Saturday Night

This is another post on request, the request coming from The Other One who was a part of my Saturday night. We'll call him A, because here we're all powerful and we can call people whatever we want. Another reason is because some people have done a better job of staying anonymous than I have, and I'm too nice to blow their cover (but believe me, it's a tempting idea).

A lot of people will tell you that I'm always, always late for everything. Chronic sufferers like RK have now become resigned to this inevitability, and always mentally add a half hour to the appointed time of meeting. But now I realize that I am but a mere apprentice in the art and science of never getting anywhere on time, and A is Grandmaster. For once in my life, I made it to Dadar station on time, only to have to wait for some thirty odd minutes, during which time three men of varying description puckered up and made kissy faces at me. Blech. And when i got really mad and called to find out where the truant was, he nonchalantly informed me that he was waiting for a train, would take another twenty minutes atleast, and (splutter, splutter) would save the apologies for later. I was still blinking stupidly for five minutes after the call ended.

Now what do you do when you have a very angry heh? ok waiting for you at a railway station of all places? You send foolish messages about how you're going to make it up to her and get worried when she doesn't reply. You're so worried that when you do actually meet her, you slip in a few innocuous compliments about how men making gross kissy faces at her implies that she's looking nice etc. This actually ends up amusing the aforementioned heh? ok, who can't stay angry very long for trivial things anyway, and also knows the pitfalls of being a chronic latecomer herself. So after fifteen odd minutes of general rudeness and sarcasm, things are peachy keen once again.

After this little aside, there was a very fruitful exploration of a little eatery near Churchgate station, where A was the cynosure of a strange gentleman's eyes. It's nice to see men getting fidgety when other men pay them too much attention. Some sort of sweet revenge.

We then went to Marine Drive for some Profound Conversation. We also had to dodge some very amorous couples who thought that the parapet by the sea was the best place for clandestine intimacies. Seriously, this city has no space, and people need to understand the phrase "Get a room". But apart from them, there was a sad lonely man with vodka in a Sprite bottle who thoroughly fascinated A the entire evening. The glamour of sorrow is rather attractive, I must say. There was also as much conversation as one can possibly squeeze into four hours, sometimes glib, sometimes serious. It's wonderful to talk by the seaside, really. It feels like the waves themselves are inching closer for a listen. We also had some adventures with a matchbox, but you don't need to know any more about those. Then we went to Leopold and ordered a heavenly dinner which we did not eat. It's strange how full you can feel without eating at times.

I can now boast that I have once caught the last train back home. A believes that slow trains are the dregs of the world of transportation. I think they're nice. They let you be, sink into the night, watch the other people who inhabit your life for all of twenty minutes before you disembark. I also get lulled into a sweet, half dreamy state because of the motion. Okay, enough poesy about local trains. By then it was already Sunday, so logic dictates that the post must end.

Note to A: - I hope that was accurate enough. If not, too bad, write your own post about it. If it was, great, write your own post about it.

Note to others: - Wake up. It's over, you can celebrate now.