Sunday, March 1, 2020

Imagine A Corny Love-Story Title Here


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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