The Inappropriate Proposal
The Inappropriate Proposal is a short on-the-spot comedy on a given situation during a Creative Writing Class.
Mr Pamplemoos counted the eggs in his stock room for the tenth time, taking note of every ingredient in size, shape and colour. Notebook in hand, he was staring at the bag of onions bought one week ago which to his eye had decreased considerably. He’d have to talk to his chefs to go slow on the taste buds. His clients were not in Hilton!
Django, the Maitre d’ hôtel, was hurrying towards him, flexing his only asset, the overly-developed biceps. Blessed with a pair of green eyes and a thatch of blond hair, young Django was a hit with his clientele, if not for his brains, at least for his brawn.
He sang his orders out as he moonwalked to the kitchen, picking the steel tray and lifting it above his head, balancing the steaming café-au-lait with one strong arm, making sure to flex his muscles in the process.
‘Your coffee, Madam,’ he said in his deep gravelly voice which never failed to bring instant attention. He might as well have saved his energy for all the notice she took of him. The dot of red powder on that narrow forehead, that black oily mane neatly braided, and that perfume of harsh Jasmine screamed tradition and stone-age, yet, Django found his heart flutter as the black almond eyes with its shapely eyebrows forced a glance in his direction.
‘Would you like to order,’ he paused, about to say ‘toast and eggs’, but exchanged it rapidly ‘idly or dosa?’
‘Do you have curd rice?’ Savithri asked as an afterthought, staring at her wrist for the fifth time.
‘Of course, Madam, would you like it with a green chilly?’
The blackhead lifted in slight irritation, and the Tina Turner lips stretched in displeasure.
Savithri was not interested in this muscled giant. He was not her type at all. She was there for something more permanent. She glanced at the entrance, and there stood her man, David, handsome and well dressed as he searched for her.
Savithri changed her mind about the meal. She was not going to mess up their first meeting with her mouth smelling of curd. David looked precisely as his photograph on Shaadi.com. Savithri waved excitedly, her bangles clanging like the church bell.
‘Are you looking for someone, Sir?’ Django interrupted, as the smartly dressed executive was about to make a swift retreat.
Pamplemoos was watching with eyes of a hawk from the cashier’s desk, and Django knew that if he lost a client, that wretched man would skin him alive, so Django looked at his customer and gave him one of his best smiles. It worked.
‘I wasn’t…but now I am,’ the client said in deep husky tones, the chocolate-brown eyes running over Django as if he was contemplating him for his next meal.
Django grimaced. He had his fill of men like these from the time of his inception. Pamplemoos would sell Django’s soul if he could get a few dollars more. However, Django was not going to spoil his chances with Amma for this hunky-dory kind. Talking of which, Amma was once again waving to the man.
‘Davidu, I’m only Savithri yaar.’
A hue of red invaded the thin cheekbones of the handsome Davidu as he strode quickly to Savithri’s table and sat down, silencing further speech. Django followed in great surprise, never having expected Amma and Davidu to have anything in common.
‘Can I take your order, Sir?’
The man looked up with relief and gave Django a slow smile. It might have worked, had Django swung the other way. ‘I’d like a big hard piece of bread, two fluffy yellows and a huge glass of orange liquid... .’
‘Sir, if you mean toast, tossed eggs and orange juice…’ he said brusquely.
‘Yes… I’m hungry.’
Django gave him a stare that warned him not to try too hard. If it weren’t for Pamplemoos, he’d have kicked Davidu in the groin and paralyzed that organ, but he did no such thing.
Savithri was playing host with exaggerated effort, almost knocking the cup in her haste to serve her man.
David turned an agonized glance in her direction, wondering how he could have agreed to meet her even under duress. True, his mother wanted a grandchild, but to this sacrifice?
No! He will never do it.
‘How do I look face-to-face, yaar?’ Savithri asked, fluttering the long curly lashes. She had smooth skin in a darker shade of dark, not that David had anything against that. But she could have stuck to the same tone foundation instead of one shade lighter. It made her look ‘Different!’ David said, muttering under his breath 'madwoman’.
‘I just came from the Temple,’ Savithri said, and dug into her brown leather bag, and picked up a silver kungumam box, offering him Vibudhi. ‘I prayed for our marriage yaar.’
‘Marriage?’ Django’s feet entangled in his moonwalk, sending his tray whizzing like a frisbee right into David’s lap, bathing him in shades of yellow and orange.
Django didn’t dare look at Pamplemoos, sure that his owner was calculating the losses from the broken china to the very fruit.
David however, was sweet about it, and while Django dabbed at David’s pants, David slipped his visiting card into Django’s pocket.
‘Meet me tomorrow same time...’
‘Sure Davidu,’ Savithri said, as was wiped David’s shirt with the end of her sari pallu, doing her bit for her to-be husband with tender care.
Django swallowed a giggle, trying to move a fraction closer to Amma and rub shoulders with her, however, it wasn’t working. She had a one-track mind, and it was focused on runaway bridegroom.
Pamplemoos’ sharp gaze took in the scene with interest. Django was trying to get out of octopus’ arms while village girl was trying to get in. Now, how could he use the situation to its fullest and earn a few dollars more?
Pamplemoos was an expert when it came to tapping opportunities.
‘Django, show our client to the Men’s room.’
Django was about to refuse, but one look at Pamplemoos’ set expression and he gave in reluctantly. His boss might think he won the round, but if this client laid one hand on him, Django decided to flatten the rascal. This poor girl was panting after her Davidu, and she wasn’t bad looking if you count out the over-made-up face and the starch sari.
Django waited politely for his client to precede him into the Men’s room. The door had barely closed when the client seized Django in a fierce embrace. Django was just about to lift those moonwalk feet when the door swung open.
Django jumped out of the man’s arms as Savithri ran inside to her Davidu, the thick silver anklets sounding like the Temple elephant on the loose.
Django grinned when she took over her man, sponging and cleaning him like she was attending a child.
Pamplemoos was smiling in contentment. A few more triangles like this and he could begin renovating his restaurant.
Mr Pamplemoos counted the eggs in his stock room for the tenth time, taking note of every ingredient in size, shape and colour. Notebook in hand, he was staring at the bag of onions bought one week ago which to his eye had decreased considerably. He’d have to talk to his chefs to go slow on the taste buds. His clients were not in Hilton!
Django, the Maitre d’ hôtel, was hurrying towards him, flexing his only asset, the overly-developed biceps. Blessed with a pair of green eyes and a thatch of blond hair, young Django was a hit with his clientele, if not for his brains, at least for his brawn.
He sang his orders out as he moonwalked to the kitchen, picking the steel tray and lifting it above his head, balancing the steaming café-au-lait with one strong arm, making sure to flex his muscles in the process.
‘Your coffee, Madam,’ he said in his deep gravelly voice which never failed to bring instant attention. He might as well have saved his energy for all the notice she took of him. The dot of red powder on that narrow forehead, that black oily mane neatly braided, and that perfume of harsh Jasmine screamed tradition and stone-age, yet, Django found his heart flutter as the black almond eyes with its shapely eyebrows forced a glance in his direction.
‘Would you like to order,’ he paused, about to say ‘toast and eggs’, but exchanged it rapidly ‘idly or dosa?’
‘Do you have curd rice?’ Savithri asked as an afterthought, staring at her wrist for the fifth time.
‘Of course, Madam, would you like it with a green chilly?’
The blackhead lifted in slight irritation, and the Tina Turner lips stretched in displeasure.
Savithri was not interested in this muscled giant. He was not her type at all. She was there for something more permanent. She glanced at the entrance, and there stood her man, David, handsome and well dressed as he searched for her.
Savithri changed her mind about the meal. She was not going to mess up their first meeting with her mouth smelling of curd. David looked precisely as his photograph on Shaadi.com. Savithri waved excitedly, her bangles clanging like the church bell.
‘Are you looking for someone, Sir?’ Django interrupted, as the smartly dressed executive was about to make a swift retreat.
Pamplemoos was watching with eyes of a hawk from the cashier’s desk, and Django knew that if he lost a client, that wretched man would skin him alive, so Django looked at his customer and gave him one of his best smiles. It worked.
‘I wasn’t…but now I am,’ the client said in deep husky tones, the chocolate-brown eyes running over Django as if he was contemplating him for his next meal.
Django grimaced. He had his fill of men like these from the time of his inception. Pamplemoos would sell Django’s soul if he could get a few dollars more. However, Django was not going to spoil his chances with Amma for this hunky-dory kind. Talking of which, Amma was once again waving to the man.
‘Davidu, I’m only Savithri yaar.’
A hue of red invaded the thin cheekbones of the handsome Davidu as he strode quickly to Savithri’s table and sat down, silencing further speech. Django followed in great surprise, never having expected Amma and Davidu to have anything in common.
‘Can I take your order, Sir?’
The man looked up with relief and gave Django a slow smile. It might have worked, had Django swung the other way. ‘I’d like a big hard piece of bread, two fluffy yellows and a huge glass of orange liquid... .’
‘Sir, if you mean toast, tossed eggs and orange juice…’ he said brusquely.
‘Yes… I’m hungry.’
Django gave him a stare that warned him not to try too hard. If it weren’t for Pamplemoos, he’d have kicked Davidu in the groin and paralyzed that organ, but he did no such thing.
Savithri was playing host with exaggerated effort, almost knocking the cup in her haste to serve her man.
David turned an agonized glance in her direction, wondering how he could have agreed to meet her even under duress. True, his mother wanted a grandchild, but to this sacrifice?
No! He will never do it.
‘How do I look face-to-face, yaar?’ Savithri asked, fluttering the long curly lashes. She had smooth skin in a darker shade of dark, not that David had anything against that. But she could have stuck to the same tone foundation instead of one shade lighter. It made her look ‘Different!’ David said, muttering under his breath 'madwoman’.
‘I just came from the Temple,’ Savithri said, and dug into her brown leather bag, and picked up a silver kungumam box, offering him Vibudhi. ‘I prayed for our marriage yaar.’
‘Marriage?’ Django’s feet entangled in his moonwalk, sending his tray whizzing like a frisbee right into David’s lap, bathing him in shades of yellow and orange.
Django didn’t dare look at Pamplemoos, sure that his owner was calculating the losses from the broken china to the very fruit.
David however, was sweet about it, and while Django dabbed at David’s pants, David slipped his visiting card into Django’s pocket.
‘Meet me tomorrow same time...’
‘Sure Davidu,’ Savithri said, as was wiped David’s shirt with the end of her sari pallu, doing her bit for her to-be husband with tender care.
Django swallowed a giggle, trying to move a fraction closer to Amma and rub shoulders with her, however, it wasn’t working. She had a one-track mind, and it was focused on runaway bridegroom.
Pamplemoos’ sharp gaze took in the scene with interest. Django was trying to get out of octopus’ arms while village girl was trying to get in. Now, how could he use the situation to its fullest and earn a few dollars more?
Pamplemoos was an expert when it came to tapping opportunities.
‘Django, show our client to the Men’s room.’
Django was about to refuse, but one look at Pamplemoos’ set expression and he gave in reluctantly. His boss might think he won the round, but if this client laid one hand on him, Django decided to flatten the rascal. This poor girl was panting after her Davidu, and she wasn’t bad looking if you count out the over-made-up face and the starch sari.
Django waited politely for his client to precede him into the Men’s room. The door had barely closed when the client seized Django in a fierce embrace. Django was just about to lift those moonwalk feet when the door swung open.
Django jumped out of the man’s arms as Savithri ran inside to her Davidu, the thick silver anklets sounding like the Temple elephant on the loose.
Django grinned when she took over her man, sponging and cleaning him like she was attending a child.
Pamplemoos was smiling in contentment. A few more triangles like this and he could begin renovating his restaurant.
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