The Return of Otaku san: WataMote

After a gap of several unremarkable months, Nanga Fakir returned to the world of anime-watching and boy was it a grand homecoming of sorts!

WataMote (or the longer, original title: No Matter How I Look at It, It’s You Guys' Fault I’m Not Popular!) is a terrific, brilliant cringe-comedy that manages to both tickle and unsettle at the same time - the mark of genuine greatness.

Imagine a gender-swapped Osamu Dazai as he would've been as a middle/high school otaku in modern Tokyo. Our heroine, Tomoko Kuroki is a diffident, nondescript loner whose crippling social anxieties make it impossible for her to communicate with fellow classmates - so much so that she hasn't spoken to, much less made friends with, any of her classmates in school. Her models of how to interact with humans come from her vast, formidable knowledge of anime and manga; and her heavy experience with otome games (dating simulations). However, all her attempts at becoming popular (or more accurately, becoming noticed) in school are thwarted by her inability to channel outwards, her inner, surprisingly loquacious monologue. Episode after episode, we see her try and fail - in a way that is funny and yet somewhat dark. The series is not just good - it's too good - it zeroes in on some very uncomfortable truths and rekindles memories best forgotten.

Which brings Nanga Fakir to say a few words about why the series hits home - it's about Ghongha Basant - his childhood, adolescence, youth (or lack thereof). 

Those of you who know NF, know also that his best friend is Ghongha Basant and his misadventures with humans in general, and women in particular, sometimes find their barely fictionalized tellings in NF's blogposts. Watching Tomoko's travails released, during a marathon empathy session, demons better off sealed - much like the dreaded Saamri in Ramsay brothers' low budget horror films of the '80s (cf. Purana Mandir and Saamri). Much like Tomoko, Ghongha's childhood was sad and lonely, crippled as he's always been by anxiety, self doubt and debilitating loneliness. The intense peer pressure of being successful and popular didn't help matters much either. Much like Tomoko, reality continued to interrupt GB's life. Much like Tomoko's, GB's attempts at connecting with real, flesh-and-blood humans failed miserably, as (he would icily note one day) they didn't seem to conform to Dostoyevskian archetypes, nor shared their characteristic existential ennui and general weltschmerz. 

GB's stint in college would prove just as isolationary. For Ghongha Basant, Tomoko chan's attempts at being noticed by the opposite sex brought back painful, sad memories of women who were unapproachable and loneliness that was complete; and while Tomoko, being a modern day otaku, could express her fantasies in a wide variety of otome games, NF would rather not speculate as to the particular nature of the otome games Ghongha Basant indulged in. Being the classic country bumpkin from the mofussil, he thought he could blend in with his elite classmates in college by pretending to read Kafka, listening to Pink Floyd or by watching Tarantino (imagine his shock when he was made known that ACDC had nothing to do with Electrical Engineering); when his heart, in fact, beat fast only for the uncool Bollywood - that too, of an era bygone - landlocked in times far more innocent, simple and artless. To this day, NF's heart goes out to GB, who struggles still, to navigate the vast expanse of emptiness that lays ahead of him - much like Tomoko's interminable-yet-transient summer vacation - captured so exquisitely in WataMote. 

That sad misfit - that clueless loner - that Ghongha Basant! Tomoko Kuroki is but his fraternal twin.

And yes, everyone else who's seen it is correct - Tomoko's voice actress is beyond brilliant - in fact, so impressive was her performance that NF was compelled to notice (before this series, NF had never paid attention to this dimension in animes). Also, the visual stylization was extremely impressive as well - so much so that sometimes NF was reminded of Sayonara... - that benchmark for the simple-yet-stylish visual aesthetics in anime production.

If the prospect of unleashing the demons of a battered, unhappy childhood don't bother you so much - go ahead and watch!

दुबे कौन कुमति तोहे लागी?

(टाइटल काशीनाथ सिंह की कहानी "पाणे कौन कुमति तोहे लागी?" से चुराया गया है.)

...

दुबेजी लम्पट नगर के उभरते हुए पंडों में से एक माने जाते हैं. उम्र भले ही बीस/पचीस की हो, लेकिन अपनी पैनी सोच, विद्वता, हाज़िरजवाबी और सबसे गौरतलब - अपनी आधुनिकता के कारण वे लम्पट नगर के धार्मिक, ज़रा-प्रौढ़, मध्यवर्गीय तबके के विशिष्ट सत्यनारायण-भगवान-कथा-संचालक माने जाते हैं.

पण्डे भले हों, लेकिन पुराणपंथी और दकियानूसी वे कतई नहीं हैं. बड़ी ही खुली सोच है दुबेजी की. उनकी कथाओं-के-बीच-छुपी-हुई आध्यात्मिक/लोकज्ञान-वर्धक सूक्तियां (जो विशेषतः अपने तीसरे दशक की चौखट पर खड़ी महिलाओं में आश्चर्यजनक रूप से लोकप्रिय हैं) अक्सर अंग्रेजी फिल्मों, पाश्चात्य संगीत और उत्तर-आधुनिक साहित्य से प्रेरित होती हैं. अपने बिचारे यजमान भले ही इनके स्रोत से अपरिचित हों, यह अज्ञान उनके रसास्वादन के रास्ते नहीं आता है. अपने इन्हीं सब गुणों के कारण लम्पट नगर में दुबेजी की बड़ी पूछ है. आप ही बताइए, दुनिया में कितने पण्डे आपको मिलेंगे जो धोती-कुरता-गमछा धारण करते हों और ब्लैक सैबथ के हेवी मेटल पर हेडबैंगिंग करते हों? (उनके साथी पण्डे इनकी इस आदत को "मुंड-कम्पन" का नाम देते हैं.)

ओह! और आपको यह बताना तो हम भूल ही गए कि दुबेजी अपने घोंघा बसंत के स्कूली सहपाठी, पड़ोसी, घनिष्ठ मित्र थे (घोंघा भइया भी अपने बचपन में लम्पट नगर के निवासी थे).

खैर, इन सब बातों को जाने दीजिये. फिलहाल हम दुबेजी को लम्पट नगर के पहले लैंडमार्क-पुस्तक-भवन में प्रवेश करते देख रहे हैं. अपने धोती-कुरते-गमछे-हलकी-दाढ़ी में बड़े ही सुदर्शन लगते हैं हमारे दुबेजी! और वह काली छतरी, काले बूट और मैचिंग ज़ुराबें तो क्या खूब ही फबती हैं उनपर!

पहला आधा घंटा दुबेजी साहित्य सेक्शन में ग़र्क करते हैं. कामू और सार्त्र के गहन अध्ययन से उत्पन्न बोझिलता से मुक्त होने के लिए वे कुछ हल्का पढ़ते हैं और हास्य-व्यंग्य की विधा में सिद्धहस्त लेखकों की शरण में कुछ समय व्यतीत करते हैं. टॉम रोबिन्स, क्रिस्टोफर मूर, गैरी श्टेन्गार्ट आजकल उनके प्रिय व्यंग्यकार चल रहे हैं. वे अपने आप से वादा करते हैं कि श्टेन्गार्ट की "सुपर सैड ट्रू लव स्टोरी" ज़रूर खरीदेंगे, और आगे बढ़ जाते हैं.

खैर, अगला पड़ाव म्यूजिक सेक्शन.

एक लड़की बोस हेड फ़ोन लगाये म्यूजिक सेक्शन में कुछ सुनती हुई दिखाई देती है. लम्बे, काले बाल, घुटनों पर हलकी सी फटी जींस; एक लम्बी, ढीली, गहरे गले वाली टी शर्ट (उसके साइज़ से ज़रा बड़ी सी - "शायद उसके बड़े भाई की होगी" - दुबेजी आशापूर्वक सोचते हैं) जिसपर आयरन मेडेन के मैस्कट "एड्डी" की वीभत्स तस्वीर चिपकी हुई है. लड़की के हाथ हेड फ़ोन पर हैं और उसका सिर हल्का-हल्का झूमता सा दिख रहा है.

यह देखना काफी आसान है कि लड़की ज़रा भी बन-ठन के नहीं आई है. और यह देखना उससे भी ज़्यादा आसान है कि उसे बन-ठन के आने कि कोई ज़रुरत नहीं है. उसके पूरे व्यक्तित्व से एक अलसाई मादकता टपक रही है; एक लापरवाह, लापता सी नैसर्गिक खूबसूरती, जो ज़रा चढ़ी-चढ़ी, उबासी भरी आँखों से आपको देखती है और बेबस सा कर देती है. सैद्धांतिक/दार्शनिक तौर पर दुबेजी इस प्रकार की सुन्दरता से भली-भांति परिचित हैं. यह खूबसूरती एक अजब प्रकार के वैभव से उत्पन्न होती है जिसकी व्याख्या करना ज़रा मुश्किल होगा. इस ख़ास प्रकार की खूबसूरती में धन के माध्यम से खरीदी हुई एक अलग-ही प्रकार की अत्याधुनिक/उत्तराधुनिक शिक्षा से उपजी साहित्य-संगीत-कला-रसास्वादन की क्षमता, बोरियत से भरी हुई बड़ी बड़ी गोल आँखें और आम खूबसूरती के पैमानों के लिए एक अनूठी हेय दृष्टि आरक्षित होती है. खैर, इसकी व्याख्या दरअसल समय खराब करने सरीखा है इसलिए इसे फिलहाल ज़रा रहने ही दीजिये.

गहन आकर्षण से खिंचे हुए दुबेजी अचानक से अपने आप को इस लड़की के समक्ष पाते हैं.

लड़की की बोझिल, अलसाई हुई आँखें धीरे धीरे खुलती हैं और अपने हलके हलके झूमते हुए सिर के ठीक सामने एक सत्रहवीं सदी के नमूने को पाती हैं. एक तीखी टेढ़ी-सी मुस्कान उसके चेहरे पर फैल जाती है. दुबेजी अपने जीवन में पहली बार अपनी धोती में हलचल महसूस करते हैं और एक दबी हुई झल्लाहट से जेब के अभाव को कोसते हैं.

और एक टांग ज़रा पीछे किये, एक हाथ कमर पर डाले, अपने खुद की एक टेढ़ी मुस्कान से उस लड़की का प्रतिकार करते हुए दुबेजी कहते हैं:

"सप बेब ! हाओज़ इट गोइंग?"

In Which Ghongha Gives it Those Ones

Scene: A not-so-swanky, not-so-jam-packed restaurant. Ordinary people sit, eat, talk and go about their ordinary, day-to-day, somewhat shallow lives.

#1: It's been a while, knowing you, being with you.

<*#0 eyes #1 with a faint amusement*>

#1: Perhaps I am not putting this well. Perhaps words are not meant to capture this well. Perhaps even the tiniest range of emotions can't be expressed in hopelessly limited constructs such as language.

#0: <*A little baffled*> What are you talking about?

#1: The fact that I love you? that (subliminally perhaps) I've been in love with you the moment I set my eyes upon you, that you complete me, that knowing you is knowing what Plato referred to as what it was to find your other half as it exists out there in the world, the finding of which and eventual communion with which is what gives meaning and purpose to a life otherwise so full of misery, suffering, shallowness and pain.

<*#0's (rather lovely one might add) cheeks are suffused with a deep blush. Intensely self conscious, she tries to fight the giant grin that's stretching her lips from ear to ear.*>

#1: Will you marry me?

<*#0 contracts into herself. A barely audible "yes" escapes her luscious lips. Gently, she holds #1's hand and gives him a look full of affection - a moment/instant/freeze-frame for which all humans in the world would gladly sacrifice a limb or two. #1 will later recount this scene and recall the thin, watery film stretched across #0's eyes, about to attain critical mass and fall off, float across those cheeks as a million dollar dewdrop tear.*>

#1 stands up and addresses the small restaurant crowd.

#1: Guys, I am extremely happy to let you know that the greatest woman on earth has just consented to marry me!

<*Cries, claps and cheers all around*>

#17: Whoa!
#19: Way to go man!
#13 (to #11): Ah it's so touching! Reminds me of our time.

Date: Oh this is so romantic!
Ghongha Basant: He he he...
Date: What are you smirking at?
Ghongha: Another divorce in the making?

Found Footage - Part 2

Part 1 here.

...

We see Shuchikar in the recently deceased Andy Umbrage's office located on the sixth floor of the Arts and Cinema Studies department. He was informed of his late mentor's bizarre suicide by a call from Umbrage's lawyer who let him know that it was the express wish of the late artist that his one time protégé Shuchikar be informed of his demise wherever and whenever it comes to pass and that his many unreleased (and some of them incomplete) films, still housed in his office in the University be made available to him and that Shuchikar be the sole custodian of the same and decide on whatever he thought was appropriate vis-à-vis their release to the general public/art/film/academic community.

So we see our hero in the environs he hasn't visited in quite a while and we watch him sympathetically - indeed somewhat admiringly as well (he's the hottest underworld filmmaker these days) - as he lazily casts a glance around the office that used to be such an important part of his life a few years ago. The place is stacked with books that lie around somewhat haphazardly not just on the shelves but also on tables and the floor. The walls in front of him are bare except for a giant poster of Takahiko Iimura playing chess with Michael Bay who's dressed in black cape as Death, recreating the iconic scene from The Seventh Seal by Bergman.

The table in front of him carries on it a sealed box with Umbrage's unreleased films. He's decided to take them home and watch them on his projector and write short reviews of the same before deciding their fate as regards their release. He's also decided to not participate in the discussions on and regarding the death of his mentor and the symbolic significance/interpretations of the particular manner in which he killed himself, the latest of which is that Umbrage's head-in-the-sand-legs-in-the-air suicide was supposed to mirror the ostrich's cowardly behavior. As a dyed-in-the-wool symbol-minded artist, Umbrage would have been thoroughly amused at this turn of events, Shuchikar thought. Indeed, nobody in the present art world championed Duchamp's art semiotics more than Umbrage who's first major performance was opened by the following lines:

The creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.

Interestingly, the aforementioned first major performance of Umbrage had ended in disaster (for him personally) as he, just after quoting Duchamp had jumped off a small cliff, all naked but for a quill in each of his arms and had fallen down thirty feet or so directly and had broken every major bone in his body. This piece had created a sharp rift in the art community where some praised the artist for his extraordinary courage, some praised him for symbolizing man's eternal quest for flight which in turn was interpreted as progress, some praised him for choosing ostrich quills as symbolic feathers (since quills also stood for 'the pen' which is not only mightier than the sword but metaphorically represents all creativity itself and in having chosen an ostrich quill, Umbrage had underlined the inevitably tragic nature of all such creative, artistic endeavors) and the remainder praised the act and its dénouement (or the lack of it, as some commentators quipped) as standing for the personal danger to bones and (remaining) limbs that artists the world over have to face up to alone, singlehandedly, notwithstanding the collaborative nature of art and the jaded spectator's as-important-as-artists role of bringing out the art in art.

Found Footage - Part One

After having lived a rich and fulfilling life, Andy Umbrage took his own life last night. As a cross platform, multi faceted artist (he was a celebrated painter, poet, filmmaker, musician, art theorist, performance artist and socialite), his suicide comes across as a major shock to his not-so-many-in-terms-of-sheer-numbers but small-but-rabidly-devoted-and-deeply-influential trendsetting powerful artist and patron fans across the world. Expect festchrifts and tributes in plenty and obscure and often very subtle homages in the form of jump cuts interspersed with sickening footages of tigers eating humans in graphic detail and a brown, long haired boy pleasuring himself in the shower - a sly wink to Umbrage's now notoriously famous film "The Revenge of Mowgli" - by arthouse filmmakers across the globe.

Umbrage is not survived by his wife and children. They died seven years ago while protesting against tree felling in the jungles of Amazon. They had bound themselves to immense redwood trees with metal chains and although this was sufficient to deter the tree fellers, it certainly wasn't enough for the creatures of the night who were seduced by this grand gesture on the part of the Umbrage family and secretly paid them a visit to thank them for this magnanimity. The following day, Mrs. Umbrage's face was found chewed off and the body of Master Umbrage was nowhere to be found, metal chains notwithstanding. As this news traveled, a visibly perturbed Andy Umbrage declared this the Ultimate Performance Art of the century.

When the police arrived to the scene of the suicide this morning in Mr. Umbrage's house, they found the tiling on the floor destroyed and dirt all over the house. They also found a shovel near the deceased Mr. Umbrage's corpse. A copy of the novel The Tunnel by William H. Gass was also found. Umbrage had dug out a pit and had committed suicide by putting his head inside it and had covered the space with dirt. Presumably the cause of death was due to asphyxiation. As rigor mortis had set in, the police found the head and neck stuck into the ground and the torso and legs stiff and erect and pointing towards the ceiling. In the outstretched, clenched hands of the deceased, the police found a suicide note with only a few words etched on it in red ink - "Who's your daddy now?"

Critics are already claiming that the suicide was part of another profound piece of performance art. They are basing their claims on the terse suicide note and interpreting this act as a revolt against the recently-in-vogue tendencies of the neo-bourgeois artists who've been committing suicide painlessly and are claiming that by dying in such a grisly fashion, he reminded everyone that committing suicide ungrislyly is seriously uncool and such people are better off existing which in turn (the existence, that is) can only be either horrible or miserable. His detractors on the other hand simply point out that this was another attempt on his part to one-up his dead wife (with whom he had a long standing rivalry) and by the suicide note, he simply wanted to remind her who her daddy was.

The obituary is brought to halt by noting offhandedly that Andy Umbrage had many gifted disciples and that Shuchikar was once his protégé who'd rebelled against his style. Hearing the sad demise of his teacher, however, he decided to open up some windows into his past and pay a last visit to his dead mentor.

Eavesdropping on Ghongha

Ghongha: How's your life-as-soap-opera metaphor holding up?
Girl: <*coyly*> That metaphor's metamorphosed. <*smiles*>
Ghongha: ...
Girl: ... <*sporting a quizzical-something-wrong(?)-type-expression*>
Ghongha: I think I just fell in love with you.

...

Nanga Fakir's planning to capture more incidents from the life of his close friend Ghongha Basant. Shuchikar - Ghongha's closest friend and roommate for four years in college (and the exact opposite of Ghongha in personality (read suave, smart, glib and raconteur par excellence - quite the ladies' man) - promises me to help dig up on Ghongha's stories - past, present and future.

WTF?

A lumbering, heavy feeling weighed Ghongha down, and he dragged his feet under the weight of that fat Python of Dejection. The Korean restaurant ahead beckoned him with promises of exotic dishes, beautiful waitresses and quaint English accents. He crawled towards Seoul's Soul.

The menu was in Engrish. The names of the dishes seemed to be in Martian. And from the girls who worked there as waitresses, he could as well have been in Paradise.

“Why don't you order a live octopus and tear it off savagely? Just like Oh Daesu in Oldboy? The cute waitress will locate the obvious symbolism in the act. And then you can cast me off...Besides, it's a long time since I had an octopus.”, the fat python hissed amicably and lazily crawled inside Ghongha's shirt.

But Ghongha had long since learned not to take the Python's advice seriously. He ordered the standard full course Hanjeongsik and quietly sat down to eat. The waitress was back again to check on him.

“Do you need a fuck?”, she asked him solicitously, full of unfeigned concern.

“Boy did you get lucky!”, whispered the Python and slid underneath languorously. “Looks like it's time for me to leave you for a while”, he added as an afterthought and flashed his fangs in a wide yawn.

Ghongha looked at the girl in bafflement. She was young, perhaps younger than him, slim and beautiful. She wore a casual, loose T shirt and jeans and wore no make up. Her long, straight, somewhat unkempt hair fell over her shoulders bewitchingly. She smiled at our hero and asked again deferentially, “So...do you need one?”.

Ghongha didn't know what to say. He felt the Python's iron grip in his heart tightening even further. Words escaped him and he could not understand anything anymore.

“Relax kid. You're gonna blow this away.” (Hiss...hiss).

“Fine, I'll leave you two to enjoy. She's a sweet girl. I like her. You probably need it too.”, he chuckled wryly and relaxed his grip on Ghongha, slid down his body and began crawling on the floor of the restaurant.

A gentle, grateful smile slowly spread across Ghongha's lips and he nodded shyly to the girl. She smiled her warm, sunny smile and said in her cute accent, “I'll be back shortly”.

And came back soon enough with a spring in her step and joy in her face.

“Here you go”, she said and left again.

Ghongha eyed the fork on the table in crushed bewilderment.

“Shouldn't have left your side at all”, laughed the Python maliciously and leapt back towards Ghongha's table.

On Idioms and Idiots

Did I tell you of the time when Ghongha Basant had a girlfriend? (It's true. He did have one). No? Well then...

The girl was beautiful and smart. She used to sit quietly with her elbows hunched over her knees. Her long hair used to fall over her ears onto her shoulders as she would close her eyes and take yet another deep puff of smoke from her joint. Every non homosexual kid in the neighbourhood was, at least at one point in his life, deeply in love with her.

The onslaught of Time has caused the name of the girl to have been forgotten (Ghongha never told me her name. Maybe he was bluffing). I choose to call her Jenny for want of a better option and for the fact that it reminds me of Robin Wright in Forrest Gump.

Those who knew/were friends of Ghongha (like a certain someone called Nanga Fakir), were shell shocked when they got to know this. When together, they concurred that the girl was the most foolish they had come across. When alone, they bemoaned rampant injustice in the world. Anyway, back to the story.

Ghongha and his girl were lying on the grass on a cool night staring at the stars. Romance was in the air, thanks to the fact that Ghongha had read the last copy of the book How to Cootchie-Coo? from the library last night.

Jenny: The night's so beautiful! I remember the time when I was a kid. I used to sleep on the roof just so I could see the stars while I sang myself to sleep.

When Ghongha was a kid he used to catch frogs from the black, sludgy pond near his house and tear them to pieces for want of better things to do. But the Cootchie Coo book expressly forbade recounting of old emotional tales of battered, abused childhoods at romantic events. So Ghongha decided to play safe and stay quiet.

Jenny, probably overwhelmed by happy memories of a blissful childhood, snuggled into Ghongha and put her arms around him.

Jenny: I am so glad I found you. Love's such a beautiful thing! I love you so much!

The Animal inside Ghongha raised his head. The Book had forbidden this too. So he bit his lip hard and resisted the Animal.

Jenny: So...
Ghongha: So what?
Jenny: Let me ask you ask a question.
Ghongha: Uh huh...
Jenny: Was there any girl other than me in your life?

Ghongha remembered all the imaginary girlfriends he had had over the last five years. And he smiled a wry smile. "No...imaginary beings don't count", he remembered.


Ghongha: Nope...never.
Jenny: Is it??? No...you're lying.
Ghongha: No, it's the truth.
Jenny: Don't you feel attracted to other women? It's okay, you can tell me. I won't be mad. It's human after all. Doesn't that dirty mind of yours ever think about other girls who are soooo pretty? Ha? C'mon...

She laughed a short laugh, her pearly teeth flashing all over the place. Ghongha's heart skipped a beat and something inside him contracted sharply at the sight of such a heartbreakingly beautiful sight.

He wanted to hold her tight and scream into her ears all he had ever felt about her. He wanted to tell her that she was the only one who had ever treated him like a human. He wanted to tell her his life story, about the experiments he had performed on animals, about the many people he'd fucked over, about the twin imaginary sister-girlfriends Kiki and Boo Boo he had met when he was left to drown in the sludge pond at the age of thirteen. But he couldn't.

Damn that book. "You can win...", it said. "...if you play smart and impress the other sex".

Ghongha smiled a wicked grin.

Ghongha: No I don't think about other girls when I am with you.
Jenny: (with extreme happiness) You're kidding me! Why do you do that? Is there a reason?

Ghongha prepared for the punchline, the killer blow which would knock anybody up, kill two birds with one stone...

Ghongha: A bird in hand is worth two in the bush.

...

How did the idiom go? A slap in time saves nine...eh?

Boy meets Girl

Scene: Bus stand. Only two people there. One boy-frail and short with an over-sized T shirt on his reed thin frame hanging like...well a loose T shirt on a reed thin plastic hanger. Let's, without any loss of generality assume that his name is “Ghongha Basant”.

The second person is a female. This time however, with a significant loss of generality, assume her name as "Madhuri Zinta". As the name suggests, she is extremely good looking, spunky, confident and considers all males to be no better than her pet dog. And yeah, I forgot to add, she is extremely well read and as all such intellectuals go, pretty lit.

The bus just isn't arriving. There is uncomfortable silence in the bus stop and this is oppressing our shy, gentle hero Ghongha who seems to melt away and wish the earth would swallow him up so that he will be excused from breaking the silence by saying “Hi” to the female. Finally, the girl kind of loses patience and asks this sensitive hero of ours,

Madhuri Zinta: “Hi, I am Madhuri. You're Ghongha right?”
Ghongha: (Shocked to the point of disbelief that a female, and that too a nice one, had addressed him) “Uhhh...yeah, Hi”.

Some casual pleasantries are exchanged and a couple of lines regarding the cold weather are put in politely. By the end of the three minute conversation, Ghongha is pretty much convinced that Ms Madhuri Zinta is madly in love with him. This gives him a lot of confidence and he becomes more at home talking to this insanely beautiful girl.

Madhuri catches Ghongha staring at her rear. But given that the female is lit, she obviously assumes that Ghongha is looking at the book that's jutting out of her bag.

Madhuri: “Have you read this book? 'My name is Red' by Orhan Pamuk. You know this guy won the Nobel this year in Literature.”
Ghongha: “No I have not”.
Madhuri: (Slightly dismayed) “Oh. So what kind of books do you read?”
Ghongha: “Comic books basically”.
Madhuri: “Oh I love them too. I really think Alan Moore is one of the most brilliant writers of this genre. And Frank Miller too...the way he reinvented Batman in “The Dark Knight Returns” is simply superb”. She seemed to lapse into a thoughtful silence as she said this, as if suddenly realising the supreme truth of such a profound observation. Then she added after this afterthought, “Don't you think so?”
Ghongha: (Totally taken aback) “Well actually my favourite comic book was "Chacha Chaudhary aur Raka ki Wapasi” by the cartoonist Pran”. The boy had seen the girl pass into thoughtful meditation as she had pronounced her verdict. Being incredibly beautiful, this had suited her finely crafted features and had shifted her rear ever so slightly to the left. Needless to say, it was an extremely impressive stance. It was but natural that our hero Ghongha Basant would try to emulate that thoughtful lapse into silence. But suddenly he remembered vividly about the comic book “Chacha Chaudhary aur Raka ki Wapasi” which was not only the best comic book he had ever read, but also his first one. A blinding wave of sudden nostalgia swept him as he recalled in minute detail how he would hide this comic in between his “Joy of Science” textbook so that his father would not catch him reading comics. Something other-worldly, something ethereal gripped his self and he found himself speaking passionately about the world of Chacha Chaudhary.

Ghongha: “You know, whenever Sabu had a fit of anger, somewhere, someplace, a volcano erupted. And Chacha Chaudhary was a super hero whose brain worked faster than a computer. And Chacha Chaudhary had a brother named Chchajjoo Chaudhary who once was mistaken for him and was taken to planet Tau Tau where he was given complicated equations to solve.....It was....it was....it was...brilliant!”

A gentle, quiet, dew drop like tear slipped from Ghongha's eyes. Madhuri looked at him with her jaws open. Silence reigned supreme in the bus stand again but the beautiful face of Ms Madhuri Zinta seemed blurred as tears quietly rolled by.

Quite noiselessly, the bus had rolled to a stop near the bus stand. Madhuri went in. As Ghongha was about to climb the steps, a lopsided smile ran across his face. He chuckled and said to himself “You smooooth bastard. She will be fantasizing about you tonight for sure.”