Last time , This young man was waiting for somebody at the rear of the Bagmati bridge and was recalling how he  found a purplish portable player .What’s more happening and going on ? Please read out .

That night I slept with my jacket, Jeans and shoes on . I slept like a log for more than 13 hours.  Sleep was never sound like this , was it because a great source of boredom was cleared away of my path or because of the good omen that purple little thing brought into my life ?

That afternoon , I took the Mp3 player out of my pocket and into my hand….with a little inspection , it occurred to me that it must not be malfunctioned for it seemed wholesome , never been trampled but only the color was receded away faintly . I wanted to play it . But it would need a jack that I did not had. Portable players never fascinated me even as a teenager and a simple pen drive would work these days. I went to new road and bought a jack.

In the evening , I was connecting the player into my computer . It was 1 GB. In the player , there were verities of  stuffs.  There were RHCPs and BEPs , Beatels and Bombay Vikings, Phatteman and Preety kour , Norah Jones and Nursat Phateh Ali Khan . There was a voice record of a hard core political speech by the Home minister . There were two photographs , one was a landscape of a mountain with green pastures , and another was a portrait of some rural children , ragged and with running nose.

This would not give any idea about the owner of the little gadget except that , whoever s/he  was, s/he was young. As I opened the folders inside the folders, there were several pages of Microsoft Word.

And this was the beginning of my journey towards the black hole. Everything was written there, so transparently, so impeccably. I found out that this MP3 player was her ( of course the owner was a lady) diary . Writing was her irresistible passion .She would not write in papers because she hated her handwriting for its ugliness, she would not prefer the pc because she would had had to share her laptop with her Dad , so this little MP3 player was her best companion , it was her  one of the most prescy ( her word for precious) possession.

A page that dated the oldest had this information about her. Reading this , I grew anxious ,  I imagined how much she might had been pained , saddened and daunted by the loss of her Prescy ( it reminded me of Anne Frank’s Kitty ). I determined to find  out her anyway and give her back the Prescy.

Despite knowing it would be morally wrong to sneak into someone else’s diary , I was tempted to read her and I attempted as well ( after all , this was not the first time I was doing something morally wrong ) .

in the journal of everyday she had written of little things she did , little things she felt , little accounts of her dreams ,her passions, the jealousy , the anger , the love, the hatred , the empathy ,  every thing sound so natural , so human-like. It was not that she was a wordsmith , but what would make one feel great awe for her was the simplicity in the complexity , the honesty , the loyalty , the down-to-earthiness, the devotion for the truth ……Reading her grew as an  inescapable passion within me as it used to be for smoking when I first started puffing . I decided not to try search for her to give it back to her until I finished reading her.

Slowly, imperceptibly, she started occupying me all the time . She even  started replacing me by herself, every night I would dream of the stuffs as she saw in her dreams , like the golden cobra sliding along the rock , flying dogs ,  the Dharahara crumbling down and a phallus of Pashupatinath replacing it,  so on and so forth . Over breakfast table , I would eat the bread crust first as she did , and sip banana shake instead of lime juice . I started hating meat and fish ,as she did .Within a week , I was a hardcore vegetarian ,shocking all my kiths and kins.

I would dine lighting 3 candles  ,as she did . I would take shower like her, topless and in jeans, tried mediating like she did in shower, closing my eyes as water ran down, deep inside the skin , and thinking of nothing but three petals of roses . I would sleep like her, in floor, without pillow,  under a quilt and in nothing but a robe.

Beside too feminine stuffs, she would always write of her college , where she taught Entrepreneurship  to BBA and BIM students. And I  was always impressed by the way she had a profound and discerning understanding of human mind  , especially of those young students . She was soft as well as tough , she had all the quality that prevails in a good woman and in a bad woman as well.  She had written of how she envied a young girl of a junior class when she saw one of her smartest students was seen clutching the hand of the girl in the canteen. She had written of how she would stole money from her mum’s purse to date a classmate boy when she was still in school. She had written of how she defied when  her own brother-in-law tried molesting her. She had written of how her heart would bloom to transfer 40% of her salary each month  into the account of an orphanage.

A friend of mine, who was  a regular companion of the booze parties  was very skeptic at first , but when he read her , he was awed too.

” she must be the Sharon f***ing Stone ”  this was his first impression .

” Nay! she’s halfly  younger” I told him.

” Oh ! not again ! remember Basic Instinct…never believe the writers, they weave a net of words to trap you….they screw up your mind to  make you do whatever they intend to do to their characters ” He was serious.

He was serious because there was something in her , and this faith for “something-in-her” guided me to fall in love with her , like I fell with no body else, despite my friend’s warning.  She was a lovelorn , she confessed herself to be single and eager  to mingle  with somebody of her kind , so the possibility was the highest and I was of course of her kind.   Days in and days out , I thought of her long legs ( she was 5′ 7″ ) . I thought of those endless, flawless, unstoppable, irresistible legs ….I imagined myself counting the freckles on those impeccably long long legs .

I imagined myself Seeing her laying supine in my bed, Oh the beauty would tear me apart! oh the elegance would kill me!   would that be worth being the first martyr of beauty?  would that be like the death of the giant King Kong ?  A guy regularly seeing amateurs and pros since 10 year died of the radiance his wife’s body emanated right in the  bed of Suhagraat….hahaha how spicy the news would be……or would she agree before marriage? The love created equal amount of divine and devil idea inside me .

When I finished reading everything she wrote , another mountain of challenge stood , where could I find her. At first I thought I can find her college…but that seemed impossible , this was to be done secretly , if I talked loud about her possession , she would not be happy with me , that was for sure . The college-job was only her part time job , she worked for an NGO too ( but she didn’t name it ).

To Be Continued…….

OMG! How will this man trace out his irrestible love ? The lady with the long long endless legs ? Please wait for the next edition.