Unabridged Confessions -Part 2

For trivial philosophy of little things is all that matters

kartiknama

The First Meet

I am usually a patient person. Patient enough to know where to draw the line and when to stop asking. But I have a patient arch-enemy as well. It’s called the Internet.

Today, only a handful of the baby boomer generation advocates the authenticity of the conversations in the pre-internet era as compared to the cynical and often exaggerated conversations on the world wide web. According to them, back then, there were less people to connect to & more things to do. There were more real interactions with people and less virtual arguments over nonsensical blabber.

The world was not connected but people were.

If I say I am not a part of the millennial generation demanding his quarter of the social media ego boost, I’d be lying. I very well much like to be social. But the other three fourths of me wants to join the handful of those baby boomers. It wants me to lay waste to all digital means of interaction. It wants me to experience the silent anticipation, having no conversation than necessary through digital means to setup a meet, followed by the sweet discovery of a meet itself, and finally drawing the curtain with just a few words of goodbye with a verbal inkling of a next meet. No texts!

Life has been lemonier than before. After I moved to Bangalore, it was like a bed of opportunities was waiting for someone to sleep on it. I was not the only one. Millennials from different parts of the country spent their adolescent life here in search for the same bed, fighting for some space to occupy. Bangalore didn’t disappoint. Being the upcoming urban city, it added more space every year to accommodate for more.

“The golden quadrilateral was on the brink of adding a fifth vertex to it and become ‘The Golden Pentagon’” – my exact words when I completed a year here.

The Silent Anticipation

It hadn’t been long since I’d gone back to playing badminton. I was trying to flex my muscles after a three-year long break. As expected, muscles resisted and I had to fight the temptation to stop playing. But I carried on and went a couple times every week.

One fine day, after a badminton tournament held at work, I was having a couple of celebratory drinks to call it an evening when I got a call from a friend inviting me for more drinks.

Of course I said Yes.

Going to a pub in shorts could mean trouble but I was willing to take my chances. As I got in a cab, something told me to get dressed. And I did. In ideal situations, I prefer shorts. Something told me this could be different from ideal. I obeyed that ‘something’.

After reaching the pub, I met my friend who was bent over the bar stool as if the brewery had just one customer. We greeted each other and drank a pint. It wasn’t until another pint was served that she walked in.

She was wearing an elegant grey top with frock and boots. I would like to point out that my accurate yet succinct description might not be completely accurate owing to various reasons. Introductions were made and the group took seats around the table. I kept standing.

Now if I were to redo this, I would not change anything. I kept standing and transfixed my eyes on the match. I did my best not to notice her. Now why would I? I was tired, hungry, a badminton racquet dangling from my back, and in every possible way out avoiding a conversation. Everything told me not to notice, not to talk. So I stood. I stood in front of the TV where a live badminton match was going on. I told to myself this is relief.

‘Why don’t you sit down and watch the match’.

I turned back saw two mascaraed eyes looking at me. I admire eyes. They always hold more truth than words ever could. In that fleeting moment, I could decipher nothing.

I sat.

Over the next few minutes, we talked about work. And then she talked about badminton. She talked about her zonal and national level participation. And being a patient person, I listened.

I sat and listened.

My tiredness and hunger mellowed as we talked. There wasn’t much to it but there was enough.

Later we danced.

— Me

Kartik Dulloo

Growth Hacker | E&C Engineer | Spell-Bee Runner up | Part Grammar Nazi, Part Grammar Hippy | Failing Anglophile

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