VINTAGE AASHIQ..........

The night that never ended..

September 5th, 2010. It was a Sunday. A day to remember. Not for the best of reasons though. A day before, I met Sid and we had a great time over a good old bottle of rum. All seemed well. We even talked about Prachi, as we always do. Correction. I talked about Prachi, as I always do. The discussion was the same, as it always is. After cribbing about my one-sided love dilemma and tormenting my brother, who seemed as nonchalant as always, we tried to reach a conclusion. As we always do. But we couldn't. As we never do. However, the conversation helped me decide that I needed to do something about the situation. Well, to tell the truth, there was no situation. So I guess the plan was to create one. The idea was to get back in touch with her, one way or the other. For instance, by standing outside her office and giving her a surprise. Though I'm not sure if "surprise" is the right word here.

Then arrived that fateful Sunday morning. The sun came up from the east, the dogs on the street were doing there business, the birds were chirping away for reasons best known to them, my mom was cribbing about her past, my granny was taunting her incessantly and I was busy ignoring both of them. All in all, a regular Sunday morning. Little did I know that the evening had other plans for me.

My granny had to go pay a visit to her ailing sister at Kandivli. She took off by the time the clock struck 3:00. A little bottle of rum was lying in my bag for a good couple of weeks. It was not safe to keep it in the house any longer as my gran was not aware of it. So I decided to drink it in the presence of my mom, which by the way is something that I have done earlier, too. So I ordered a Sprite and a few cancer sticks from the store downstairs. I began drinking around 5:00. By the time I finished my last peg and was on to my last cigarette of the day, it was around 7:30. And the doorbell rang. And I was still far away from my last drag. My mom panicked, which made me panic. I ran to the kitchen and stubbed it out at a speed Stanley Ipkiss would have after putting on The Mask. However, as it turned out, it wasn't my granny, but the guy who sells bread and eggs in the building and has made a habit of ringing our doorbell every single evening. Now, to understand what happened next, you need to know two things. One, that I was drunk. And two, that I'm a fool. A drunken fool, so to speak. The fact that my hard earned cigarette went to waste, did not sit too well with me. And I set out of my house to smoke another one and bring justice to that little cancer stick that died way too young. I headed to the store, bought two more sticks and began puffing away. Now, with the discussion of the previous night and the alcohol guiding me, I reached out for my cell and dialed a number. No prizes for guessing as to whose number it was. Prachi's, of course. The number was busy. So I dialed again. And again. And again. And again. And before I knew it, I had dialed that number 47 times in a span of 17 minutes. I was relentless.

It must've been around 5 seconds post the 47th unsuccessful attempt to talk to my ladylove, when my phone rang. The number seemed strangely familiar. Now to understand why it seemed familiar, you need to know that the last 5 digits of Prachi's cell state her birth date. The number flashing on my cell's screen had the same 5 last digits. A danger alarm started going off in my head. But I still answered the call anyway. The voice at the other end was male. The next 75 seconds were, in the simplest of words, abysmal. The man, who introduced himself as an inspector, went on to threaten me that if I did not stop making these calls, he would beat me up within an inch of my dear life. I can't describe what the man said verbatim, as the language was quite unparliamentary and translating the same into English would not be easy even though it's my profession. Now, mates, you may think that since I was drunk, some dutch courage may have done the trick. Poor guess. I was petrified. For a second I may have forgotten what a bottle of rum looks like. Because even though I was sober enough to understand that it was not a cop but some friend of hers who was just doing his job, he still could've been perfectly capable of kicking my butt. So a little scared and a little sad, I apologized. And then I slowly hung up the phone. I wasn't done yet, if that's what you were expecting. I picked up my cell yet again, and sent an SMS to that gentleman saying thanks for the favor he just did me. And that I won't do this again. I even addressed that clown as "Sir" in the message. To my astonishment, he called up again. This time to tell me that I am a smart-ass who doesn't give up despite being told otherwise. He said that my hands run a lot on the cell's keypad. Amidst the confusion, I told him that I had texted him and not the girl. He went on to tell me that it was "Bade saab's" number. And that he was here at the police station with his daughter and that I had no idea what a serious crime I had committed. He even mentioned that they might slam a mental harassment charge against me. For some stupid reason, he kept asking me my address so that he could pick me up and make me disappear from the face of this planet so fast, that my parents would think that I vanished in thin air. I apologized again. And after another 11 seconds of verbal abuse, I hung up. And that was it.

Well, let's check out the facts now. If she was on the phone for 17 minutes straight, when did she reach the police station? Why would the cop call me from someone else's cell? Haven't they paid the phone bill down there? And why was that twit asking for my address? I thought the cops had a way of finding out such things on their own. But that's besides the point. It was crystal clear that she didn't wish to hear my voice again. I can't argue with that.

After the phone call, I went to the store and bought another cancer stick or two, while narrating the whole incident to the shop owner, Mr. R.P. Gupta. Don't ask me why. The poor old man heard me out, blurted out a few comforting words, after which I began my way back home. I stay on the 4th floor of a building which has no elevator. But that night it seemed like I was climbing the Everest. It was almost 9:00. I was feeling a lot better, to be honest. It's been 5 days now. But that night still seems far from over. Hopefully, someday, I will give it an ending that it deserves. September 5th, 2010. It was...a Sunday. Hey, but it was not as bad as you think it was. I reached home. I climbed the Everest.

We're devils and black sheep and really bad eggs...drink up me 'earties yo-ho...!