Let me tell you a tale, so that you can understand my metrophobia. ‘What’s that, you say?’ It’s the irrational fear of poetry.
Oh, others may think I’m an unreliable narrator. But what do they know? It’s my tale…
Now, where was I?
It had all begun with Disha’s idea- ‘Let’s have a campfire tonight, guys.’ It wasn’t a bad idea per se; the seven of us sitting around the lit-fire in her backyard, drinking and laughing to ward of the November chill.
Putting Arun in-charge of beverages may not have been a good idea, as his ‘local blend’ (still no idea what it was) got most of us high quite soon. I say most of us, as we’d later realised that Malini was neither drunk nor high throughout the evening.
It was pleasant for a while, with someone playing the guitar as we sang off-key to the old Bollywood songs and reminisced about our exploits during our college years. But then, Madhav had to ruin it with a poetry recital. I don’t even remember it, except that the theme had been infidelity.
As a bunch of opinionated individuals fancying ourselves as enlightened souls, we started discussing about it- its origin, manifestation, morality and what-not. And somehow, it came down to our own experiences (or lack off, if one believed Disha) with betrayal and cheating. Arun claimed it ‘a sin of the highest order’ while I added my two bit, ‘depends on the circumstance’. But soon Arun and Rishi got into a heated debate, slurred words and wild gestures included.
And then, BAM! That freudian slip, inconsequential to our drunken selves but not to his girlfriend, whose face quickly drained of colour. Despite the egg on his face, Rishi smiled and emphatically stated that it had happened just once. Then another slip accompanied the first- wasn’t it her fault that she’d made them go on so many double dates with her gorgeous friend? We were amazed that Rishi hadn’t realised his folly, nor the consequences.
But we weren’t quite prepared for what followed either. Unlike the moping protagonist of Madhav’s poem, Malini remained quiet for a minute, silently waiting for any other revelations before she crouched and leaped across the flames. A twist of her body and the peach glazed cake went smashing into her target’s face. Rishi was too shocked to evade the sugary attack, or the beverage dumping that followed. It was a stunning sight, all right; that petite and homely girl extracting swift vengence on a man double her size.
It’s been years, but that was the last campfire I attended. And I lay the blame on that blasted poetry. Can you believe that it wasn’t even based on that sod’s life experience? Poet’s imagination, my ass.
Written for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver #290- Campfire and Wordle #204.
High , Body
Metrophobia- Irrational fear of poetry
Freudian Slip , Twist
Crouch , Know
Eggs , Slip
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