Alternate Universes: The Laws of Attraction
There were a series of blog posts I had indulged in going by the name of Alternate Universes. Initially, these were detailed abstracts of how human relationships resembled a lot like quantum physics treatises. It basically crumbled down to a gossip column and my testosterone vehemently lobbied for the end of it.
Here I am, circa 2015, 5-6 rollercoaster years later and I feel that same warm tingly feeling of wanting to write about someone. Of course, I shall try not to equate any scenario in this post to any law of physics. I could superficially claim to see similarities in my love life to various cosmic phenomena or I could just drop the thin veil of Big Bang theory geek-ness behind which is a vastly physics-ignorant but borderline pretentious nerd of sorts. I also seem to think I’m verbose. Sigh.
So this story starts nearly a year back. Middle East markets are crumbling and sheikhs are asking for discounts on their pure gold toilets. Like all Dicken-esque love stories, mine starts with a backdrop of war and rumours of a terrorist organization that even Al-Qaeda thinks is too extreme. Of course, none of that has anything to do with me or her for that matter.
It was a chance meeting. A guy who isn’t big on family get-togethers because he hasn’t seen many without the added bonus of watching a drunk uncle negotiate world peace with a carrot and a girl whose seen too many of these get-togethers with this motley set of gentlemen with rampant hair loss issues.
She strode in disgruntled that she should be sketching at home and yours truly was teaching his cousins how to spell “communion” for the stage backdrop. He had heard from his relatives that she would be the emcee for the night, not something that sat well with him. After all, he could sway thousands at a stadium to chant whatever he wanted including “Who the fuck sent this guy”. Who was this insolent human being who thought she could supplant him!
Hmm, I notice the tenor of the post is deviating from romantic meet cute to competitive and righteous anger. Apologies. I was given the arduous task of being funny onstage for the toast and I had a feeling that boob jokes were out of order. This was abundantly clear because both her and my future mother-in-law had a look of disbelief on their faces when I told them that I hadn’t prepared squat for apparently the most touted speech of the evening.
I barely looked at her, her eyes were doing that glancing-into-your-soul thing that I could not ingest. A customary yawn of a speech had now turned into a test of fire for me to impress her. I took long strides, holding my head high when she asked for me onstage. I stood there and then gave the audience a verbatim translation of Shahrukh Khan’s speech from K3G to fat-Hrithik in English.
The best part, my dearest moon of moons and star of stars didn’t even bother listening to it. She was busy arguing with her mom through death stares at the other end of the room. The rest of the night was hardly any different. She’d go North, I’d stay South. 5 beers, lots of jokes, an impromptu performance to Baby Doll (Not my finest moment) and a Hyderabadi waiter later I realize that she’s leaving.
I run to the elevator and stare at the closing doors. The universe took a second off from all the supernovas and the Interstellar shooting schedule. I saw her lift her hand and go “Bye Brenton”, dil garden garden ho gaya.
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