The girl at booth number seven.

Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?

I've been noticing you for quite some time now. I do not know why. Within the confines of these dimly lit,dingy walls, of what is now my watering hole, that reverberate the decibels at levels we'd find on an airport runway, your voice, like our favorite resonating guitar solos that fill the air tonight, have managed to get around the bypass filters I put in place for myself and have reached the depths of my beer goggled, drunken soul.

I must confess, I'm confused. I am attracted to you. But in a way I cannot fully comprehend. Upon examining your anatomical blessings, the constitution of your chassis, I do not wish you make love to you tonight in the event that you would actually come home with me. No.

I'd have the urge to make you the best cup of coffee I possibly could, and as you sip and talk about the last book you finished reading, admire the gentle locks of hair that curl around your left cheekbone,or go over the intricacies of the casing of your nose piercing. Maybe a gentle kiss. Maybe two.

As we both make our way to the smoking room, and spot a mutual friend, I am elated. As you light a brand I have had a long association with, the more strongly I wish to summon the courage to start a conversation. In the narrow cramped claustrophobic chamber with a shaky exhaust fan and heavy music that would make a Boeing tuck it's tail between it's legs and crawl under my sofa, I know I will have to shout at the top of my lungs.

Something leads to another with the MF, and as our initial gambit turns into an argument over which video editing platform we'd rather work on, and our mutual consensus and stance on whatever gets one through a night of working behind a screen reviewing the same frame fifty times, twenty four frames a second, I've made up my mind to have you as the mother of my children.

As we finally make our way to booth number seven, your booth for tonight, sit and order for another pitcher of beer, I cannot help but want to sit next to you. My friends' words are falling to deaf ears. I only hear the faint echoes of the girl sitting beside you urging me to chug.  I do so. I do so again. And I order for another. The peanuts could use some salt.

And as the playlist moves into an Iron Maiden Cover, I feel the animal in me awaken, I am now myself, no more machine, no more slave to the system, I am Me. And almost like a divine intervention I hear the lull bass notes of a song by a band that held wall street hostage. I can't contain it anymore. Tapping my feet and shaking my head won't do it anymore. God gave me a neck, and by god does it crave a workout. Trauma. So does most of my upper body.

In between I see your face lost in the music as well, with the tangled messy hair that makes your headbanging so much easier and wonderful to look at. It's breathtaking. I have the urge to touch you, run my fingers over your lips. Immerse myself, Indulge and get lost.

As the closing number starts, you with your inner circle decide to leave. My heart seems to have sunk a little.You say it was nice meeting me. I raise my beer as courtesy.

The crowded packed containment seems empty now, there seems to be a lull in air. A lack of something explainable. Only I know what.

All is left is holy water in the jug on my table, my friends who are lost in the transitions of the notes of one Jimmy Page, of one Led Zeppelin. The climax of the song is near. I let go. I'm happy again.

This place is a magical one. Problems cease to exist. Strangers on the other table become the best of friends. Star crossed lovers, Long lost souls find their better halfs across the room. This land is sacred. Life flows freely from the taps that sprinkle liquid gold. Every drop is precious.Baptized I was long ago. Redemption, here I come.

If only I had your name.

Disclaimer: Fiction. Dedicated to the city and students of Pune. Love.