Something Special

“What was that aesthetic factor which had drawn your attention to her in the initial state of your blooming love?” I asked.

Finding my question as a complicated one in terms of its construction, and linguistic style, I rephrased it, to make the question a simpler one and thrown it once again at the brooding brain of my friend who was scratching his head thinking deeply about it.

“Err...I mean, what quality or characteristic of that girl attracted you in the beginning?”

“Oh…! Yeah…,” he nodded as if he understood something, and continued, “Well, it was the way she arranged her hair”.

“The hairdo?”, I exclaimed. “And in what special way she arranged her hair in order to make it an appealing one to a complicated guy like you?” I asked him, who had earlier identified me as an average guy just like him after reading my story which detailed how I found the Fragrance of Love. 

“Yeah, I agree, her style is neither Monroeistic nor Taylorian, but the way in which she clipped her hair at back by taking a portion of the hair from each side was what I found as attractive”, he said deeply reflecting.

"Oh, that is romantic, I presume," I said.

"And there is one more thing," he continued, "that her eye brows are very thin really, and she used to wear an Indian bindi, in the exact middle of both her eyebrows."

Here is someone who falls for a girl's eyebrows and hairdo, I thought. Everybody will have a special interest like my friend has. Perhaps, you might like the way she walks, or the way she talks, or the way she puts her specs. I had a special liking for her smile; I am talking about the girl who appeared in My First Love and in the Fragrance of Love. I am not sure if we can call it fetish. Well, fetish will be a hard word to describe these kinds of special affinity that one feels seeing a girl for the first time. Fetish, as described by online dictionaries, is a form of sexual desire in which gratification depends to an abnormal degree on some object or item of clothing or part of the body. Mine was not fetish, neither was my friend’s, I am very much sure.

You might be remembering my recollections about my Cross Eyed Classmate. Well, that girl was cross eyed. But what acted as the root cause for my attraction towards her was not her disability. She always had her own dignified way to deal with everything. Her charming nature with full of confidence, though subdued with silence, was what attracted me, that you know (My new readers are requested to read those posts also). 

I am seriously trying to think about the number of friends who revealed their intimate feelings with me. Someone was attracted to his love interest thinking her as the most innocent kind of the whole lot of girls, (initially I also had a similar kind of feeling towards the girl whom I liked, making me once again the average guy as described by my friend). On another occasion, I liked a girl thinking her as a sophisticated kind; well she was sophisticated, but was too sophisticated to make a match for me.

I actually do not know what specialty of a girl makes a man of my kind feel attracted to her. If you like a girl because of her smile, the next day you might like another girl because of her choice of dress, and after a few years your reason for attraction for a third girl might be her degree of maturity.

In Pictures:

Picture 1: An early photograph of Marilyn Monroe

Picture 2: A young Elizabeth Taylor

Practicing Dead

If you ever care to start out a quick browse through my old posts, you will find majority of them begin with an invocation kind of thing expressing the dissatisfaction on the lack of proper subjects to write upon. Well, you and myself call it the Blogger’s Block, or the Writer’s Block; but recently I found out that it is not so, at least in my case.  What I am trying to tell is that, despite of the common feeling, I have a lot of stories to write. Even during my childhood days, I had challenged my sister to ask me any alphabet, so that I could make a story starting with that alphabet. In that way, as I had boasted, I was able to coin at least one story starting with every letter. I can see you smiling, because that is possible by all. However, this imagination had once served as the theme of a poem, which I wrote during the beginning of my blogging days; you can read it here.

 Do you want to know, what makes me think that I am free from any form of creative block? Well, because, I have so many subjects right now in my mind. Some of such experiences happened during my past days, like the one in which I pretended as if I was dead, and the story of the uninvited guests. If you ask me to write about my present, I have this story of my friend’s love affair which is currently running in its blooming stage. And if you want some serious topics from me, I can pick up those curious cases of middle aged men who ‘loved’ younger boys (well, you can call it homosexuality or gayness), from the vast repository of my Trivandrum memories. 

Well, I want to pick up a less weighing topic for today’s post, the story of my death practice. If you remember the tale of the Love Messenger, you can easily visualize the backdrop of this incident. Anyway, for those who started following my blog lately, I can tell you that I was in Trivandrum – the capital city of Kerala, doing a journalistic job quickly after my education, and was just started to live with a pack of guys of my surrounding age group, as a paying guest in a home like place which was running by a middle aged man and his wife, whom we called affectionately (rather compellingly) uncle and aunt respectively.

I quickly befriended the boys there, of which some were younger than me, who were in the final years of their education. Some had been polishing their academic skills by attending short term crash courses and specialized classes after passing out from the college. Those younger ones liked me very much, and they were keen on doing favors for me, and sometimes playing pranks on me. 

On one fine morning, one of these guys rushed to my room and drew out my blanket, under which I was trying to bask in the last moments of morning sloth in a crouching manner with all my body curled up into a circular shape. My friend’s action irritated me a bit, so I decided to play a prank on him. I reposed motionless with my opened eyes straightly staring at some parts of the ceiling. As my mouth was covered by my arms in that curled up posture, he was not able to catch my spurting smile.

He looked at me in a funny manner at first, but later became a bit hesitant.  He waved his hands in front of my eyes to test if I was alive, and with a startle, he found out that my eyes were not moving. He did some more tests standing at a distance away from me. Terrified, he went to a senior one of the whole gang, and told that, the new guy was not moving. They suspected that I had come to that place after facing some traumatic experiences, and because of such personal worries, I committed suicide. 

The senior one also came to my room, and standing at a distance, he also played the same tricks to check if I was alive. I laid motionless with my eyes fixed on one of them. I feared that I was about to break into a huge laughter at any moment, so I covered my mouth with my biceps. After some more experiences, they both left with a decision to let some other one find me dead. 

The young boy frequently peeped into my room, and tried to make me laugh by enacting some funny gestures, thinking if I was alive, I would have laughed. But nothing happened as per his plans, because of the strong support of my muscles. 

I am not elongating the story. I stood up after some minutes, and began to do my routine things as if nothing had happened. When I saw them at the dining table, in that graceful manner, I said good morning to them by receiving some frowns and rough looks in return.