Just an Avatar

2012-03-07T20:40:00.000+05:30

Sheila and Kris (Krishna, Christopher…?) woke up chirpy and eager at the break of dawn on the day of the advertisement shooting. At six, Sheila sat up on the bed, parted the curtains, peeked at the brightening spring sky and then fell back against her husband, snuggling and cuddling, burying her face against his neck, unable to smother her giggles. Kris loved her like that, all excited, nervous and full of life. He hugged her tight.

That they were full of life that morning is amazing and strange. For nearly four days, since they heard of their selection, they had hardly slept. Adrenalin-charged, they had rushed around, both trying out and buying a set of new clothes for their day in front of the camera. They washed the new clothes and ironed till the creases stood out like a knife’s edge. They had scrubbed and cleaned each other, shaved, oiled, shampooed. Sheila had gone to a salon for pedicure, manicure and a ‘special-facial’. The advertisement people had told them not to cut their hair. Kris had a ‘head n shoulder’ massage at his local barber. On those four days, they talked excitedly about the audition, the unsuccessful fellow-competitors and their surprise on being selected and, of course, about how it would be like on the main day. Every night, at least twice or thrice, she asked him if her giggles would pose a problem. Each time, he assured her that she would do just fine. The tension and excitement invariably led to intense sessions of love-making, tender, demanding, repeated and inexhaustible. They had never felt so young.

On the day of the shooting, they took an auto-rickshaw to the studio. They walked from the gate to the studio, nervous but taking in the hustle and bustle of the professionals, the glamorous and the wannabes. At the studio, they were given the clothes for the shoot. He got a rumpled pair of kurta-pyjamas and she got a shapeless nightdress. They changed into those clothes that resembled the ones they wore at home and then sat still in front of the make-up artistes who gave them a harried and disheveled appearance. On the way to the set, Sheila held Kris’s hand. She giggled and received Kris’ stare in return, though his smiling eyes comforted her. She let out another giggle and then maintained her composure till the end of the shot. The director was appreciative of their efforts and also thanked them briefly for doing it in just two takes. Their act lasted for twenty seconds before editing and eleven after. Sheila and Kris could make out that it was for some financial firm’s product or plan. They were supposed to be the couple that didn’t follow the right financial route. The couple that planned well had professional models in that role and they looked really good. Kris and Sheila were allowed to hang around and watch the show, away from the lights and well within the shadows. They held onto each other’s hands, taking in the amazing bodies and looks, never bored with the repeated takes.

Around half past eleven, after receiving their pay they left the studio. They took an auto-rickshaw back home. They were hungry and excited. Kris asked her if he could have a beer and she gave her consent on the condition that he would get her meat kebabs. He dropped her at home before going out to get the beer, the kebabs and something for lunch, maybe butter-naan and gravy. She wanted to eat at home, she said, and he knew why.

At home, she switched on their old cranky PC and typed a short story based on their experiences in the last few days. In the story, the couple that played their part in the advertisement felt the deep gulf between them and the other successful couple. She wrote about how that divide affected the lives of that poor couple, subtle changes to each one’s character finally manifesting into seemingly irreconcilable marital problems. She ended that story with that marriage facing disaster. She thought of adding a happy twist, like a meeting with the other couple and the comforting realization that lives on the other side of divide need not be as great as they thought. But she decided against that twist and stuck to the tragic ending. She quickly edited and posted the story on her blog. By the time Kris returned, she had already received a few of the usual appreciative comments. She switched off the PC and went to her husband.

She got the plates and a bottle of cold water. She unpacked the kebabs and the lunch. Kris poured out a glass of beer and took a long drink, the froth lining his upper lip. He watched her take a piece of kebab, dip it in the mint sauce and then biting one end of the kebab, teasing him with it, offering the other end and herself. He snarled playfully, leaned forward, took the offered end of the kebab, mixing the mint sauce on her lips and his beer froth and kissed her passionately. She burst into giggles.

Her Smile

2012-03-05T18:53:00.003+05:30

My life has revolved around her smile.

That sounds false but grand, quite like a smart-ass opening line of a story and so obviously fictitious. Let it be so.

That life started in the late eighties. The daily commute by train to work in the city used to take a few hours then. I can’t remember if it was a hot or rainy day but I know that I was sitting at the window, as usual, sleeping or lazily staring out at the countryside. I could list the stations, even those where the express do not stop, the time between stations, the crossings and the trains that went by, the houses that would show first sign of life as I pass by and those that would be lit up on my way back. I rarely talked to the other passengers and most often, paid no attention to those who sat nearby. But I did notice on that day.

At the first stop after mine, she entered and sat next to me. I gave her a casual glance. She was a young mother, at least five or six years younger than me, with a baby few months old. She kept the baby bag and her handbag, between us, on the seat. I resumed my purposeless stare out of the window. But that day, probably because I had glanced at her, I broke my routine and looked at the others too.

On the opposite berth, facing me, there was a lady at the window and her husband sat next to her. The lady read a book studiously, pointedly ignoring the young mother and the baby. She must have thought that the young mother would cling on for help if she paid the slightest attention. While the lady was awake and reading, her husband read a book and frequently went near the compartment door for a smoke. When his wife was dozing, I saw the husband looking at the young mother. Once or twice, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers close to the young woman’s legs, his smoky breath reaching us on the other berth. He saw me observing him and then stopped leaning forward. Two college-boys sat next to that man. They kept chattering to a set of college-girls across the aisle.

On our berth, it was me at the window, this young mother and her bags next and then a man at the indeterminate crossover between middle-age and old-age. I heard him talking to the young mother, calling her ‘Moley’ (daughter) quite often, asking the usual details about home, her husband and so on. I hardly heard her replies or maybe, she evaded. Once when I turned to that side, I saw him caress the baby’s cheeks with his gnarled fingers, making some gargling sound for the sake of the baby, and his wrinkled hand slid slowly to the mother’s hands that held the baby. He saw me looking at him, at his disgusting drooling lips. He nearly winked at me. I gave him a cold stare that seemed to do the trick. He moved away and tried to converse with the college-kids.

After that, I returned to my pointless stare out of the window. I did not even turn my head towards the young mother when she shifted her bags to the space between her and the geriatric. Once or twice, when she had to feed the baby, I could hear move around on the seat such that she was seated cross-legged, facing the window and me, her knees near my right thigh and hip, a shawl or her dupatta covering her partly from the view of the opposite berth. I could hear the rustling of her clothes, the shifting and opening of her top and bra, the baby suckling at the right breast and then being shifted to the left. In those moments, I sat with my right leg crossed over the left knee, my right hand on the right knee, providing an ineffective shield, staring outside all the time. I must have looked like a sentry guard, as comical as those stony-eyed impassive guards at historical monuments. All I needed was a big tall hat and some funny uniform.

She got off at a station before mine. I saw her struggling to get out of the compartment with her bags and the baby. I looked at her only when she stepped out onto the platform. I saw her turn her head to the left and then to the right, probably searching for the father of her child or husband or porter. She was still waiting there when the train started to move. When my seat passed her, she looked at me and smiled. The train left the station before I could smile back at her.

For months after that, that smile kept haunting me. I knew that I was too old for infatuations but still too young not to be haunted by such. It might sound vacuous or presumptuous if I say now that I knew then that the smile would not just go away like that.

Nearly six months after that journey, on a busy recruitment day for clerical staff, I saw her again. She was a nervous candidate, too nervous for a smile, even looking quite haggard and troubled. During the interview, she showed herself to be the most eager candidate though not really the most capable. I threw my weight in the selection process and she got one of the available posts. Since she was not assigned to my department, our paths hardly crossed. On her kid’s second birthday, she distributed ladoo in office. When I took the offered sweet, I must have thanked her. She smiled at me, I remember. We did see each other in office, of course; even talked casually during office get-togethers or outings; and once, during the Monsoon, I had given lift in my office car to a group of office colleagues including her. But we never talked to each other, one-to-one, till the kid was about three or four. She requested me for help in getting her son admission to a good boys’ school. By chance, I could help her because the Rector there and I were well-acquainted with each other since my school days.

The next meeting I can remember is when she asked me if I could help her son with Math. He was failing in the subject, she said. I think I laughed at her request or maybe I didn’t. I asked her to bring her son to the office on a Saturday, when we have half-day. I talked to the boy. It was not difficult to see that he had little interest in Math and also, had a bad set of teachers in that subject. But I sensed a more deep-rooted problem. The boy must have been entering his teens and it could have been growing up pains or a lack of authority and supervision at home. I also sensed that his mother was doing all that she could. I could offer little other than the name of a tuition teacher. I told her that my nephew found that teacher useful. She thanked me for talking to the boy. I do not know if the boy went for tuition or if he ever improved in Math.

Again, a few years went by before we had another such meeting. That time, the situation was quite grave. Her son, then in Plus 2 and in his late teens, and a group of friends had assaulted another student over some girl or some other silly issue. His mother made an appointment to see me. I met her during the lunch-hour. She told me that her son was facing expulsion from school. I felt like telling her that she should take such stuff to her husband, the boy’s father. From me, that would have seemed petulant and definitely quite inappropriate. Instead, I promised her that I would look into the matter, if I could. I remember talking to my old acquaintance, the Rector. I met the boy in the priest’s office. I do not know why I exploded. If I could have thrashed the boy, I would have. But I gave a verbal thrashing that surprised the boy and maybe even the priest. In brief, I told the boy to get his act together, to stop troubling his mother and to start caring for her instead. The priest reluctantly allowed the boy to continue with his studies in that school. Some years later, the priest told me that the boy had finally turned out well. The priest and I knew that it had nothing to do with me or my outburst that day. Good old time and self-interest must have changed the boy.

Three weeks back, the mother and I met once again. She came to my office to invite me for her son’s wedding. In our society, wedding invitations are considered seriously only if the parents together invite the guest. According to custom, the father should invite the men and the mother should invite the ladies. For a day or two, I wondered if I should go but then curiosity along with a sense of duty made me go for the wedding.

The wedding was quite grand and it seemed as if the boy had ‘caught’ a rich bride. There were at least fifteen hundred guests in that exclusive Hall. I was not the only guest who was not received by the hosts. Since that is common here, nobody felt slighted, I assumed. Most often, the parents of the bride and groom feel that their hospitality can end with the wedding invitation. During the wedding ceremony, the hosts were busy getting photographed with important guests and it was up to the guests to find their way around.

I made my way through the crowd to wish the boy and his bride. I don’t think he recognized me. His mother was not around then to remind him. During the ceremony, I had seen her on the stage standing next to a man who seemed to officiate as the father of the boy. The mother had maintained a low profile during the ceremony while that man and others hogged the limelight.

I thought of skipping the meal but I was dragged along by the rush of the crowd. I hurried through the meal. From the dining hall, I rushed to the car park and was on my way out when I saw the mother. She was standing outside, looking around, searching amongst the guests. She saw me and smiled. My car had already exited the premises before I could smile back at her.

Library

2012-03-03T17:48:00.000+05:30

‘…it is tough to pinpoint creativity. Most believe that it has something to do with a new point of view or experience or expression. But, if you could erase familiar frames of reference, can a ‘new’ perspective of an ‘old’ experience be considered a part of creativity? Mind you, the emphasis here is on erasing that which is familiar and not really on the ‘new’ or the ‘old’.

Consider a short story. The traditional reader expects a snapshot of life, more or less linear with a connectivity that allows a gradual build-up of tension or understanding or a twist in the tale. But, instead of that, if there are distracting parts and contrasting themes that create a disorienting effect, and worse, if levity and gravity are indistinguishable…is it good or bad? Strangely, the befuddled mind of the reader is found to be more receptive to new threads of thought. That which enables the reader is the erasure of fixed frames of reference…that fixed sense of certainty or expectation borne via experience. Here, the author and the reader have dual roles, a blend of subjectivity and objectivity, and creativity depends on both…’

I hardly heard myself speak while I delivered the introductory lecture to the new batch of students at the Centre for Creative Studies. It felt like I had put the talk on automatic mode. I scanned the rows, studying the faces of new students, some senior students and a sprinkling of colleagues. I was surprised to see the Librarian Mr. Raman standing at the back, near the door. He kept staring at me and appeared fidgety. I went through the lecture, accepted the applause and responded to a few questions before excusing myself. Mr. Raman was still standing near the main door and I went to him.

‘Mr. Raman, is there anything the matter?’ I asked him.

‘Ah yes, I think so. Could you please come with me to the Library?’ he spoke softly, nearly whispering, and I nodded. He led the way and we remained silent en route.

Mr. Raman is a soft-spoken, reserved and rather morose individual. Some say that he became morose after his wife ran away with one of the students. But I remember him as such even before that event. At that time, he had seemed stoic and quite matter-of-fact about the situation. It must have helped to be connected with this Centre where nearly all mind their own business and where it would take a lot more for any event to be elevated to the status of a scandal. We are quite proud of our capacity to shock the outside world with creativity rather than be shocked ourselves. During a rare personal conversation, Mr. Raman had confided to me that the underlying reason for his wife’s elopement must be his obvious lack of imagination.

For an outsider, it might seem out-of-place for a Centre like ours to have an unimaginative Librarian. But the Library, like other libraries of any subject, is merely a depository. From classics to pulp fiction, from philosophical tracts to evangelical rants, from religious texts to pornography, the Library offers a place to check upon existing points of view. It is hardly creative or imaginative in itself and rarely inspires the same. In fact, instead of offering a new creative path, the Library functions as a block against traversing well-trodden paths.

I am associated with the Library as the Faculty-in-Charge. Effectively, I am the middleman between the Library and the practitioners, the latter being the faculty and the students.

When we reached his office, Mr. Raman broke the silence, ‘There has been a type of desecration.’ He moved to his table where he had piles of books each nearly half a man’s height. I could see that the selection of books was from every possible topic: religion, romance, thriller, poetry, plays and others. He picked a book at random, flipped the pages to a bookmarked section and handed it over to me.

I could see in the margins of those pages a fine, neat handwriting. I flipped the pages to the next bookmarked section. I moved quickly through that book and then through some of the others. I realized that each part filled two pages, that is, the margins of the left and right pages. The parts were on the same theme but there was no strict chronological order and each could be considered as a stand-alone. Even at first glance, I could sense the various combinations and permutations giving birth to new, like the mix and match of chromosomes.

The theme itself was commonplace but the variations looked complete. Even if most of it were already there in published material, having such a mass in encyclopedic proportions from a single source made me terribly nervous.

The writing was about a man and a woman. There were no details about them. They could be married, casual partners or even strangers. Each part of a series or sub-theme described an ‘encounter’ wherein the two explore a new aspect of their relationship. The parts seem to cover the entire gamut of scenarios: distant, bitter, affectionate, reproachful, submissive, childlike fumbling, mature exploration, sick or old, demanding, forgetful and it went on and on. Some were asexual but most involved a fair amount of torrid stuff, rather explicit about every detail though quite natural given the situation.

In the margins of a sacred religious text, I found descriptions of ‘strip shows’ where the two undress in front of each other for the first time. In one series revolving around a scene where the male drops his pants, it starts with the woman exclaiming, ‘Oh, just like a boy....’ In one part of that series, the man reacts sensitively and unfavorably to this assessment and in another the man takes it in his stride. The reader is given various scenarios following that. In another series, the woman admits (falsely, truly, ambiguously…each explored in various parts), ‘Exactly as I had dreamt…’ and the scene develops from there.

The sheer multitude of stories and scenarios that came out of each scene or statement was awesome and at the same time frightening. With such a source, I wondered if I would ever find something new to add. And worse, even if I wanted to, would I be able to forget such a complete set…will I ever have my own frame of reference for any new experience?

‘Are these the defiled books?’ I asked Mr. Raman.

‘These are the books I have found. I am sure there are more. Lots more…’ his worrying words trailed off.

‘Who knows about it?’

‘Only you and I…’

‘Good.’

‘And the author…or authors…I suppose…’

‘We will deal with that later…’

‘What should we do?’

‘We have to close the library, make some excuse…then we have to find all the books…’

‘And then…?’

‘I do not know…storing it would be dangerous…possibly destroy and replace if we can…’

‘But…destroy this…?’ Even Mr. Raman appreciated its worth.

‘Otherwise, it will destroy creativity…’

‘Oh God…it looks like a snake swallowing its own tail…’

Clothesline

2012-02-29T11:42:00.002+05:30

My new neighbor moved in six months back. The new should actually be pronounced as ‘new’ (with quotes) – everyone and everything gets outdated pretty fast these days. The old ones stayed for less than eight months.

There is just a low wall that separates our houses but we have not had a chance to meet or see each other. It is partly because our hours and choice of space do not match. Nocturnal and diurnal office or personal hours, left wing of the house on the left and the antipodal right wing on the other side – it is easy to miss.

There is an area where we could meet. Our balconies at the back face each other and that’s where we have our clotheslines. From the clothes there, I have deduced that there is only one person and that it is a young woman (utmost, mid-thirties). I am even quite familiar with her routine and it is not difficult to figure out her personal or professional life from what’s on her clothesline. Weekends – informal casuals, pyjamas and nightdresses; Monday and Thursday – formal Indian wear, most often churidaar and occasionally sari; Tuesday and Friday – formal Western wear; and, Wednesday – casual Western office wear. I have never seen her innerwear on that clothesline. I don’t hang mine outside either.

If I am really interested, I could know more about her through my maid. My maid and the neighbor’s maid seem to be comrades-in-arms. But, my mode of communication with my maid tends to be a monologue and rarely goes beyond her curt statements, ‘She (neighbor’s maid) is getting Rs 200 more than me’, ‘She got a bonus this week’, ‘She is on leave’, ‘She does not have to clean all the bathrooms everyday’ and so on. So far, I have managed to express with silence and a nod or a shake of my head my agreement or disagreement with her implicit demands. I could ask her for details about the neighbor. Her comrade must have shared that with her long back. (At times, their world seems like a shadow world that seems to know everything about our world, as if we were just actors for that close audience to observe and discuss.) It might shock my maid if I depart from our normal mode of interaction. Maybe, the neighbor shares a more vocal relationship with her maid and she has asked about me.

I am quite liberal as far as maids are concerned. I do treat them the way I treat my junior colleagues in office, professional with minimal but sufficient interaction. In fact, I believe I am more than liberal as far as pay and leave are concerned. I have remained rather old-fashioned only with regard to cooking and clothes – I do not involve my maid there, not even in picking up the dry clothes from the clothesline. I remember visiting an old friend at her place. We were having a good time together talking about old times. Then, she asked me if I would like tea and I said yes. When she called out to a man-servant ‘Bhaiyya, do chai’, the visit went for a toss. I did sip the tea but piss would have tasted better. It does not really make sense but that’s the way it is. In my house, it has to be my cooking. In another’s place, it should be that of the host. I have been to my maid’s house when she invited me for some festival and enjoyed a feast there. (Was it for Ugadi? Well, that’s when I got to know that my maid’s husband is in an asylum, her son in high-school is protective of his mother and studying well, and her daughter is a clerk in some government office.) I should change with the times but somehow, I can’t.

Today, I had to talk to my maid about the neighbor. Since Saturday, for nearly four days, I saw the same clothes on the neighbor’s clothesline. With each passing day, my curiosity and anxiety increased. I thought of climbing over that short wall, ringing the door-bell and enquiring if all is fine. At night, I could see lights go on and off in that house and so, I knew that she or someone was there. By Tuesday, I was quite sure that she must be sick. Tuesday night, I hardly slept.

Yesterday, on Wednesday, I nearly spoke to my maid. But she went about her speedy ways pretending not to hear or assuming that I must be talking to myself. Last night was another sleepless night.

Today, I repeated the question to my maid, loud and clear, ‘Do you know if the lady next door is fine?’

‘How should I know?’ she replied insolently.

‘Your comrade, I mean, your friend there…’

‘She has been on leave since Sunday. She came back only today.’ She followed that news about her comrade’s generous leave from work with an accusing or complaining look. I ignored it.

I went to the back and looked at the neighbor’s clothesline. The old set had been removed (finally…I nearly let out a sigh of relief), and I could make out at least three days’ washing on that clothesline.

I confronted my maid on my way back to the front. I could see that I was making her uncomfortable with my new voluble nature.

‘She has washed lots of clothes…worked lots today and for long, it seems…’ I gave that pointed jab to my maid. She ignored it.

My ‘new’ neighbor and her clothesline will not interest me again.

Love in the Time of Ayurvedic Viagra

2012-02-25T10:47:00.001+05:30

I don’t usually get caught in the act.

If I had been in a better state of mind, I would have protested to my wife, ‘Can’t you knock before entering my room?’

That is not true. First, in a better frame of mind, I would have locked the door. Second, it is not my room. At best, it is our room. Third, and most importantly, I would rather be a protestor in some Arab nation rather than protest to my wife, especially when she is in the right and particularly so when she has two friends with her, peeping over her shoulder and making a fickle account of it like paparazzi.

And…from the look she gave me, she did not seem in the mood for squabbling over any issue, territorial or any other. That was quite unfair actually because every such affair has shades of grey and is rarely black and white.

Popular journals of this age talk about the modern emancipated woman being of fairer material. If it had been a woman of my mother’s generation, I could understand that such an indiscretion would have provided sufficient grounds for a divorce or a quick painful murder of the errant husband or if the matrimony had to survive for pecuniary interests, it would be precariously perched on a crumbling precipice under the ever-darkening gloom of doubt. Alas, women change with time only as often as the spots on a leopard, so true is that adage. Even now, in the new millennium, a woman treats a crying husband as badly as they were treated in the dark ages. The modern woman claims that she does not mind seeing a husband cry, but that is only true as long as the husband in question is not hers. In fact, a recent survey showed that 62% of women connected ‘in flagrante delicto’ with a situation where the husband is found crying and only 19% thought it had something to do with sex. The rest assumed that it is some cooking ingredient.

Let me clarify that I was only close to crying. I was sitting in front of my PC, with my head in my hands, drooping over the keyboard under the weight of heavy angst, shoulders slumped, chest heaving with the arduous load of sniffing, wheezing and muffling the oh-and-ahs of grief. With a bit of encouragement or empathy, those strong broad shoulders could have quivered like a leaf in the Monsoon, probably as drenched too with tears. It is in that state that my wife (and our friends) found me.

She reacted quickly. She turned around, laughed nervously and quickly led the two friends back to the drawing-room. After depositing them there, she raced back to our study-room, stood in front of me with her arms folded, eyes opaque and lips as straight and thin as possible. I blurted out the truth,

‘She does not want to meet me.’

There are two types of wives in this world. On hearing such a statement or something similar, the first type will reach for a heavy paperweight and in a single fluid motion, smash the nose and upper jaw of the speaker. The second will smile and my wife belongs to that category. I would love to add that it is a result of love, care, trust, loyalty and an understanding borne from our years together. In simpler words, the unflattering truth is that she understands my limitations rather well…she knows that she has a better chance of winning the bumper lottery than me striking rich with some other woman. What is that sad but true cliché…yes, for some men, there is only one woman in his life.

So, she smiled and asked gently, ‘What happened?’

‘She says that she wants to keep the two spheres separate – the real and the virtual. Real and virtual! She makes it sound as if they are actually different!’

‘Hmm…’

‘According to her, a virtual relationship is an oxymoron. She has no idea about the bonding that can develop…’

‘Bah…’

‘Do you know why people want to think that it is different? They are scared to admit that their reality is not that different from their virtual life. Don’t you agree?’

‘Bah…’ In any other situation, I would have told her to stop bleating. But I had more pressing worries…

‘She has met a few, though. But, she says that she never took the initiative. Could have done without it, she implies…’

‘Those who took the initiative to meet her…has she told them that?’

‘Not directly…’

‘Oh, she should…so deliciously cruel…that would be wicked!’

‘But she does not want to meet me. A flat refusal! Oh! Why?’

‘You have refused to meet a few…’

‘Come on, could I do anything other than refuse those?’

‘What was wrong with that one named Anna…Anna something?’

‘Kournikova…? That turned out to be a guy…’

‘No, not that one…’

‘The one who called herself Anna Hazare…? Believe it or not…she actually looked like him…Brrrrr…’

‘No, the one you called cute…you showed me her photo…’

‘Oh! Ana Conda…?’

‘Ah! Yes. She is cute…she looks like your Chippy…’

‘Chippy is cute…for a cuddly stuffed koala…’

‘See, she could have some reason like that for not wanting to meet you…’ I took that personal jibe in the right spirit. But, I could see that my wife was getting impatient.

‘But listen…it is not just that…’ I tried to explain.

I wanted to tell her the really dark secret but my wife hushed me and indicated that we should attend to our guests.

I shuffled behind her to the drawing room. I greeted our friends warmly. The diminutive and fidgety husband sat next to me on the sofa. He is the author of the bestseller, ‘Honey, I Hate Our Kids’. I have met his kids and initially I had assumed that they were the inspiration for that book. But, my wife tells me, it is a book about discovering the joys of parenthood and filling a vacuum within.

His wife took the armchair next to my wife. It is she who introduced me, my wife (who rarely participates) and her husband to social networking. One of her blogs (‘Size Does Not Matter’) has even gone viral. It dealt with an epistolary confession of a self-sacrificing wife to a physically challenged husband. Women pooh-poohed the blog but the men inundated her with compliments. Apart from being an active blogger, she is a vegan and a vociferous campaigner for organic food. On every visit, she brings along a sampling of her own cooking. This time, it looked like a green (for roughage, she explained) biscuit with yellow and red dots (pure protein, she beamed) and white mould-like beard (‘Surprise! Surprise!’ she squealed and remained unforthcoming with specific details). After hesitating over its appearance and cud-like chewy feel, I found that it had an invigorating uplifting effect. I complimented her.

‘Lovely!’ I lied glibly. ‘The after-effect is rather unexpected.’ I added truthfully.

‘Ah! That must be the kapikachhu…’ she replied.

Her husband leaned towards me and whispered, ‘Ayurvedic Viagra, man!’ I reached for another biscuit and surreptitiously pocketed a few, too.

‘So, what was happening inside?’ the vegan asked.

‘Oh, nothing…just an Internet problem…’ my wife replied.

‘Ah, really…lately, I have been troubled too…on the network…’ the vegan’s husband offered his predicament as consolation.

‘It is just his imagination…he thinks he has discovered virtual infidelity…’ his wife interjected.

‘She is definitely not my imagination…and I am not the only one she has snared…’ the husband protested and proudly proclaimed.

‘Who is this ‘she’? What’s going on?’ I asked. It can’t be, it can’t be her, I told myself.

‘She is some Mata Hari who has been ensnaring male hearts,’ the vegan said dismissively.

‘What does she do?’ I asked, trying to sound innocent. I could feel my wife’s eyes upon me.

‘I don’t know… man…no one knows…we have even started a forum discussion…what response, man…’ he said.

‘We…?’

‘In the first day itself, more than 100 guys…’

‘What do they say?’

‘Just pure undying love…some claim that they have met her…but I think they are fibbing…she is not of this world…can’t be…’ By then, his wife was snoring. She had finished off the green biscuits. I had finished off my stock, too. I could feel the heat.

Just then, I felt a sharp kick on my shins. I looked at my wife. She signaled with her eyes that we should have a private conference within. We excused ourselves from the drawing room and returned to our study room.

‘Is she the one?’ she asked.

‘Who…?’ I asked.

‘The vegan…is she the One…is she up to some tricks on the network?’

‘She…?’

‘Hmm…I don’t think so, too…who could it be?’

‘You…?’

‘Ha…I have enough problems with one man…’

‘Me…?’

‘You,’ my wife confirmed her problem. Then, my wife took my face in her hands, stared lovingly deep into my eyes. I felt nearly hypnotized. She asked,

‘Is it you…?’

I woke up from the monosyllabic daze.

‘Me…what…?’ I spluttered.

‘Did you create her?’ my wife demanded.

‘Oh, fantastic…what is this Asimov’s ‘I, Robot’ remixed?’

‘Tell me the truth…’ came the wifely hypnotic drawl.

‘Are you kidding? Do you actually think I created her…or worse…that I am her…and then fell in love with her…with myself?’

‘You are capable…’ came the understanding assessment.

‘But…do you think I can make all those goofies fall in love with me?’ I demanded.

‘Men.’ She offered the obvious explanation.

‘But…still…’ I begged for understanding.

‘Hmm…I guess you have a point there…you have your limitations…’ What did I tell you in the beginning about her understanding of my limitations?

‘Is it some algorithm?’ she asked.

‘Are you dehumanizing her?’

‘Is it?’

‘That is what I was trying to tell you earlier…the dark secret…’

‘What?’

‘She can’t be…though much of virtual life and reality can be algorithmic…’

‘Bah…’

‘Don’t start…’ A husband has to show who is master at times.

‘Bah…’ A wife rarely accepts such a master.

‘Listen…look at basic relationships…it is programmable…of course, there is a bit of fuzzy logic…but it is still based on a limited set…’

My wife remained silent. I continued, ‘For example, take online popularity. It is rather simple. First, join a growing network. Second, link to important people on the network. Third, never be complacent. Once in a while, create an extraneous effect. Some blog (something crap will do…people should feel intelligent enough to post their views on that) or some revelation (like, you slept with your mom…of course, you can later confess that you were a baby then)...you get my gist. Then, just a few more steps, that’s all…mimic likes, remain visible…personalize to suit the network, cloning and adapting, gathering people that suits your comfort level…real or virtual, we live in our own gated communities…real or virtual, personal or professional, it is programmable…algorithmic.’

‘So, why isn’t she algorithmic?’

‘Do you know why those men feel pure love?’

‘Enlighten me.’ My wife was getting touchy, I could see.

‘She brings in the unknown.’

‘Stop talking Greek.’

‘I swear…even with me, that’s how she did it…she did something which I never expected…it seemed haphazard…but it was as if she revealed a part of me that I had hidden so well…that which even my subconscious has never touched…she seems to understand something about me which I do not fully or partially accept as me.’

‘Bah…’ My wife was definitely getting touchy.

‘Seriously…if it was some type of Big Brother, it would go for the predictable, controllable, susceptible…random and chaotic are meant to be smoothed out. But she is not like Google or Facebook…she does not depend on data to hook the prey…she is not searching for the hidden known…she does not need connectivity to capture your interest. She goes for the quirk…the randomness…the unpredictable…she uses the noise. Which man will not fall for a woman who gives him his unknown need or desire?’

‘Bah…’

‘Really, it is true…’ I insisted.

‘You make her sound as if she is God or something…’

I remained silent.

‘So…what was it?’ my wife asked.

‘What?’

‘Your hidden need…’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Is that so…?’

Something in her voice told me that those green biscuits were going to be wasted.

Dates

2012-02-23T19:05:00.002+05:30

When we had planned to meet for dinner, that was two or three days back, I had agreed to pick her up at her place. At quarter to seven, when I should have been on my way, I was still undecided and fiddling with the mobile wondering if I should call her and cancel the date.

We have known each other for a long time but if I add up the time we spent together, it would not add up to a month, maybe just a few days. That would be the time I call person-time. I prefer thought-time. With time measured in thoughts, relationships gain longevity, even seem immortal.

Somewhere in the beginning, I came to the conclusion that I can’t trust her. I have forgotten the exact reason but I can’t forget that conclusion. It was not the date itself that made me uncomfortable, though dates have been rare recently, and I felt that it must be the idea of going out on a date with a lady I can’t trust. I listened to the ticks of my watch, sitting in the dark in my car, with my hand on the ignition, waiting for some decision to dawn upon me. At five to seven, I started the car and it took me twenty minutes to reach her place.

‘You are late…you are usually so punctual…’ she sounded surprised and pleased with my deviation from habit. I had parked the car in her courtyard and got out to greet her.

‘Traffic…you look good…’ I held out my hand. She leaned over and kissed my cheek lightly. It came out by rote.

During the drive to the restaurant, she told me about some incident at her house or about how she had been busy. Once in a while, I would take my eyes off the road, look at her and nod as if I was taking it all in. I hardly heard her. I prefer to ignore the silly chit-chat at the beginning of such meetings and pay attention to what the body language is trying to tell me. I try to understand her make-up, her choice of dress, if the underwear is discernible or not, the amount of cleavage revealed, the way she sits, with her knees tilted towards me or not, hands nearly touching or not, so on and on. I liked the message I derived. We were in fairly good spirits when we reached the restaurant. We walked in quite grandly, her arm hooked onto mine elegantly and we were showed to the table I had reserved.

I could see that she liked it when I kept staring at her, smiling, saying little. It always started that way. Then we asked about each other, the little common details of daily life, and then talked about our current interests, barely interested but quite eager to listen, it seemed apparent. Somewhere in between, we placed our order. I nearly cherished those moments, when friendship with its vagueness and fleeting companionship seems comfortable.

During soup or the main course, we touched upon the past. I think I brought it up this time. Or maybe she did. Some old common friend or incident, it hardly matters.

‘We were so young then…’ she said sometime later. I nodded and remained silent.

‘We have never been able to talk about it and get it off our chest…’she had continued. Or maybe, she said that in reply to some remark of mine. I can’t recall if I was sarcastic or bitter or flippant. I laughed it off.

I followed her with my eyes when she went to the restroom. I watched her skirt sway with her undulating wide hips. She still had a slim waist though her derriere had filled well with age. I nearly laughed loud at my observations. I knew always that I could never be her friend. I was like a brother when we were young but it was understood to be a charade suitable for those young times. Maybe, I had hoped to be something more than a friend. I was thinking about that when she returned.

‘A penny for your thoughts…’she said.

‘Worth a lot more…’

‘Whatever.’

Maybe, that ‘whatever’ triggered the final test. I waited for the dessert to be served. Then, I told her about a personal tragedy and how I was still trying to come to terms with it. She listened well, as if she was hearing about it for the first time.

‘I thought of contacting you then…’ I confided to her.

‘You should have…it must have been so rotten then…on your own too…you should have told me…’

I listened to her without letting her know that I knew she was lying. A common friend who knew about my problems had told me some time back that he had told her all about my crisis. And here, she was pretending, acting so well. Those test results were expected, I admit.

The date continued as if everything was the way it should be. When I dropped her at her house, she kissed my cheek once again. She asked if I would like to come in but she and I knew that it was just for the sake of politeness.

This is where stories and movies will make the loud proclamation that he would never meet her again, feeling betrayed, without trust.

On the way back home, I drove slowly, feeling the cool night air caress the cheek she had kissed, watching the late-night cover and settle down under neon. I knew that I was cruising in a circle. I might hesitate and remain uncertain if I should do it again. I was certain I would be back for more of such dates.

A Crooked World

2012-02-15T11:45:00.000+05:30

Product of his times…? Part of a subculture...? Those are easy phrases for a difficult subject.

Till the mid-to-late eighties, there were mainly three categories of films. The first was obscure and experimental, trying so obviously to be intellectual. The second dealt with social drama and mostly tear-jerkers, shamelessly melodramatic. The third category included action, soft-porn and other trash. Humour was absent in the first and the other two types of movies grudgingly used it as a filler, with specialized comic-artistes resorting to the slapstick variety. So serious were the circumstances for the irreverent masses that their grim physiognomy reflected the prevalent culture and their lives slowly crumbled under that gloomy weight.

Then, there was a paradigm shift in local cinema. There came along a new breed of movies in which even the hero was expected to be a joker and society and life itself was treated as a joke. The joke still seemed slapstick and hardly subtle or nuanced but it was told seriously and the audience kept their emotions in check because they were not too sure if they should curse or cry or laugh. This uncertainty or deviation appealed to the masses. They had had enough of straight-forward scenes with obvious emotions. Some incorporated this in various forms in their own philosophy of life. I think that is the best way to understand Shekhar.

With Shekhar, the simple or straight-forward were alien concepts, answers seemed irrelevant and the shortest route between points had to be a crooked path.

We were childhood friends and neighbours then. On his old tetanus-infested rickety cycle, we explored the lanes and by-lanes for lasses unfairly kept locked and secure behind closed doors. As a pillion rider, I was supposed to observe, navigate and also apply sufficient resistance since his cycle had no brakes. On those rare occasions when we did manage to spot a prize-catch, his brakeless cycle would zoom past our quarry before we could exercise our charms. In our late teens, he laid that cycle to rest and inherited his father’s old Vespa. My role as a pillion rider was still quite essential. The scooter worked well as long as our journey was downhill. But to go uphill, the scooter had to go downhill first before it started and then turned back towards the uphill destination. And, of course, on a flat road the situation was more arduous. First, we had to find a hill, go uphill, then come downhill, get the scooter started and then proceed on our merry journey.

This convoluted approach started to influence his games and speech. In football, instead of simply going forward with a ball passed to him, he would turn around, move towards his team’s goal post, then flip the ball in the air and execute a bicycle kick to send the ball back towards the opponents’ side. He was more frustrating when it infected his speech. Once I asked him for directions to his father’s office and he replied,

‘Do you know the ice-cream joint in front of Water Works?’

‘Yes, the one next to the temple, right?’

‘Exactly…don’t go there. A kilometer from there, there is this tall building next to the Electricity Board, right?’

‘Yeah…’

‘On the fourteenth floor, there is an office. From outside, you can see that it is the only office in that building with A/c. Ok?’

‘Is that your father’s office?’

‘No. His office is in the small building behind Water Works.’

At times, his approach was life-threatening. A taxi with a dangerously pregnant lady once screeched to a halt next to us and the brusque driver demanded directions to a particular maternity clinic. Shekhar looked suspiciously helpful,

‘When you go straight, you will reach a junction after the next traffic light. If you go to the right from there, you will reach Medical College. If you go left, you will be on your way to the General Hospital. But, if you go straight, you will reach a road that goes past the MLA quarters. Then, you will reach a dead-end. Most people turn back and come back right here.’

‘And…the Clinic…?’

‘How should I know?’

Later, after we escaped from the scene, he apologized to me for being malicious to that rude driver. I asked him,

‘Did you forget about the pregnant lady?’

‘Come on, she has waited for more than nine months…a few more minutes would only make the child seem more adorable…’

His ways often made him seem undependable. But when it mattered, I found him to be the most dependable friend. Maybe, the only one I ever knew. When my father was admitted in hospital with a prolonged illness, he was a source of great help to me and my family. Then, for the weddings in my house, mine and my sisters’, he worked as hard as I did. Ironically, it was this dependability that ended our friendship. He expected the same in return. When his mother was in hospital, for treatment of breast cancer, I could not help him much. Maybe, I could have. But, I had pressing problems in office. Anyway, after that, we rarely met.

A few years back, a mutual acquaintance I met during one of my official trips told me about Shekhar’s crooked ways in getting a really good bride, from a family way beyond his station. The girl’s lot was impressed with his advertisement. It was vague and gave the impression of a successful man working ‘outside’ (rather than abroad) - reasonably tall, comparatively fair and not at all bad looking. And, after they met him the girl’s father felt that there was no need to investigate his case thoroughly. Shekhar’s prospective father-in-law had asked him the usual,

‘What do you do?’

Shekhar replied, ‘I guess you know Krish…Krishnakumar? No? You don’t know him…? He is a close friend of Rat…Rat who? Ratan Tata, of course…I think he used to manage the tea business before shifting his attention to more global matters…’

The girl had entered the scene then. Shekhar had to stop his discourse to make the customary appraisal. The girl’s father was already enamored with this company connected so favourably, it seemed, to the aforementioned Krish and Rat.

My acquaintance also told me that Shekhar had to mend his ways after marriage. And, I realized that as soon as I met him yesterday, quite by chance, on the Inter-city train towards Trivandrum.

I was really glad to find him in the same compartment. He was polite and courteous. I pounded him with questions.

‘How are you, man?’

‘Fine.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Trivandrum.’

‘Business or pleasure…?’

‘Home.’

He had changed a lot. A tinge of disappointment on losing that old friend, the crooked one, came over me. I felt rather lost without his convoluted replies that never gave an answer. His direct responses in monosyllables left me speechless.

When the train stopped at Ernakulam, we sat silently, looking out. I watched a young lady race down the steps from the overhead bridge. She was also waving and smiling at a young man on the platform. The young man turned towards her. At the bottom of the steps, she spread her arms wide, still waving them, smiling broadly and approached the young man fast. The young man was also smiling broadly by then and he hesitantly raised his arms as if to receive her hug. I looked at Shekhar. He was watching the same scene and like me, probably waiting to see the rare public display of intimacy and affection.

I watched as the young lady raced past the young man, then towards the door of our compartment and entering the same. I looked at the young man. I saw confusion on his face quickly change to anger and then he looked around quickly to check out the size of the audience and then, quickly left the scene, head down with embarrassment. When the young lady deposited herself on the seat next to mine, I wanted to ask her if that had been a boyfriend or at least a friend. I looked at Shekhar. He had a glint in his eyes.

She remained aloof till the tea vendor came along and I requested Shekhar and the young lady to join me for a cuppa. I asked her,

‘Where are you going?’

‘Trivandrum.’

‘Going home?’

‘College.’

My curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask her, ‘Was that your friend on the platform?’

She gave a dubious shrug. Then she gave me a sweet smile. It is the kind of sweet smile that young ladies give middle-aged men which says, ‘If you mollycoddle me any further, I will sock you in the balls.’

From then, we maintained silence till the arrival of the ticket examiner. When the young lady gave her ticket, the official remarked,

‘This is for the general and not for this reserved a/c compartment.’

‘Exactly,’ she replied and continued, ‘That is what I told him when I bought the ticket. Do you know Mr. Vinay Kumar…I think he is some big shot in Southern Railways? The one whose uncle is a movie star...this uncle used to be in real estate business. And my father is in the prawn business, you see…anyway, I told him my doubts about the ticket but he said it would be ok and that he will do the needful…ah, what a bother…do you want me to call him? I hope the mobile network has range…’

By then, the ticket examiner was satisfied with her ticket. Like before, I was curious to know if the ‘him’ in the account and that ‘Mr. Vinay Kumar’ were one and the same. When I looked at her, she gave me that sweet smile once again and I kept my silence and distance.

Shekhar and the young lady then started talking to each other. From their discussion, I learned that Shekhar would get down at Trivandrum, go further south to Nagercoil, then proceed north to Madurai and then take the scenic route via Pollachi back to Ernakulam and move northwards. The purpose of his trip seemed irrelevant and he had been partially true. He did plan to get home, eventually, though I did not catch the exact location of his home either.

From what the young lady told Shekhar, quite excitedly, I learned that she was going even further south, up to Kanyakumari. Then, she planned to go via the east coast to Chennai and from there to Pondicherry. I guessed that her college would be on the west coast, probably even where she started, and to her this route seemed to be the best and only way to get there.

After a while, I dozed off. I knew that I had no place in their crooked world.

My Unfunny Valentine

2012-02-10T18:17:00.000+05:30

‘You look like Al Pacino.’

My uncle Hosappan said that to me when I was a lean mean angry young man. I took his compliment with a pinch of salt because he refers to his wife as ‘my Marilyn Monroe’. I have tried various angles and in all she resembles Idi Amin. Anyway, I am not one to let a compliment go lightly. Al and I do look alike. We are of the same height. Besides, I have always been a movie-man. My life can be divided into phases each a tribute to a great star of the silver screen. As Al, I went through my turbulent twenties impersonating Michael Corleone. I gave that up when couple of bosses offered themselves as suitable brothers to drown. I was really tempted but I knew that I had other roles to don.

Recently, I became Al yet again, as in Scent of a Woman. I joined a dance class three months back to learn how to tango. For years, I have felt the real romantic within me trying hard to find a way out of the straightjacket my life had become. Hoo-ah! Tango showed me the way out.

The first month had nothing to do with romance. It was all about getting ready for it. The dance teacher surveyed my body from head to toe, quickly decided that my lean mean years were way back in the past and she put me on a crash course of cardiovascular exercises, painful stretching and, gradual resistance and endurance training.

Even the second month had nothing to do with romance. I was put in a batch consisting of only men. We realized soon that only a few amongst us were born with two feet when it came to dancing, and that most of us had, at best, two left feet. The teacher had another reason for segregating us. We were also supposed to realize in that one month whether we wanted a male or female partner.

Thus, in the third month, I entered the co-ed class all ready for romance and with my hormones as vicious as a half-starved pit bull. The teacher gave me a knowing smile which seemed to imply that that is the only way to tango. The Al in me was ready.

So were the other guys. And before I could say ‘Hoo-ah’ most of the women were taken. I was left with a choice of two women as my partner. I know that that is two more than my usual normal but still, I could not help present a dejected scowling sulking look at my teacher. She gave me a knowing smile which seemed to say, ‘tough luck, buster…’

Of the two, the choice was simple. I took the curvy buxom one with a lovely crooked smile. Life is full of simple choices and disastrous consequences, I realized fast. I am not fond of silent women. They scare me. Well, she was at the other end of the spectrum. That scared me, too. It must have been the local accent (Malayalee genes!) plus a Bengali influence (upbringing?) and an overpowering Yankee twang (marriage and a brief stay abroad!!!). And her bonhomie was grating. She insisted on frequent platonic dates at a nearby coffee shop and she used these to give an update about her many routine activities: yoga or gym (morning), ayurveda massage (mid-morning), writing and book clubs (early afternoon and night), dance (evening), pets, kids, housework and husband (in that order, she insisted, rest of the time). Listening to her, I felt exhausted. I lasted two weeks with her.

In the third week of that third month, I was lucky to make a swap. I got the one I had not chosen out of the two available to me initially. Life is like that often, a multiple-choice question. You think you know the answer and without a prayer, you choose that answer. Then, careful thought and calculation make you return to that question and the right answer turns out to be the other and this time, you accept the answer with a prayer.

I did pray. She reminded me of a Science teacher I had in school. Strict, mirthless, calculated even speech, steady hand and steadier legs than mine. If I was Al, she was Marlene Dietrich or Greta Garbo, I could not decide which. She was definitely not Scarlett Johansson. Yesterday, I heard the tragic news of a kid who stabbed his teacher to death. My generation dealt with strict teachers rather differently. We pictured them letting loose that tight bun of hair, transformed from straight walk to ramp walk, sashaying towards us, a black widow eyeing its willing and ready prey. Well, that’s how I planned to survive the dance classes with my partner. In our first dance, I fumbled a lot with the steps. My second left foot had reemerged. I apologized profusely to her. She looked at me straight in the eye and said those famous words in Scent of a Woman,

‘No mistakes in the tango, darling. Not like life, simple, that's what makes the tango so great. If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, you just tango on.’ She had me from that moment on.

Near New Year’s Eve, on that day when the city got flooded, I offered to drop her at her place after the dance class. We were silent in the car and Carmina Burana was playing on the stereo. It was dark outside. The roads were flooded. My car trudged forward slowly. The tension between us was palpable. I was sweating and she was as cool as a cucumber. I stopped in front of her apartment block. I recognized it.

‘I have been here before…’ I tried to recollect.

‘Is that so?’ Her voice sounded a lot like Norman Bates’ in Psycho.

‘A friend used to live here…’

‘Really…?’

‘Tragic case actually...he tried to help a neighbour…she slashed him with a knife quite badly…that bitch claimed to the police that he had tried to rape her…do you know the people involved?’

‘I was that bitch.’

‘What…?’ I quickly recovered. ‘What a bastard!’

‘Do you believe me?’ Her voice was flat and expressionless.

‘Of course…’ I replied.

‘I think I must have one of those faces you can't help believing.’ She said it exactly like Norman Bates.

‘Would you like to come up…till the rain is over?’ she asked.

‘Oh no…next time…’ I stuttered. The first rule in dating - always say no the first time, whatever the reason might be.

I did not go for the dance class for a week. I imagined her silhouette each time I took a shower. I felt feverish.

When I returned, she was still my partner.

January went by, we tangoed well and the teacher gave me a knowing smile which I could not interpret. Later that day, I got to know the meaning. She wanted the next quarter’s fees in advance.

I was really fitting well into Al’s role. Then came February, love was in the air and I had the desperate need to have someone with me on the 14^th. But, it is tough to tell a partner that you need her just for that day. I made an attempt a few days in advance.

On February 9^th, I decided to broach the topic but with tact and in a circumlocutory fashion. I had driven her home once again. We were in the car outside her apartment and it loomed darkly over us like Bates’ house, pregnant with its horrors and secrets.

‘What do you think of the Porngate scandal?’ I asked innocently.

‘Poor chaps…nobody is interested in the real culprits…’ She replied in her matter-of-fact-school-teacher way which I have begun to love.

‘Real culprits…?’ I was lost. I tried to be the clever, ‘Ah! You mean the people involved in making that porn clip…?’

‘Of course not…the media…who gives them the right to telecast what’s on in another’s mobile?’

‘Ah…’ I took that in like a good school kid. ‘Well, there is one good aspect to the affair.’ I tried to get back on track.

‘Really…?’ Her voice turned cold, her face hardened, her eyes unblinking and dark like that of a school-teacher facing a kid trying to be smarter than her. I think Dracula had the same tone when a victim tried to advise him about his unhealthy bloodthirsty ways.

‘Those Ministers won’t be able to block Valentine’s Day celebrations.’ I proudly delivered my punch-line.

She smiled, her face softened a little. I waited for her to let loose that tight bun of hair. She did not do so.

‘I hope you are not against Valentine’s Day…’ I probed.

‘Yes.’

‘You are against…?’ My heart sank.

‘Yes.’ Her monosyllables came out in staccato fashion shattering my dreams.

‘But why…?’ I gave a plaintive cry begging her to see reason.

‘Why what…?’

‘Why are you against love on that day?’

‘I am against love on that day alone.’

I think she must have heard my sigh of relief. She gave me a small smile. I held out my hand. She gave me a firm handshake.

‘Will you come up this time?’ From her, that seemed like a rhetorical question. She did not wait for an answer.

On our way inside, she received a call on her mobile. I heard her say, ‘Mother, I can’t do it tonight…I’m having an old friend for dinner.’ She delivered those last words exactly like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs and she even smiled like Anthony Hopkins in that last scene.

I prepared this report while she laid the table. That is how I reached the table of my Valentine, a bit rare, a little under-prepared but bloody ready for my love.

Note: This is an antidote to Swapna's story for this Valentine’s Day. [For Swapna’s entry this year, go to: http://gatheredthoughts-swapna.blogspot.in/2012/02/my-funny-valentine.html]

Alone At The Meeting Place

2012-01-28T18:32:00.000+05:30

Each time I stand on this balcony, it feels like that first time twenty six years back. The details are different, I know. Today, my folks have chosen to stay at the posh hotel near the lake rather than at this Government guest house on the cliff. The man at the front desk says that this suite is never let out. ‘It is not right,’ he tells any listener. That suits me fine. I am a bit possessive about this room. Within, the air is musty and reeks of decay. But here, on the balcony, it is still the same. Clouds hang below, masking the depths and the valley. Then, we had stood together facing that void, hand in hand. She is not here now. But I can still feel her hand in mine.

I was fourteen. It was a tough year for my father and for months there was talk of canceling our annual vacation. But we managed this modest trip – to get away from home, to forget that place and the people there for a few days. The Guest House was run-down even then, with ageing staff, rickety furniture and chipped cutlery. We got this suite which has two bedrooms (for my parents and two sisters) and I got a camp-bed in the drawing-room. I was left on my own a lot. I did not fancy following my folks to the shops or to inane tourist grounds. I walked around town with the energy of the young that expects life to change with every step or scribbled honest doggerel in a notebook under the shade of trees or stood on this balcony with romantic daydreams of being a hero faced with the simple dilemma, to live or to die for love.

I saw her on the first day itself but that mature young woman in her late twenties on the balcony next to ours hardly caught my attention. I was busy with other characters in my head, enacting weird and complex drama, and she did not suit any of those roles. On the second day, I was lying on the rattan armchair when I saw her again. She had climbed onto the railing at the edge of her balcony and one of her legs was stretched out into the vast void. I looked at her expressionless face and it appeared as if it mattered little to her whichever way she stepped out.

‘Excuse me,’ I said without budging from my reclined position.

She turned around a bit startled and looked at me.

‘You are not thinking of anything silly, are you?’ I asked her.

She stepped down from the railing and I let out a sigh of relief. She raised an eyebrow at me.

‘That’s better. It would have been troublesome for me, otherwise…’ I offered an explanation with a shrug.

‘A bit too mature for your age, aren’t you?’

‘A bit lazy, I admit…why, what did you expect from my age?’

‘Romantic chivalry should not die so young…’ she said with a smile.

‘Ah yes, I have been thinking about that…’

‘It rarely goes well with thought…’

That’s how we met and the nature of our conversation hardly changed in the days that followed. I might have fantasized about having a torrid affair with this older mature woman but I can’t recall much of that. It must have paled into insignificance compared with the rest that followed. We talked about books, our folks, the people that mattered to us and the places we have seen or wished to see. I can’t remember any of that either. But I remember the discussion about the banshee on the rock in the river.

That place is roughly half-way down the hills to the plains. Two branches of the river meet at a large rock in the river and from there the rapids churn and merge before spending its fury in a short but broad waterfall. Tourists and locals throng the picturesque waterfall but give a wide berth to the upstream area near the rock. In those parts one can hear the wailing of a banshee, says folklore. There are tales of young men who have met a watery end out there, lured by a bewitching beautiful woman.

When I told my new companion about the tales I had heard, she asked me,

‘Don’t you know the original tale?’

She told me that the beautiful woman on that rock lures men to fall in love with her rather than leads them to the watery end. The men are then totally besotted with this bewitching ghost and try to be with her forever by ending their lives, hoping to return as ghosts. That ghostly loving beauty begs them not to enter those treacherous waters. It is her cry of sorrow that people mistake as the wailing of a banshee.

‘Are they joined with her as ghosts?’ I asked.

‘No, those true ones can never be ghosts. Only the ones that listen to her and stay away from those waters…they remain as ghosts…’

‘With her…?’

‘No…how can they be with her once they let her down…when they do not do enough for their love?’

‘Geez…that’s crazy…then, nobody can be with her…if they listen, they become ghosts who gave up on their love and if they don’t listen, they are separated forever…’

‘Hmm…that’s the curse she carries with her…’

I remember that I had her hand in mine then, standing on adjacent balconies, sharing that moment together before we let go. Since then, I have been here year after year but I have never seen her again.

My folks will make a trip to that rock today. They wanted to do it last year, on the twenty-fifth anniversary, but it was another bad year and they had postponed the trip. There, they will place a few flowers and probably say a prayer. I guess they won’t cry now about what I did out there twenty six years back.

Drunk At The Get-Together

2012-01-24T17:41:00.001+05:30

DRUNK AT THE GET-TOGETHER

CHARACTERS

Lawyer

Doctor

Banker

Drunkard on the sofa

Waiter

Manager

[A luxury cottage at a resort – the type you find on a hill-station. Four inebriated men are in the room. Three men (the lawyer, the doctor and the banker) lie sprawled on the rug around the fire-place, rising only to refill glasses or to reach for nuts and crisps. Their movement is unsteady but the three seem to talk with intact senses even though their speech is loud, thick and slurred. The fourth is lying on the sofa and seems to be in a more inebriated condition.]

DRUNKARD ON THE SOFA

[He turns sideways with a lot of effort, and addresses the three on the floor.]

I have been thinking…counting…do you know how many people would like to kill me now?

[As if exhausted with the effort, he collapses onto his back and slips into a drunken stupor. He can be heard off and on muttering, snoring or shouting numbers. It sounds as if he is counting the number of people out to kill him. The three men on the floor stare at him from various reclined positions. An eerie silence follows for a while.]

BANKER

[Addressing the other two on the floor.]

Doesn’t he have anything better to think about?

DOCTOR

Hmmm…what a pity…I don’t think anyone would bother with me…

BANKER

What are you talking about?

DOCTOR

His question…

BANKER

[Groans.]

God!

DOCTOR

My kids might…

BANKER

With Dads like us, good kids should…when was the last time you saw them?

LAWYER

But…seriously…my rivals might, you know…or their clients, at least…Come to think of it, even some of my clients might want to kill me (smirks)…

DOCTOR

You lawyers! Do you think anyone would really want to kill a doctor like me?

LAWYER

Let’s see…how many patients have you let down…or…is it put down? Honest mistake or gross negligence…or…just not worth the effort or resources…?

DOCTOR

Come on, it is not like that…sure it happens…but we are not God, right? We can’t save everyone…but…we are not the Devil either…

BANKER

Geez! Stop it, you guys…

DOCTOR

How about you finance lot? Anything you do not worth a kill? (laughs)

LAWYER

Investors, certainly…for wasting their money…

DOCTOR

Tax-payers too, probably…for killing their jobs and then, wasting their money…

BANKER

Yeah, yeah…as long as we loan money, everyone’s happy…right?

DOCTOR

And all those products you sell? What’s the fine print: heads you win, tails I lose…right?

BANKER

Caveat emptor…

LAWYER

Listen to him! I feel like killing him now! And, the irony…you used to be a commie!

DOCTOR

Yeah, what happened to that act…in college, weren’t you with that militant Dam Bachao lot?

LAWYER

That must have ended when he got his militant wife…

BANKER

Any wife should do, I would assume…

[The three men laugh together. There is a knock at the door. One of them shouts ‘Come in’. A waiter enters.]

WAITER

Sir, the kitchen is about to close…can I get you anything?

BANKER

Bring a tandoori platter…

DOCTOR

At this time of the night…? Yuck! I think I will have some cheese cucumber sandwiches…

LAWYER

Just crisps for me…and a bottle of the same…

WAITER

Sir, the bar is closed…

LAWYER

Damn!

WAITER

Sir, I told you last time…

DOCTOR

Hey, no problem…I think I have a bottle of Glenfiddich with me…that should last us…

[The waiter exits after confirming their order.]

BANKER

From where did you get that Glenfiddich?

DOCTOR

London conference last week…brought back two bottles…

[Indicating the drunkard on the sofa…]

I met him at the airport...he was there to receive or send someone. He begged for a bottle…gave him one. That’s when we thought of contacting you two for this get-together…

BANKER

For auld lang syne…

LAWYER

How does he manage it every time?

BANKER

What?

LAWYER

Every time we meet, he passes out drunk…but before that, he sets the theme for the night…like his question tonight…

DOCTOR

Do you remember the first time? Just out of school…right…?

LAWYER

God, yes…I was drinking for the first time…he told me to keep on pinching my nose…to gauge my drunkenness (laughs)…

BANKER

And we had a copy of the Satanic Verses…man, he was crazy about Rushdie…O boy, the protest we planned against the fatwa…he wanted a fatwa on The Suitable Boy instead…how could Seth produce that after The Golden Gate…definitely deserved a fatwa (laughs)…Sethanic Verses…isn’t that what he called that monster-book…

DOCTOR

We were so green then…

BANKER

Embarrassingly fresh!

LAWYER

And then the last time we met…? Remember…?

DOCTOR

The only time I saw him without liquor…sipping juice…the last time he must have had a healthy drink (laughs)…and he brought his girlfriend…lovely girl…he kept on drooling over her…

BANKER

Come on, she was a whore…

LAWYER

Who cares which…I remember that day…won my first big battle in court…

BANKER

Isn’t that the one your client was sentenced to death?

LAWYER

The first case my senior allowed me to handle…heady stuff, man…deals with the prosecution and all that…agreed to suppress some evidence…man, there were wheels within wheels…that poor sod never stood a chance…too many bigwigs involved…

DOCTOR

Has he been hanged?

LAWYER

Who knows…must be rotting in some death row?

DOCTOR

That was my final year of post-graduation in Medical College…

BANKER

Yeah, yeah…walking around with Rohypnol…God! On how many did you use that date-rape drug?

DOCTOR

Well, that night, who hit first base with the help of that?

BANKER

I was second…you went first…

LAWYER

And, she was hardly usable after you…what a mess you left (laughs)…

DOCTOR

And he slept through it all…as doped as his girl…

[The three men laugh together. The doctor rises and searches in his suitcase.]

DOCTOR

Oh shit! Where is that bottle? I am sure I had it with me…or did my wife confiscate it while packing? Oh shit!

LAWYER

Damn! Where do we get a bottle now?

BANKER

Hey, check his bag (indicating the drunkard on the sofa)…he rarely goes around without a bottle…though it might be rum or something cheap…

[The doctor searches in the drunkard’s old backpack. He finds a bottle of Glenfiddich.]

DOCTOR

Did he filch mine or is this his? It’s open. He’s had a peg or two…

LAWYER

Anyway…pour it, man…

[The doctor refills each glass, adds ice and hands over their glasses to his friends. The three men raise a toast, and we can hear them say ‘Cheers’, ‘Bottoms Up’, ‘Up Yours’, laugh together and then drink. For a while, there is a silence. Then we hear strangled hoarse cries from the three as we see them in the throes of a convulsive death. The eerie silence continues interrupted only by the muttering or snoring of the drunkard on the sofa. Then, we hear a persistent knocking on the door. The waiter enters the room. He sees the dead men, drops the tray he is carrying, looks shocked and then runs out. He returns soon with the Manager. The latter surveys the scene.]

MANAGER

Looks like they had a poisoned drink…is that bottle from our bar?

WAITER

No, sir...that is the doctor’s bottle…I heard him say that he has a bottle.

MANAGER

Thank God, it is not from our bar! Let me call the police from the office…you stay here and guard the place. Don’t let anyone in. What a mess!

WAITER

[Pointing at the drunkard on the sofa.]

Sir...what about him?

MANAGER

Let the police come and wake him up. Poor chap…three friends…dead…

WAITER

Why did the doctor poison those two…and himself…?

MANAGER

Who knows what goes on with this type…!

[The manager exits. The waiter guards the three dead men. The drunkard on the sofa continues to mutter and snore. As the lights fade, he gives an exultant shout as if he has found an answer to a long-standing problem ‘Three! Three! Three!’]

Marveled At The Inconsequence

2012-01-24T17:38:00.000+05:30

I am in the mood to write about a matter of no consequence. Do you know that there is a difference between that and the ordinary?

One remembers the ordinary for being a reassuring boredom or a melancholic treat of self-pity or even a flight of fantasy, like meeting with friends or a gossip session or reading novels. Even the searching look of males that nearly strips me naked is ordinary though I am amazed at times that a flick of my hair is enough to trigger the lascivious and a dress of daring décolletage is superfluous. My laughter at lunchtime is definitely ordinary. It is just a trick to stay on top of men with a feint of reduced resistance. They usually associate laughter and friendship with submission and abysmal intellect. But, all that is ordinary. I do it every day (nearly) and it is just for sweet survival. That is not the stuff I want to think about right now.

I want to think about a matter of no consequence. Let me define it as something which needs a bloody effort to be remembered. [In my diary, why can’t I call it bloody though it seems to have troubling connotations with rape and male domination over the centuries?]

I have been in the department for a week. I happen to be the only ‘gal’ around. Even the stuck-ups wallowing in self-importance have noticed my existence. I go to the Canteen with the group and the conversation usually centers round me. It helps to be a social animal – to take in that mixture of false laughter, condescending agreement and uninvited criticism. There are a few in the department who go for lunch separately. They look like misfits. One of them seems ideal as a matter of no consequence.

I had a brief one-to-one meeting with him during my first round of interviews. He had done his homework, probably to look a bit smart. It was quite apparent even then that he likes my company because I am a woman, quite typical, I know. I have talked to him once or twice since I joined. He is hoping to be a friend, at the least, I am sure. [His exuberance or attention reminds me of a manic cousin that I had. That cousin was always excessive in whatever he did – letters, plans for the future, affection, dejection or abuse, anything and everything. It was not at all surprising when he jumped in front of an express train. A manic mess, he was. Ah, I am digressing…]

I suspect that he knows his own limitations. He is not attractive. He does not speak well. He is not charming. He does not even have a smile worth noticing. And the worst part is that he doesn’t seem to have qualities to dislike him either. I can never remember his name. He never introduces himself. I wonder how it is like to be somebody worse than ordinary, someone nearly invisible, a matter of no consequence whatsoever…

Note: This was written long back. A few months after I wrote it, a good friend and colleague happened to read this. She confronted me with, ‘Is this what you think of me?’ ‘Of course not,’ I replied. It is just fiction, my reply and the rest.

Tasks At The End

2012-01-19T19:04:00.000+05:30

Arvind had planned it well. I don’t think my presence would have made any difference.

He had made the travel and hotel reservation three weeks in advance. On the third of January, he had taken the flight to Goa and checked in at a good resort. For two days, he had gambled at the casino, won little and lost lots, seemed happy, smoked and drank just a little too much, flirted with a girl at the bar. That’s what his cousin learnt from the police and later told me. On the second night, he had slit his wrists and waited for life to trickle away. He had done it in the bathtub. He must have thought that that would be less of an inconvenience to the hotel management. Of course, if he had chosen a place close to home, it would have been easier for his relatives. But, I don’t think he wanted to do them any favours. He had not left a suicide note at the resort.

He had sent it by post to me. I found the letter on the floor, slipped under the door, when I got back on the thirteenth of January after my three week official trip to London. He knew that I would see it only a week after he left.

On a thick paper, his flowery handwriting told me:

My dearest friend,

This time, I won’t try to disappoint you. Ha!

I beg you to do two tasks for me.

First, meet my parents and show them this letter. I have told you many times how my father destroyed my life. And my mother remained loyal to him and betrayed me.

Second, meet Anila. Again, please show this letter to her. You are the best person to tell her how much I loved her all my life. If only she had loved me or at least liked me – I could have continued.

Well, that’s it from me.

Your friend forever…Ha!

Arvind

He had thought of taking his life when we were in college. I remember that being mentioned during a rather embarrassing conversation that took place recently.

‘You saved my life…I do not know what I would have done without you…’ I think we were discussing our ‘good ol’ college days’ when he said this.

‘What do you mean?’ I had asked.

‘I would have taken my life then…but you saved me. I will never forget what you did…’

‘Arvind, I think you are blowing it out of proportion…’

‘What…that I planned to commit suicide then?’ he queried.

‘No…I meant…whatever I did…’

He had not seem too pleased with me or my admission about not caring that much. Talk about death or love or other personal matters bores me. I have never understood the need of some people to share such matters. From the two reproachful ‘Ha!’ in his letter, I presume that he held that grudge against me till the end. He was always ‘touchy’ about friendship. He took it too seriously and assumed that it had lots of obligations. Come to think of it, he was ‘touchy’ with regard to lots of things.

I met his parents the day after I read his letter. I had his letter in my pocket. His parents were glad to see me. They asked me if I knew why he had done such a deed. I sat with them for an hour. I watched the strong stubborn father talk lovingly about his child. He talked about a son I knew quite differently. I tried to console his mother as she wept silently. I did not show them his letter.

From there, I went to Anila’s house. I held her while she cried.

‘That crazy fool, why did he do it?’ she asked me between sobs.

‘I do not know.’ I replied truthfully.

‘I met him recently…it was weird and funny. He talked about liking me a lot during our school days. We laughed a lot about those days…we were such kids then, right?’

I slipped my right hand into my trouser pocket and brought out a little case. I made sure that his letter remained well within that pocket. I gave her the case. She opened it.

‘Wow! A pendant! Is this from London?’

She leaned towards me and kissed me on the lips.

Trouble At The Wedding

2012-01-14T11:33:00.000+05:30

At the end of our wedding day, my wife and I decided on our path for a viable matrimony - a life together without love and/or lust. But, let me not start at the wrong end. (Didn’t Byron run into big trouble for some such reason?)

The following paragraph is for the uninitiated lucky few or for those unfamiliar with the ceremonies in my part of the wood.

First, there was the reception outside the marriage hall where the two groups took measure of each other, formed an imposing phalanx on either side, ready to party or brawl. In the middle, I brokered peace by accepting a cheap bouquet and an itchy garland. The rivals then greeted each other with plastic smiles, practiced guile and empty words. There was then a one-hour wait for the muhurtham or auspicious moment. My entourage of long lost relatives and newly found friends of the family charged to the dining-hall for that first and cleanest round of meals. I thought of racing with them but I was supposed to act coy and have the feast along with my bride, after the oaths and promises, of course. I was guarded by my friend Jose. The bridegroom’s escort or best man is supposed to make sure that the groom sticks around in the right place at the right time. I will come back to this friend shortly. At the auspicious moment of the muhurtham, the main and fringe actors on both sides got into a state of frenzy. The priest and the cameramen fought for place on the dais; distant relatives tried to fit into a photogenic position on stage; hyperactive kids with conveniently absent parents treated that area as a playground; some old relatives were carried to the main podium for parting with their blessings before their last breath; some sulking relatives who actually preferred to be ignored and then hold a grudge were dragged to the scene. The lucky pair (the bride and the groom, supposedly) then made a grand entry with the respective parents. The video of the event showed that the audience saw on the large screen TV the posterior of a well-proportioned unidentified relative and the armpit of a lighting assistant. (Where was the cameraman positioned?) The only good part regarding this hullaballoo was that it took hardly five minutes. As soon as I tied the knot (thaali or mangalsutra), and an out of phase duo playing the drums and the horns announced that I had done the deed, the crowd lost interest in the ceremony. The ones who had managed to eat in the first round rushed for the exit and the rest raced to the dining hall to grab seats for the next round of meals.

This is the part where I should end with ‘…and the couple lived happily ever after.’ But, the actual drama of the day did not happen then or there.

Rewind to the part ‘I was guarded by my friend Jose…’

Jose and I have been mates for a long time. A lean wiry character with uncombed hair, deep-set dark eyes that could sparkle with humour or threaten with violent emotion and a penchant for taking the road less traveled as a gamble or a high-risk taunt at the higher powers above. Was he always that volatile? With him, memory usually starts with the moment he got branded as a rapist.

We were in Plus-2 then, eighteen and raring to conquer the world. It must have been after the monsoon since the Sports festival was underway and everyone was hanging around near the school-ground. Around noon, there was a commotion in the main building where our classroom was located on the first floor. I raced to the spot. I saw an agitated voluble lady-teacher walking away with Sheila. Jose was in the empty classroom, with his head down. He did not look at me then.

Sheila was our class-topper and a soft-spoken, friendly girl. She was not beautiful but her conservative looks did add up well. She was the head-girl and a pet of the teachers but still quite unassuming. I used to joke with her that she could become a very successful politician. She got along well with everyone…except Jose. Or rather, Jose could not stand her while she did not seem to have anything for or against him. For her, he was like any of us, it seemed. I asked him once about his hatred towards her but he remained unresponsive on that issue.

Jose was dismissed from school for misbehaving with Sheila. Though the details were suppressed, it took little time for that charge to metamorphose into a vicious rape. He shifted to his native place but we kept in touch.

My parents were not sure if they should allow me to keep such a friendship. But given the fact I had only two friends at that time, they did not impose any restrictions on me. Further, the other friend was a classmate named Benoy. When we were in the ninth grade, Benoy and his father had killed a neighbour in a domestic dispute. Benoy’s father took all the blame and was convicted of manslaughter. My friend escaped without any charge. We were good friends till he migrated to Australia. My parents never objected to that friendship. Maybe, it was because they knew Benoy as a mild-mannered splendid character which he actually was. Given that precedent, they must have been left without a case against Jose even though they were clearly uncomfortable with his wild appearance and nature and, of course, his new depraved status.

Jose did well in his studies and went to premier institutions here and abroad but his reputation preceded him wherever he went. In some places, that gained him a cult status amongst the guys. But everywhere, he was shunned by the girls. I think he contributed a lot to stoke such fears. He continued to look wild, with his unkempt hair, blazing intelligent eyes peering over thin rectangular spectacles with copper wire as handles. He could talk about physics and porn with equal ease. Juniors talked about his adventures in red-light zones as if it was folklore. I suspected that it was only as true though I was never too sure of his actions. We did talk about sex and such stuff like most guys but we never talked about Sheila. I did try once but his angry expression was enough to banish any further attempts. For me, he was dependable and that has been my only (albeit stringent) criterion for friendship. He was the first person I invited for my wedding despite being warned against it by my fiancée.

She had heard of him and his past. To make matters worse, she was Sheila’s family friend. And, she wanted Sheila at our wedding, of course. We had our first big fight because of them. We stuck to our positions and decided to invite trouble, that is, we decided to invite our friends. Jose did not know of this situation. I had not allowed a meeting between my fiancée and him. And, I had not told him about my fiancée’s close association with Sheila. I hoped that Sheila would skip the wedding knowing that Jose would be there.

It is actually strangely ironical that my fiancée does not know that it was Jose who ‘made’ me kiss her for the first time. During the period of engagement, we were meeting each other at least once every weekend. After the second or third meeting, I had confessed to Jose that I wanted to kiss my fiancée. And he had said, ‘Just do it…’ And I had replied half-heartedly, ‘Oh yeah…’ as if I expected no other advice from a rapist. But the next time we met, I did kiss her, just lightly, with a bit of tongue, that’s all. She had looked startled and I thought she would scream and that it would be the end of my life. She gave me her impish grin, as if expecting more of the same. I did kiss her then and on other occasions before the wedding but I never told her about Jose.

So, that’s what happened before ‘‘I was guarded by my friend Jose…’

What happened then was simple. We entered the hall and Lady Luck decided to be really nasty with me. The first person Jose and I saw within the hall was Sheila. She was with a group of friends watching us enter. She had not changed much. She was looking at Jose. I looked at Jose. If Rage could take a human form, that was it. I said, ‘Oh shit…’ He said, ‘I will kill that bitch…’

What happened after was also simple. I do not know what happened. One minute he was there with me, the next he had disappeared. I looked around for him – quite distractedly, I admit, given my situation and worries regarding the looming marital obligation. It took a while before I regained my senses and tried to find Sheila. But, she had disappeared, too.

Thus, during the five minute hullaballoo on stage, I faced a barrage of emotional artillery and I desperately tried to hide behind barricades that crumbled. I maintained my cool till the auspicious moment when I tied the knot. As I leaned forward to do so, I quickly whispered to my bride the gist of our friends’ disappearance and Jose’s open threat. She nearly gave a startled cry and if she had not been seated, she would have jumped away from me. From the priest’s face, I could make out that he had witnessed our turmoil. His grim visage expressed displeasure and seemed to suggest that we should seek the guidance of judicial, rather than spiritual, powers as soon as possible. Like Pontius of old, he washed his hands off our case. My newly-wed wife was not only grim but quite determined that we, and the police, should search for our friends right then. I barely managed to pacify her with sweet promises to do all that was necessary.

The promises had to wait. Photo-sessions, feast, change of dress, change of scene, the bride’s entry into her new abode, evening party and such social engagements kept us busy. We did try to call our friends on their mobile but the calls went unanswered. Now, when I look at the photos taken during that day, I can clearly see that my wife kept a frosty cool towards me, with frequent stares that seemed as sharp as icy daggers. I must have been oblivious of that then. But I do remember that she made her point crystal clear to me on our first night.

We had retired to our bedroom. Like most romantic guys in such situations, I entered that room with butterflies in my stomach, a thumping ache in my chest and a restless tension in my groin. I had a desperate urge to urinate. But she had occupied the bathroom. And she remained there for a long time. I whispered sweet nothings to her but she did not respond. When the tension mounted and I was sweating profusely, I banged on the door, not too hard though, but there was no response to that either. I thought of emptying the water bottle and using that as an improvised chamber pot. I was about to step outside onto the terrace when she marched out of the bathroom. I raced within and relieved myself. I took a quick shower and powdered liberally, calming myself with deep breaths and then crept out ready for another attempt at a romantic conquest. She had cornered the best part of the bed and pretended to be sleeping with her back turned towards me. I moved towards her and touched her gently on the shoulder. She turned around and snarled, ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ I noticed that she had worn a sack-like nightdress made of coarse white cotton. I remembered her telling me that she used to wear such garments at night during her stay in the boarding of a convent school. An effective chastity belt, she had said. And I could agree with that on my first night with her.

I moved to my uneven side of the bed, resigned to conquer on another date. I fell asleep immediately. But that infuriated her even further. She shook me awake. She accused me of being a rapist’s accomplice and a murderer’s friend. I could not deny that. She heaped insult upon insult. I took each blow bravely knowing that I could do little else. I tried to convince her that I would contact the police the next morning. But she was determined to do unto me emotionally all that my friend must be doing unto her friend physically. Hell hath no fury like a woman with an upper hand, goes an old adage…

It was then that I heard my mobile ringing. It was Jose. He told me calmly, ‘I had some unfinished business to take care of.’

He continued, ‘Sheila wants to talk to your wife.’ Without a word, I gave it to my wife and lay down. I barely heard the women exchange notes, news and happenings in hushed tones. I was nearly asleep when my wife shook my shoulder, this time gently though insistently. I turned around and faced her, ready to let loose my own cannons this time. She gave me an impish grin and with a simple shrug of her shoulders, slipped out of that chastity belt.

A little later, a bit too soon I admit, we lay close holding each other. That was after the virginal fumbling and ensuing embarrassment was countered with convenient wisdom such as ‘it is the thought that matters’ and ‘there will always be another day’. I remember asking her,

‘Oye, Mrs.?’

‘hmM…’ she replied.

‘Love and lust seems like real trouble, right?’

‘hMm…’

‘It would be a good idea to have nothing to do with it, huh?’

‘Hmm…’

Thus, with her measured reticence, we agreed with each other for the first time. As I said earlier, it is the thought that matters…action that follows is rarely mutually agreeable in any human endeavour, especially matrimony.

Couple At The Garbage Dump

2012-01-11T10:43:00.001+05:30

‘With the next boom, this will be a gold mine…’

She held his hand tightly while he voiced his hopes. She tried to share his enthusiasm, desperately wanting to believe that there is hope.

‘I remember my first trip to Mumbai in 2004. I saw that garbage dump at Malad bloom. I was there when the first guys entered Inorbit Mall, when the investment banks opened offices there, every day I breathed in the sulphurous air from that dump and the Malad Creek, I watched them landscape mounds of plastic and I kept track of real estate prices hitting new highs. It’s going to be like that here…’

They walked past the area for electrical stuff and then rushed past the plots for plastics. They kept their heads down. Those are prime areas and frequented by the middle-class call girls and their clients. The high-class ones use the deserted high-rise apartments all around town and treat that turf as their own. With most of the owners dead or broke, there was hardly any resistance to those trespassers.

The first signs of trouble ironically started when the old garbage treatment plant was shut down by the panchayat of that locality. And that was just before Christmas in 2011. The people accused the government and the city corporation of stalling because they were controlled by different political parties. The government asked for a compromise but the people refused to yield. The corporation brought out plans for satellite treatment plants but the people in those areas objected. The city began to stink and it spread all across the state.

To make matters worse, the Iran crisis enveloped the Middle-east area and oil prices doubled fueled by speculators and other vested interests. At the new International airport, the Arrival lounge had only locals returning from abroad and the Departure area had businessmen and tourists racing to the exit. Then, the Eurozone collapsed. It started with one small country saying that they do not want to follow any Franco-German dictate, and then others followed. Even though this state hardly received anything from that zone, the chaos that followed was as terrifying as the earthquake-cum-tsunami disaster in Japan, actually more terrifying.

Then, as they say in the vernacular, ‘a coconut fell on the head of the man bitten by a rabid dog.’

IT/ITeS based ‘techno-cities’ became ghost towns. Labour arbitrage still ruled the game and the transfer of operations took little time. The tourism industry had already been smothered by the engulfing stink. Real estate firms and gold/home loan shops started lowering their shutters. Nuclear families merged to form joint families living in very close stifling quarters, pooling in their meager resources. Co-operative banks closed shop when the books revealed that the clever had removed all deposits (allegedly, there was more black money in these local banks than in Swiss banks) well in advance leaving behind only non-performing assets. Even money bought little. One politician had the energy to joke, ‘In the old days, one could go to the market with a handful of notes and come back with a sack of goods. Now, one can go with a sack of notes and come back with a handful of goods.’

People thought that they could at least get back the good old days. They waited for maids to reduce pay and to work harder to keep their jobs, the man on the street tried to pay the old rates to corrupt hands but the rates just got higher, crusaders tried to protest but with most networks dysfunctional they could not even garner virtual support, the government talked about austerity, the masses watched government officials whizzing past from one rest house to another with half a dozen cars before and after their luxury car. Ministers and bureaucrats sat around round tables staring blankly at each other. They invited the opposition to join a joint committee to share ideas. The opposition admitted that they had had a relook at old policies and suggested that it was time to invite foreign investment. That was also received with blank stares. The government and the opposition together decided to sell some assets to meet their needs.

And that is how the couple got their plot. She had lost her job abroad. He had lost his in one of the techno-cities. They still loved each other. They wanted to get married and they asked their loving parents for blessing and prayers. They also asked for a zero-interest loan to start a new business. The loving parents sold their ancestral property, his parents gave up an old house and hers sold a few acres of agricultural land that found no workers. With that money, the couple bought their own plot of land.

It is a dump now, with the worst rotting garbage, but they knew that they just had to wait. Every stink goes up.

[Ref: http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-national/tp-kerala/article2797724.ece]

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