Buffering Love Page 3

  Navya was chuffed to bits, I could tell. Though she didn’t exactly see me doing it, she had that device with her and was looking at me through it. Was it a video she was taking? I hope she doesn’t show the bad parts of me trying to get on top of that toilet seat to her friend. Especially to that hot one called Rachel who smells like chocolate all day long. I mean I had greyed but I had my eye on her for a belly rub.

  Anyway, I forgot all about it. Next thing I know, she was showing that video to all her friends who came home later that evening. How do I know? Well, that water gushing sound. It always played towards the end. Remember, I always pressed that button? They would all get together and look at that device, and they would also look it up on the computer. I think they had saved it on the computer or something.

  Every evening, she would sit on the computer and look at that video of mine. Like I told you, I am not good at maths, but that’s when I try and count for myself. When a number is written in front of me, I can read it like Einstein. I looked at the number that appeared below my video. First it was 900 something, the next day it was 33,000 something, and then a week later it was 5,00,000 something. That stupid video of me taking a leak had got so many views.

  One fine day, her photo appeared in the newspaper. ‘Juhu girl’s pet video rakes up 12 million views in 2 days.’ Her shrieks of delight that filled the house were like nothing I had ever heard before. I was happy for her. But those idiots had put my picture up with my willy too! I didn’t have a problem with it. If grown men and women enjoy peeking at my willy, who am I to stop them? I sure as hell don’t want to look at any man’s (or woman’s) nether regions.

  But you know what I had a problem with? Navya wouldn’t even look at me any more without holding up this device. Even if she took me out for a walk, she would be staring at it. Sometimes it was a video and sometimes it was that clicking sound. Same thing every day. She stopped looking at me with her wistful eyes like she used to when she was young. It had been days since she had patted me or even touched me. I hated it. I wanted that device out of my life.

  One day while she was on her computer, again looking at that video of mine, I sneaked behind her, took that device in my mouth and ran around the house. She came running after me.

  ‘There we go. Now we are playing, Navya. Just like the old days,’ I wagged my tail furiously to get her into the mood. She liked it too.

  She chased me around the dining table as I ran in circles. I was old, but I still had some steam left in the tank. Feeling a little giddy, I charged towards the bathroom.

  I sensed her voice becoming a little hoarse as I came near the toilet. She reached out for the phone, but I wanted to win this round. I swung my head away and dunked that damned device in the toilet. And you know about my training right, by sheer instinct I stood up to press the button through which water gushed out.

  Navya let out a terrible, blood-curdling squall. She screamed my name as I shrunk into a corner. Was she angry?

  ‘Oh, come on. You know how many years we spent together before that thing came in between. You don’t even look at me any more. You just look at me through it,’ I reasoned with her, wagging in submission. I even took my tail right between my legs to diffuse the crisis.

  She went for my head and, in one unexpected sweep of her hand, thrust me neck-deep into the water in the toilet. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

  ‘Navya, please, this is hurting. Don’t do this, please,’ I yelped.

  I let out an obnoxious gurgle. A deluge of water went right up to my lungs. I could sense they were bursting inside. I was dying. This is it. But she kept yelling.

  ‘I was better off on that beach all by myself. I wish I had never met this girl,’ was the last thought that buzzed in my head before she yanked me out of that water and flung me on the chequered tiles.

  My heavy head thudded on the cold floor. She walked away in a huff while I lay gasping for breath.

  A part of me was devilishly happy that she had touched me after so many days.

  Email à Trois

  Professor Albert Costanza was the quintessential aloof professor at the National School of Drama, whose mind was interested in a conversation with common folk only if the other person did one of the following two things:

  They gave him a cinematic reference or a dialogue that he didn’t know.

  They made a joke about the name Albert that did not invoke the old Hindi film Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai.

  Truth be told, he was beginning to get tired of the Albert Einstein jokes too. So, when the new professor of French cinema, Navya Ojha, affectionately referred to Prof. Albert as Albert Camus, his joy knew no bounds.

  That week had also been particularly tough on the Costanza family because his wife, a reasonable woman in her forties, had been exceptionally nagging that week. During a mid-week fight, the professor had threatened to leave her but knowing that he had no possessions to fall back on, except his wife’s car and house, he timidly decided to stay put.

  Besides, the thought of being companionless for the rest of his life, thanks to his receding hairline and burgeoning waistline, he surmised it was best to stick with the wife. When you are in your fifties, developing a physical attraction to anything living or dead is just too much hard work and effort. Yet, Ms Ojha’s colourful saris and her young, supple neckline were working their wonders on Prof. Costanza’s mind. That Ms Ojha was more than a decade younger only exaggerated his pining.

  Hence, on the first Friday of June 2017, Prof. Costanza walked up to Ms Ojha to ask her out for an evening of drinks at the nearby Irish Bar, Bennigans.

  Many an e-mail guru will speak to you folks about the potential miscommunication possible when people rely solely on e-mails to prove a point in heavy-handed corporate discussions. The following is an account of the aftermath of that cheerful and terrific evening as documented on e-mail by Prof. Costanza, one of the brightest academic minds on Indian cinema.

  Readers may bear in mind that the personal email address handed to Prof. Costanza on a paper napkin by Ms Ojha at the end of the evening was navya0@gmail.com. This the professor specifically requested because he wanted to write an ode to Navya. After exchanging numerous giggles and a jolly good evening of drunken stupor, by the time Prof. Costanza sat on his writing chair, he read the email address as navyao@gmail.com, thus, beginning an adventure of a lifetime.

  From: Albert Costanza

  To: Navya

  Date: Sunday, 4 June 2016

  Subject: Can’t . . .

  Mailed by: nsd.edu

  Navya,

  I waited for a couple of days before putting this down. I wanted to be far away from the halo I felt emanating from you that Friday evening. I can’t say I have gotten too far though. In cosmic terms, it’s only a weekend that’s passed us by. For me, it has been an eternity.

  And there’s this bittersweet pain now because I don’t know if I will ever meet you again as a friend or as a lover.

  Your smile that could disarm a tyrant has been haunting me since Friday. And even then, it wasn’t your smile but something brattishly silly about you that caught my fancy.

  Since childhood, whenever I told people that my name was Albert, an inevitable (witless) response from people from this part of the world was this single question: ‘Pinto, huh?’ It is such a ridiculous trying-so-hard-to-be-funny comment that in my mind I have reserved the scummiest of looks for such people. Of late, I have even begun to use this as a filter to judge humanity in general.

  Why not spring up Albert Schweitzer on me? Or that fella Finney, he is still around, isn’t he? Even Einstein, I had come to accept. Alas! Everyone was so utterly predictable, every single one of them.

  Anyone exclaiming ‘Pinto!’ as a smart comeback in an introduction was tolling the very death knell of our relationship. I wasn’t ever going to be friends with someone like that. It’s not just been a rule of thumb. It has been the
iron-clad rule of all my ten fingers combined.

  That’s why, when I met you that day in the staff room and your comeback to my name was ‘Camus?’, I knew you were different. I mean it in more ways than one.

  When I asked you out this Friday, you smiled and told me that you would give it a good think. Sitting in my office for the next half an hour was agonizing. As a man of science and arts, I sat there praying that you don’t get any other dates that evening. That something pulls you back towards me and we could step out. But who was I kidding. It was Friday and nobody is busier in New Delhi on a Friday evening than an attractive French cinema educationist.

  I killed my expectations and got down to work on that stupid exam paper I had to set.

  When my phone rang, I had to pinch myself to confirm that I wasn’t dreaming. It was you! I ran down the stairs and hopped across the lawn. I had never felt like that about any lady before.

  I noticed something different about you. You had done up your hair, added a shade of lipstick and were wearing a brown jacket. Did you just go home to get ready for the evening? I hoped my Nehru jacket would complement your leather.

  The last time this happened was when I had kissed my first crush in school. A kiss today was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted to spend some time with you. I wanted to hold on to each second from there on. It was 8.30 p.m. then, wasn’t it?

  From there on, we cabbed it, we had dinner, we walked down the markets of Greater Kailash-1 and 2, and we drank and we danced. We went our separate ways at 2 a.m.

  Between those hours, you told me about your child, your marriage, your filthy-rich shipping magnate date, your divorce, your business, your education, London, your pole-dancing party, your Asian friends and your musical proclivities. I listened like they were the last few hours before the Apocalypse would engulf me. In between, you held my hand and pulled me through the crowd at Pianos. If I had a heart any feebler, I would’ve died right then. I had a plunging fear that I had to behave absolutely normal with you. I didn’t want to mess anything up that day. I wanted you to feel for me, just like I did.

  It was just us that evening. Just as I had hoped and prayed. Fittingly, we parted at a delicatessen, like Harry and Sally in the movie. Like I told you, my evening was a lot better than I could’ve bargained for.

  I don’t know about you. Chances are this was a very usual evening for you. You have seen more shades of life than I have. You have suffered more than I have. To think that someone like you could go through so much pain because of people close to you was a very troubling thought for me.

  Yesterday evening, I kept thinking of you as I walked around Greater Kailash. This time I decided to go to a Comedy Club to get you out of my head. For the record, it was the dumbest thing I have embarked upon. It has been three days now and I can’t get you off my mind.

  I know you need stability. You are itching for that family. We are two poles apart. And the sides we inherit aren’t even on the same field. And yet, I would feel stupid if I didn’t let you know how much you meant to me that evening.

  I am not on the best of talking terms with my wife, but if you find it within yourself to live a life with me, say the word, and I will come running to you. But I need that first sign from you to take things ahead.

  This infinitesimal existence of ours could do with people loving more people. That’s all I know, and I will change everything around me, in me, to be with you.

  I know I will have no say in whether we will ever be in touch again. For once, I wish I had the world-changing power of Einstein’s mind and could convince you to remain in touch with me. But I know this: To meet you again, I would even be fine being a Pinto. Or whatever you would like to call me for the evening.

  Yours,

  Albert

  But navyao@gmail.com belonged to Navya Oberoi, a fifteen-year-old spoilt brat from Mumbai. She had just got over 12 million views on a video she took of her dog flushing the toilet. She was unfettered in spirit and remorseless with the power of this new-found fame on Instagram.

  Without a moment’s hesitation in pulling off a prank, she deviously replied:

  From: Navya Oberoi

  To: Albert Costanza

  Date: Sunday, 4 June 2016

  Subject: Re: Can’t…

  Mailed by: gmail.com

  Albert,

  I want to do this with you. Let’s marry each other. I know I am convinced.

  Show me that you are too.

  Best and love,

  Navya

  From there on, Navya Oberoi went about her life taking more videos of her dog on Instagram.

  That night, Prof. Costanza broached the topic of separation with his wife. He cited her high-handed monopoly over his time as the single largest contributing factor to the decision. His wife, who was equally irritated with the professor’s long hours away from home, didn’t bat an eyelid and threatened him with a raging alimony demand that would make him bankrupt in no time. The professor couldn’t care less and stomped out of the house in the middle of the night with his sole possession, a 1989 Remington typewriter, in tow. It was the image of a man blinded by love and passion, a modern-day Trojan prince like Paris who would pay any price for his Helen.

  Meanwhile, Prof. Navya Ojha waited all of that weekend for the ode that Prof. Costanza said he was going to send her way. Since it never came, she thought it only good manners to send a thank-you note to him.

  From: Navya Ojha

  To: Albert Costanza

  Date: Sunday, 4 June 2016

  Subject: Thank you

  Thank you, Prof. Albert, for such a lovely evening. In this alien city, I was almost starving for that brotherly affection that you showered on me.

  This city aches me with its near-perverted touches towards its women, but the gentlemanly way in which you dealt with me reminded me so much of my own brother, Sarang, who I had mentioned had passed away in aerial combat during the Kargil War. Even your loving face is but a pleasing souvenir of his countenance.

  It was divine providence that brought my beloved Sarang back into my life in your form, Prof. Albert Costanza. Or would you prefer Prof. Pinto? (Teehee . . . teehee)

  Your (new) beloved sister,

  Navya

  Winner Takes All

  After the celebrations of his seventieth birthday at Gratitude Old Age Home, Shankar was a little subdued. Normally the life of a party, Shankar cut the cake with a mild tremor in his hands, the fallout of a much-vaunted bout against Parkinson’s disease that just wouldn’t leave his side.

  His best friend, Damodar, however, had a glint in his eyes. With a few furtive calls to Shankar’s sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Navya, who stayed in Mumbai, he had managed to get her to come to Bangalore this evening as a surprise.

  It was all settled. Navya was used to travelling alone since she had turned fifteen, thanks to her father trusting her companion—a mobile phone.

  ‘As long as we are in touch with her, there is no harm in her visiting her grandfather every year for the vacations,’ Roshan reasoned with his wife, Sarika.

  Gratitude was unlike any other old-age home. The rooms were more than adequate, equipped with a fridge, a couch, a DVD Player with TV and a mammoth bed. It wasn’t Roshan’s idea to put up Shankar in an old-age home, but after his wife died, Shankar decided not to leave Bengaluru. When Roshan moved to Mumbai because of a new job, he insisted that Shankar move with him, but Shankar was way too stubborn.

  ‘This is where my friends are. What more do I need than to play a round of bridge and carom with Damodar every evening followed by a late-night film. Mumbai is not for me. Not at this age for sure.’

  Roshan relented.

  With time, Shankar had got over his wife’s death. If anything, he mildly relished the attention from the neighbourhood ladies post her death. The only missing piece in Shankar’s life was not getting to spend time with Navya.


  He considered Mumbai, ever so briefly, only for Navya’s sake. But again, the girl wouldn’t have time for him in a busy city. More so, when in a single week, apart from her academics she had football and music classes to attend. Thus, Shankar throttled his desire to move cities and instead chose the hearth at Gratitude.

  Today, on his seventieth birthday, Shankar felt like killing himself. Before coming out of the room to cut the cake, he stared at the ceiling fan and wondered how much time it would take to tie a bedsheet like they did in films. His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  ‘Next round of bridge begins. Get out,’ hollered Damodar.

  ‘I want to sleep,’ a disinclined Shankar muttered.

  But Damodar was unyielding. He kept banging on the door.

  Shankar stood up in a huff to call off on his friend. As he unbolted the craggy door, he heard an unusual voice.

  Right outside stood Navya with a heavy backpack on her shoulders. She lunged at Shankar with both her arms, almost throwing the old man off his feet.

  ‘Appppaaaa! Happy birthday!’

  ‘That’s why you should listen to your friend. No matter whatever the time of the day,’ a boastful Damodar pronounced.

  Shankar could barely acknowledge this little act of kindness from his friend because in Navya’s presence there was a peace that he hadn’t experienced in a while.

  ‘Thank you, Damodar. This could be too good for my heart,’ he spoke with a hint of moisture in his eyes.

  Damodar, too, almost welled up. Next month, he was to travel to Mumbai to meet his grandson on his eighteenth birthday. His estranged daughter wouldn’t send him to Bengaluru but agreed to Damodar visiting. ‘I’ll leave you two now. See you guys later,’ he said before leaving.

  ‘Appa, look what I got for you,’ Navya handed him a box that was evidently wrapped in love as much as that glossy silver paper.

  ‘Did Roshan send you alone?’

  ‘Later, Appa, open this and see no . . .’ she urged him.

  Shankar saw a gleaming iPad in front of him. ‘What will I do with this?’