Appams and the woman-eater

One boy didn’t believe that south Indians eat non-vegetarian grub. And so, a bunch of us, partly to convince him, and partly just for outing’s sake, went to have dinner at Swagath in GK2.

The place has a nicely done-up terrace. And I liked what they’d done with the walls. It does though seem like Delhi has a total of two interior designers because a lot of the places look lovely but similar. Still, with the wind chimes, dim lighting, wooden beams, house plants, big water-spitting fans, cane chairs, there was nothing to criticise. One might even have left a tip for ambience, but well, Nadal won, and that made our tennis-fanatic boy very happy and he wanted to pay. So he paid.

He even wanted company for beer, but with four temporary teetotallers, Punj-man eventually polished off a couple of bottles on his own. You could tell he was buzzed. One more and he’d have been leaning across smacking us all on the mouth as threatened. I liked him. I may not have wanted him to plant one on my face, but there was something warm in his readiness to make a total ass of himself.

Also, entertainment wise, I’ve never heard a man not sound boastful about his women conquests. And this one, who apparently once thought oral sex meant kissing, was open without sounding like too much of an achiever. He very plainly stated his average of 4 women a year.

Others on the table, it is possible, may not have been equally entertained. But men are stupid that way. Sit with four hulks on a dinner table, three of whom are straight, and watch how testosterone dynamics play out. At one point in this statistic-ridden conversation, I felt that my boyfriend wanted to punch face of Casanova. Unless he wanted to punch mine, for being so interested in tales of Casanova.

Little could he have imagined that for the umpteenth time right then and almost reluctantly, I was taken in by the quiet flair with which he lights up. I don’t like clumsy men. One of me is enough. Maybe it’s all the piano playing. Maybe it’s just a complete loss of objectivity on my part. Maybe he’s just the only man I know who can pull off a little timeless style. Fuck it. I had to quickly shake off these rabid, distracting thoughts. The main course had arrived and I still had Playboy Punj to cross question.

So he’s been “active” for five years (only) in which time he’s been through “21 or 22 women.” I decided to believe him. He also said that he counts only those he’s gone the whole hog with. And that it takes a lot of time and patience. And begging, muttered six-footer man to whom I attribute quiet flair.

Yea, so company wise too, dinner wasn’t bad. Appams, vegetable stew, garlic pepper paneer, plus deep fried prawns and meat for the masaharis; didn’t stay for dessert.

But back to that sort of variety in women, you evidently also have to be the driver, and pander to their whims -- his words! He also used ‘pamper’ along with patience, but I didn’t do my investigative-journalism bit well enough to learn how-so. And he denied allegations that his inherent good looks had a role to play in his luck with women. Naaah, I’m fat, he said. Two on the table laughed. Between you and me, he’s more gora than good looking, but the bait had to be flung. And I have to admit, it was refreshing to see a happy bachelor. With all these moping majnus and failed romances at every corner, a little brash Punju-ness worked wonders for my view of the world. It was a good dinner. I got 658 words of writing practice out of it. And Casanova Karan even let me take the doggie bag home.