An Encounter

Today I went to a spy movie. People walked out of the movie theater when the credits rolled. Most didn’t bother to follow the last bits of bread crumbs hinting at a potential sequel. I crushed the metal Red bull can and dissolved into the crowd. My mind pondered about what I had just watched. The crowd moved in the pace of an obese snake, jingling and jangling with the cups and leftover bottles and the symphony of dozens of chattering humans. I stared at the floor and the million shoes and slippers of the slithering reptile. My mind still crunched the movie like the scattered popcorns we were stepping on.

It was a thrilling movie, born out of a familiar template. A powerful hero, dangerous adventures and an early retirement; and then he’s in a long monotonous slumber hidden away from his life of exploits. One day there’s a miracle and the worn-out, grey-haired hero with his staggering pace and hand tremors unretires and gives as astonishing come back. He throws villains half his age flying up against the light pole. I must’ve seen a dozen movies in the same theme.

I breathed some fresh air when I tore myself free from the mask-less post-covid movie-goers crowd and fled the scene

When the escalator spat me on the 3rd floor, I found myself swaying across the floor of the mall, dodging another crowd of post-diwali shoppers. I ended up walking towards the food court.

My mind was still dizzying from the movie experience. I watch movies, too many for a normal human, so to speak. And each time, I would feel like I’m a character that crept its way out of the movie screen. And my emotions reflected the tone of the movie too, accompanied by a relevant tune of music echoing inside my ears.

That was my state when I noticed a strange man in pink shirt at the far end of the food court.

And, guess what? I’m a spy now, who’s just watched an action movie. I observed everything like a spy would do, the people, their facial reactions and how they go about their lives, and my own memories flashed before my eyes from time to time. It was surreal. But in that little moment, I decided I would sit besides the man in the pink shirt. The table behind him was empty, I went for it.

He was a clean-shaved, well-build (young looking) old man and two of his family members were with him.

I decided that perhaps it’s a good time to do some writer thing and opened my pocket-notebook. I tried to scribble something, but the ball pen I snatched from the cupboard in the last minute wasn’t working. I was wondering if it had died from a heart attack during the movie. These Tamil flicks can be daunting. I slid my notebook back in and ordered noodles from a nearby stall.

I glanced another time at the pink shirt guy and his family. His shirt looked the color of a watered-down cotton candy, soaked in black and blue stripes. And family members were cheerful and happy, possibly his wife and daughter. They were talking in Tamil. His hair, a weird military-style crop cut. I felt that something was off, like his face was familiar.

“Sir! Your prawn noodles!” The guy at the Chinese eatery with his tired 10 PM eyes looked at me. I’m perhaps one of his last customers. The neon yellow – red billboard flickered. I carried my food back to my table.

I observed the family again. They just switched from Tamil to Malayalam. Perhaps they noticed me. But I couldn’t help it. I was sorting through familiar faces inside my head and I knew I’ve seen him somewhere.

Yes! I remember! Isn’t he the famous… yes.. that one!

“hello… ~~~~~”

Whispers, right besides my ear. I was startled. The man was bending towards me and he was saying something.

While I was poking at my food with my wooden fork, the guy quietly outmaneuvered me. And there he was, a few inches away and whispered something into my ears.

The cop! I punctuated the last bit of thought that was trailing off.

“Sorry?” I said in total confusion looking at his grey-black eyes, which felt like deep black holes that I could slip into and never see sunshine again.

“Are you… ~~~~~” More whispers. What was he doing? Studying me? I was perplexed, shocked, astonished. I told him again….

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you” as clearly as I can. His eyes gazed all over me, my pockets, my face, the notebook, my table, and even into my noodles.

“Aren’t you Krishnan from Kozhikode?”

I was finally able to make sense of his sentence.

“No, I’m Arun” I said in a quick, go-to-hell sort of reply.

“ARUN” he shouted my name and walked away.

It was like an invisible slap. The weight of which pulled my head down, and there I was staring at my noodles again.

He could have rather said CHECKMATE and I would have understood. I realized I’ve let my name out without being asked.

I knew who he was, a famous IPS officer, who was responsible for countless encounters, and everything that befitted a movie hero. He must’ve studied me thoroughly in those few seconds and considered me as harmless as a slug. Or perhaps I’m still simmering in the trance of the movie experience and the pink-shirt guy is just a stranger. Or perhaps there’s no guy and I’m still at the movie theater drowning in my dreams. We’ll never know.

But the story goes on…

When I lifted my head, his table was empty.

It was a strange encounter. Like I fell into the movie and had to experience my own fair share of thrill and adventure.

I picked up the shattered pieces of myself, and left quietly.

And the man in the pink shirt? I couldn’t find him anywhere when I left the place.