You'd think it terrible. That people like me do not give due respect to the time, energy and effort you put into writing a blog. That we have no regard to your ideas. That we pass-by, out arrogant little noses in the air, sniggering but never ever stopping to even glance at your post that is begging to be read. You'd think us abominable elitists. Hah! I understand. I know that feeling. But the truth is, you really have no idea how blessed you are. I didn't either. Till last Sunday.

The truth dawned upon me gently like percolating black coffee when I was meeting Tina, an ex-colleague. We folks felt it was imperative to step out in to the world and seek, lest we both die without every knowing what coffee that costs 150 bucks a cup tastes like. Urban variations of existential crisis take profound forms, I admit.

After having gone gone through the lady's personal life and handbag with a fine-tooth comb, which is a birth disorder of mine, I admit, I was listening for the thirteenth time why Anurag (another ex-colleague) was a heartless urchin for having broken off with her. She was a bit tipsy when she kissed Vinay (our ex-boss). She explains again. It was no fault of her's. I shake my head vigorously in agreement. A girl as lovely as she should not be held responsible for the irresponsible behaviour of whiskey, I know. But who knows what else Anurag saw.

The coffee house overlooked the sea, and a vast expanse of garbage spilled beach. The sun, after a long day's thankless labour, was packing his bag and lunch box to head home in a hurry. Just in time for a night shift at a BPO, maybe. The sky was orange, and perfectly still. Outside the air-conditioned glass cocoon of the cafeteria, the stench of human sweat and humidity added flavour to another characteristic Chennai evening.

Enlightenment happened to me precisely, if I remember right, in the next 22 minutes.

The cafeteria door opened and three young women walked in, with a stride that can only be acquired by watching too many fashion shows on tele. I drooled, unashamedly. Ftv is no match to desi chicks in low cut jeans and figure-hugging tops. For reasons far beyond my limited understanding, Tina seemed miffed immediately.

“Oh! That bitch!” She snapped.

“Who's that?” I enquired.

“Maya. Who else! You don't know her?” She quipped, sipping her mocha, feigning indifference at the trio.

“No.” I didn't know which one of the three divine bodies was being character assassinated so ruthlessly here. I felt bad for whoever it was. “Which one is Maya?”

“The bitch in pink tee!” She hissed again, rolling her eyes over.

“You know her, Tina dear?” I asked. Apart from the obvious fact that this so called Maya has two extremely well formed mammaries struggling to burst out of the pink tee, I could see no reason for her to be described as a 'bitch.' Purely in a biological sense, you know what I mean. But obviously from the tone of Tina's voice I knew there was more than met the eye here.

“NO!,” She said as if shocked at the insinuation, “ Thank God, I don't!” She said, tossing her hair to the left.

“But you said she's a bitch?” I enquired. Tina looked at me, as if I was dumb enough to question the obvious.

“Anurag told me so.”

“Oh... He did, did he? But you don't know her at all, is it? I persisted. I am sucker for good-looking females. It breaks my heart to hear them being bad-mouthed, you know. What with that 'beauty being truth and truth being beauty' jazz we kept hearing about.

“No! Seen her a couple of times. At parties.” Pat came the reply.

“Mmm... She doesn't look like a bad person, you know.” I am trying to comfort myself, I guess.

“Are you saying Anurag lied?!” I felt an edge in Tina's voice. Back off, I told myself. The wise men say let sleeping bitches sleep. Or something like that.

“Of course, not! Don't I know Anurag. Never lies, that chap.” I smile, disarmingly.

I looked at Maya once again as I escort Tina out. I wonder why would a girl as cute and sweet looking as her be described as a bitch by a stranger today? I had to find out.

Two days later, I am sitting at the same coffee house facing the garbage filled beach. Anurag (my ex-colleague, and my ex-colleague Tina's ex-boyfriend) sat facing me, sipping on his hot chocolate. This meeting was imperative. The good name of a girl I didn't know was at stake. Times like this are not for pussy-footing. Chivalry cannot die while I'm still alive.

After the initial pleasantries, I get to the point without wasting time.

“Hey dude, do you know a girl named Maya?”

Anurag stops sucking the molten liquid from his cup for a moment, lifts his head, and looks at the ceiling for a while. I can hear the pages from 'Who's Who of the Night Scene' diary flutter continuously in his mind. “Ah! That BITCH!” He says, emphatically, before taking another sip from his drink. Then he looks me in the eye, smiling conspiratorially and asks, “Why, man? What's the angle?”

“Oh! Shuddup, please. I am happily married.” I am a little quick to add that last bit, I feel. Before my mind starts to go an a different tangent, I regain my sense of 'what's good for me,' “So, you know her, is it?”

“Nah. Not really.” This time he doesn't stop sucking, neither does he look up.

“But you said she's a bitch!” I dig a bit further.

“Who said so?” The bastard is still busy with his liquid fantasy.

“Tina.” I said, hoping to have some effect on him. He's unruffled.

“Oh that! I don't know man. But Thomas was sure she is.”

“I see.” The new piece of information is more baffling. I have no idea who Thomas is. But obviously it doesn't matter to Anurag. Because the bloke is still too busy with his chocolate drink to offer an explanation.

So I sit there, contemplating the ill-fate of a beautiful girl called Maya, who I don't know but have already been introduced to as a 'Bitch.' Two of my ex-colleagues who also don't know her, know her as a 'Bitch.' Plus, a third character called Thomas who I don't know nor have I heard of before insists she is a 'Bitch.' What could have this pretty girl done to earn such a reputation amidst absolute strangers, I wonder. The worst part is, Maya is completely oblivious to her unflattering 'Bitch' status in the society. One day, people will pass by giving her the 'Bitch Queen' look and the poor girl will have no clue why!

A vast majority of the people who pass you by are thinking why someone as sweet-looking as you are called a 'Jerk,' or a 'Wart on the Face of Earth'? If not that, they are all thinking something equally unflattering. Why? Because someone else told them so. Why? Because someone else told that someone else so. That's how it is. We are born out of someone's words!!! I know, it's hard to believe.

Remember that adage – no fire, no smoke! Well, that must have been true when it was coined. Back then we only had our ancestors rubbing rocks together to make fire. So smoke would mean fire somewhere. But today, things have changed. A carbon-mono-oxide blast from an automobile with a clogged carburetor could make a lot of smoke. There doesn't have to be any fire at all. But if you are caught seen anywhere near that junk, consider yourself dead. Someone will think it's your car and soon, a lot of them will know you as the loser who drives a CO-farting junk for a car! You could be the maharaja of Rawalpindi, but who cares. That's the way the world works. Period. What we Perceive is What is Real!

You know what I want to bet on tonight?

I want to bet on the fact that 99.9999% of the people who come and read this post tonight are actually thinking why is this 'zit' trying to act like a sweet-talking, good-natured man? It's not their fault, you see. It's the way our reality is weaved.

There's only one way to fight this deadly image trap. Be seen only by those that are capable of seeing beyond the illusion, beyond others' opinions, beyond empty words repeated by rote. It is a tough situation, I admit. But not as difficult as facing a day when there no longer exists a 'you' but only the 'twisted image of you' created in someone's warped mind.

If I were you, I will sleep better knowing one less of them knows me today. Won't you?

Keep writing.