Neha was out for her early evening jog.
This story hasn’t started very well, isn’t it? Like every
third girl of her generation, her parents didn’t bother to spend a good minute
choosing the name tag for their love product. Of course, she could have been a
‘Neha Sharma’ or ‘Neha Gupta’ but the author of this story possibly couldn’t be
cared to know each detail about the said Neha. However, a jaunt in her step, a bright smile on her face and a tongue that could put Gordon Ramsey’s sharpest
knife looking for an alternate career option as an envelope opener, left no
doubt that her parents didn’t go wrong with ‘Neha’.
And about 25 years later, Neha was out for her early evening
jog.
You can consider this to be your writer’s another creative
failure when of all the exotic settings -- deep space star fleets to time
dilating black-holes – from 14th century Greece to 80th
century futuristic worlds – he chose a neighborhood evening jog to introduce
you to your beloved Neha. Well, you knew what you were in for from the first
sentence itself. So, get on with it.
Now, where were we? The same place where we were left pondering
about her name while her jog took her half-way around the block.
Our Neha… scratch that… ‘Your’ Neha bounced away in tandem
with her pony-tail hair that seemed to be wagging her forward. Two long
tendrils from a modern-day Walkman (or should we say, Walkwoman? All right, all
right this is not your author’s best day.) ended up in her ears, pouring the
latest rhythms to aid her jogging. Which kind of music, you ask? Well, I am
sorry, but we shouldn’t be breaching her privacy like that, even if it is
rightfully in yours truly’ s creative liberties domain. However, we can safely
assume that it must be one of those soulful and meaningful love songs, that
makes one want to puke on the next pink-colored stuffed unicorn.
Anyways.
As your Neha took to the wind and the evening Sun set away
in the west (where else? This is not Tatooine, you silly), your overweight
author tried to keep up. With hurting knees, I am glad to report that your Neha
took a break and sat down on a bench not too far away.
As she sipped from her water bottle, we can now take a pause
to describe her. Of course, Neha is slim and beautiful with glowing skin
because if she isn’t this author can kiss goodbye to movie options for this
story.
On cue, enters our hero, a tall, masculine, fair and
handsome jogger from the other end of the street. This specimen has had
finished more protein jars than he has finished books – a claim that is not
exaggerated by this author’s envy. Continuing with the objective assessment, his
bulging and toned muscles and even more bulging and toned beard leave no
questions about this gentleman’s music tastes. This alpha male is surely an aficionado
of catchy hymns in praise of feminity, featuring womanly beauty in its purest
form, at least as much legally allowed on PG-14 television.
Our Greek god took long strides, sweat drops rolling down his
bare thighs and all, and paused, totally by coincidence, near the bench where
Neha was sitting.
It is a sign of a lazy writer and a shallow human being when
he uses hackneyed tropes like ‘love at first sight’. Along with the first
atrocity of choosing a name like ‘Neha’, this is the second strike. If my
beloved reader could overlook this slouchy prose, I promise I will be more
thoughtful in naming my characters in the future.
“Hi, I am Amit.”
("Amit"? Reaally?)
If Neha’s parents ever wanted validation of their creative
prowess, they needn’t look farther than Amit’s parents. I mean we didn’t ask
for those new-age names where you have to strike a song before you get to the
actual name, like, ‘AAArav’ or ‘AAAnvesh’,
which, anyway, in my opinion, are more suitable for battery names, but at least
make an effort to get to ‘Rahul’. Anyway, I digressed. Back to this love story.
“Hi, I am Amit,” said the living trailer of Gold Gym.
Neha looked at him and her cheeks turned pink.
“-- and I am married,” she replied flouting her ring.
Amit seemed unperturbed. He casually took a place next to
her. There was a full minute of uncomfortable silence between them during which
his biceps and triceps did most of the talking.
“You seemed to be new here,” he said, finally his tongue
catching-up with his other muscles.
“Yes, I moved here last week with my husband.”
“And where is he right now?” the hulk looked about.
Neha took a deep sigh. “He had some work at the office.”
“I wonder how he even manages to leave this beautiful girl
every day,” ventured the eight-pack wielding hunter-gatherer.
A tinge of sadness appeared in Neha’s beautiful eyes. “He
doesn’t love me much.”
“Oh, is it?” Smiled the love child of Hercules and
treadmill.
Neha just nodded barely keeping it together.
“Wouldn’t you want to make him jealous? I am sure I can be
what your husband isn’t.”
Neha looked into his hypnotic eyes and a small key left Neha’s
hand and dropped next to him.
“Apartment B-706. Wait for ten minutes… and don’t knock the
door… just enter.”
As Neha jogged away, her ponytail swinging from side to
side, our hero Amit watched her fashioning a grin larger than Halloween pumpkins.
Now it none of your author’s business poking nose into other
people’s lives. No sir. But it is also necessary to fulfill one’s literary
duties as an author and provide readers with a conclusive third act. Hence,
purely driven by these professional commitments, this invisible author decides
to sacrifice questions of morality on the altar of literary arts, and urges the
readers to discreetly follow Amit on his way to B-706.
Amit kissed the key and pocketed his precious possession. He
looked about like a secret agent and having satisfied himself of complete anonymity
(completely ignoring the invisible author and his eleven subscribers) before
entering the building ‘B’.
In the elevator’s close quarters which was now making its
way slowly to the 7th floor, one could almost smell the testosterone in the
air. The moment the doors opened; Amit leaped towards 706 like a vampire
smelling blood.
As he turned the key and entered the house, shutting and
locking the door behind him, a sweet handcrafted nameplate stared in the face
of twelve of us.
“B-706
Guptas
Neha
&
Amit”
Sigh. Looks like this was a boring and wholesome matrimonial
love story, afterall.
I will show myself out.
###
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