First Scene of the Novel

   CHAPTER 1

    FRIDAY


    Brown… Dark brown… Dark woody brown.
    Wall clock… Circular wall clock… Huge, circular wall clock.

    The huge, circular, dark woody brown wall clock hanging on the shiny-white wall of the Wilbur Wood auditorium showed a perfect noon. An exact 12. The tall and muscular minute hand of the clock lay above the petite and curvaceous hour hand making a perfect Kama Sutra Missionary position. For the world,
it was 12. For them, they were one. They craved for this brief moment of being one. 60 seconds of blissful companionship after around 3,600 seconds of aching solitude...

    Well, the elaborated description of the wall clock and the time displayed on it is significant for a reason. Actually three reasons. One, the opening scene of this story begins at 12, noon. In the presence of the huge, dark woody brown wall clock. Two, I started writing this book at 12 o’clock and coincidentally a miniature replica of the same wall clock was on my wall. And three... hmmm... I’ll tell you a little later.
    
    Now let’s get back to Wilbur Wood...

Wilbur Wood Auditorium
Friday, 12 o’clock. Noon

    “Oh boy! I’m pretty sure she’s gonna kick some butt real hard and break some hearts real bad today,” Jaanvi drained off the entire Coca-Cola down her throat. Jannat settled her trouble-causing black dupatta, that arrogantly mismatched with her blue Salwar kameez. Grinding the crispy Uncle Chips between her molars, she mumbled, “Yeahhhhh! She’s loaded with some nasty ass-kicking arsenal.”
    “She’s by far the best speaker,” Jonnathan stretched his limbs and made some minor adjustments to his merchandise. The soft, spongy, leathery merchandise.

    Jaanvi, Jannat and Jonnathan have NOTHING to do with this book. They were just three, among the thousands of audience, who had gathered at Wilbur Wood auditorium, New Delhi to witness the finals of
‘All India debating talent hunt’ (an open-to-all competition that was being telecasted by almost all major news channels). Almost all the premier institutions of India were invited to take part in the event.
   The ‘she’ that Jaanvi, Jannat and Jonnathan were swanking about was Sameera. She has a LOT to do with the book.

    A little mascara... some lip gloss... and a lot of mysterious sensuality- SAMEERA SANYAL, 22, 5’7”, just the right complexion, a graduate of St. Steven’s, Mumbai. Presently pursuing an MBA from Mudra Institute of Communications, Ahmedabad.
  
    Debating was just a polite way of putting things up. It was no less than a fist to fist fight. Each speaker was given eight minutes to do the wonder. Sameera was the 11th (second last) speaker. She had divided her eight minutes in three parts. The first five minutes, she gave to her prepared speech. For the next two minutes, she countered all the arguments put forward by her opponents who spoke before her. The last minute was reserved for the last speaker, who was yet to make his presence felt. The trick was to make this speaker a little uncomfortable before he came on the podium.That was the best Sameera could’ve done since she hadn’t heard the speech as yet.

SAMEERA: (delivering the last one minute of her speech) “Honorable chairperson (smiles beatifically), respected members of jury (bigger smile this time), lovely audience (even bigger smile) and… (with a disdainful look) … that tiny-miny, piddlee bundle of thick-headed, dull-witted and my not-so-worthy opponents, seated across the floor… I, Sameera Sanyal, proudly representing Mudra Institute of Communications, swear by this holy Bhagwad Gita before I make this announcement (she held the Bhagwad Gita high in the air for everyone to see) - The next speaker, Mr. Aryan Vyas... oops! I stand corrected, LIEUTENANT Aryan Vyas, who’ll be here soon to put forth his vague viewpoints and hollow convictions will make all possible endeavors to counter and negate my points. In an attempt to achieve this, almost impossible task, he’ll try to weave some Illusions and delusions in your minds with the use of some sufi-sounding vocabulary.
     He’ll also try to pull off a little enchanting act and struggle very hard to convince you all with his fancy army adventure tales. He might even try some cheap stunt, as in, he might employ a sensational dramatic piece with crude appeal to your emotions, you know... in a bid to make an impression.
    Whatever he does will be entertaining to watch... BUT... ladies and gentlemen... when we get to the end of his eight minutes, all his bhandpanti would mean nothing but a sheer waste of our time... our precious time.
But still... I would request all of you to please clap for his efforts. AT LEAST for the amusement value – Thank You!”

   AND WE CALL WOMEN THE WEAKER SEX???

   The colossal auditorium thundered with clapping, hooting and cheering. By the way, the book that Sameera claimed with such an air of supremacy to be the holy Bhagwad Gita was in reality a carefully camouflaged special edition of Cosmopolitan magazine. It was the only available book she could lay her hands on the last minute that somewhat matched the dimensions of the holy book she had seen at her home.
    Two thousand and something multiplied by two, curious eyes in the hall aimed at one single human anatomy. Every expression of this human face was being scrutinised from the moment ‘it’ left the chair till the time ‘it’ reached the stage.
    Some sympathy, albeit in small packages, followed these eyes.
    Aryan took approximately three seconds to recci the hall in a 180 degrees sweep. From full left to full right. He saw faces. Moustaches. Beards. Specs. Shirts. T-shirts. Ties. Blue. Red. Orange. Human heads in the far corner of the hall. Black human heads. Talking heads. Shaking heads. Sitting heads. Standing heads. Itching heads. He had never seen so much in such short a time.
    He held the microphone, left the lectern and moved ten steps to his right to reach the centerstage. By now all the shufffling, sotto whispers and catcalls had died down. Only silence could be heard. Along with Aryan’s breath on the mike.
    Ten seconds had passed and he did not utter a single word. Some thought that he had forgotten his speech but a majority hoped that he would say something. We, human beings are generally kind souls. We involuntarily start imagining ourselves in such situations and start praying to whosoever we pray to, that the sufferer should some how save his grace.
     Majority won.

ARYAN: “I thought He had stopped manufacturing... but I suppose, we still have a few of those... SMILES.. left on our planet and guess what? (a long pause followed by a smile)... I just saw one of them.(Aryan’s opening lines had attracted every single auditory canal in the hall. It was by far the most weird start.)
      Sameera... (pause and a big smile) my beloved, (catcalls and heckles once again disrupted the gathering hall) your sweet smile... and your announcement seems to me like a serene, calm stream of pure water with a shimmering flow on which my ailments soothe themselves... and then, as we keep looking at each other its beauty approaches me for one true, intimate contact (he closes his eyes as if he’s actually feeling the touch)... the only tragedy being (his voice grows stern and heavy), when this happens, it finds on the other side an unshakable solid rock like Aryan Vyas, beyond which it splutters into tiny drops and loses all its beauty. The sweet tune now turns noisy and then all it does, is that it collects beneath me, uselessly, and when I look at it, I realize... It’s now a stinking, dirty puddle!!! A very warm good afternoon honorable...”

    The hall reverberated again. This time, with louder clapping, naughtier hooting and more enthusiastic cheering. The auditorium witnessed a sudden shift. A shift of the entire brigade of eyes onto a different human face. An embarrassed, newly-turned-beetroot-red human face.
     A group of ten to 12 boys got up from their chairs, held and raised each others’ hands and in unison bowed down. As if paying reverence to some deity. A few more such groups joined the act and soon it became, ‘a Mexican wave!’

    That was Aryan...

    A flash of flamboyance… two naughty triceps… and a lot of spontaneity— Lieutenant ARYAN VYAS, 23, 5’11”, a graduate of National Defence Academy, Khadakwasla. Currently stationed at the Indian Military Academy, Dehradun.