“I am getting married. I am leaving Mumbai for good and will continue college there…Mithibhai, Xavier’s or Jai Hind, something,” Geet nonchalantly says while rummaging through clothes in her wardrobe and flung them on the luggage bag unfolding open on the bed.
“What? Are you crazy? Last time, you run away from the engagement and fought with uncle and aunty before coming to Fergusson. It’s the best college in Pune. You must be out of your mind to leave such a place and that too for some fixed match,” Hardik protested. He didn’t know what fell on his head and felt like lightning piercing his heart into pieces.
She stopped in her track, the oscillation from bed to the cupboard and turning in a statuette that someone could have mistaken for the Indian version of Mona Lisa. He felt absolutely helpless and mad. The statue started talking and stared straight at him, “Now! What? You tell me what to do? We need to listen to parents, sometimes. See, Mom has been adamant for me to get married and this time, the guy is well settled and works as scriptwriter for TV serials. At least, I can give him ideas about Mom’s crazy Ekta Kapoor’s K Serial fixation. Mom can give her inputs and we will mint money together as one sukhi parivar (Happy family)!”
“Pyar sab kuch nahin hota hai janab aur kabhi kabhi peth ka sawaal bhi hai…now let me go before I become emotional,” she walked unaffected to the balcony. (Love is not everything Sir and sometimes we need to feed ourselves). He followed her. “Why are you fucking doing that? What happens to us and our world?”
She turned towards him, “Heylo dude! What love? I told you my decision that I am leaving the city and in case you are thinking, Mom never forced me for this match and second, I accepted of my own will. We cannot forever be like that, sex, high on smoke and alcohol, fun, laughs, fighting and again mushy love.”
“Honestly, I am bored being with you dude. You are being clingy with this love crap and all. I made it clear the first time and remember we agreed that the moment we start falling for each other, the whole crap is over,” ruthless woman just went on a spree.
He turned silent and asked, “So, it means there was nothing between us, no emotions at all and the love declaration you made was all false. Geet! I don’t believe you. I really don’t!”
“No! You should,” she upped the decibel. “I am not making that. Wake up to the reality. I have. We are not some Heer Ranjha or Laila Manjnu tearing our clothes nor do I plan to sing Humne ghar choda (We left home) with you and shouting Garibi Hatao (Get rid of poverty) on the street of Mumbai. Aaji kya chahiye dinner pe? Jumbo sized Vada Pav!”
“You have no answer for that, except telling how cool our Fergusson College and campus is. Look beyond that, dude.” She went on a tirade. He didn’t counter her argument and deep inside, a feeling of helplessness struck him like a bomb. The soon-to-be-turned jilted lover was persuaded that he cannot afford to let her go and already plotting in his head how to make the unknown groom run away.
“I love you Geet…something I never told any woman and never felt anything like that for any fling or date. But! This feeling is ecstatic. I want to make the most of our college days together…”
He squeezed her wrist tightly. She didn’t protest. “I am being a bitch. Your eyes shouldn’t remind me about that. Say it thousand times that Geet is a bitch leaving everything for a guy chosen by Maa,” she spoke interruptedly.
“Dude, you are fucking no squirrel. Get that in your head. You keep popping every now and then in the apartment and am fucking tired of this cat and mouse game. Head I fuck! Tail you fuck. Everything is fuckboi game we keep playing by lying on top of each other. Let’s get down to it. Got an adrenaline rush being down?” the soon-to-be bride went on a monologue.
She spoke in an interspersed, monosyllabic tone and so quick that Hardik missed bits and pieces in the conversation. “Can you please repeat everything?” he asked. It was a ploy convincing her not to leave. “I don’t repeat myself,” she countered in a mocking tone.
“You are not going anywhere,” he ran fast towards the door. She leaped behind him. Both of them wrestled the apartment’s key as if it’s some prized candy. She bit on his palm. He wouldn’t let go of it. “Leave my home key. It’s not your condom,” she broke into a splinter. Both slipped to the ground and wrestling with the stack of keys.
They lie on the floor bursting into peals of laughter. “Ouch! My stomach paining, dude?” she guffawed. “Why are you pregnant now?” he teased. “Shut up,” she howled. “Arre! Why are you after me and not letting me get married to Maa’s proposal? Go to those bimbos girls you were serenading on rose day and your tongue curling at moving tits and boobs.”
“You are definitely jealous?” he plainly told.
“Jealous and I? Of Whom? You or those bomb chickas,” she simpered.
“I dunno may be both. You might be bisexual.”
She chortled, “Haha very phunny Mister male Phoebe. You sound like singing Smelly Smelly at my wedding, except I am no cat. You know Mom showed me the picture of the man I’m getting hitched. Well! He looks dashing like a groom in traditional sherwani and pagdi. I immediately said yes…” He stopped her, “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t wanna listen.”
She raised her voice louder, “Arre! Suno na. You know the guy. I wanna tell his name.” He protested. She spoke intermittently and on a spree as if running after the last 1.40 a.m local, laughing seamless. Devdas pinched her arms.
“Ok! Tell!” he grew tired, feeling pulsating heartbeat.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Are you telling or not? Let’s get done with it.”
“You don’t wanna hear do you?”
He was getting tired and shrugged, “Are we playing Pehle aap…pehle aap. I am not some train and you want to go to Jaipur in a local.”
“What the fuck,” he hid anger and jealousy. “You mean the ex you ditched to have sex with me and on whom you actually spilled coffee at the radio station.”
“Hello! I didn’t have any shauk (passion) for sex with you. I just wanna take revenge and you were the first option who came up. Now, what are you looking at? Say na, call me a bitch. Agar bharas hai dil mein toh nikalna, huzoor.”
“Arre when Mom showed me the picture, I couldn’t recognize him. He looked dapper and transformed like a bullet, the long, unkempt hair, chiseled and well-toned chest. Just imagine the bullet driving me on the bed. Are you imagining na our naughty naughty…”
“Ok! You can go and get married, do whateverrr you wanna to. You can fuck yourself.” He moved away from her and she ran after him, grabbing his hand. “Why would I fuck myself? I have my dulha doing that. Just imagine. Me and him naked on bed, caressing his chest and running my hand on…” she says with mouth open and tongue curled, lashed out.
He moved his face away and felt a sensation running high like feverish bout, “I don’t wanna hear.”
“Fine! Let’s do it then,” she simpered.
“What? You are such a pervert,” he was scandalized. “With him, then go ahead.”
“I want to do it with you only. My cute, chweet fuddu. I am getting married today to you…!
“What, where and when….today…Are we eloping? What happens to your sasta dulha?”
“Check the date my fuddu duddu?”
Hardik flipped the calendar app on his smartphone and yelped, “April First!” She leaned and kissed on his cheek, “Ban gaya tu April fool…Fool for Fuddu.” He ran after her. She jumped on the bed. They played hide and seek, pillow throwing and he grabbed her wrist from behind. Both fell on the bed with hands interlocked, stumble on the bed, and chortled.