When we fell for Paris...

“We are so lucky to be here (Paris), I mean how many people have seen this in real? (*According to Wikipedia 45 million every year)”; “I like Europe because there is a great degree of respect given to women, plus they can wear anything or nothing”; “Tu mereko judge karne aaya hai ya Paris ghumne ? Dude, Do you see a ‘born to lose’ tattoo across my chest?”; “Tell me one direction where you don’t see a hot chick (*I say vertically upwards and the joke is on me)”; “Paris has a latent soul I tell you, that’s been greatly missing in other European cities (*apparently he has seen only two European places one being Paris and other being some obscure Swiss village)”; “We are absolutely fucking (silent)free tomorrow!!”(* on being asked by a French girl about his plans); “I like French music helluva lot, I eat, live and die for it” (on being asked by the same French girl about his music taste, but I guess he has heard only one French song his whole life, that too during an official French language class) …

Partly because he knows Francais (French) and mostly because he is my Wingie back college, I planned a trip to Paris with him. No, this whole story is not about him and his queer adventures, come on I am not that useless and irksome. I have just used him as a fucking tool so that people can laugh a little. Yes mortals enjoy sarcasm and scoffing. But, seriously I read somewhere “Though sarcasm is a kind of wit but of the cheapest kind”. And I say “Kindly fuck off” to the person who said these lines. I mean its pure fucking fun ain’t it? aye?

I just told you what this applesauce story is not about, I think my job is done (*as if you are paying me for this). Not even one page long, you are thinking what the fuck! I argue back by saying I am being very fucking honest with all you people because many legendary authors don’t tell you so easily what their book is NOT about. They just keep writing pages, flurrying, misleading fucking brats who try their level best to finish their first ever novel cover to cover. But everyone knows that the brats have read Playboys, Penthouse, other Desi magazines (*I refrain from mentioning their names here, it makes my article chinchy ) cover to cover, line by line, word by word, between lines, between sheets, over the sheets, inside out, audio mode, visual mode and whatever fucking possible way you can imagine in your wildest of dreams. I ask why these magazines ain’t considered as a cussing piece of literature shit, they seem pretty fucking honest and straight to me. Strange are people.

On Metro Train to St. Remy, around 11pm

Ok, I see a 5’ 7” long, blonde, blue eyed, about 20 years old girl standing in front of me. She is wearing a transparent white shirt (*but I know you are rather more interested in what’s beneath it), knee length black skirt and some fucking whore like black see-through stockings on her legs. I can see bruises on her legs, maybe she got them from her last customer or maybe she is the Catwoman. I fallaciously think that she hopes that these stockings will get her laid and I guess she is pretty fucking aright. I would fuck her and I know you would too. For that matter I would fuck anyone right now because I haven’t till now and I am 21. But again, I don’t think any chick worries about getting laid more than she worries about Om getting reincarnated in Kahaani Ghar Ghar ki? Not worrying about getting laid is the only area where they score heavily over men (*because an average male spends more than half of the office time per week in worrying about it) and I think it’s some consolation they got from God when he took their (females’) brains and exchanged the brains for a few pints of Bavarian beer, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and sex with some angel or whatever played the role of holy prostitute at that time (*pardon the cruelty of language for I am follower of St. Richard Dawkins).

She looks at me and I look back at her, then suddenly I look in some other direction just to make sure that it isn’t just a fucking coincidence, but it’s not. Then I think Oh maybe she is looking at the bald scumbag sitting beside though chances of that are minimal. I again look at her and she grins and I think to myself it’s my lucky day though after 21 years of useless chickenshit life. But yet again ‘she’ proves me wrong, the bloody bald guy (*about her biological father’s age and is uglier than Hugh Jackman) asks her something possibly to entice her into a dirty conversation and she seems very fascinated maybe she is a whore after all (*I was never sure). Not to forget the dude (my wingie) is also standing there rock solid. I look at him and I laugh. I go into my visual mode and remember how earlier today he took a pee in the bushes present to the sides Avenue Des Champs-Elysees. I even clicked a picture of him committing that flagitious crime. I mean it’s not a big deal in India. There you can shit anywhere in the streets nobody cares but you can’t kiss in the streets, the case is exactly the opposite in Europe. The dude seems to have to a good time standing to the proximity of the whore and why he wouldn’t. He looks at me and moves his eyeballs and head to point towards the whore’s shoulder touching his shoulder because the train is too crowded. I know it’s the happiest moment of his pretty dreary life.

Train stops at a station, the bald guy and few other passengers leave. Their departure leads to a happening that’s quite unfavourable for me and quite favourable for the dude. Now the dude and the whore are sitting in front of me, beside each other and what the fuck! They start talking too. I pretend I am not looking at them, I must admit that dude has for first time in 3 years gained some respect in my eyes. I am observing her in a clandestine way, I like the way she smiles, and ‘She is like the wind’ comes up on my iPod. But then the dude ruins the moment by asking me something, I remove my one of earphones and try to listen to what the fuck he is trying to say. I want to say “You talkin’ to me?” but I don’t, he shouts, “In which university are you in?” I say “I don’t know” just to shut him up and plug my earphone back again. I don’t know what has changed in the past few minutes but I have developed a strange attraction towards her, I won’t talk shit about her from this point onwards. I think just because the dude has an upper hand that’s why I am feeling this firm urge of talking to her, knowing her, taking her to Austrian Alps, then sit naked by the fireplace, drink Sangria, probably paint her and then to forget myself. We can live happily and make lotta children.

“So what all places did you see today?” she asks me, I don’t have any words. Suddenly “Where do you go to my lovely” comes up on iPod, though the song is so beautiful and makes you fall in love in with Paris every time you hear it, I still remove my earphones and try to answer her. “Hmm…Louvre Museum, then took a boat tour on Seine river and clicked few pictures”, she replies “That’s lovely did you go to Notre dame too?”, “No but we will surely”. Then the dude interjects and starts asking her about India, “Do you know the Taj Mahal? It’s one of the Seven Wonders of the World like the Eiffel tower, but it’s not a tower”, she answers smilingly “Yes I know, I have been there”, the dude adds “I have been there too, actually I go there every summers and take a picture with Taj in the background. You wanna see it?”

I am listening to “Tiny Dancer” now, I periodically look at both of them and smile just show that I am very cool with dude doing all the talking and I don’t care if a stranger girl wants talk to me. I am acting as if it happens to me every day except for the fact that it doesn’t and I don’t remove my earphones and keep listening to the songs. “Lisztomania” comes up and I remember that Phoenix is a French band and currently my favourite too. Maybe because of the love for Phoenix I ask her “There is this new French band called Phoenix do you know about their upcoming concert?” She says “I know them, but they talk in English” she meant they sing. I say “Yes they won the Grammy awards this year and they are fairly cool”, she replies “I haven’t heard them but one of my cousin is friends with them, and sorry I don’t know about their upcoming concerts” I love the way she speaks English, it’s like a baby talking with lollipop in his mouth. She makes me mad.

Dude comes between us again and starts talking like the RJs of the cheesy Radio stations of Kanpur city. She then asks us “What plans you have for tomorrow?” the dude replies forthwith “We are absolutely free!!” For a split second, I too think that she’s gonna ask us to come out with her, like what happens in the movies after all this is Paris not Kanpur. But, thank god she doesn’t for it would have been very difficult to handle over-excited dude if she had asked. Instead she writes down names of some places on a piece of paper and suggests the dude to visit them. I feel ecstatic.

I lean back and put my earphones on again. I try to see outside, I can see few hazy street lights glowing and the lonely crystal drops of rain on my window pane. "The Only Living boy in New York" plays in the background...

*THIS IS A PURE WORK OF FICTION. NOTHING LIKE THIS EVER HAPPENED AND NEVER WILL.AMEN.