Stalker

I hate going to public parks, especially when I am forced to ‘baby-sit’ cheriya kittunni. Not that I love small kittunni less, but I hate parks more (like Mark Antony once said). If there is something that I despise more, it is a barber shop. There is hair everywhere. The nauseating odor of cheap perming gel and burning hair coupled with vile vibrations of hair clippers make me insane. So when my wife wanted to have her hair cut yesterday I reluctantly agreed to oversee my son at the park.

As I was playing with my son, I noticed this lady seated on a stone bench staring at me. She smiled, and I smiled back. If I were not married, that would have been enough to keep my metabolism going for one whole week. I ignored the forbidden fruit and continued playing, but I could not help but notice the lady staring at me again and again. I tried not to heed to her sparkling steadfast eyes and her suggestive smiles. But she was in no mood to stop. She began speaking to me with her eyes, as if to insinuate a coded message, and lead my attention in her direction. Slowly her crazy eyed looks began to intimidate me. May be she was being nice. May be my antenna was picking up the wrong signals. I wasn’t sure. But it sure appeared as if she is opening her imaginary door and inviting me inside.

I cannot describe her minutely. She looked very much like an Indian lady, in her late 20s, in a sprawling velvety churidar. Her father could not have been anything but a superb engineer. She was structurally so impeccable! I am too ugly to be stared at in any romantic sort of way, so I thought there may be someone behind me who is the focus of her attention. I pretended playing and looked over my shoulder. But there was no one but me.

As I turned around, she stood up and began walking towards me with short but bubbly strides. As she came closer she resembled a trimmed down Neetu Kuruvilla on steroids. God! My mouth was dry already. I wanted to reach for Kittunni’s sippy-cup and drink a mouthful of water. Before I could move she invaded my private territory and said “Hi” . I just smiled, since my mouth was so freaking dry to utter a word.
“Do you come here every day?”
“No” I said “I took my son out since his mother is having a hair cut”
“Do you live nearby?” She asked more with her eyes than with words.
“Yes”
“How old is your son”
“3”
I hope she is not a serial rapist. I hope she is not a psychopathic desperate housewife on a mission. I hope she is not a voodoo queen or one of my blog readers. Kittuni, blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama is running around, with a piece of broken plastic toy in his hand. He is ignorant of the fact that a strange women is torturing his dad, that his dad needs his help and protection.

I regained my composure and looked at her. She looked shy, dreamy, and languid, but had a ready smile. Before I could say anything she broke the silence.
“Malayali aaNu alley”
“Athe”
“I heard you talking to your son in malayalam. Where are you from?”
“Trivandrum” I said
“Ayyao thenney? nammaLum avidannu thanna. Neyyattingara. Wo...”