Creative-seeing competition.

Close Encounters of the First kind.

    There was this creative writing competition I attended instead of chewing gum and spitting it on my faculty’s new car. I completely had no idea about it, yet gave it a try giving some rest to a little friend of mine manufactured by Apple who is better known to mimic songs personally for us in our own tympanum. Another friend of mine, who dragged me into this contest indeed went to the extent of bribing me with a pizza (okay, it was more like cheese-less bun) for accompanying him. Finally, I went into the hall without even a pen with me. None of the loggerheads (right- these people who scratch their heads with ball-point pens for the word in the dictionary they definitely didn’t know the meaning) in the room had the basic courtesy to lend me one as well. And, yes she entered. I don’t know why I had my head inclined towards here even when I was closing the automatic-doors which hit hard on my spectacles. Her plump little hairclip was visible through the glass, which I had to part compulsorily for getting this stupid pen. The stationery shop guy pulled down and locked the shutter and I had tough time pleading him to open it up, while the memory lobes of my cerebrum could still rejuvenate my senses by reminding her eyes which grew bigger on some funny SMS of her not-so-good-looking friend of hers. Piling up all the jingling coins from my jean, I could count up 18 INR which was spent in buying two black pens. By this time, I could recognize that the shopkeeper was abusing me in some very bad Kannada words, which I thankfully couldn’t decipher. There was a brief conversation (okay, a one-sided wrestling match) with a dangerous psycho who is twice my dimensions. I just spotted my co-creative writer who rescued me back to the competition hall. During th staircase journey, I was thinking about making birdwatching/ star gazing a serious hobby and howsoever dropped it.

    Just when we went back, there were some goons standing there inside the room who politely asked us to participate in another contest fancily titled ‘What is the good word?’ before giving this. I couldn’t even have minutes of my instant angel, who was busy eating some groundnuts with her friends. Again, this bald friend of mine had persuaded me (pulled my collar) to the other competition as well. Knowing my vocabulary is poor, I had no option but gaze at the classrooms, which once I was a part of. Growing up at college is a very rapid process, and a quirky one at that. We don’t realise that we really are growing, and as a result end up in some kind of a malnutritious bonsai plant. Things apart, the competition was already underway and my partner was filling up the coupons- sorry question sheets hastily. I had no clue about the question itself, let alone the answer. All that I could help him was some jumbled words. Oh, and by the way he is no Ernest Hemmingway either. Still, he was much better. For instance, I innocently gave an answer- “Messy p*ssy” for a question which went- ‘Substitute a pair of rhyming words meaning A woman with a burden’. That was my English proficiency, precisely. I was laughing to myself when he seriously told me that there were quite a crowd there and winning was a little tough. I knew that we weren’t even in the top 20 or so among the nerds who queued up there. He was studiously working out those English puzzles which supposedly were looted from some website where soups are delivered via adsense. And I was drooling over the hallucinations of her which was saying “Cho chweet..!” in response to that same SMS referenced couple of passages ago. I wanted this to end fast so that I could do better things like looking at her, looking at her and looking at her. And yes it got over, and my pal was happy about our (his) above average performance as well. And soon, I could take an excuse of going out of the room in guise of feeding the urine basins for getting a glimpse of my dreamgirl. Yes, I saw her. It is like a recursive urge to see here over and over. Once you see her the urge curtails for some minutes and after that duration the red devil begins to pinch again. Finally, the conductors of the event spat out the answers and I could get out of it.

    I got the papers from her and was just plain looking at her. She was explaining the regulations of the contest, and I was glad to hear that twice over because some deaf but do-good cretins were accompanying me. Her face seemed to have all the similes and metaphors that I could ever write down. No piece of fiction could say “I love pink!” like her. She was relishing a beautiful sandwich, and pieces of the bread were coated by her lipstick. Her nail polish colour and her lipstick were the same. I could notice her wearing a blue colour bangle which went well with her Levis’. Describing her is not the part of the contest, but well I was staring at her for almost twenty minutes, when I started thinking about the topics. Somehow she was very beautiful than the girl I had seen the day before, which qualifies her for my latest crush. But well, I remember her stare when she could see my paper blank with only half an hour left for the submission.

    Coming to the point, I dedicate this story which will come in the next post to this lovely lady whose name I forgot to ask and not even spoke a word. Who wants to know her name or send a forward SMS? I’m already going out with her and its time we celebrated her birthday also. Hail her!

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