章 3: Chapter 2 - Once Upon A Time (2)
The next day, of course, I ran a full internet search on Firdaus Rana Mehta.
The man was something of a legend, it appeared. He even had a Wikipedia entry dedicated to him, which, surprisingly, held a substantial amount of information. A child prodigy, the heir to the influential Rana and Mehta families (which I had to look up separately), an accomplished pianist, a shrewd businessman – the list was endless. Two hours of research later, I was thoroughly impressed and prepared to put the entire incident behind me. "Furry" Mehta was obviously a man from a different world which would never intersect with mine, and it was time for me to move on with my own life. Besides, there was that blonde goddess.
So I stopped dreaming of hazel eyes and returned to my usual lifestyle. Thankfully, Raina Malhotra, the cousin, was not someone I often crossed paths with. Nirvesh Jagad, the unwitting pusher, however, had taken to asking after my health every morning. It was endearing for a couple of days, but subsequently, it was downright annoying.
On the seventh day, I was at the end of my tether.
"Oh, for God's sake, Nirvesh – I am fine!" I snapped.
The hurt in the boy's puppy-dog eyes was staggering. Immediately, a wave of guilt crashed into me. He turned away, and involuntarily, I caught his hand.
"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you," I said quietly. "It's just...see, I was never hurt in the first place – that cousin of Raina's caught me, so I am perfectly fine. I know you didn't mean to push me hard – it wasn't your fault; we were all pushing and shoving at each other, and I was distracted for a moment and didn't see it coming. There is absolutely no need for you to feel guilty about anything, all right?"
His face lit up. "All right," he said brightly. "Friends, then?" To my amusement, he held out his thumb.
Feeling as if I was back in kindergarten, I tapped his thumb with mine. "Of course. Friends."
As it turned out, Nirvesh, for all his childish antics, was a rather interesting person. He was quite well-read, and I was surprised to find that my eclectic (and often weird) preference of genres often overlapped his. By the end of the next week, we were thick as thieves.
Even better, Nirvesh had spent a significant part of his life in Mumbai and knew not only all the "cool" places, but also the quaint hole-in-the-wall places that would not punch a hole in our already light pockets. He would often go off to obscure parts of the city with his painting gear, and I loved to accompany him. It was a treat to watch him in action – not only was his artwork brilliant (and if you are familiar with the world of art, chances are that you would already have heard of him; he is already well on his way to glory) – but he chose such poignant locations that it often inspired me to write something of my own. In fact, my first published poetry collection almost entirely consists of the hasty scribbles in my notebook while watching Nirvesh paint. One of those, "The Artist", which remains a personal favourite to this day, is based on him.
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