A story by Nabeel Tauheed - MBA'22 (FMS, Delhi)
He peered through the windowpanes, waiting impatiently. It was twenty-six minutes past eleven. He glanced at his wrist-watch, irritated by how slowly the second hand seemed to be moving. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. He smiled and kept looking out at the house across the street. Like clockwork, as the second hand on his wrist reached forty, a figure appeared in the doorway. A female figure. A beautiful female figure.
She had a bowl of milk in her right hand, and a book in her left. One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat. God, such a terrible book. God, such a beautiful woman. How are you not done with that book yet? Her eyes glittered with glee through her big bulky spectacles that rested comically on her relatively tiny nose as the waiting cat immediately pounced on the milk she had put on the floor. She couldn’t help but laugh. He couldn’t help but smile. She scratched behind the cat’s ears for a little bit and then headed back inside. The cat continued to lap up the milk it had been offered. He glanced at his watch again. It was twenty-seven minutes past eleven. Seven minutes was all he had. He swallowed and tried to strengthen his resolve. I must talk to her today. I have been putting this off for far too long. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat off his brow. Nothing else matters. He headed for the door, unlocked it and headed out into the overcast outdoors. He shuffled forward hastily, not wanting to waste any time and, more importantly, not wanting to lose the resolve he had wasted nearly thirty precious seconds building up. He crossed the street and found himself outside her house. Positioning his finger delicately on the doorbell, he prepared himself to meet the woman of his dreams. He took a deep breath and looked at his watch. Twenty-eight minutes past eleven. Less than six minutes to go. He exhaled as he pressed the doorbell. He held his breath again as he counted the seconds going by. His brow was sweaty again, so he wiped it. Six. Seven. He tapped his right foot impatiently on the concrete floor in an attempt to pacify himself. Ten. Eleven. He could hear footsteps now. Thirteen. Fourteen. The door opened a couple of inches as his heart skipped a couple of beats. He could see her peering inquisitively at him through the small opening between the door and its frame. You have green eyes. How did I never notice that before? “Hi,” he said, without any real conviction in his voice. “Hello.” So that’s what your voice sounds like. Beautiful. “I live across the street. Thought I’d come say hi. Hi.” He pointed helpfully at his house across the street. “Hello,” she replied again, her voice brimming with curiosity. She smiled, and as she did, her eyes lit up. He looked at his watch again. Thirty minutes past eleven. Four minutes to go. “I live across the street,” he mumbled again, unable to think of anything else to mumble. His ears were burning red. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I live across the street? His brow was sweaty again. He wanted to leave. To go back to his bedroom and curl up and die. Die over and over again. His shoulders drooped heavy with the burden of a broken heart. “Would you like to come in? I could make some tea,” she said, swinging open the door. Inviting him in. He took another calming breath before graciously accepting her invitation. Her home was just as lovely as the woman who lived in it. Warm and safe. “Sorry for the mess,” she said, waving her left hand in the general direction of the perfection that was her living room. “I wasn’t really planning on having visitors. How would you like your tea?” He looked at his watch. Thirty-one minutes past eleven. Almost thirty-two. Only a couple of minutes to go. Wouldn’t really make much sense to have tea right now. “Just like I like my slaves. Black,” he said, this time without mumbling. Shit. She smiled awkwardly and led him into kitchen, beckoning for him to sit on the counter. He took the proffered seat and watched her move around gracefully and make him some tea. Black, like my slaves. “So what do you do, neighbour?” she asked. “Nothing much. I just try to kill time.” He laughed. She didn’t. He looked at his watch again. Almost time. This isn’t the best ‘How did you guys meet?’ story we can tell other people. Shit. “Would it be too awkward if I came back here?” he asked. She turned her head in his direction, genuine puzzlement in her eyes, a genuine giggle on her face. Realizing that he was serious, she started laughing. His ears burnt red again. “Not for me,” she said, catching her breath. “You’re definitely an awkward new neighbour, aren’t you?” Before he could reply, hot lava erupted from the ground beneath him and the Earth exploded. He found himself back in his house, on his newly unpacked couch, reading the same newspaper he had found himself reading a million times. He threw it away with excitement and looked at his watch. Twenty-four minutes past eleven. He smiled happily. She had said he could visit her again. He ran across the street to her house and rang her doorbell. He looked at his watch again. Twenty-five minutes past eleven. The stray cat brushed up against his leg. It was waiting for her as well. The door opened a couple of inches and he smiled the biggest smile he had ever smiled. He could see her green eyes peer inquisitively from behind her glasses. He kept on smiling the biggest smile he had ever smiled. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice curt. Shit. The cat meowed, disappointed at not having received the milk it was used to. He looked at the cat walk away. He wanted to do the same. “Excuse me. Can I help you?” Her voice snapped him out of his self-loathing reverie. The voice was just as amazing as it had been before, but it was sterner this time. More authoritative. Less lovable. “I’m sorry if I offended you last time. I’m not actually a racist.” Why can’t I filter racism out of first impressions? “I’m sorry?” Her voice was much more authoritative now. Much less lovable. He tried to open his mouth to speak, to form coherent sentences, but no sound would come out. He swallowed and wiped the sweat off his brow. The door slammed shut. Shit. He made his way back to his house slowly and sadly. He plopped down on the couch with the air of one who has given up on life. He lay there, looking up at the ceiling, not checking his watch, not counting the seconds. His face was blank, his heart was numb. The Earth exploded. He found himself sitting on his couch, reading the newspaper. He started reading it just to take his mind off of things, but the mundane news was too much. He threw the paper away and looked at his watch. Twenty-six minutes past eleven. Forty seconds to go. He stepped out of his house on a hunch. He checked his watch again. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Fourteen seconds to go. His eyes were fixed on the door of the house opposite. Thirty-nine. Forty. She appeared. Milk in one hand, Chetan Bhagat in the other. She put the milk down and caressed the cat. He waved and smiled. She waved and smiled back. She headed back inside the house. He turned around to go back inside his own. “Oh dear me. How cute!” Old hag. Mind your own business. He smiled a toothy smile at the old woman on the other side of his fence. She smiled a toothless one back. “I’m glad to see that you’ve finally started talking to her.” “What? How did you find out?” “You can’t hide anything from me,” the old lady chuckled. “What did you two lovebirds talk about?” Prying hag. He blushed vehemently. The old woman chuckled again. “Thank God you’ve found love so close to home. My husband’s been at the golf club since forever. It takes way more than ten minutes to get back home, you see,” the old lady sighed sadly. I see. Just like I saw the last thousand times you told me. Stupid woman. “It’s going to be alright one day,” he smiled at her, hoping she would go back inside her house and leave him the fuck alone. She didn’t. They just stood there, making small talk, with her reliving the days when her husband was courting her and him counting the seconds until he died and was relieved of this misery. Thank God hot lava erupted from the ground beneath them and killed him. He found himself on his newly unpacked couch, with the newspaper in his hands. He threw the newspaper away and stood next to his door. He stared at his watch as the seconds passed him by, counting the seconds until he could see her again. At thirty seconds past twenty-six minutes past eleven, he stepped out of his house. Thankfully, the old hag wasn’t lying in wait for him. He walked slowly and deliberately on to the street as she appeared in her doorway, milk in one hand and One Indian Girl in the other. She bent down and placed the milk in front of the waiting cat. He waved at her. She waved back. “Howdy, neighbour!” “Hello,” she shouted back. “Did you just move in?” He kept walking across the street towards her. “Ah, yes, actually. Just last night. I haven’t even finished unpacking.” “Oh. Well, if there’s anything at all you need, just let me know, okay?” “About that. Do you think I could have some tea?” “Sure. Come on in,” she said as she swung open her door in invitation. Hell yeah I’m smooth. And just like that, he was sitting at her kitchen counter again. His eyes were fixed on her as she moved gracefully, making him what was probably going to be the best tea of his life. “So, neighbour, what do you do?” she asked him. “I’m a volcanologist. I study volcanic eruptions,” he lied. “So why did you move here?” she asked him, turning around to smile at him as she strained the tea into two cups. “I haven’t seen any lava around here.” “Oh, really? I wonder why,” he said, his voice trailing off, his head brimming with possibility and his heart fluttering with desire. You. You’re really one in a million, aren’t you? She frowned at him, visibly confused as she handed him his tea. She pulled up a chair and sat opposite him, her own cup in her hand. He picked up the teacup and took a sip. “How’s the tea?” she asked, changing the topic to one a woman could fully comprehend. “Lovely. But how could it not be, considering the woman who made it?” he said as he looked into her eyes. She looked away, laughing and blushing at the same time. She took a sip from her own cup. Slicker than an oil spill. “That’s probably the cheesiest thing I’ve heard all week.” Cute thing. Still looking at time in days and weeks. He chuckled happily. Lava filled the kitchen as the Earth exploded. He was sitting on his newly unpacked couch, with a newspaper in his hands. He threw away the newspaper and practically jumped up. He was excited. He was sure of it now. She somehow didn’t carry her memories forward when she died. That is why she fed the cat at the exact same time. That is why she was stuck on the same book since forever. The world had adapted to this new lifestyle though. It wasn’t comfortable, but people got by. Some better than others. Ever since the Earth had imploded, it had been stuck in a roughly ten-minute loop in an attempt to preserve life. But somehow, people could remember things that happened to them in a previous loop. That’s what science and modern religion said, anyways. He had moved in the night before the Earth exploded for the first time. There was mass panic and rioting when everything rebooted. People could remember dying. After a few deaths, people got used to it though. Some didn’t have it as easy as him though. Some were stuck more than ten minutes away from their loved ones. Some women were perpetually in labour and pain and had gone insane. People who died of natural causes kept dying. Prisoners were stuck behind bars forever. Those who suffered kept suffering forever. And here she was, perfectly sane in a world that had gone bat shit crazy. He smiled happily as he looked at his watch. Twenty-four minutes past eleven. Ten minutes of you. He went into his room and fetched some duct tape from his bag. He exited his house and strolled around his yard for the one minute it took for her to appear. He waved his hand and smiled. She did the same once she was done feeding the cat. “Howdy, neighbour!” “Hello,” she shouted back, as he walked over to her. “Did you just move in?” “Ah, yes, actually. Just last night. I haven’t even finished unpacking.” “Oh. Well, if there’s anything at all you need, just let me know, okay?” “About that. Do you think I could have some tea?” “Sure. Come on in,” she said as she swung open her door in invitation. I could get used to this. And he was sitting at her kitchen counter, watching her make him black tea. “Sorry for the mess,” she said, pointing at her living room. “I wasn’t really expecting visitors.” “On the contrary, ma’am. You have a lovely home.” She smiled. Her green eyes shone from behind her glasses. “How do you like your tea?” “Black. No sugar.” She led him into her kitchen and he sat on the counter, watching her fetch tea leaves and put the kettle on the stove. He ripped off a short length of the duct tape he was carrying in his pocket. “So, what do you do?” “I’m Batman,” he said, without missing a beat. “Come on, be serious,” she laughed as she turned around to look at him. “I am,” he laughed unconvincingly. He stood up and reached over the kitchen counter, grabbing her face and putting the duct tape on her open mouth. The duct tape muffled her screams. Forethought for the win. He dragged her over the kitchen counter as she flailed her limbs wildly, knocking over the teapot on the stove. She was trying her best, but she was such a frail little thing. He overpowered her easily. Hot lava erupted from the ground beneath them. It set fire to the clothes strewn wildly on the kitchen floor. It killed both the sobbing woman and the grunting, thrusting, half crazed man atop her as the Earth exploded. He found himself on his couch, reading the same old newspaper. He chucked it away happily as he went to his room to fetch his roll of duct tape. He looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes past eleven. He left his house and strolled around his yard, once again thankful that the old hag wasn’t around. She was his now. For eternity. His, in every possessive sense of the term. She was his plaything now, a toy he loved with all his heart. A toy he hoped he would never get bored of. She was at her door now, putting the bowl of milk in front of the cat. He waved and smiled. She waved and smiled back.