It was bloody hot. Much hotter than the earlier year I thought. So naturally when there were downpours in the middle of a blazing summer, I was extremely thankful. I was not amused when I read a news report one morning which made references to the ever-changing mind of a female, when Laila (the cyclone) decided to change course. I was particularly unamused because Laila had caused me enough trouble already.
Let me rewind.
I love cars. And I love driving. Luckily for me I have an extremely wealthy, expatriate friend who has the most gorgeous cars which she allows me to drive. Well also because she is rather accident-prone. One fine morning I get woken up by her screeching, supersonic voice. That was the morning that Laila came on to the horizon. Apparently my friend was driven to Pondicherry, got dumped by a boy and had no way home. Her parents thought she was with me and she’d parked her Porsche Panamera outside my home the night before. I groaned. Not because I wouldn't mind driving Pan (I'd named the car that) to Pondicherry but because it could have been scratched by god knows what on the crazy roads of Chennai. Even if parked outside a residential complex. I updated the disapproving father, retrieved the keys from our hiding place and set out to fetch Nutty aka Natalia.
Pan was beautiful as always. And the roads terrible as always, especially with the drizzle Laila had brought to the city also known as a furnace. But I didn't give a damn. I hopped in, revved the engine and turned up the Lady Gaga as I sped towards oblivion. Or Pondicherry. Whatever. And as I'd expected, my thoughts returned to the previous night. I involuntarily shuddered. My usually cool behaviour was seriously affected by the amount of vodka I'd consumed and I had no idea what transpired in the head of the boy who one declared he was "irrevocably in love with me". But I have to admit, it was probably my fault. I lead men on – I flirt with them endlessly and the minute they realise they want something more, I back off. It keeps my father and me happy, but well, how many boys can I run through without something unpleasant happening.
I think I may have caused a scene at the pub the night before. The aforementioned boy found me flirting and showing off my dimples – to my best friend's brother who knows better than to expect anything from me. Then the boy launched into a tirade about me being a black widow and strongly advised the friend's brother to stay away from me. There was a fist fight. Rather, just one fist and a palm involved. Crazy boy hits calm boy, except calm boy saw it coming and with strange Spider Man-like reflexes, whips out his hand and stops the fist. Or maybe I was too inebriated to remember exactly how it happened. Calm boy then twists crazy boys arm, growls something into his ear and sends off a very pissed off crazy boy.
Luckily the friend was busy saving a girl from throwing up all over her Prada shoes, otherwise I would be in deep... vomit? Also because at that point I realised I wanted the one boy who had never hit on me in my entire life – the calm brother of the best friend. Complex, yes?
I sighed, changed the music to something darker (all I could find was Goo Goo Dolls.. damn you, Nutty) and put on my shades. I realised I felt sick. The vodka and the sudden realisation and changes of heart I suppose. I stopped somewhere, bought a bottle of coke, two litres of water, some idlis, I managed to find a Green Day CD in some shop, and set off again. The idlis helped actually and so did the water.
I was dragged away from my thoughts by a hysterical call from Nutty. The boy who ditched her had returned apparently - in a drunken rage – and had hit her. I was fuming. My father was the loveliest man in the world and he would never hurt a fly, but I was often baffled by how different boys of my generation were. My poor old daddy would probably also be shocked if he knew. Anyway, I pacified a wailing Nutty (who was ranting in Russian at that point) and told her I'd be there soon.
I dug my heel into the accelerator and wore my seatbelt. I was going to rescue my friend, I'd be damned if me, a fricking ICEBERG, was going to get distracted by thoughts of some boy who would never be interested in me, well because he knew better than to be.
After all that pacifying, I was thirsty. But I didn't want to stop. Supremely confident of my driving skills and the smooth as silk East Coast Road, I did what I never would have done otherwise. While racing down the ECR at 120 kmph, I helped myself to my bottle of coke. Murphy and his law of course quickly acted. Something decided to attack me while I glugged my aerated drink. Something which was buzzing loudly. My reflex was to swat it and I did, spilling coke all over Pan's interiors in the process. A car worth Rs 1,499,999, I thought as I tried to dab up the mess with some paper napkins. Pan was at about 100 kmph now and I decided to stop the car. Then I realised I was on the wrong side of the road, freaked out, saw something grey, freaked out even more and swerved. The drizzle had increased, the road was slippery, use your imagination for the rest.
It was not a pretty swerve. The puffy, white bag which erupted from the steering wheel, and which I've only seen before in American movies and TV serials, saved my life. It also may have given me my first black eye as well. I groaned for the second time that day. I had no idea what the damage to Pan was or how I was going to rescue Nutty from the Pondicherry drunkard now.
My phone rang. I groaned for a third time. It was probably Nutty. I reached out from behind the magic white balloon, fumbling about while trying to find my phone. Once my hand made contact with it, I brought it closer to me and blearily looked at it. And I groaned a fourth time. It was Calm Boy.
I picked up and groaned. By now I'd lost count of how many times I'd groaned.
"That bad, huh?"
Mumble.
"Call me when you're awake."
That brought me to my senses.
"Nuh, whnut."
"Huh?"
"Ai nuhd shum hulp."
"Dude. Are you alright?"
"Shuddup. Lissen. I nidh your helf."
"Where are you? What happened? What help?"
He understood my gibberish. Part of me exulted while another part screamed at the top of my voice in fear. It was at that point I realised that was the boy I wanted rescuing me every time I crashed crazy expats' Porsches – for the rest of my life.
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