Here Comes The Hotstepper: With Mira And Kartik

Here comes the hotstepper​

10 AM: The phone rang at the PA's desk.

"Hello, this is Mira. Is Kartik around? I tried calling his mobile. Where is he?"
"Mira, Kartik's wife? He is in a board meeting. Could you leave a message? He instructed not to disturb him unless NASA intends to evacuate the planet from a rogue comet."

10:15 AM: The agitated PA knocks on the meeting room door.

"Sorry, but Kartik your wife is on the line."
"Tell her I would attend to her later."

"She cried it's far-fetched urgent. Electrocuted by the toaster, hurried in her vehicle on way to the hospital, lurched into a ditch, left arm bleeding, right eye cocked up, hippo hippocampus...hippocampal neocortical network (referring to her notebook) is shattered and the surgeon demands the consent of another functional adult to agree upon which kidney to save. So, she wants to know which kidney you prefer to sleep with?"

Kartik excused the baffled gathering to step out of the meeting room.

10:20 AM: Kartik called up Mira.

"This is what happens when you imagine yourself having a driving licence and taking off in your inventive car. You neither have a license nor a car, still, I prefer the left kidney to sleep with if that is okay with you."
"Kartik, sorry, but I was out of my wits when the screen flashed. What is your Uber rating?"
"My what?"
"Your Uber rating? "
"Your hippocampal neocortical network is really screwed up, you call me out of a board meeting to inquire my Uber rating? Damn both the kidneys. I don't want to save any."
"Kartik, please ..."
He swipes his phone. "4.65"

"What? A 4.65?! Despicable! I married a measly 4.65 rating on Uber. Mine is 4.96 though it was 5 till last week. Consistent of a five star rating, I lapsed to check until this morning. Shocked, betrayed, confused, I called you up. As sweet as a jelly, as naive as a lamb, as cute as a chirpy button, who could have rated me below five. How would I know from the cumulative score? Kartik...which monster would have lifted that hand and rated below five for this jelly-lamby-chirp?"

"Mira, you are hysterical over Uber rating? You should .."

"Wait ..step up ..hotstep-up..talk to you later." Mira snapped out of the call.

4:00 PM: Kartik's mobile rang in the audit room.

"Hello Sir, is that Kartik?"
"Yes, I am Kartik."

"I won't reveal my details. But I have important information that concerns your well being. Your woman is hinky ..er ..suspicious if I may say. She booked an Uber cab at 12 PM lacking destination. I turned up at your place in my Hanumanji endowed vehicle. A lady in blue salwar heaving two huge bags stepped into my car. No sooner seated, she inquired if I would like to drink papaya juice freshly squeezed by her. Within fifteen minutes, she poured out tea from a flask. Then she plied me with cakes, samosas, roasted peanuts. She asked me to drive her to the international airport. During the trip, she inquired if my parents and wife and children were hale. She also inquired if I had cholesterol build up or varicose veins or any other painful ailment. Then she thrust a large bag of protein bars at me. On reaching the airport, she gently urged to turn around and drop her back at the house. While stepping out, she hugged, thanked me handsomely for the ride and tipped me fifty rupees. She accidentally dropped your visiting card from her bag. Amma would often say that Hanumanji protects me from the worldy sins. Psst ...I think your papaya-juicing girl is looking outside of your companionship. May Hanumanji protect you also from such women."

4:30 PM: Kartik's phone buzzed.

"Mira, I have tried to reach you. Where are you? Why haven't you responded?"

"Kartik, that blighter, that ingrate, that blackguard of driver from the afternoon's non-essential ride further lowered my rating. I have sunk to 4.95. Do you feel the humiliation of 4.95 ? How would I scratch my Uber rating in fluorescent ink on my resume under 'other specifics' to insinuate a good-spirited woman. What would I wax about in my character credit? Kartik, I have sworn off from Uber. Never ride in Uber again. I cremated the app. Need to hurry. Talk to you later." On the fading call he overheard, "Bhayya ji, your Ola cab is so cute."

Kartik abandoned hopes on the Haldiram's jamun stocked in the fridge which he had meant to gobble on return cuddling with his hotstepped wife, instead, plant a papaya tree in the garden in foresight of the travails of his venturesome wife.

 

Oops! Bhool jawa ..that I started this. Antics follow.

Hehe! Mira is ekdam nautanki! She does what amuses her.

 

Rumour has it that Kartik was otherwise a good student. Many still dissented that the misled 'good' meant he could escape unnoticed from trouble for an otherwise apprehended student.

He was often spotted in the canteen with the smokers of his batch. Since the odds against him of just a passive smoker were low, the predominant hunch was that he was a puffy smoker. Thereon, everyone surmised that he must have quit smoking because he got involved with her. A few hushed around that he dumped his previous girlfriend for her. Others thought he was a sworn bachelor all along. His roommate hinted that Kartik met her at a Disco on the New Year's Eve, but his lab partner reckoned that she was his long-distance childhood sweetheart who never set foot in any disco. Someone emerged in their fifth year of Alum Reunion that they had eloped. But a friend posted on Facebook that Kartik is up for grabs. His fellow student counselor from college found no cigarette stench from Kartik on weekends. His hockey mate mentioned the girl was involved in a whistle but wasn't sure.

"Are you coming to the class?"

"Carry on", Kartik waved.

"Did you spot any fresh kabootars today? Here're flitting past the building. The one in red looks too glamarous for engg and the other one looks like a missing link in the Yellow Submarine of the Beatles. They should ban yellow in college and have only cute pink. Don't you think so?"

Tipping his chair, Kartik gazed across the window.

Hwee Hwooo . Hwee Hwoo. "Arey Kartik the yellow submarine looked up at my whistling."

Upright, leaned against the grill, Kartik noticed her walking toward.

"Arey bapre, I am off ...she is coming this way. Chal ..see you in class"

Clutching the grill, Kartik intently watched her.

She stood unfazed in her five foot something delicacy. She gazed at him from his three-storied stoop on her. She shifted her held books to an arm.

Hweeeeeeee Hwoooooooooooo !! "I stay in C block of the Girls Hostel. Far away from your building! Next time, for the whistle to be heard by any girl, louder like I just showed. Your hwe hwe won't even alert a puppy. Louder.." She turned around.

He smiled. "Hey, Kartik, Third Year Electronics"

She swung. "Mira, First Year, Civil. But you should work on your seeti or design some electrical whistle for yourself to command attention."

"Hey, I want you to give me something."

"Give you something, a what?"

"Your whistle. Teach me your .. your ..that finger in mouth, blow air, loud whistle."

"Boys ask for heart or that yeh haath humko dede from a girl but you are asking me to teach you to whistle. Grow up!"

"Mira, First Year drawing is the hardest. Won't you trade few drawing tricks for your whistle?"

"I can hold myself well in drawing. Hmm ...I will accept you for Physics. Meet me evening near the auditorium"

Rumour has it that Kartik sketched cartoons for the college magazine. Someone mentioned that he won an award or two. Then added that he drew well everything. His room mate told that he was exasperated by his doodles on his bathroom door. His lab mate hinted that meant falling in love. His fellow student counselor never found him holding a pencil straight. His hockey mate thought he could not draw even a line. His friends found him with sketches. His canteen mate knew that he was a fantastic sketcher who won awards since school days. His hockey mate recalled vaguely some yellow mentioned during a match.

 

Dear Kartik,

Oh! I have a question for you.

Has man completely lost the art of writing love letters these days to a woman? How are they to charm a woman when they pluck scented poems out of the uncatalogued works of some bony and ripe head for phrenology called Pierre de Ronsard. This morning, my friend noticed a pink-hearted letter slipped under her door with a peculiar return instruction to tuck her response behind the wall portrait on third floor. Perhaps a shy admirer from her apartment block has taken fancy on her. The letter creaked very medieval and confounding to her, hence, she has sought my opinion on its content.

First, I am dismayed that men are still sneezing about roses to women! Even if a woman overlooks that cliched rose metaphor on a lovely woman, what is she to make of this baleful ending?

Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth,
Gather the fleet flower of your youth,
Take ye your pleasure at the best;
Be merry ere your beauty flit,
For length of days will tarnish it
Like roses that were loveliest.​

Is he implying to hasten up in the ticking proposition lest she forfeits her youth in her indecision. Jeez! Is that even a love letter with the man enumerating her rose-lived days, so ephemeral, let's not squabble on the nitty-gritty of developing acquaintance...my rosa ...but plunge with abandon. Poem, that too on a rose, with an ominous fate depicted by a bald poet. Why are men writing such old-styled and ambiguous letters to women of today? Should she further wait for the next installment of poems on bignonia, radican, euphorbia, funkia, drummondi, salvia, winca and yucca and other flowers from the garden beds of Lord Emsworth or forthwith send this menacing Ogden Nash to her.

From whence arrived the praying mantis?
From outer space, or lost Atlantis?
glimpse the grin, green metal mug
at masks the pseudo-saintly bug,
Orthopterous, also carnivorous,​

Your Question,
Gallagher

 

Dear Mira,

Men are frightened of composing love letters over filing their taxes for the exact reason on how their hearty enterprise would be interpreted by the woman. Too cheesy! Too pompous! Too wimpy! Too smutty! The last being the greatest of their worries. Many abandon that thought with a crumpled note in a bin at seventh line. The undaunted who haul out to ninth line before ripping it in mad agony are still considered very brave by other feckless men. Mostly, we men resort to copying poems guided by the testimonials from friends on the magical poems that worked for them.

Let's analyse the letter. First he chose Ronsard over Burns or Blake in waxing his intent. Though Ronsard today might grace only the hallways of French Academies or in the bookshelf of a loose cannon ecstatic about poetry, the selection from the accomplished work still holds ground that this man is cultured but clueless. He might not be provoking her response with a short-lived rose as his disclosure with that of a timed occurrence. Like a faded rose, the opportunity also withers. Tomorrow, she could move out from the vicinity, married to another man, but this man, our Ronsard fanboy wishes to seize the day.

Your friend should wait for the winca and yucca letters to follow.

Even men adept at advanced algorithms in matrix mechanics are frightened of stuffing their heart's yearnings in a letter box.

Don't unleash the orthopterous yet on him.

Your Answer,
Shean

 

Dear Kartik,

Do you ever sense the imagination of that song 'Tujhe Dekha Toh Yeh Jaana Sanam' in your life?

I could have crossed your path at any time yet destiny brings us together only when we could sense each other in us. Few years ago, I would have been nipping tea in a cafe and you could be playing golf at that precise instant nearby. You didn't know that such calamity mira would keel your life. I didn't know of your existence, nor you mine. I would have been waiting for a train at the station and you could be cursing at your downer luck for having missed that train. Where were you?

Your,
Mustard



Dear Mira,

When women like you raise such dramatic inquiry which includes at least one bollywood song then men like me quiver over the forced necessity of such heightened delight in having found each other in that frightful innuendo for also not having caught up earlier. Your flechazo in the mustard contrivance is palpable. I would have encountered you if you were not too querulous about the unfelt color of the tea in the cafe while I sauntered around probing for my lost golf ball. I would have boarded the train if you weren't too preoccupied reading that book ignoring my plea for a hand-lift. We could have passed about many times but I met you only when we could have been together ringing my heart out to you.

Your,
Cowbell