Bad Music Junkie

“Picture of you in my mind” plays on the ipod. It’s a nice song when you’re walking. I wouldn’t admit listening to it normally. I have taste, you know. But yes, I like that part where it goes, “Why did it take me so long …?” Know what I mean?

I swing out of the office gates and stride right into rush hour on Mount Road.

Mount Road at twilight. Surreal. Gemini flyover dominates the landscape, soaring in and out of glitzy billboards which make me giddy with their glare. The people, the cars, the purple, the lime green, the nylon white, the breeze that dips and lifts, the fast food joints and the smell of oil, all that light and noise … totally hypnotic. I could stand there all night, watching the traffic go by and not get bored. That said it is so unlike Madras. At least the Madras I knew once. Someday I’ll show you a picture.

Bipasha Basu beams down at me from a height of hundred feet. “Cruise with me,” she invites. Thanks lady, but no thanks. Don't let hair-care advertisements take over the imagination, I admonish myself and join a waiting group at the pedestrian crossing.

I see her straightaway.

“Words” shuffles itself nicely into play. She’s looking from right to left, assessing the traffic. Shapely eyes. Nice swing of the head. Pretty. Instant heartache.

She’s almost as tall as me. Short hair falls gracefully on her swimmer-like shoulders; a few strands are a little frazzled at the top and the sides, but nothing a shampoo can’t fix -- Bips would vouch for that. Mustard coloured short-top, “wheatish” complexion, dark jeans that hug her hips and flare out fashionably at the bottom.

The light turns green and I fall in line behind her. A silver-coloured watch hangs daintily on her wrist…and she can walk, oh yes.

She’s talking into her mobile phone. I hear her voice rise above Boyzone. “No, I didn’t” … “When?” Nice voice too, I nod in appreciation. Not too girly. A little more base and it would be perfect. But then you can’t have everything. She ups the pace and I quicken my step.

The breeze picks up and that’s when the perfume hits me. Christian Dior. Poison. So, she likes to be classy, but not too classy as yet. I hesitate and then go right ahead with a deep breath, losing a little bit of myself in the process. Yeah, right! Poison, indeed. I slow down a little, letting her get ahead of me, shaking my head free of the scent. “From the coast of Ipanema to the island of Capri”, Enrique quavers into my ears and I grin sheepishly as I start following her.

Who is she talking to? Is it her boyfriend? Guilt grabs my throat and jealousy sprouts its green weeds somewhere in my heart soil. No, she looks like a level-headed woman. She would know that love is too much trouble. Probably reads more than one newspaper and wants to head her own business before she starts looking around. I cheer up, and start catching up with her. Maybe there’s time yet. Hope is an eternal spring, you know. Maybe she likes Enrique too. I say hi to Mr. Christian Dior again.

“Where does mom want to go?” Ah, it’s her dad probably. I picture an old man with gold-rimmed glasses who wears Polo shirts and goes golfing on Sundays. Yes, it would be her father. Has to be. I'm certain. She’s too sensible for boyfriends. They’re leaving on a trip tomorrow. They even have an SUV parked in the garage. I bet she has a dog as well. She looks the type.

Traffic on the other side of the flyover. We stop. Now it’s just the two of us. And she starts to step back as the traffic roars by, too close for comfort. My pulse quickens and starts to race. I don’t think she’s noticed me yet. That gives me a stupid little thrill. A yellow blur of an auto-rickshaw whips past nastily, and she jumps back, almost bumping into me. I hold my breath. Poison can wait. “I will stand by you forever … you … can … take … my breath away”. Enrique again. The idiot. Shut up dude.

We stand in the shadow of the flyover, watching the headlights whiz past, immersed in our own worlds. She’s at the edge of the kerb and I’m on the impossibly little footpath, playing stalker. The traffic thins and she ventures forth again. The sodium vapour lamps light her up, like sentries paying tribute. Christ, she’s beautiful.

I stand on the pavement, wondering what to do. Maybe I should go after her. Do I know you from somewhere? Oh sorry, you looked like someone I once knew. Where are you going anyway? Oh, I‘m from there too. Mind if I walk with you? Naa, that’s too old, wouldn’t work. How about I thought I should let you know that you look stunning? Might work if I just walk away abruptly; she might get curious about me. Like hell she would! Might get a tight little slap as well. Oh, she’s getting away. Quick! Do something! Where’s a poem when you need one? She’s near the median. I jump right out onto the road and a bus screeches to my left. Rubber burns. Curses mount. I can hear my origins being questioned. I run out.

Too late, she’s already on the other side, a sea of traffic sandwiched between us now. I'm stranded in the middle of the road, watching her white slippers turn around a bend.

And then she’s gone. Just like that. I stand with the drone of the traffic drowning the music in my ears. What are the possibilities of you seeing her again? I rue in hindsight.

Bye bye Poison.

That’s when I see her.

Long hair, proud jaw line, purposeful stride.

I catch her eye. “There’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me...” -- Ronan Keating purrs into the earphones. Man for the moment.

I laugh into the night and quickly cross the road. Maybe there’s time yet.