Love is quite a befuddling experience, much like a game of blindfolded hide and seek with an errant map and some vigorous spinning to add to the confusion. The lovelorn seeker, stumbling about in a frenzy, is prone to absurd gestures and nonsensical utterances, all in the name of capturing the heart of their beloved.
And who am I, you ask, to wax philosophical on the subject? Well, I happen to be a collateral in one such tale of love and folly.
A few months ago, I was in the possession of a juggling savant, a fellow of extraordinary talent but questionable intelligence. I had the distinct pleasure of being one of his juggling balls, one among the many objects he deftly handles. His performances never failed to impress, and my own contributions to his act were always met with thunderous applause.
Upon receiving news of his lover’s job offer from a travelling theatre, in a fit of misguided romance, he parted ways with me in a ridiculous fashion.
“My love, I am not going to see you for a while. Here are my most cherished belongings, my balls. In my stead, I offer them to you as a token of my affection. Whenever my absence weighs upon you, may I suggest honing your skills in the art of juggling? Upon your return, I shall be most eager to gauge the depth of your longing,” he declared.
I spent months languishing in her trunk, forgotten and gathering dust. Today is the fateful day of reckoning when the two shall meet. She, bedecked in her resplendent costume after her performance, awaits his arrival by the theatre exit gate. And lo! He appears, breaking into a beam of joy and hastening towards her.
“Greetings, my love!” he cries with a lilt in his voice as he narrowly avoids a collision with a wayward urchin.
As they enfold each other, a sense of unease grips him. Their embrace seems unfamiliar. Does it betray discomfort? Or is it all but a figment of his imagination?
After exchanging pleasantries within the confines of her tent, he summons the courage to broach an awkward inquiry: “Pray tell, my sweet, where are my balls?”
“Your balls?” she queries, with a hint of bewilderment in her tone.
“Indeed, my love. I am most eager to gauge the depth of your yearning for me,” he avers.
Alas, she has not taken the pains to acquaint herself at juggling his balls. She rummages through her trunk, unearthing us and our brethren from beneath a heap of other sundries. In a trice, without knowing that we were made of glass, she attempts to imitate the movements of a seasoned juggler, but alas, her amateurishness becomes apparent. We collide in a calamitous jumble, striking her in the face and drawing blood.
It hits him, in that moment, that she has fallen out of love. He regards her, crestfallen, as the truth settles upon him like a dark cloud on a sunny day.
Author’s notes:
I have a lazy habit of reading multiple books at once, stretching them out for days and even weeks. Last week, I was in the middle of reading one of the Jeeves books when I went to see Tu Jhooti Main Makkar at the cinema. And that’s when a crazy idea occurred to me: what if Luv Ranjan met Wodehouse and they collaborated on a story? What if? Well, the result of that idea is what followed.
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