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BATTLE FOR BITTORA Chauhan Anuja.pdf


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'My nose isn't plain,' I told him crossly.
He screwed up his face and looked at me critically. 'You're right,' he concurred finally, before
hunching over his computer monitor again. Your nose is geometrically quite sound. It's your
mouth that's a little, uh, excessive.'
He was right, of course. My mouth is definitely XXL. In profile, it actually sticks out a little
more than my nose. But less than my boobs, thank god. My mouth is also really wide. In fact, it's
so wide that I look like one of those stupid, smiling, Disneyland dolphins. You know, the brighteyed, over-friendly ones who are always leaping out of the water, frantic for fish. And it gets
worse when I smile. When I was little, my mother used to have nightmares that I smiled so wide
that the two ends of the smile met at the back of my head and made the top half of my head fall
off. How scary is that?
Anyway, how did we get to the subject of my mouth? I spun Rumi's chair around till he faced
me.
'Don't try to change the subject!' I charged him. 'You're just irritated because I said your
stupid bathroom potty germs need some work. And it's true. They do need work. They're
supposed to strike terror in every housewife's heart, make her jump out of her sofa, go to the
kirana and buy a year's supply of Harpic. Right now, they look about as scary as Alok Nath in
Hum Aapke Hain Kaun. Which is why I told you to make 'em look slimy and evil - and instead of
taking feedback in a constructive, mature way, you're retaliating by launching this completely
arbitrary attack on all my favourite superheroes.'
Rumi leaned back in his chair and surveyed me critically. This was not a good move because
the so-called orthopeidically correct swivel chairs at Pixel Animation - where we both work in
the 3-D animation division - are highly unpredictable and have a tendency to keel over if you
lean back too far.
'Your problem, Jinni,' he told me in this very superior way, crossing his turquoise corduroyencased legs, 'is that you have an entirely conventional mind. Your imagination isn't very...
original.'
Hello, just because I don't while away the whole working day downloading gay Avatar porn off
the net - thus giving a whole new spin to the phrase blue film - doesn't mean I'm not original!
'At least my name is original,' I shot back, stung. (This, because Rumi's actually made up his
own name, mixing the names of the three creative artists he admires the most - Neil Gaiman, the
dude who wrote the Sandman comics, Bengali literateur Rabindranath Tagore and the mystic
Sufi poet Rumi. Which makes me positive that his real name is something totally mundane, like
Ravi Bhalla.)
'Unfortunately, so's your haircut,' he murmured, rolling his eyes and twiddling his (tweezed?)
eyebrows.
I touched my hair defensively, scowling. Everyone at work makes fun of my carefully-casual,
unruly mop of hair. Just because I pay large sums of money to get it styled every month - by a
dark dude with blonde streaks in a Bandra parlour called Percy's Cuts and Blow Jobs. Percy
calls my hairstyle the Half-blown Rosebud Cut, claims that it's inspired by Japanese manga
comics, and assures me glibly that its short, spontaneous bounciness shows off my long neck,
brings out the point of my chin and the rosiness of my skin, and makes my luxuriantly lashed
black eyes 'twinkal'. According to the Pixel gang, however, it looks like he randomly attacks me