineering’s hell hole. It was past 8.30 that night when I walked out of college. The place was indeed a hell hole with no lights and no public transport. Usually Raghu’s bike took care of our transportation, but that day he had disappeared after lunch, leaving me in that deserted place. After fourteen minutes of waiting for the public transport bus and begging the pricey rickshawalas to stop, I heard a two wheeler stop by me.

“Bitches won’t stop?” the girl riding it asked.

“Ah! Don’t ask.”

“I can drop you if you want.”

“Thank you so much, you saved my life. I’ve heard rapists live around here.”

She began to laugh.

“Hop on!”

She pulled out a long scarf out of her sack and wrapped it all around her face and took off with a jerk, pushing me to the back of the seat. It was the first time that I sat pillion while a girl rode. It wasn’t as if I was one of those male chauvinists who don’t trust girls when it comes to driving, in fact I thought they did it even better than us guys, but rashness scares anyone. I was so scared that I clenched both my hands on the shaft behind and clamped my knees to the seat.

“What’s your name?” her muffled voice from behind the scarf reached me.

“Arjun!” I yelled back to reply.

“They call me Gay...” Gayatri said turning back one thirty five degree and extending her hand to shake. I gave her a panic-stricken smile. Swaying and swinging between the trucks and overtaking them at a speed that would make anyone piss their pants, she turned back again.

“Which year?”

“FE Civil.” I said.

“Final year, Tronics.” She began honking at another truck.

“I don’t want to die.” I said and closed my eyes as she prepared to make her way between two trucks.

“You won’t. Hang on.”

For the rest of the ride, I kept my eyes tightly closed. She had officially replaced Raghu as the scariest rider I had ridden with. With short streaked hair and a thin braid emerging from the back of her neck, a slightly dusky complexion, a toothy smile that had to be looked at again and again, a large cupid’s bow above her upper lip that made her lips looks irresistible, three colorful tattoos – a panda paw on the back of her right shoulder, flying pigeon on the wrist and a butterfly on the ankle – and a perfectly worked out body which made most of the male hearts in college beat out of their body, she was a classic eight on ten. So given my then single status and extreme affinity towards bunking lectures, in the following days I found myself hanging out with her more often than I intended to. It’s funny how mind changes its perceptions when you grow up. I mean as a child I’d brand any girl even a year older than me as ‘didi’, but now the grown up me had no intention of celebrating
Raksha Bandhan
with Gayatri who was three years senior to me. Her waiting for me every day after college to drop me indicated that even she shared the same emotions. Soon the scooter rides extended to spending time till late at night. The canteen binges developed into terrace and classroom makeout sessions and before we could identify any feelings for each other, we were already dating. In the five months that we were together, all we did was bunk lectures, eat in the canteen, snog in every possible corner of the college, watch movies, drink cheap beer and party at every possible opportunity. We were so busy running around having fun that not once in all that time did we discuss our future together or our feelings for each other. In fact, now when I come to think of it, neither of us really proposed so we weren’t exactly an official couple ever. That is probably why when we went our separate ways, there was no drama. A month after we ‘broke up’, she passed out of college and I met Hrida. Gayatri was out of sight, out of mind. But then you can never beat life’s sense of humour. So here I was, ten years later, in Los Angeles, watching her being thrown out of a bar.

“Can I walk you somewhere?” I asked catching up with her.

“Bad pick-up line, moron, buzz off!” she said without looking at me,

“Desi saale, ladki dekhi nai ke chaabi lagna shuru...”
I said mockingly.

She turned to me with a disgusted look, “Holy shit...” She stared. “Arjun?”

“Yep... what are the odds...” I said before she squeaked and hugged me.

“One to a trillion. Oh my god, it is really you, fuckkkk!” She jumped with joy, “What are you doing here in LA?”

“Came to see you get thrown out of a bar,” I said.

She punched me, “Smart ass!”

“You are still Stallone strong, I must say,” I said. She giggled.

We walked in silence for a while.

“You wanna grab a drink?” she asked, as we walked past another bar.

“I don’t mind, but promise you won’t get into a brawl again.”

“I promise, now shall we?”

“Whiskey on the rocks...” she said to the bartender tapping the fingernail of her index finger on the bar, “Same for you?”

“Ya...”

“So?”

“So...”

After a few moments of silence, she asked me the inevitable.

“How’s the girlfriend?”

The bartender served us the drinks.

“I’m single if that is what you want to know,” I said, my eyes twitched as the spirity warmth of alcohol travelled down my throat.

“Ah! Same old self flattering pig.” I laughed, but not for too long, for she asked, “But why did you break up with her?”

“Why do you think I broke up with her?”

“Because you are a guy?” she said with the glass to her mouth. “And because you broke up with me?”

“I never broke up with you.”

“You didn’t call back after the fight.”

“You could have called too?”

“I am a girl.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“So?” she said and let out a huge laugh. “Bitch, you haven’t changed a grain bit. Can I please hug you, please?” Not that there was any need to ask for my permission, but before I said yes she slid down her bar stool and wrapped her arms around my waist. I hugged her back.

“Veritably speaking, I broke up with her but not in the patented D-bag way.” The level of casualness in my voice while speaking about the break-up surprised me. I guess I was beginning to move on.

“Excuse me buddy, I think I’m going to need the whole bottle of this...” she said to the bartender. I smiled at him.

“You seeing someone?” I asked. She nodded a yes, as she took another sip.

“Yep, Aneesh. We went to the B-school together here. He now lives in New York.”

“Ouch!! Long distance relationship...”

“It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”

“Ya, but isn’t it painful?”

“You can’t crib about pain when you are clingy about your careers. Both of us slogged hard, so after college when he got placed out of LA, it was hard to give up our jobs for our relationship.”

I could never understand how a relationship works when two people involved in it live miles away from each other, in this case practically on opposite coasts of America. But there was no sign of despair or discontent in her voice so I guessed she was happy.

“You look different...” I said pointing at her straightened hair.

“Good different or bad different?”

“Good, good. Just wondering how it happened”

“You’ll know when you have a corporate job.” She smiled and poured us drinks. “What are you doing in LA?”