Sunday, April 12, 2009


On a dance floor in Helsinki. Sometime before midnight. Sometime this year.

Ha. ok. So the good looking cutie wants to dance with me? Who am I to deny? Especially when looking like something the cat dragged in ( note to self : always dress up for the possibility to party when you get out ) your ego gets a kick when some young guy wants to dance with you. But once HR then always HR, and my instincts told me that there is something wrong, somewhere.

So somewhere in between getting high on music and taking hydration breaks, I ask him:

How old are you?

I am 21.

How old do you think I am?

My age?

I am tempted to lie. But no. I am pretty much sure that he is not speaking the truth either.

A bit older.

Twenty two?

I do not reply and get back to the dance floor, the music is glorious, the music is beckoning, and it is a crime not to dance a homage to it; a young Nordic God notwithstanding. Towards the end, decide to take my water break on one of the sofas. My friends have already left. I am on an all time high without even a shot of vodka. This has been a good weekend.

And somehow unsurprisingly, I have got company.

And I resume my third degree questioning.

How old are you again?

Dont you believe me?

No, not really. I dont say this, but just shrug my shoulders.

I am seventeen. Are you twenty two?

I have heard people talk about hitting on sixteen or seventeen year olds and having random sex with them. But those were (a) guys, (b) they were actually twenty two (c) and looking for random sex.

All of the above does not apply to me. And I work in HR. I take a deep breath.

I am twenty seven.

I dont really care.

The reply, which came fast, was not really surprising. He had, even at that young age, the easy assurance of those who always got what they wanted.

How did you get in then?

I am more curious to know the know how of subverting the age limit.

I am shown an ID card. I am told that it is a fake one, and that is how he got in. I am asked if I need any drinks. I decline. I am happy with my water. He insists, and I ask for a coke.

We sit down, and we talk about books and music. He dissects music with casual assurance, and talks about books passionately. He even like F1. He talks of technology, the telecom industry and about world politics. He gets my Cartman quotes and Family Guy references. I do not get it when he goes on about video games. And every woman that walks past us glance at him. And he has eyes and ears only for me.

And he is only seventeen.

We go back, and dance some more to the music. The night is finally over and those of us left walk out of the door.

He wants to know if I would be interested in watching Opera later in the week, as he has already got tickets. And may be we can go to Carelia later for dinner, if I do not have other plans.

Give me your name and mobile number.

He thrusts his iPhone at me.


He is seventeen.

Not even your name?


Dont you want to know mine?

I smile, reach up and tussle his hair. He is smart enough to know that I do not want to meet him again. His knows he is being rejected, but is still unfailingly chivalrous.

I can drop you home, my car will be here soon to pick me and my friends up.

No. I am calling the taxi now.

And I leave the most perfect person I have ever met in Finland, with a hug and a parting wave.

Because he was only seventeen.

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