It can start with our hero walking backwards with his eyes closed, with his arms extended outwards. His shampooed hair ruffled by the light breeze in the campus. A dimpled grin on his face. At that precise moment, the new girl would be standing together with a bunch of her newly found friends talking very seriously but the conversation getting muted by that light romantic melody floating in the college campus. Her frizzled, wet hair strewn all over her face. Kajal-ed and big round eyes. And, then it happens. They collide.
Wait. Rewind the tape. Everything happening backwards in a very fast manner. Stop and start again.
Our man comes on a bike, roaring through the crowd. Heads turn. The new girl is totally oblivious to the sound, of course. He sees her first. She still doesn't see him. His head turns slowly. Two centimetres per second. The bike slowly veers off course and hits the stout tree. The melody still playing.
Naa. Rewind the tape. Backwards. Backwards. Quick. Quick. Staaaap.
The well muscled and sweat covered boy is playing football/badminton/cricket/hockey. It's the deciding last minute/shot. He wipes his forehead with his thumbs. He goes for the last kick/shot and out of the corner of his eyes, sees her. The rest is history. The match is lost. But, our sweaty, well muscled boy is oblivious to that. BGM is a must obviously.
Not quite right. Rewind the tape.
Rains. Aaah. The atmosphere creator. Not torrential, of course. Drizzle. Just enough for either the guy or the girl to dance. The feet should jump and kick muddy water all over so that the other can stand and gawk. You know the drift right now. Humming music all over the place.
Still not novel enough. Rewind the tape. Screeeeeeeech. Halt.
Bharat Matrim..Pftoooo. Faceb...Pftoo Pftooo. Blatantly unromantic.
Rewind the tape. Get better. Un-cliched.
The calender pages swivel upward quickly. The digits in the years change rapidly. Hairs start greying. The unsatisfied, the cynical and the impatient settle over fire, flowers, the yellowness and illogical stars in crowded places to become plumper year after year. The satified ones, too. Skins sag. The camera zooms through time and space to our hero sitting at a bench in one corner of a park. Countless recognisable faces and lips and curves and conversations and arched necks in the contours of his memory. Reading a newspaper. She comes and occupies the other end of bench at the end of her long jog. Bags and baggages are placed underneath that bench. She sips a bit of water from her bottle and looks at him, gives a slight smile.
