gagging on a tag

So, the other day, i was tagged by Brown Magic, who, rightly, thought that I would not follow through with it. I would not have, except for the fact that she actually stated it in her comment. That and the fact that I couldn't possibly let go of an "eight different points you want in the perfect lover" tag without having my say in the matter.

The first time I attempted to put down eight points was when I was in a particularly, let us say potty-brained, mood. This resulted in a post that included descriptions of acts that I could not possibly put on this blog.

So I sat down, thought hard, awaiting inspiration to write about my idea of *the* perfect woman. And then, all of a sudden, a name bubbled up from the murky depths of my mind - a name that had been consigned to the recycle bin of my brain by my sheer denial of its existence. So instead of listing out eight points, I thought that I would describe her and allow you to draw your own inferences.

Her name was Pankajavelli Ramadesigan. She was a simple girl who was born and raised in a somewhat typical Iyengar family. Her father (Mr. Yes. Ramadesigan, Railway Officer (Retd.) , Railway Caalany, Madurai) had spent a lifetime in "service". She had a "mix of traditional and modern values" - she had done her Bachelor of Arts (Home Sciences) with distinction, and yet she went to the temple every Saturday. I would have fond memories of hanging around outside the temple waiting for her to make an appearance - my pankajavelli, walking delicately, plate of offerings in hand, wearing a silk sari. She would wear her long hair (they reached down to her knees) in a plait - a veritable garden, in which she would attach jasmine flowers. She had the thickest, finest hair I would ever set my eyes upon - nourished over the years with generous doses of coconut oil. The combined fragrances of jasmine and coconut oil would drive me crazy. really.

She was what you folks might call a "prude". Drinking would be a strict no-no for her, and eating meat would be sinful. She was not even okay with other people eating meat - the first time she went to eat "north-indian" food, she was horrified to find that the people next to her were eating parrot meat. (I surmised that it must have been someone eating green kebabs.) The very mention of anything sexual would have her saying "Ranga, Ranga" and going off to bathe in order to cleanse herself. She would have a dim view of the concept of romantic love. ("lovvulla- givvulla" she would say, imitating her father.) And all of these qualities would make me fall madly in love with her.

Somehow I had the conviction that I would be able to convince her to think of me as her partner-for-life. I even thought that I would approach her father, and convince him to give me his daughter's hand in marriage. Using the little influence her father had, and my qualifications, I would get a job as a low-level functionary in the railways. Everyday, I would come back home from work, tired, and she would be waiting for me, steel tumbler of steaming hot filter kaapi (coffee) ready . As I sat back in the chair in front of our black-and-white TV (we would be poor, but comfortable), she would take my shoes off, and press my feet, while I would pour - Tam-style - the scalding hot coffee straight into my mouth without letting my lips touch the rim of the tumbler. Sitting at my feet, she would contentedly say, "Swaami, Namaskaram". And we would live happily.

But, alas, that dream of mine would remain a dream. She could never reconcile herself to the fact that I was not Iyengar (heck, i'm not even Tam and, at that point, I had never been to Tamland). She would rebuff my advances. Meanwhile, her father would find her a nice boy (and a successful one too - a bank officer in the local Canara Bank branch), and marry her off to him. I would never forget her. I would spend the rest of my life roaming around all over India, travelling ticketless and using the money I made out of begging to keep myself in a perpetual drunken haze.

None of it was ever going to happen, of course. Pankajavelli existed only in my imagination and in the imaginations of a few friends who had helped flesh her out(1). You might think it is idiotic to create an imaginary person to fall in love with, who then refuses to have anything to do with you and leaves you miserable(2). I do not have much to say to that - my only defense is that love is blind and that the blog you are presently reading is titled "At the edge of sanity".

(1) Remind me some day to tell you about Parvinder Kaur from Gurdaspur.
(2) On a more serious note, this happens more often than you might think. More often than not, when we have a crush on someone, we are not in love with the *real* person, but with the mental image of the person that we have constructed in our heads.