The dark night!

          

A geek. A programmer. A thief. As he was fixing the last of the bugs in his baby, he noticed something strange in the compiler output:

Last Compile on 12 October, 00:02

The numbers seemed mysterious. But within seconds the entangled strings in his brain were threads he could stitch together. But, he could not waste any time. And he slipped out of his home like a snake. The light in his room was consciously switched on and his favourite music played like an orphan. Its admirer had slipped out stealthily into the dark.

            Her home was only a couple of streets away. On a fine Monday morning, all it would take is a few tens of steps and a  million curses for making him walk all the way to her home when she could have come home in a bike. 5Th cross to 8th cross was all it took. She used a bike often and flaunted it even more. And she teased him for this and more. He liked the teasing too. But was far too egoistic make public his pleasure. He recollected her best joke in recent days as he dragged his feet towards 8th cross.  As he reminisced the conversation and marveled at her wit for the nth time, the sight of Rama stopped him in his tracks.

            Rama was the friendly neighbourhood dog. By the day. By the night, it drew a more ferocious avatar. And in the company of its friends, Rama was death incarnate for our man. Trembling, he stood there for a second. A little more. Going back was not an option. Not anymore after Rama had seen him. Any scene of weakness gave an extra bout of strength to the adversary.  Instinctively, his fingers motioned

            kill

NOTHING. Except the deep stare back from Rama.

            Kill -f     

Rama's languid demeanor now seemed to change. A hapless victim seemed to be waiting.

And in one final throw of dice, our man's fingers are typing furiously at his imaginary keyboard.

            SUDO KILL -F

And his habitual cry of “F*&K YOU!” got the better of him. The final move done. Rama and his comrades were in the game. Letting out a loud bark, the pack tested its feet in the dark. Our man knew nothing but to run. It was all adrenaline or testosterone for him now. And he ran in the direction of her home. All these years of running behind girls had finally helped him in such dire situations as he found his comfort behind a car near her home. And he managed to recite a Gayatri Japa of which he barely remembered a few words.  The most sincere prayers are heard from the tongues of those in mortal fear. 

After enduring the entire trauma, he was still unsure of the futileness of his mission. Should I go back? He reckoned. He had dreamt of this day for a year as he climbed his way to her room through the rear door. Parents with a girl never seem to learn their lesson even after watching so many films. And he see stood at the balcony seeing her face content in sleep, he was confused and wondered. She seemed mysterious. Was she the same girl who never seemed to smile? She even looked innocent for a moment. When the sun was shining bright, she was evil. Pure evil.

It was strange. He made a small hissing sound, “Shhhh, Shhhh” Careful enough to not wake her abruptly. It was not the fear of consequences of being caught sneaking into their home, but he did not want her to wake up in panic. He wanted it to be beautiful. And sure, she woke up. And came looking till the balcony. And in the first abrupt motion of the night, he grabbed her ears and whispered, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY”

            The thief stole her heart. 

A girl, a crush and a phone

As I left for office yesterday, It felt like the day before. Or the day before it. Or the day before the day before. My companion for the day, the laptop tucked in, the handkerchief to give sinus company and the identity card to help my company “authenticate” me before entering “their” campus. 100 re. for food. A good 10 minutes before the cab would arrive, I was on road. Yet, something felt incomplete. And then it dawned, I had forgotten my phone at home.

               Two years ago, I treaded the same path to catch my college bus. And as soon as I stepped away from the glare of my mom who would anxiously remind me about the 15 re .(Yes, that is how much I carried to college everyday) still lying on the table or the handkerchief I would slowly slip the mobile out. And look into it all the way till I reached college.

7.30: Good morning 

              And wait for the next few seconds staring at the phone. Has she not started yet? Why did not she reply? Should I reply back asking whatsup! Or does she not have balance? OR Is she angry? Did I tell something yesterday to upset her?  As if her world depended on me!

7.33: Ain’t the weather like you? Teasing and threatening to pour with a little prod! Whats up!

              And I press the button SEND instinctively. Sometimes a reply would come within the next 30 secs. Sometimes 40.  A second more and I would go back to sent items to check if I sent something offensive. Something stupid was acceptable. Or was she busy with someone else? Did I show my desperation to talk by texting a minute earlier? How much longer should I wait.

              Every SMS might have had a maximum limit of only 150 characters and costed at most 10 paise. (I was clever enough to never text on holidays!) But, it costed me a lot more thoughts, a lot more time. They say love happens at first sight. Sometimes, love happens over the first SMS. And most crushes after the first conversation. After half a decade of exhausting my free messaging limit, perhaps it is time to reflect on how texts affected me and how different it is from other mediums of communication and kadallai putting.  

              The beauty of texting is the intimacy in the conversations.  That extra second to digest a message and feel it before replying back.  That second when your crush sets your heart aflutter with a brilliant bit of wordplay to tease you. When you know you made her smile even if it is at the cost of making you look stupid.  Back in the days of failing internet, telephone was never a great option. However hard the poets might have tried to romanticize silence, middle class economics surely rubbished the theory. With a phone, there was a fear of dad asking, “Yaaru pa avallavu nerram phone le!” (Dai, who is it on phone for so long!). A fear of the balance getting exhausted before the phone’s charge drained out. And most importantly, the pressure to initiate a new topic.  When you are texting, there is that extra second to reply to that conversation killer, “LOL!”, “hmmmm” with something better! Something to keep her talking.  To dream about the tone of her replies. To wonder if she indeed is laughing after the last “LOL!”.  Every sms is a small story in itself. Every conversation, a small part of the larger story.

              Way back in the third year of my engineering, I recollect watching this movie “Happy Days” with her.  Not in the same theatre, not on the same computer. In our homes. Commenting on scenes in between. Making comparisons of the characters in the movie with our friends. So much to talk about, so much to discuss, so much to debate we thought! It was like watching the movie together. Perhaps, it is not. I have never gone to a theatre with anybody.  Bitching about the guy sitting next to us in classroom under his nose. No, we did not have to bitch about him. Did not mean it.  We needed something to talk. And then her mock anger. Her refusal to talk sweetly, but not stopping to reply. One of the first heuristics to differentiate real anger from the mock ones.

              Texting might not allow you to share photos. Or to type longer paragraphs. We did not have to use pixels to prove a lie. But wove beautiful lies around smaller lies. To entertain and be entertained. An extended conversation with different people across different hours of the day. The phone might have turned silent today. The memories refuse to.