I'm madly in love with this, ahem obviously, boy.
For convenience sake, lets call him Pinkshirt - a name that a dear friend christened him in response to my, "S______ ! Baby pink t-shirt. Looking unforgivably cute. Should.I.just.die.now?" Of course, I didn't die and the object in question looked like a reasonably ordinary lanky fellow, who would be startled if ever charged with my mortal demise. The name however, as inappropriateness generally does, stuck.
My friends can't figure what to make of my ardour. Parents plead temporary deafness. I don't mind. Pinkshirt is my current comeback for everything. And punch line. And punching bag. And excuse. For instance, I got a marriage proposal yesterday. Without even listening to half of the prospective groom's credentials, I mildly looked up from my laptop screen and went, "He's not Pinkshirt. So cannot." Mother shook her head and went into the kitchen. Father muttered something about a wayward generation. I went back to Facebooking. Whew. Life's good.
But let me introduce you properly to Pinkshirt. Pinkshirt is an unassuming student, unfortunate enough to take a Law class with me. He ensures with alarming alacrity that once he takes his seat behind mine, all my energies automatically focus on adjusting my hair and praying urgently that those curls stay tame and look stunning. I never planned that seating, naturally. Given my way, I'd have him permanently booked to the elbow, and if that's slightly awkward, the seat next to mine. I scheme elaborately for it. Before every class, I surreptitiously hover outside the door waiting for his arrival; the plan being that I shall walk in nonchalantly, right after him and place my bag even more nonchalantly, on any seat to his side after he makes his choice.
My nerves however are wrought when there are just two minutes left for class to begin. Then, I invariably rush in. As fate would (always) ordain, he shall walk in a second after. A second in which chattering, enthusiastic girls shall occupy those seats, beside me. Those seats. Siigh. And force my budding hopes to eternal wither. One girl remarks to me, "Cold seminar room, huh?" I give a half-hearted nod. You wish, killjoy. Those were my cold vibes.
Just once have Pinkshirt and I sat together. It was quite by accident, our very first class. He held no interest to me then. Like I said, just another ordinary bloke. Somehow, in the first five minutes that I spent trying to read his name from the reverse outlines of his nametent, I gathered that he was Muslim. Most muslim men, pardon the generalization, are ridiculously gorgeous. Its the Persian blood I think. Anyway, my interest in him awakened, I stole a sideways glance at his profile. Decent nose. Hmm. Later on, during the break, I read his nametent properly. He was a commonplace Hindu. Should have dismissed him right there. I know way many Hindu guys, just please. But then again, it was a Law class; Professor acceded that listening to his lecture for three straight hours could be a cure for an insomniac. My only way out? Fall in luuurve.
It helps immensely that I know nothing of Pinkshirt except his name. Depending on my flavour for the day, Pinkshirt has varying legacies and strengths. My imagination is rampant. For the past two days, Pinkshirt is the only son of a Gujarati monarch and in four years (during which Pinkshirt declares his undying devotion many times - in case it isn't obvious - to me), we are to be married with great pomp and fanfare, which includes 3 different types of bollywood dances and shall be graced by the who's who in India and outside. Obama, Shahrukh Khan included. Prince William and his consort Katie, we shall meet regularly for golf and tea.
A week ago, Pinkshirt had 3 brothers. He was the oldest. I was following the Sita-Rama route, you see. Pinkshirt has also had the opportunity to be reformed by yours truly's angelic love, become a successful heart surgeon whose very own is in my custody, battle it out on banking deals and steal my soul in lil speeches and deeds more fanciful than "You complete me" or "Pyaar dosti hai. Mujhse dosti karoge?*". Don't call me rapacious, but Pinkshirt is articulate, humourous, inspiring, generous, intelligent, understanding, sporty, loving, quick, gentle, sensible and... is a maestro in guitar, cricket, football, singing, debate and um, cooking. He likes mountaineering and has swum across the English channel. Twice. For fun, he meddles with rocket science. Yeah, thats a heckuva guy I've gotten nailed there. Now you see why I'm madly in love? And "friends" accuse me of "using" Pinkshirt "with a certain vague indifference".
I actually like him. Pinkshirt makes me shake my head and laugh. He helps me forget. He gets me planning and imagining. Vague indifference to the winds, I'm actually quite fond of him.
A dear friend has threatened to stop talking to me until I talk to him. Maybe I ought follow her instructions, you know? Sometime. Just maybe.
*Love is friendship. Wanna be friends?
For convenience sake, lets call him Pinkshirt - a name that a dear friend christened him in response to my, "S______ ! Baby pink t-shirt. Looking unforgivably cute. Should.I.just.die.now?" Of course, I didn't die and the object in question looked like a reasonably ordinary lanky fellow, who would be startled if ever charged with my mortal demise. The name however, as inappropriateness generally does, stuck.
My friends can't figure what to make of my ardour. Parents plead temporary deafness. I don't mind. Pinkshirt is my current comeback for everything. And punch line. And punching bag. And excuse. For instance, I got a marriage proposal yesterday. Without even listening to half of the prospective groom's credentials, I mildly looked up from my laptop screen and went, "He's not Pinkshirt. So cannot." Mother shook her head and went into the kitchen. Father muttered something about a wayward generation. I went back to Facebooking. Whew. Life's good.
But let me introduce you properly to Pinkshirt. Pinkshirt is an unassuming student, unfortunate enough to take a Law class with me. He ensures with alarming alacrity that once he takes his seat behind mine, all my energies automatically focus on adjusting my hair and praying urgently that those curls stay tame and look stunning. I never planned that seating, naturally. Given my way, I'd have him permanently booked to the elbow, and if that's slightly awkward, the seat next to mine. I scheme elaborately for it. Before every class, I surreptitiously hover outside the door waiting for his arrival; the plan being that I shall walk in nonchalantly, right after him and place my bag even more nonchalantly, on any seat to his side after he makes his choice.
My nerves however are wrought when there are just two minutes left for class to begin. Then, I invariably rush in. As fate would (always) ordain, he shall walk in a second after. A second in which chattering, enthusiastic girls shall occupy those seats, beside me. Those seats. Siigh. And force my budding hopes to eternal wither. One girl remarks to me, "Cold seminar room, huh?" I give a half-hearted nod. You wish, killjoy. Those were my cold vibes.
Just once have Pinkshirt and I sat together. It was quite by accident, our very first class. He held no interest to me then. Like I said, just another ordinary bloke. Somehow, in the first five minutes that I spent trying to read his name from the reverse outlines of his nametent, I gathered that he was Muslim. Most muslim men, pardon the generalization, are ridiculously gorgeous. Its the Persian blood I think. Anyway, my interest in him awakened, I stole a sideways glance at his profile. Decent nose. Hmm. Later on, during the break, I read his nametent properly. He was a commonplace Hindu. Should have dismissed him right there. I know way many Hindu guys, just please. But then again, it was a Law class; Professor acceded that listening to his lecture for three straight hours could be a cure for an insomniac. My only way out? Fall in luuurve.
It helps immensely that I know nothing of Pinkshirt except his name. Depending on my flavour for the day, Pinkshirt has varying legacies and strengths. My imagination is rampant. For the past two days, Pinkshirt is the only son of a Gujarati monarch and in four years (during which Pinkshirt declares his undying devotion many times - in case it isn't obvious - to me), we are to be married with great pomp and fanfare, which includes 3 different types of bollywood dances and shall be graced by the who's who in India and outside. Obama, Shahrukh Khan included. Prince William and his consort Katie, we shall meet regularly for golf and tea.
A week ago, Pinkshirt had 3 brothers. He was the oldest. I was following the Sita-Rama route, you see. Pinkshirt has also had the opportunity to be reformed by yours truly's angelic love, become a successful heart surgeon whose very own is in my custody, battle it out on banking deals and steal my soul in lil speeches and deeds more fanciful than "You complete me" or "Pyaar dosti hai. Mujhse dosti karoge?*". Don't call me rapacious, but Pinkshirt is articulate, humourous, inspiring, generous, intelligent, understanding, sporty, loving, quick, gentle, sensible and... is a maestro in guitar, cricket, football, singing, debate and um, cooking. He likes mountaineering and has swum across the English channel. Twice. For fun, he meddles with rocket science. Yeah, thats a heckuva guy I've gotten nailed there. Now you see why I'm madly in love? And "friends" accuse me of "using" Pinkshirt "with a certain vague indifference".
I actually like him. Pinkshirt makes me shake my head and laugh. He helps me forget. He gets me planning and imagining. Vague indifference to the winds, I'm actually quite fond of him.
A dear friend has threatened to stop talking to me until I talk to him. Maybe I ought follow her instructions, you know? Sometime. Just maybe.
*Love is friendship. Wanna be friends?
8 comments:
"Pinkshirt is the only son of a Gujarati monarch" - so funny! Oh Vaishnavi, you have to talk to him.
I remember when I was back in Religions class at University and I had a terrible crush on one of the guys. He was a Buddhist, which didn't in itself interest me, except that he was very quiet and it was really hard to get him to react to anything. Then one day I made him laugh and I though, oh my god, he's gorgeous! I never talked to him though. I still regret that.
Jai
Vaishnavi, I wish I could whack you in the head. But please, please don't use the "Love is friendship." line on anyone. Anyone.
That Buddhist guy seems an enigma. Yes Jai, the lesser a boy talks, the more our imagination is at play, so that makes him more exciting, and proportionately gorgeous.
I'll talk to Pinkshirt soon; maybe he IS from the Guj royalty?! The possibilities are endless. I'll let you know. :)
Shitij,
Three things.
1) Hush. Public forum. Must refine your genteel expression of disapproval. Whack, it seems.
2) Its a good pickup line (refer Kuch Kuch Hota Hai - Shahrukh gets both the girls). If Pinkshirt used it on me, I would, erm, gag slightly but thats the point he improves upon it and then uses it.
3) I don't use lines on anyone. I'm just infinitely adorable, no use for them.
Fair?
You have an award at my blog, Vaishnavi!
Jai
I have given up hope. I told you to talk to Pinkshirt about 3 weeks ago. HAVE you? NO.
You are infuriating! Hilarious piece, though :D
Shitij, I'll whack her for you :P
Much love.
Jaiiii,
Thank you! Much much honoured. I shall pick it up from your blog! Oh myyy... whee! Thank you! :D
Moving out if you don't talk to him soon.,
Hahahaha alright alright. Now I have every reason to abandon my bashfulness. Circumstances have changed, haven't they?
Even more love. So much more. :D
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