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22 March 2011

Mystery Shopper

Her brisk stride, uneven steps and a casual disoriented demeanor caught my attention. The common traits of an aimless weekend shopper, but I was persuaded not to mistake her as one. From the very moment of her entry, she fills the store with her uncontestable presence so hard to ignore. From my cashier’s desk, I notice the other sales guys acknowledging her charisma, swooping towards her from different directions, like moths attracted to a burning candle. I see them disguising their lecherous gawks under their friendly yet intrusive “Can I help you?” smiles. “I can help myself” she says with her eyes and walks off in the other direction.

I can’t dismiss the magic of her charm myself. I’d be fooling myself if I were; In fact any man could fall easily for a girl with her beauty. As I catch a glimpse of her amid the aisles, I surmise that the most striking aspect of her charm is her face. A chocolate tan complexion, flawless skin texture over the high cheekbones flanked over around a pair of mysterious kohl darkened eyes. Her shoulder bears an expensive leather bag, a bag almost as big as her lean torso. A self pampering reward for losing another inch off her waist, possibly. She walks gracefully across rails of elegant clothing, refusing to blend in within the sea of shoppers. I wish to compliment her how beautiful she looks when she smiles. Only, she’s isn’t smiling.

In my fuzzy reverie I picture her with me, sipping coffee as we sit in the foreground of a setting sun. The cool breeze entices her dense black tresses to flirt with her flawless face. My eyes set into her eyes where I notice two tiny ambers extinguishing under the far horizon, until the sky takes the color of her kohl darkened eyes. Her eyes reach for me, conveying an indefinable expression, so aptly inexplicable for that moment, until almost instantly her mouth parts to give way to words unsaid. I see her lips move; only there isn’t any sound, just a mute motion of lips… no sound. In a desperate attempt to reveal the voice behind that beautiful face I find myself moving nearer to her delusive image, attempting hard to hear the sound deficient words coming from her lips.

“EXCUSE ME” she yelled rather loudly when I heard her eventually, only now she wasn’t the protagonista of my private daydream, but standing right in front of the cash counter. “EXCUSE ME, COULD YOU GIVE ME MY DAMN BILL IF YOU’RE THROUGH WITH YOUR CONTEMPLATION?”

I look into her eyes, wipe the sweat off my forehead and swipe her card. She grabs the bag hurriedly, exits the glass door and drives off to a far off heaven (That’s where they come from). I lift the haze off my unrestraint mind

MORAL OF THE STORY : The author seems to have lost all his Morals!

31 January 2011

Twenty Five

The inspiration behind this short note is a musing which has occupied a fair amount of shelf-space in my clutter congested mind, no big idea this, just a gentle breeze of thought in the middle of a frenzied phase in life - A phase wherein days are busier than the doors of stores on mega-sales. A phase wherein the only memory of the day just passed is a fuzzy flash of events and activities of no clear implication.

Ever since I was juvenile I expected 25 to be an eventful age, and therefore anticipated reaching this milestone with an eccentric eagerness. Twenty five, I felt was the phase when one would expect himself to be established in life, treading on a clear path with the rest of life all figured and charted out. I must admit my fallacy – now that I’ve reached this milestone – It turns out that 25 is nothing but a pampered, over-acclaimed digit owing to its fancy appellations like “Silver Jubilee” “Quarter of a Century” and the likes.

Perhaps twenty five is simply an age, and not a milestone because its when you realize that henceforth life is pretty much the same – and all your fantasized perceptions of life were just an illusion – It’s time to get practical and pack your fantasies back into the closet. It’s certainly no surprise then that 25 just seem to be passing leaving no distinct memory or mark.

Twenty five, when the reminiscences of the college days are still afresh – where one could afford the luxury of being our individualistic self and not behave like factory line manufactured corporate drones. Twenty five, when extra large tubs of popcorn and fantasies on reel become the weapons to combat the mundanity of real life. Perhaps this is how I’ll remember my twenty five.