That flat lemon!

 

I was an asshole. I was and to some extent am still a big- time jerk. Smoke, sex, sake and sizzlers were my staple. I was one of the eminent ring masters of the print media circus. Freelancing is a new found crush for me now but back then I was an editor. I was hot news in the boss’s eyes due to my ability to get things done in spite of the idiots around. My strength was my selective hearing and my super power was my quality to maintain poker face come what may. Things above my pay scale never bothered me and I never argued with the morons. My motto was simple, drink your coffee, do your job and say your prayers. Life back then was like page- 3; shallow but sexy. In a plush apartment in Juhu I was living hangover to hangover in bliss and euphoria. I was a rouge but a lovable rouge nonetheless. Things were all good but then she came along. There is always a she who screws up everything. She diluted my sarcasm to sensitivity. I was like tea without tannin, coffee without caffeine, cigarette without nicotine and bloody merry without blood.

She was an intern and my boss hung her around my neck probably to save his own ass. He was hen- pecked and last thing he would have wanted is an eye candy intern at his desk. She was good. Her shadow sure was sensuous, if you know what I mean. Straight hair, big eyes and nice long legs. If asked, was I smitten? …. well, I won’t lie. I was head over heels for her. She was that pretty. To hide that gasp of pleasure with a deadpan expression, sure was a tough thing. If flirting was an art I considered myself Picasso. For first two weeks our interactions were frugal and formal like an empty canvas. This Picasso was starving for colors and one fine day rainbow did shine with a golden pot at the end of it.

I remember our first informal interaction. She was looking pale, grumpy and it was evident that she had just finished her 8^th bout of sob. I asked her with care and concern “All ok?” She just nodded. Now here is the thing with me, if someone is crying, my first reaction is to laugh; so as soon as I received her nod I paced off. Later when I was loitering around in the cafeteria she came and hugged me. She whispered a warm thanks. I knew this was my cue and asked her out for coffee. It is true, a lot can happen over a cup of latte. A cup of latte and a cookie monster. Girls love sweets when depressed (wink).

Soon our WhatsApp days started with good morning sunshine and ended with take care baccha, sleep tight. Our travelling times started to synchronize. We were visiting coffee houses and made small bills while sitting there for hours together. I am a good listener and it helped me a lot. Now here is the thing about good listening. You listen to every fourth word that she says and repeat it. You copy her gestures. As in if she touches her hair, you nonchalantly do the same; she smiles you laugh, she crosses her legs and you do the same so on and so forth. Like college teenagers we started to make out a little in the cinema halls. Eventually we were couple but with no strings attached.

Apparently getting in someone’s pants is easy but getting in someone’s mind is difficult. She was a permanent, rent-free resident in my head but the other way round was still a far fetched thing. Her plans were her plans but my plans were her plans too. Asking too many questions was like being a borderline male chauvinist pig. On the other hand, being least bothered made you a selfish prick. If she did something wrong, it was a mistake but if you did the same thing, it was a crime and that is the problem of the modern day metro-sexual males in the cities. Our compatibility started to wither. It was like we were reading the same book but were on the different pages. After all compatibility is the balance between girl’s capacity to throw tantrums and boy’s patience to tolerate them and now the ice was thinning out.

That Monday morning, I was feeling terrible. My mind was scattered. I decided to Netflix and chill so I called in sick. She called me at around 9 ‘O’ clock in morning and asked if I can come over at her place. She asked me to hurry up as she had some work at 11 am. I realized that I was in for some quick action. On my way I picked up couple of magnums. Testosterone was eager to meet the oestrogen. When she opened the door, she looked ravishing. I hugged her and kissed her but before I could manage some more of mischief, I noticed her packed bags. I abruptly stopped and asked “You are leaving? Why, what happened? All, OK?”

“Yeah, Yeah all OK. I am taking leave of one week. I would be visiting my parents.” She said.

“But why suddenly?” I inquired.

“No re. Its just that I am missing them a lot.” She replied.

“OK! But you need to apply for the leaves.” I said with futile authority.

She handed over the leave application which was lying on the table. “Here you go. Sign it boss and please be a sweetheart and submit it in the HR.”

“Also, this is my favorite plant. I want you to take it home and take its good care. I will collect it once I am back.” She dictated.

My mind was trying to refute with logic but I guess blood flow was redirected from brain to something else. We spent some time together, had coffee. Sharp at 11 she turned her butt on me and walked off with the bags leaving me with that plant. Just before the thud of the door I heard her saying “Close the door when you leave. Don’t forget to water my plant. Might not be able call or message; please don’t be mad.”

I felt like I was used like a door mat. I felt like that guy who never got a phone call after his first date. I felt like a guy who was hung up on his prom night. Like a guy who was left alone at the altar; at least I had a plant though. Well to be honest it was not even a plant or sapling. It was freaking five feet tall treeish plant with oval leaves and wood branches. I was completely clueless. “What the f^#* is this?” was my first reaction. I didn’t know how to carry it home forget about taking its care. It did cross my mind to just leave the thing there itself and visit it daily to water it but it was her request. I was a flea-bitten love moth and her wish was my command.  I couldn’t just leave the breathing leaves there. I hired a tempo to shift it to my place. Then I went to the office and submitted her application. Frustrated, irritated, confused I went out with my friends to booze and snooze. Lets say after lot many days I again relived the hangover next morning.

The next couple of days was a fake-athon. The entire Bollywood was faking their concern about certain new government policy and we were faking that we really cared about their opinions. The readership transiently increased and we partied again. It was Thursday afternoon when I realized that I was a single plant parent. It was stashed in a room which had a tread- mill, stationary cycle and few dumbles which were biting the dust. The dust turned gold when the sunlight peeped in through the split in between the curtains. This was the first time I was looking keenly at my botanical toddler. The soil was dry, the leaves were turning yellow at the tips. It looked less lively than our first meet. “It is a plant after all; what else it could need apart from some water?” I thought. I poured some water, took a selfie with my new friend and sent it to her. I captioned it as ‘Flant= Flat +plant”! I waited long for those double ticks to turn blue; alas I gave up.

It was Friday evening and the week end blues had set in. Strangely neither I had missed her so far nor she had messaged me. It was decided to go to a winery to uncoil and recoil. The place where sobriety meets insobriety. The place where living liquids carve the monkey out of you. We were ready to give in to the spiritual fluids and annul our inhibitions. We were ready to embrace the wisdom of whiskey and vices of vodka. Tantalizing tequila and crimson cognac. Rum, like poetry of Rumi. Gin and tonic like Jinn in the bottle, kissing our problems away. Unbearable company becoming bearable with beer. To whine a little with wine. Well, that reminded me of her. It was late night Saturday and there was verbally constipated response from her to my romantic essay on WhatsApp. I was emotionally numb at that time because my head was woozy. I just slept.

The Sunday brunch was an open-air buffet amidst the nature. My head was spinning more than the torque on the race cars. The atmosphere was at its typical cliché. Blue skies, white clouds, maple filter on sun and breezy wind. A class of Mandarin trees was being tutored by the gardener on the left and on the right the grapevines were being groomed for harvesting. In the middle I sat sipping my coffee waiting for its ingredients to kick in. Near the giggling stream one particular tree caught my eye. It had small oval leaves. Some had reddish tint, some were green and few were yellowish. The branches were angular. The twigs had pointy thorns. That tree sure did look familiar. As the caffeine blended with my blood, I realized that was the bigger version of my ‘flant.’

As I went nearer to the tree, the aroma brewing up from my coffee mug got replaced by the citrus fragrance. It did give me a mini- orgasm. A localite was trimming the leaves and branches. He was patting the tree bark and talking to it.

Looking at my quizzing looks he said “It is a flat lemon. Their cousin.” He pointed his finger towards the mandarin trees.

“It has its dwarf version too, engineered by the agriculturist. It is a fad pampered by rich in the cities.” He continued.

“Ohh! So that’s what it was in my apartment.” I silently thought.

I asked and he told me all that was important to know about my plant. He told me to keep it near the window where there is abundant sunlight. He advised pruning it periodically. He encouraged me to speak to it as a close friend. He suggested a fertilizer. He said that the key was to keep the soil moist; not too dry not too swamped. He advised me to replant it in the ground. Let the roots explore beyond the pot; it helps in development of the personality of the plant, he had said. We shared numbers. I sent him a friend request on Facebook which he gladly accepted. It was our time to check out. I checked out with a content mind and satisfied heart. However, the big smile on my face was because of the fact that she had messaged. She was back in town.

For that evening I had converted my living room into a romantic jazz bar. The candle light was just about enough to radiate her glow. Her sparkling eyes had racy badness in them. The ordered continental food was steaming hot yet very lukewarm in front of her. Stunning she was looking, in the champagne green halter; like the bellisma bottle of the port wine. We were talking and laughing holding each other’s hands. I told her about the vineyard and about the new friend and his advice. I talked and talked and talked a lot but somehow, I was not striking the chords. I was not hitting the home-run today. It all looked picture perfect but still something was amiss.

“All ok?” I asked her.

“No!” said she.

“Why? What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Us.” She said sounding to be very sure.

“You are nice and all but you are shallow. You mask it by being profound and deep but you are not. Off lately you look at me as a destination but I look at you as a mere pitstop. You are old, I am young. I want to expand and explore.” Unnerved she continued.

“Every relationship has a pinnacle and a debacle. I guess the pitstop is over. We went on from sweet nothings to sweet somethings. Lets just keep it that way. Lets stop before nothing sweet remains.” She paused to sip wine a little.

I had gone dumb and mute. I wish I had gone deaf too.

“This is a faux relationship like that lemon tree I had given you a week ago.” She concluded.

“That tree is artificial?” I yelled.

“Yes! It is rather funny that with your observation skills you would notice my bra strap but miss out on 5 feet tall artificial tree. That is why i say you are superficial.” she said calmly.

A jab from the south paw and the champion failed to defend it. The challenger’s gloved knuckle met the champion’s headgear at temple. The champion was knocked out cold. The referee was in the middle of the long count and the champion laid motionless. But the champion was champion after all. By the count of ten he was back on the feet. The bout ended in draw but it had dented the champion’s ego. I was the champion; she was the challenger. That day when everything was over, I tried plucking the leaf; the chlorophyll didn’t ooze out. There was no fragrance of citrus either. The dummy was out in the open field. She continued to work at the firm. I became a freelancer. I still have that artificial tree; I have that and 35 other real plants. Now people fondly call me 'The botanist!'