I Hate Luv Storys

"How long do you think?" asked the bearded man.

"Must be another 30 minutes" replied the man with the scar honking with disgust. He got irritated when someone pestered him with questions. At the age of 12, in a fit of rage, he had broken his teacher's head and ran away scared of police. The same anger earns him his bread with regular dadagiri and occasional murder.

"Bhaiyya. Stop for tea. I am feeling sleepy." the new recruit chottu just added salt on the scarred man's wounds.

They stopped outside an old dilapidated tea shop where Sardar drivers and their puny assistants drank tea and ate Parle G cracking vulgar jokes and laughing loudly. Chottu grabbed 3 biscuit packets and ordered 3 masala tea.

"So what is the number?" asked chottu.

"What number?" replied the irritated scarred man.

"You know. Like 'Ab tak chappan', do you keep count of the number people you tanked off?"

The scarred man had never given it a thought. The only thing he remembered clearly was his first cold blooded murder. That was thrilling experience. But the later ones were more mechanical and he just went through the motions. He probably got used to it.

He made a mental note to keep a score of his victims henceforth. Maybe like the Count of Monte Christo.

"Are you sure that our targets would be there as expected?"

"Yep. The source is quite reliable. They stay in a small apartment in the next city." replied the bearded man.

"What do you think they might be doing now?" winked chottu mischievously.

She lay her head on his hairy chest playfully wriggling them. He looked over the ceiling and saw the fan which was loud enough to hide the sound of their love making. He was not sure if he should be relieved or troubled about it. They were still getting used to each other physically although they could read each other's train of thoughts at that moment.

"Do you think we made a mistake?" she asked.

Like most women, she felt guilty and doubted her actions after an act. Like most men, he remained silent and neutral. The only thing he had learnt from his parents' marital life was to stay silent when in doubt. He knew that they were past the 'mistake' borderline.

"I dont think it makes any difference to our parents." He said bitterly.

He was angry with his parents and hers' as well. They had treated them like a piece of dirt and he knew that they deserved better.

"My papa would understand and forgive us." she tried consoling herself rather than answering him.

"Yeah. And Hitler had siesta with Jews. How long are you going to fool yourself?"

"How long can they hate us? I am their daughter and they love me."

"Do you even realize that they were going to get you married to someone you never knew just for the sake of society and pride?"

"Almost every second parent does that in our country. Your parents were not an exception as well."

"Well, mine were the second parents in this case."

They smiled weakly at this remark. He ran his fingers and adjusted her hair behind her ear. They knew that the first few months were going to be very tough emotionally and financially.

"You should have been living in a castle like a queen. Look at you now." He felt guilty.

"You dont understand. Its not a castle that makes a women a queen."

"Then what makes a women feel.....queenly?"

"Its....." she moved near him slowly and kissed him gently on his lips. "The King".

"That’s so corny" smiled Chottu seated on back of the car referring to a lyrics of a love song played on the radio.

The bearded man got irritated and lowered the volume. He sat upright as if he was going to deliver a sermon.

"Remember. As much as possible dont use the gun. It has to be used only if you find them out of your reach. Use your knife."

"But knife is so crude. And why should we use a knife when we have a gun?" asked Chottu still itching from using the gun in his hand.

"Because a knife is silent. Also, knife causes more pain. I want to see them shiver with pain and fear before they die." The beaded man mentally pictured killing them with his bare hands.

"I can understand your anger for the boy. But we can abduct the girl right? After all she is your relative."

"Dont even talk about that bitch. She ditched our family for that useless bastard. It will serve as a lesson for all the girls in the family. Also a reminder for the boys to stay away from our girls."He winked as if he had just shared the joke of the year.

Chottu made a mental note to check if any girl he loved or pretended to love had such crackpot relatives.

The man with the scar smiled to himself. After all this, people still called him savage for his grizzly appearance and behaviour.

These bastards were killing their own daughters and sons in the name of honor. Ironically, man had invented all possible gadgets and covered himself with fashionable attire, but still the age-old animal instinct to kill and relish was left untouched inside.

"Dont you think that the police will trace you? After all, your family will now be the direct accomplice in this case." asked Chottu as if he had just passed Bar exam in Loyola.

"Hmm. How many cases in India do you think get delivered hailing truth and justice? In most cases the accused and accuser die out of depression and old age. And the rich in jails are supplied everything including carnal pleasure. The police might be hot on trail for one week. The news channels will run it for 2 weeks. By third week, the public will be looking at some other hot murder like this or forget it in midst of an Indian team's victory over Bangladesh. So you can jump with joy and say "Fuck the justice system.""

"Hmmm. Sounds logical to me. Hey, what is that?"

"Thats salt. If I am not wrong, you add sugar when you make tea. Maybe your dad adds salt in his tea."

He made no secret of his hatred for her dad. Her dad had sent some gundas and got him roughed up in a hospital for only talking to his beloved daughter. And that is when he also started to fish out for grooms outside the city who did not know about his daughter's love affairs. And even if they did, the heavy dowry, Jewels and Maruti Swift car should make him forget it.

"You have never laid your foot in your kitchen, have you?"

"Except when I wanted fresh and hot parathas."

She missed her mom and her parathas. Her mom would miss her too. Atleast she thought she would. How many women even had a say in such a savage society?

He came and hugged her from behind. He knew that she missed her parents and he wanted to make her forget the pain. Forget the anxiety. Time as they say is the best healer.

"Hey, what’s the name of the theatre near our house?" he asked trying to change the mood.

"Alankar" said chotu.

"There it is." said the man with the beard. It was dilapidated theatre with possibly 10, 20 Rs tickets and where old hindi movies with sleazy titles used to run.

"Did you see the name of the movie running there?"

"No. Do you think we are here to watch some stupid yuppie flick?"

"Well. Ironically, it is called I hate Love stories."

He winked and laughed uncontrollably. The bearded man gave him a beastly look which promptly shut him up. They parked their jeep outside the shop next to the theatre and walked towards their "spot".

"So, are we all clear as to what we need to do?"

"Well. I hope to get that accountant's job for which I interviewed yesterday. The Manager seemed quite happy."

"Yeah. Lets hope we move out of this dungeon soon."

"Then we will enrol you in some college here."

"Why? You don’t want me to work?"

"No. Your mom wanted you to have Master's degree. Atleast someday when we show up at their door with a Master's degree and a kid, it should make them happy."

"You know, even after all this shit, you want to make them happy?" she asked quite relieved.

"Well. I hope someday we all live in peace. After all, everybody's life is short. And why make it shorter with anger, grudge and hatred."

"You know, I think of this and this song comes to my mind. Tum Bhi Chalo Hum bhi chalen"

They start singing together

"Chalti rahe zindagi.

Naa Zameen Manzil Aasmaan....

Zindagi hai...

Zindagi..."

They smile and embrace each other.

They hear someone knock on the door.

She walks to the front door and opens it.

The last time I saw my waist

They say that shopping and eating are best stress busters. So I decided to shop for food.

I stopped outside the gates of the grand hotel in front of me. Had I gone mad? Maybe. Is something wrong with me? Very much.

I walked straight past the gates. Infact, I was the only one walking past it, as the rest were in their installment-paid cars with their dysfunctional families. A Maharaja suit clad Guard ushered me in, suspiciously. No, I am not going to tip him for sure. My tip fees is a generous Rs 2, and that too if the waiter fills the extra sambhar or Kuruma without any hint of sarcasm or contempt.

The Indian eatery was in the second floor. As I pushed open the door, an amazing fragrance enveloped me – one of fresh Indian spices overpowering the sandalwood incense sticks at the welcome counter. I quickly scanned the room to find out if any of my friends or relatives were seated. Our clan comes to such places courtesy - a generous treat. But then, they haven’t read about Murphy's law, have they?

A low decibel Pandit Shiv Prasad Sharma’s flute rendition was played to a rich unmindful crowd. The lights were dim enough to grab the Manager by collar and ask him if he had misappropriated the funds for his mistress. But then that’s the way things work. Less noise and light in a restaurant means more money to be shelled and vice-versa. The Devar's parotta stall in my vicinity plays songs so loud that you wish they could provide a piece of ear plugs with the parotta and salna.

I sat in a corner table for two and put my bag on the other seat to prevent any intrusion. The big room had just 25-30 people – each wrapped in his own niche. The waiter handed me a menu card long enough to qualify as my nephew’s cricket bat. After brushing through two pages worth of the hotel’s history and its worldwide branches, I finally got to the menu. Soups were listed at a minimum price of Rs 100. My middle class conscience involuntarily forced me to flip pages and check the main course items. Yeah, I was preparing to going down royally, but still...

The items were vaguely named. Infact none of them made any sense to me. One especially caught my attention - Shahi Murgi per Amulya makhan. Why can’t it be as straight as butter chicken? Going around your head to touch your nose just doesn’t seem to work with food, particularly when ordering. Another one in dessert read The last time I saw my waist. Some smart ass decided to include a footnote which read - 1 scoop vanilla, 1 scoop chocolate and 1 scoop raspberry decorated with Almond and nuts. Yeah right. Eat this on a regular basis and you could have a waistline to warrant a pair of maternity stretch-on pants. I guess these hotels have employed 3/4 people to cook and other 1/4 to think of such whacky and stupid names to confuse the customer.

Butter chicken? Why did I have to remind myself about her when all I wanted and came here for was to forget her?

Why can’t I let go off Adhira?

Adhira. The lovely but torn chapter of my unscrupulous life.

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"What do you want to order?"

"Anything that you want."

"No. Tell me something. I don’t want to force something of my choice on you."

"Don’t try to be too chivalrous."

"I am not chivalrous. I am just trying to be....sensible. And so I insist."

"Ok. Then it is Butter chicken."

Judging from her perfect figure, you might guess that all she has for lunch is a bowl of salad with a cup of green tea. But Adhira loved Butter chicken. Infact, it was possibly the only thing she loved more than herself. You could wake her up in the middle of a night and offer her a piece of butter chicken and she might just lick it till the bone and doze back without a "Thank You".

During every other visit to the hotel, it was butter chicken and Vanilla Caramel Icecream with almonds. For the past 6 months that I have known her and with all that butter chicken and icecream, she still manages to remain slim. With 2 chapathis sans ghee, boiled oats for dinner and 45 mins of gym, I struggle into my size 36 pants. Some people are indeed lucky, aren’t they?

"So how come momma's boy is skipping his delicious home made lunch?"

"I told her that I was going for a corporate treat. She still doesn’t realise that I work with stingy bastards who would not spare Rs 5 and get me a single cup of tea."

(giggles) "But you seem spendthrift. Doesn’t this thing (showing the dead chicken's legs) cost much more than your budget?"

"When did I tell you that this chicken was bred in my backyard? I guess you should probably marry a broiler farm owner."

"You never know. You know that I love chicken."

"If you had a choice between a broiler farm owner or Ice cream parlor owner, what would you do?"

"Is there any rule that I should marry only one of them?"

"Legally as per the Hindu marriage act..."

"Oh...stop that bakwaas yaar. Otherwise it might be your leg in my hand instead of the chicken's."

Adhira was the only child of a rich Mallu couple. Since her parents were more modern and educated, they bred Adhira as a young, free-spirited girl. She waltzed past to her room at any point in the night and no one would question her. It was a far cry from my house where my mother still asks me a detailed monthly account (which of course is forged) and frequently checks my room for any traces of cigarette or anything illegal. Prior to being with me, Adhira had encountered 2 break ups as the guys found her too tough to handle.

Possibly in a relationship, she loved being the guy and viceversa.

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"Your order Sir."

"One Lajawaab Matar Pulao and Panner Makhni."

It had been days since I had dined alone. The sudden loneliness engulfed and saddened me. I took out my mobile phone and just looked at my contact list and scrolled it back and forth wondering whom to call. Finally, I stopped it as it was freaking me out. I wanted to talk to someone but decided against it. The last thing I needed was a detailed lecture on securing a relationship.

What I did today morning was surely not right, but maybe it was....too late.

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"You cannot say no to you friend?"

"I can’t. We have been pals since college. He would kill me for missing his marraige."

"And what happened to the promise you made me?"

"We will go next week. Shahrukh is not running anywhere. See, even in the poster, he is standing still and stiff with Kajol." (showing a MNIK poster)

"No jokes. You could have atleast asked me or told me. I booked tickets already."

"Don’t worry. You can go with your mom if you like."

"Did I ask for your expert advice on this?"

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Would you believe me if I told you that this non-descript conversation listed above led to an India Pakistan fight and our break-up? I know you would not. Ok, then just do one thing. Try to rewind back and check about any possible fight with your partner/lover sometime back? Was it a really unsolvable issue that led to a fight?

All issues which lead to a fight/breakup, are NOT the actual issues. The issues are always hidden. Does America really fight in Afghanistan to free Afghan people from clutches of Taliban? If two neighbourhood kids fight among themselves for a toy, it is indeed for a toy.

But if the same kid's parents fight amongst themselves over the same issue, it is possibly for something else.

Maybe it’s the jealousy of one guy over another's newly bought Mahindra Scorpio against his rusted Bajaj Chetak. Or possibly an old issue where the woman of the house refused a cup of sugar. Or possibly some age old fight over the fence wall. In most cases, it is possibly one’s reflection of his/her incompetence against the others. Bottom-line, it’s NOT the toy.

The fight that we had today morning is on the same lines. While you can attribute her irritation to my meekness, mine was possibly at the pent up anger over her dominance and ridicule at my middle class peculiarities. It’s strange how adults find themselves incompatible in few moments of friction compared against the hours or days or months spent in finding out the similarities when in love.

I know that I am wrong somewhere. All it takes is a Re 1 call to her mobile and a simple "Sorry".

Well, if only telling Sorry had been so easy.....

"Sir. Anything for dessert?" said the waiter relieving me thankfully from my introspection.

Not in a mood to think too much, I asked "What’s special today?"

"Vanilla Caramel with Almonds."

Rain with Thundershowers

"And before we close on the days proceedings, lets have a weather roundabout with our own Handsome hunk Rajiv. Rajiv, so whats the weather like today?"

Rajiv grabbed his tie's half-windsor knot and shook his head little bit as much as one shakes a salt can over tomato soup. It was a habit he had idolized after watching Pierce Brosnan grab his tie underwater in "The World is not Enough".

"The weather is surprisingly pleasant today. Even though Chennai is supposed to be notoriously summer-type hot starting from February, today should be much of an exception. So today is a good day when you should not be worried about the Sun god radiating his anger all over you. Its possibly a good time to give your umbrella a miss. These are the temperatures in the major cities around the country."

Rajiv read the temperatures from the green matt screen behind him. As he finished reciting the temperatures, Rajiv smiled and finished "Thats all for today. Have a great day ahead." It was the same infectious smile that had sent teenage girls to feel dizzy on their feet and housewives to forget Ekta Kapoors six-packed, plastic heroes and fantasize him.

"So Rajiv, what plans for V-Day? Your house must be filled with letters written in blood and filled with kisses." News Anchor Ram always loved his conversations with Rajiv to be laden with as much sarcasm as possible.

It was partly friendly and partly stomach burning which could not be resolved with even tons of Eno or Gelusil.Even though they were of nearly the same age, Ram looked like father of 2 school going kids and Rajiv could be mistaken for a college dropout.

"No Ram. That used to be in your good old days. All I get now are emails filled with obscene, censored details of girl's vital statistics and her details and exploits if I were to oblige which could make Vatsayana's Kamasutra feel like nursery rhymes."

For reasons unknown, Rajiv loved making Ram feel jealous. Part of it was due to his inability to grab the lead news anchor role from Ram and part of it was Ram's proximity to his secret love - Rachna.

The mere thought of her name sent happy signals from his brain to his lips and they widened obligingly. He changed over to normal clothes and decided to grab some coffee at the nearest Coffee day outlet in Isphani Center. He drove his black Pulsar 180 to Isphani and found a parking space without much fuss. It was still early morning in Chennai but the Sun seemed to have had a faulty alarm clock and hence woke up early before schedule.

As Rajiv walked over to his regular seat (creature of habit you see), he grabbed the day's newspaper from the backpack before deciding to order something. Just then, from the corner of his eye, he saw her - Rachna. Again, brain to Lips. She saw him simultaneously and smiled. He walked over to her place and saw her reading "The White Tiger".

Rachna was Rajiv's news co-anchor and he was secretly in love with her. She was prettily dressed in a comfortable Levis Jeans and Globus tops. Even though Rajiv had been admiring her for the past 1 odd-year, he could still not take his eyes off her.

"So what brings the weather man down here?"

"Some impending headache and lots of love for Coffee."

Her smile just widened. "Can you get me a Macchiato?" he said trying to place an order.

"Have you ever tried Chococinno? Its a delicious mixture of Cholocate ice and Hot coffee. Maybe you should try it."

He smiled and placed order for a Chococinno secretly worrying about the side effects if it were to be horrible. He made a note to himself to smile and say "WOW" after drinking it even if it were to taste like cowdung. He was not sure if she was "suggesting" the drink or testing him if he would oblige her. But then, it was Rachna. If she were to ask, he would even Join the Shiv Sena and campaign and vote for Balasaheb. And maybe even tear and burn few Shahrukh

posters (Well, arent we bored of reading the cliched "bring sun,moons and stars." :P)

"Have you read this book, Rajiv?"

The only White tigers Rajiv knew were the ones caged in some forest in Gujarat. He knew about books as much as Indian Politicians knew about honesty and integrity. Forcing a smile, he nodded his head "Nope. Never had time to read it. Is it good?"

"Its dark. I mean, its about the pathetic state of our country..."

Rajiv was half-listening. He was gazing star-struck at her eyes, curved eye-lashes, the medium sized bindi on her forehead (which matched her tops), her lips which had a subtle hint of lipstick applied exactly between dried-out and cheap-looking.

"....how we are messing up with it told through the eyes of the protagonist." The in-between lines were obviously missed in Rachna-gazing.

"Thats good. Think I should read that." He replied.

"You mean good that the country is messed up is good?" She sounded like she was going to shoot him for sounding like a Paki General.

Caught on the wrong foot, he smiled and replied "I mean, the point of view. Better than reading some Jingoistic stuff." Gosh, how difficult it is to pay attention to what a beautiful lady is saying while you are measuring her beauty.

"So what plans for V-day?" She suddenly changed the topic.

Rajiv almost spilled the Chococinno all over himself and turning into Chocolate Man . If it were to be a hollywood chick flick, he could have comfortably retorted dreamy eyed "Just to keep looking at you."

Well, this was no chick flick and Rajiv was not Hugh Grant. "Well. Not much. Its a sunday, so I guess, I could wake up late and maybe catch up some movie. Have you seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?"

"Yes. What about it?"

"There is this line which Jim Carrey says "February 14 is a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make people feel like crap.""

She smiled."You dont believe in love, do you?"

"Well. Does it matter?"

"Doesnt it?

"To whom?"

"Who do you think?"

"Why are you so interested?"

"Why should'nt be I interested?"

She looked him deep into his eyes. It was as if she was peeking into his soul feeling him from within.

"I was afraid."

"Afraid of what? she asked.

"What if......it was a no?"

"What if it was a yes?"

His heart skipped a beat.

For an instant, it rained in Sahara. Ranganathan street became empty on a weekend evening. Mumbai had no potholes. Haiti stopped having earthquakes. Shimla became warmer. There was no fog in Delhi. Mayavati stopped unveiling her own statues. Salman Khan started wearing shirts. Karunanidhi's grandchildren stopped jumping to politics or Cinema. Bal and Raj Thackerey got Pakistani citizenship and relocated there with their Sena.

The world seemed to stop spinning and seemed a better place. Well...not better...a very beautiful place.

They started walking outside where his bike and her car were coincidentally parked side-by-side.

"How long?"

"Probably as long or before you have liked me."

"You never told."

"Neither did you."

"Why today?"

"Why not today?

They saw some overcast shadows above.

As few rain drops fell on them, Rajiv remembered that his forecast had gone wrong. And it was not just about rain. Their love had also arrived sooner than he expected.

She asked "Does the weather forecast for the day say rain with thundershowers?"

"Does it matter?"

"Doesnt it?"