The Roomate Chronicles, Part Three
Here we go again. Another session of cribbing- but I’m being quite gentle this time.
The truth is, my roommate and I hardly see each other- and this unintentional arrangement works out perfectly for both of us. She is hardly ever home on weekdays, and I’m at my grandmother’s place on weekends, pretending to be a sylph in the wooded backyard and watching dead leaves burn.
She walked in last evening in salwar-kameez. I blinked.
“I’ve never seen you in anything but jeans.” (Oh yes, she works at a place that actually allows jeans all days.)
She smiled coyly (okay, I exaggerate) and went about her work. She actually looks good in salwar-kameez. One of my flatmates had given her the are-you-prettier-than-I-believe-I-am glance the day she arrived, and reported with satisfaction that she wasn’t pretty, to some scrutinising questions. Catty, yes, some of us are. (Living with girls is an eye-opener- they make you realise the existence of different kinds of behaviour- I recommend it if you’re planning to study psychology.) My roommate is really quite an easy person to live with, very tolerant of me, and helps me keep my Hindi (bless my years in MP and Bihar) in shape, even if I sprinkle it liberally with English words.
One of my flatmates has the most hideous taste in cinema. Have you ever met a person who is desperately in love with Karan-Arjun and has watched it so many times she knows every scene, every dialogue by heart? She shrieks in delight at the most unremarkable jokes, guffaws so loudly as to shake the night watchman out of his stupor. She knows of every movie that was ever released during the garish nineties and adores the oversized, ill-fitting costumes and outlandish jewellery. Oh well. She and I have diametrically opposites. She adores Chetan Bhagat and deifies Sidney Sheldon, has a boyfriend, likes eating at roadside stalls and enjoys shopping. About the only thing we have in common is our love for coffee.
I seek shelter- the room upstairs holds The Roommate who calls, “Lights Out!” and jumps into bed promptly as the clock strikes nine. I suspect she had an overdose of St. Clare’s as a little girl. Because even Minotaur cannot force me to stay in my room for more than ten minutes when she is around- and as I can’t read in the dark- I end up in the hall with Sridevi and her ridiculous gyrating moves (and my flatmate’s humming) for company. (Note: The platonic romance between Paul and Miriam and the Swiss honeymoon locales of Yash Chopra are a nightmare-inducing combination.)
And as I talk in such flattering terms of the girls I live with, I’d love to hear what they have to say about me. A blog entry they write might sound like this: “She is an antisocial thing who has books strewn all over the place and cannot appreciate fine cinema. She lives in the nineteenth century and seeks more privacy than Brangelina. What a prude.”
Thank you. I’m flattered.
PS: Have I told you that one of my flatmates is an F1 fan and has a red Puma Ferrari bag that I envy? Now she’s a girl I get on rather well with, but she is hardly ever at home when I am. Sigh.