The other day I chanced upon hearing a very old favourite of mine – Words by Ronan Keating, as a ringtone in a female colleague’s phone. Regardless to say, I had quite grown out of Ronan, Backstreet and their boy-band brotherhood a long time back. It is the age of rap, house, alter, metal, progressive and punk rock and I am neck deep into it. But something lingered on just as she took the call. Its only words, and words that all I have to take your heart away. It suddenly struck a chord somewhere. Really, what about the people only with a few lovelorn words to say, fragmented and out of sync mostly, not at all with the great suaveness and panache as in the latest James Bond flick? What about those who don’t have a guitar slung to their shoulders with a day old stubble, who cannot croon to the starry eyed women at SPE, with a Calrsberg in one hand, and the beau’s fingers in the other? What about them who cannot play a piano, high on weed all night long, while charming a friend sleeping over at his place, with a wanton desire of something a little more exciting than sleep? What about those men, who are just plain ordinary and simple, having no other extra talents to flaunt than the regular, decaf guy next door? What about those guys are plain available, and just hopelessly in love, and just cannot go without not giving the regular call everyday to his sweetheart, with the simple pretence of discussing some out-of-the way topic, just to beat around the bush, before blurting out one simple, silly compliment, or a silent, hushed “It would be great if you were here” or “I missed you yesterday while watching Harry and Sally”? Are they not eligible for love, for care, for momentary lapses of reason, for small trinkets of soft touch, or at least, for a goodnight SMS?
Intangible as love is, I seem to have finally discovered the yardstick (maybe even quite late!). It’s called difference, how unique you can be from the plain, unremarkable, unattractive, untalented version of Boy 101. Its all about your guitar pick, your joints and how you crush the weed, how many more pegs you can soak up and yet be deft enough to satisfy the moments of lust that she needs from you, its about the goatee, the piece of metal sticking out of your right eyebrow, the smooth jives at the dance floor and the suave nonchalance of midnight serenades, the moments of envy rising out of the time partitioned for other women and on a rarer scenario, the self-help-book-mugged philosophical rantings. And of course, the perennial six pack abs and day-old stubble would give you the necessary brownie points if you miss out on some of the points above. That’s how you take your love to greater heights; maybe even a six feet two.
…
That’s where I start. At five feet six.
