Fiction: A Valentine's Day Date with Miss Heptulla

My college days were left behind but I couldn't get over its hangover. I would still go bonkers on spotting a damsel. No sooner I entered a career life, I found myself entangled with a mysterious girl. It all began with a phone call. She set my heart ablaze with her husky sexy voice crooning lullabies into my ear. She gave out her name as Miss Heptulla.

She inundated me with calls and floored me with her quick witted and intelligent gabs. Inevitably this sprouted a desire to see her. It was her idea, as she invited me for lunch at the Taj Hotel. Though the hotel was just a stone's throw from my office, I taxied all the way to the hotel befitting a person visiting a star hotel. With my feet firmly off the ground and sailing on cloud nine I managed to reach the hotel.

In the foyer I waited breathlessly for her to make a dream appearance. I hadn't seen her before so I was to recognize her from her blue Salwar suit. I ogled at each beautiful girl stepping in hoping she might be the one but every time they brushed past me, my jaws dropped. My wristwatch's needle in tandem with my heartbeat was ticking fast as there was no sign of her. The chilled ambience of the hotel couldn't beat the sweat beads surfacing on my brow. Finally I had enough of it and stormed out of the hotel cursing myself for having been made a nincompoop. On the way back home, commuting on the train, I leaned out with an old Mukesh number on my lips.
.
The same night I dreamt of her, this time she switched roles morphing from an apsara to a vampire. The next day in the office, still sulking at the previous day's incident, I swore never to speak to her again. Yet every call that came in made my heart jump hoping it was hers. Then at fag end of the day, at last her call came and I was all ears, "Listen babe, I am really sorry I couldn't make it yesterday. I know you must be sore at me." My heart caved in and I said, "Oh not at all. It's okay with me." She ended the call promising to meet me the coming weekend evening at a suburban hotel in Juhu. I was back to rolling a la Shammi, "Love in Tokyo."

The D-day arrived and I was all pepped up. Dressed in my best attire and tucking enough cash in my trouser I stepped out of my house humming all the way to the hotel. Spot on time I arrived in front of the hotel and waited impatiently keeping an eye on swaying belles breezing past me with a whiff.

Suddenly I felt someone tapping on my shoulder and I turned around, "Are you waiting for me? I am Miss Heptula," she said. For a moment I felt the earth moving under my feet. Her outstretched hand felt icy and hard. Her heavily done up face couldn't hide her wrinkles and sagging chin. Behind her sly smile revealed dentures. Her gleaming black hair smelled freshly dyed. A quick calculation placed her somewhere between my mother and granny's age. I went through the evening praying for the nightmare to end. After seeing her off, I rushed to the nearest bar and guzzled a few beers trying to cleanse any trace of her.