Shantanu Ranganathan Mishra looked around.He was standing at the kerb of a busy street. Endless streaks of light zoomed from nowhere to nowhere. It was a scene straight out of a Stanley Kubrick film. Once he had,almost hypnotically,stepped into the lights. He was pulled back with a shout of anger.He did not even see his saviour.
He cursed. He was already sorry he had decided to leave the faceless familiarity of his small village to make a `life' for himself in the 'other world'. For wasn't he the only QUALIFIED young man in his village?And didn't he often watch `The Bold and the Beautiful' on his new Tata Sky ? But the invitation was there. Too, too tempting like a cobra under wraps. It promised the proverbial Pot of Gold and the Holy Grail : the mother of all jackpots.And he was unhappy where he was---- sick of the grime; the pond with its vile water, and sick of the ponderous, huge women who had come to resemble the buffaloes they scrubbed with devilish glee. Most of all, he was sick of the relentless yearning for female company. In his 22 years, he had never talked to one, let alone touch one. For him, an unhooked blouse was the closest anybody could come to paradise At nights phantasms assailed him.Often he would wake up, panting, and would curse his parents for begetting him in that abominable hole.
There was a wild uproar when he had broached the matter. His father, with his stony stare, his mother, with all the melodramatic blandishments verging on a typically Indian emotional blackmail ; his sister---- for him, the sun rose and set on her---- all teary eyed. For her, he had almost changed his mind-Almost. She had shaken her head, slammed the door of his small room, and had bolted the door from outside.
Shantanu escaped through the backdoor and here, he was. He walked five kilometers to the building which boldly proclaimed : Sigourney Weaver Enterprises. The name looked vaguely familiar to him, Stepping inside, he gingerly touched the heavy glass door. It seemed to open on it's own volition. As if in a dream, he crossed the reception the huge waiting room and knocked on the door which said 'Vice President Operations'. "Come in". He opened the door.
The woman that he saw sitting on the far end of the desk didn't resemble any of the warty harridans that he had seen. There seemed to be a luminous halo about her. Just one look was all it took and, in the elegant phrase of his college days, he was "struck by a thunderbolt" She was looking at him too,queerly. Probably, she had never seen a man blushing before. That was enough for her.
He became her slave - running errands, arranging her meetings, carrying her briefcase, trailing her with armfuls of shopping bags. Slowly, she reeled him in .Once she `allowed' him to apply enamel to her nails, watching his rapture with something like a long forgotten wistfulness.On one occasion, she even let him give her a foot massage : Seventh Heaven...
And then, six months later, he had blurted it out..those dreadful words. They were in a hotel suite. They had gone to Bombay to attend a meeting of the entire India Inc. He stood waiting, a hang-dog look on his face, hope and despair playing `tag' in his eyes. He pleaded, he cajoled, he was on his knees. He bolted the door from inside and sat against it. She looked at him with a glance that he could NOW fathom. He lowered his eyes.
When he looked up, she was gone...
How could he know that seven star hotel suites have a backdoor too...?
Just like the one in his small house...
