DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME

Dedicated to the guy who could only be either my "The One" or my brother.

"He's probably gay!" I hissed to my friend.
She cast a thoroughly disgusted look at me. She probably thought I was a bitch (Or should I say she probably knew?). I almost caught her lips murmuring that word.
OK, so she wasn't the only one to love this supposedly-gay guy to death. Oh, no. Not even in the "er, ahem, you know" sense. Everyone just loved him. You know, like it was mandatory that everyone should love him. He was loved by all. It's as simple as that. Well, knowing this guy was loving this guy (OK, so that breakthrough of a line was plagiarized. Ever read "Love Story" by Erich Segal?).
So, where was I? Ya, she cast a thoroughly disgusted look at me. "You're probably confused, you know. You need to relax. Take a break. Take a nap." In other words, get lost. Buzz off. Go!
I sighed. "No, I'm not. Isn't it a possibility?" Why can't it be, anyway? Every guy is either straight or gay. And ya, or bisexual.
"Oh, please, get a life," she almost said. She probably thought I was the most conceited soul in all of a hundred mile radius from where I was standing. Like, if you don't understand, as if I thought every guy should fall in love with me and if he doesn't, he's gay.
No, that's not it. You know, I'm one of these plump girls (I'm not fat, and no, I'm not being defensive!) who wouldn't even try to let go of chocolate. No way. Chocolate was my anti-depressant, my staple food, my elixir. Chocolate was everything I ever got high on. And I'm one of these girls who is all virginal not because she speaks pages and pages about the virtue of virginity, but because she just hasn't met the right guy she could gift it to. And I'm also one of these girls who isn't noticed all that often by men. Well, it's true that I've got a lot that men could notice in me - like all those male protagonists in all those mushy Bollywood films notice in their respective females - but no man has ever been clever enough.
Now, why did I say that to you? Oh, yes, I remember - because I was trying to tell you, somehow, in a roundabout way, that I was not conceited. Not at all. Certainly not.
OK, more about this faceless, nameless guy we were discussing about.
He's tall (Damn, and how tall!), like I want my guy to be. He's chatty, he's funny. Especially, funny. I mean, how many genuinely funny and sweet guys could you possibly find among all those stodgy, laptop-tapping, sunglasses-wearing, mobile-messaging, program-coding-and-debugging, stuffed shirt software engineers?
It's not as if I end up liking or having a crush on every other tall, sweet, funny guy (If you were thinking I get crushy-crushy very often... much to my dismay, you're right.).
It's just that this guy is much, much older than me - there's this solid difference of twelve years, separating us like a terrible moat with crocodiles in it.
Normally, I'd never have taken this guy so seriously. For me, any guy who is older than me by more than seven years is as good as married. But no, this guy just wouldn't let me off. No, he appears in my dreams.
Well, not those ordinary, dumb dreams too. They are, well, you know, the kind of "er, ahem, you know" kind of dreams that twenty-year-old girls have a concession to frequently get.
And he uses the choicest of endearments on me. Especially me. I can't imagine him calling any other girl in our class 'Princess' (for one).
Oh, so, by the way, this guy and I are classmates. We're learning a foreign language together (I'm not learning Spanish, but I so want to learn it someday, so I'll use Spanish in my story to add to its "exoticness").
"All right," I murmured, "What shall I do?"
"Please don't be offended, hon," she said ominously, "but somehow I feel that he thinks of you as his kid-sister."
Oh, great. The oh-don't-be-so-conceited-for-god's-sake tone, again.
I sighed. "Why would I be offended, if that's the truth?" I asked slowly. "At least, I'd be something to him." Well, I must be, after all those endearments he uses on me!
I remembered the latest one of those dreams, and I shuddered.
What if he is gay, after all? Or what if he does think of me as his kid-sister and invites me to his house for Rakshabandhan and tells me to tie a horrible, scary, red thread on this wrist? What would I do about my dreams, then?
I shuddered, imperceptibly.
I cast a careless glance at my watch and realized it was well past six. In another fifteen minutes, the class would resume after our much-enjoyed, relaxing break.
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him walking towards us. That inquisitive thing, I thought to myself. He might be well into his thirties, but he was so like a little kid. A surprising surge of affection rose within me, and I smiled at him.
I just had to announce his arrival. "There he comes," I said softly.
My friend watched my face closely, carefully, and smirked. "Ya, right. He might ruffle your hair anytime now and treat you like an affectionate kid."
So much for my announcement.
I looked at him again. He was walking so slowly. There was so much of man in so little of flesh - I mean, he was in no way flabby, he had absolutely no excess flesh anywhere on his body. He was so well-constructed, well-maintained. His shirt fitted him perfectly, adding to everything that was perfect about him. And I mean, everything about him. Absolutely perfect. Heavenly to watch. Wish I could try some touching...
My friend coughed. I was startled.
Her eyes danced with mischief. OK, so she caught me staring. Big deal.
"You'll behave," I threatened, out of the corner of my mouth. "I'll shoot you, stab you, tear you apart, kill you, and murder you if you don't."
Her body shook with silent, ill-suppressed laughter. "Now, now, don't go all violent on me!"
There have been times, and there have been times when I really wish she wasn't a psychologist, and a good psychologist at that. This was turning out to be one such time. Her eyes bore into me, like she could read me, read my mind.
I realized I was probably conceited, after all. Somehow, I believed, along the way, I'd begun to expect him to like me.
I watched with my eyes widening with dawning realization with his every step bringing me closer. Oh, yes, I so wanted him to like me!

(Now, in order to cater to various audiences, I'd like to 'knife' this story into two parts - The Dream, for the eternal romantics, red roses kind of optimists, and The Nightmare, for the ever-cynical pessimists.)

THE DREAM

He came close, smiling widely at me. "Hi, beautiful ladies."
He was standing oh, so close to me.
My friend, ever the gentlewoman, presently cleared off, winking at me before doing so.
I feigned a sudden interest in my mobile phone, not knowing what to say, what to do. He looked so handsome, as he adjusted his nerdy looking glasses on the bridge of his nose. His lips were so well-shaped, and his eyes were staring, unseeing, into the distance. I wondered what he was looking at. Or rather, whom. Perhaps he liked some woman, and he was seeing her in every cloud, in the blue of the sky, and ya, all the blah blah, with all the hullabaloo of Bollywood heroes.
A surprisingly sharp, piercing emotion caught me off-guard. What was I thinking, anyway? I wondered, shocked at my reaction to my own speculations.
"Penny for your thoughts," he said, in that silky, deep voice of his.
It took me about two seconds and a half to shake myself and catch what he was saying.
"I'm not thinking," I said, quickly. "Nothing. Nothing important. You know, nothing special."
"You're wrong," he said, softly, slowly.
I looked at him, questioningly.
"There's you," he said, in a whisper of a voice, the sound waves caressing me softly, lovingly.
I blushed to the roots of my hair, much to my dismay. I couldn't meet his eyes. He thought I was special? Wow, that was something positive, at least.
He smiled, so indulgently, and suddenly I wished to God my friend wasn't a psychologist and that she didn't think that he might probably consider me as another little sister.
I concentrated fiercely on my mobile phone this time, so much so that I began to see double. I might have ended up cross-eyed if he hadn't spoken just then.
"You youngsters use a lot of the mobile phone these days."
Good, that was a general comment I could respond to, without blushing. I smiled slowly, and said,"What's with the you before the youngsters? You're not that old."
He smiled right back, his smile doing wonders to his already well-sculpted face. "Well, there's still an age difference between us that doesn't help me in understanding what's so special about text messages. I could call you up if I wanted to talk or say something. Why message?"
"Well, for one, the messages are free," I said, not knowing what else to say.
He nodded, seemingly deep in thought. "Which reminds me," he said, after a second or two, "I haven't got your phone number."
I could've jumped for joy then and there. Somehow, I managed to efficiently control my reactions and nod seriously. I recited the digits of my phone number clearly, softly, slowly.
"So, what do you think?" he said, suddenly. "What were you thinking when you said I'm not that old?"
I blushed, again. "Well, you really aren't, you know. Old, I mean. You don't even seem older than, you know, something like twenty six, or seven, or eight."
He raised an eyebrow.
I stopped saying whatever I was saying.
"Is that all?" he asked, looking at his watch.
My shoulders almost drooped in defeat. That, I asked myself, is how you deal with a golden opportunity? You could've said he's super cool. That he isn't old at all, by your standards. But no, you don't tell him any of these. You tell him he doesn't look old. Great!
It was almost time for us to go back to our classroom. We walked together, slowly. He was right next to me, so close, yet so far away, I thought to myself, poetically.
"You think twelve years isn't such a big age gap?"
Now, that was a burning question. A million-dollar question. An interesting question.
Come on, lap this opportunity up, girlie!
I injected just the right kind of shyness into my voice. "No, I don't think so," I said, without feigning the huskiness that colored my voice.
For a moment, as we looked into the depths of each others' eyes, there was no one else in that room but him, for me.
"You know what you mean by what you just said?" he asked, untold doubts darkening his eyes.
It was then that I just knew, with sheer feminine instinct, that the feelings between us was mutual, and had been so all these days, all this time.
Oh, my baby, I thought to myself. He was feeling insecure, unsure.
"I do," I said solemnly. And smiled radiantly. I saw his glance shift to the slight dimple on my cheek, and I knew he loved me.
I laughed, surprising myself with a throaty chuckle. "I see you've fallen." Am I actually flirting with him? Wow, I must have dreamed hard!
"Fallen?" He looked confused.
I played with a nimble finger on my dimple.
His lips slowly widened in an almost boyish grin. "Of course, Princess. Fallen. Head over heels. Hook, line and sinker," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. His hand slowly reached to hold mine in a tender grip.
It was the defining moment. The very moment that repeated itself millions of time, over and over, in all the most wonderful dreams I'd ever dreamed of him.
Brother? Pooh. And he'd make the lousiest homosexual.
Whoever thought my psychologist friend could be so wrong, and I could be so right?

THE NIGHTMARE

He came close, smiling widely at me. "Hi, beautiful ladies."
I smiled right back.
"Hi," I said, a sudden attack of shyness hitting me. My friend, on the other hand, was in her ever-exuberant form.
I looked at my friend, meaningfully. But she just didn't seem to take the hint.
He came closer, and ruffled my hair playfully.
I moved slightly farther from him, and put my fingers to adjust my mussed up hair. Something about his touch made me uneasy.
My friend laughed, and cast a smug, "I told you so" look. I pretended not to notice it. Well, honestly, who likes to admit the slightest defeat?
I feigned a sudden interest in my mobile phone, not knowing what to say, what to do. He looked so handsome, as he adjusted his nerdy looking glasses on the bridge of his nose. His lips were so well-shaped, and his eyes were staring, unseeing, into the distance. I wondered what he was looking at. Or rather, whom. Perhaps he liked some woman, and he was seeing her in every cloud, in the blue of the sky, and ya, all the blah blah, with all the hullabaloo of Bollywood heroes.
A surprisingly sharp, piercing emotion caught me off-guard. What was I thinking, anyway? I wondered, shocked at my reaction to my own speculations.
When I got the nerve to look up from my mobile phone, I noticed that he was standing next to my friend, and not next to me. A shaft of disappointment shot through me.
I was probably looking quite dull, thanks to the glow and excitement on my friend's face. I got back to pretending great interest in my mobile phone.
"Penny for your thoughts," he said, in that silky, deep voice of his.
It took me about two seconds and a half to shake myself and catch what he was saying.
"I'm not thinking anything," I was about to say, when I realized the question wasn't directed at me.
It was directed at my friend.
She smiled, cool and composed as always. "Nothing special."
He looked at her and smiled.
I looked at them both, questioningly.
"There's you," I heard him say to my friend, in a whisper of a voice.
My friend, quite surprisingly, blushed.
Whoa, there was probably something going on, that I didn't know about. No, correction - there's absolutely no probably about it.
I should probably clear off.
I was about to do just that, when my friend said, softly, "Don't leave; stay." Her voice sounded almost plaintive, as if she was quite affected by his presence and needed a support system - namely, me.
I smiled at her. It was as if a cold, cold hand had caught hold of my little heart and was squeezing it slowly, painfully. Well, at least, that's how it felt to watch the chemistry between them both. And no, I'm not exaggerating.
I concentrated fiercely on my mobile phone this time, so much so that I began to see double. I might have ended up cross-eyed if he hadn't spoken just then.
"You youngsters use a lot of the mobile phone these days."
Good, at least this comment was directed at me. It was a general comment I could respond to.
But before I could even open my mouth, my friend smiled slowly, and said,"What's with the you before the youngsters? You're not that old."
He smiled right back, his smile doing wonders to his already well-sculpted face. "Well, there's still an age difference between us that doesn't help me in understanding what's so special about text messages. I could call you up if I wanted to talk or say something. Why message?"
"Well, for one, the messages are free," I said slowly,not wanting to feel left out, not knowing what else to say.
He nodded, seemingly deep in thought. "Which reminds me," he said, after a second or two, "I haven't got your phone number."
He seemed to be saying this to both of us, but I knew that he wasn't addressing me.
My friend dutifully recited the digits of her phone number, clearly, softly, slowly.
"So, what do you think?" he said, suddenly. "What were you thinking when you said I'm not that old?"
I pretended I'd never heard him. My heart was breaking into a thousand pieces, but I was busy staring at the moon that was just faintly appearing on the sky.
She blushed, again. "Well, you really aren't, you know. Old, I mean. You don't even seem older than, you know, something like twenty six, or seven, or eight."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You think twelve years isn't such a big age gap?"
Suddenly, my friend sounded beautifully shy. "No, I don't think so," she said softly. I was sure she wasn't feigning the huskiness that colored her voice.
For a moment, as they looked into the depths of each others' eyes, I suppose, to them, there seemed to be no one else in that room but them.
I decided it was past time. I should have left long back. This was a private, personal moment for them. It was all so heartbreaking, but so beautiful nevertheless. My friend, poor thing, had pretended that she was playing the role of the perfect psychologist, while she'd been telling only the truth all the time.
"You know what you mean by what you just said?" I heard him ask her.
It was then that I just knew, with sheer feminine instinct, that the feelings between them was mutual, and had been so all these days, all this time.
I decided to leave, without disturbing them.
As if he just noticed my even existing, I heard him call out to me. "Hey Princess, where are you going?"
Princess, huh?
I indicated my watch. "I should be getting back. You guys take your time."
"Don't you want to be the first to know?" he asked, smiling.
It was then that I realized that I meant something to him, at least. Something like a good friend, because he wanted me to know.
When I turned to face them, my friend just wouldn't meet my eyes.
I smiled reassuringly at her. Hey, I might have wanted the guy for myself, but I wasn't so evil I wouldn't want anyone else to be happy in life.
Her face cleared slowly, and she hugged me, her face brightening in a wonderful smile.
When we released each other from the bone-shattering hug, his hand reached out slowly to hold hers in a tender grip.
It was the defining moment. The very moment that repeated itself millions of time, over and over, in all the most wonderful dreams I'd ever dreamed of him. But it was happening to her, not me.
As we walked together back to the classroom, both of them walking hand in hand beside me, I realized he'd make a good friend. And he'd make the lousiest homosexual.
Whoever thought my psychologist friend could be so right for the man I dreamed was so right for me?