A string of coincidences

Having flunked six of the six courses of the fourth semester of my royal college life, I am here, in Delhi, enjoying a well earned Sabbatical. Well recognized among the many of my not-so-recognized friends as an uber-cool persona, yours truly has been overwhelmingly successful in making them twitch their tongues between their teeth by being as placid as a slumbering squirrel in these regular turnaround of events.

I cannot completely and exactly deter myself from subscribing to the not-so-digestive fact that a curious name called CKD, expanding to chronic kidney disease, has clung to my already-interesting life. I cannot even argue that this acronym with another of its companion called FSGS (read focal segmental glomerular syndrome) has not affected my laws of notions. But I, with all my senses in all their truthful and useful places, can assure my friends and my senses alike that EVERYTHING IS “JUST” FINE.

To be very candid I am finding it rather too difficult to think of something special to write in here. Quite extraordinarily it is implicit by its own means that my mind is full of a horde of things which can be regarded as special. One of the special things that I rather should not have discussed here is the fact that I just completed my fourth round of harry potter series novels. It happens. With an empty mind refusing to understand those pointless diversions from the usual “piece-of-cake” theories and over-adult (80 mg every other day) doses of steroids trying to rape each and every organ of your body. It happens. I started with half blood prince hoping to ready myself for 16th july (as they say). But soon came back to sorcerer’s stone as my background seemed a bit hazy. I am a harry potter freak.

I also happened to go through the three mini-novels written by Mr. Chetan Bhagat. I cannot exactly say which book I liked the most because all three of them comprised rather the same elements of namely love, drama, action and some sporadic spurts of thrill. Bluntly speaking, FPS increased my frustration level as was expected since I don’t have a friend of a girl even if I don’t believe in having one. Call centre was a bit of a surprise with an end full of so many kisses. I had not expected such a low grade romo-drama. I should rather stop myself from commenting on three mistakes. Even if his motive of using contemporary India to teach contemporary India some lesson is worth commendation, I could not actually enjoy the whole drama.

Talking of dramas and dilemmas in ordinary life, I would like to discuss one. Strictly speaking, it is not one of those incidents in which by some happy chance you meet one of those comely faces and still comelier figures during those boring lonely journeys and happen to get their phone numbers by the end of them. It is not. Even if there is a girl and there is a ‘journey’ in the story. Well it definitely did happen. I did happen to get a seat beside a tremendously attractive girl. In one of those boring lonely bus journeys. From hospital to home.

Now, quite contrary to what usually happens in Bollywood movies and masala novels(and which should actually happen considering better standards of real life as well as a real chance of a real opportunity!!), I did not start a conversation with her during the whole time. In fact I could not speak even a single word, not even when she transpired to chuck her hanky down the deck and asked for somebody’s help. Typical bollywood attempt. I registered. Huh! After three stops, she boarded down the bus. (I was counting!!)I was happy. I had been an honorable man. And an idiot. I confessed as I followed her down the bus. It was even merer coincidence considering the fact that that was the last stop of the bus itself.

Now you might have easily suspected that I would meet her again. It happens all the time. No? Even in those so called (and rightly) classic stories. Well I won’t deny it. I met her again. In fact I sat with her again. But she did not chuck her handkerchief this time and neither did I pick it up for her as I had not, earlier. But one thing did surely happen. As gentleman and honorable (and idiot), I happen to be since my birth, I did not give my seat to some old lady as had been politely asked by the conductor. I am ill.

As has not been happening in this not-so-strange story, something not-so-queer happened. She did not follow me after we boarded down together at yet another stop. It is not that she had not tried. Because even if she could have she could not as I had taken an auto-rickshaw. The queer thing which happened happened when the driver spoke.

I was not too inclined to talk to the driver since I had been too busy thinking about her and various consequences which could have been there if only I had started a conversation with her. Well the driver spoke first. “The DTC, in front of us…. I think it want me to stop. The driver is gesturing and blowing horn rather too frantically.”

“Well then, stop.” I also noticed that the bus in front of us was swaying sideways trying to come in the way of auto.

And then descended the same woman (now she seemed one). With four men.

“He is the one.” Her little fingers were pointed at me. I was addle pated.

“Sala, umra hui nahi aur abhi se hi shuru ho gaya.” The conductor possessed a rod.

Par hua kya?” Auto-driver tried to rescue me.

Tu chup rahe. Sab pata hai humein. Aaj kal ke auto wale…..” the one who spoke was visibly biggest of them all.

It took me all my hospital papers, a call from my uncle (he is in delhi police) and auto-driver’s driving license to explain that all that had happened earlier had been a series of sheer coincidences. She apologized for the ‘misunderstanding’ and I took the same auto home.

All through the way I continued thinking the same thing. Is Delhi really safe for women?

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