Kat's commentary on madu's love life

From Nlsiu Batchof2005

After all he has moved on from his penchant for dry fruits (Incidentally dry fruits are apparently now being nurtured and cared for in the estates of Leland and Jane Stanford) ! His eyes are now trained once again on the east. This time he is wooing not with his quick wit or humour but by putting on his dancing shoes.

23rd December, 2005 - the fateful day when Kartick Maheshwari was setting the dance floor on fire. While in law school you may have ignored those famous dance steps of his (to House/Trance music) or may have even despised it…. but his persistence with those steps (involving lateral movements of one hand through the air while the palm is facing the floor) was not in vain. Seven seas apart it has finally been noticed and appreciated at Cafe Spice in Philly. The first and only member of his fan club is a Bengali lass who likes grooving to Bhangra music. While Kartick Maheshwari was making those spectacular lateral movements through the air, the lady was dancing seductively before him (as Kartick Maheshwari himself puts it "like Anjum Rosha"). The tune playing in the background and also being sung by his dancing partner (with all the necessary courtesan like gestures) was:

"come to me bhool jaaye sara jahaan come to me hum banale apni nayi jagah" (From the song Right Here Right Now, Bluffmaster)

And groove they did, sweating it out and scorching the dance floor through the night and into the wee hours of the morning. It turns out that this meeting between the two was not by providence, it was by design. Desperate calls from Kartick Maheshwari through the evening brought the lady to Cafe Spice-the hippest desi destination in Philly. Mr Maheshwari's ardour was dampened when the forbidding bouncer refused to accept his UPenn ID as valid proof of age. Kartick frenziedly walked into two bars, rejecting them in quick succession. "Too many dicks here", he said. As he stood huddled against the cold, a sweet trill, like the mating call of a Polynesian Parakeet rang through the cold crisp Philadelphia air. Flanked by three techie guys and a fugly lady, the beloved one had spotted Kartick. Their eyes met and then, dodging traffic and abandoning his friends (us), he darted nimbly across the street.

"But, But", he stuttered. "My friends have no id', he glibly lied, making sure the ladies ire would be directed at his companions and not him. The doe eyed lady looked thoughtful, gazed at Kartick and then hugged his friends. "I shall get them in". As the burly bouncer looked stone faced, the lady gestured at various inhabitants of Cafe Spice and the doors were thrown open to us.

Years of dalliance had taught Kartick well. He feigned reluctance and slinked into the dark corners of the Cafe leaving his lady on the dance floor. But she slowly sinuously weaved her way across to him and danced around him, Menaka to her Vishwamitra, Urvashi to her Arjuna, Zeenat Aman to her Feroze Khan.

Once again his efforts didn't go in vain. The outing allowed Kartick Maheshwari to enchant the lady with his moves and mojo. The night on the dance floor has since then progressed rapidly. Kartick says, "We are only good friends". Wonder when he will say "Shut up, shes family".

After all you can take man out of Bengal, but you cannot take Bengal out of man (or at least Bengali women out of man).

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