of times past and waiting.
8 September 2009 at 4:46 pm (Conversations..., Fiction..., I write., Love?, Non-fiction., Short Short Stories)
The sunlight sneaked in through the jute blinds, casting soft, lazy patterns on her face. A face which had braved many suns and slept through many nights. A face lined with laughter and tears and a good amount of worry. Her silver grey hair was tied in a neat knot and she was leaning in a chair far too enormous for her. She looked at me with eyes fading from age, dark eyes turning blue; eyes so full of life and so honest, I had to look away.
She smiled a beautiful smile, pushing away years of pain. I didn’t talk much when I was around her, I liked looking at her, listening to her, just sinking in the enormous chair and letting her smile wash over me. Today, she was in the mood to reminisce. Today, was the anniversary of her marriage. She took the cup of tea I offered and took a tiny sip. She looked at me and smiled again, her eyes glistening with un-shed tears. I looked away and waited. I heard her sigh and take another sip of the tea. I exhaled without realising.
“Did you know I was seventeen when my mother told me about my to-be-husband? It was a rainy day and I felt that the news was… hmmm… unwelcome. I wasn’t happy, there was nothing special about the day and Maa, she looked tired. She looked relieved and tired. I felt disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Ah, well… I had read enough stories and enough history to know, no, to understand what was in store for me and what wasn’t. But I was a hopeless young fool, now, now, don’t raise that eyebrow at me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realise…”
“So, I had hoped for someone who would love me and write for me, I had wished for someone beautiful, a partner. Someone who wouldn’t find my ability to read English, Hindi, Urdu and Gurmukhi a waste. I wanted someone who wouldn’t care that I enjoyed baking more than making rotis, who would tell me stories, write me stories. I love stories, and once upon a time I loved them as much as you do.”
“But he liked stories, he was even published…”
“Shh… let me continue.” She tugged at my ear and winked. I smiled back and put my finger on my lips in mock seriousness. “I wanted to be special, to have a life different from that of my sisters and mother. I wanted to read and continue reading, I wanted to learn more… I wanted to love, sing, laugh and even be allowed to dance.”
“Allowed?”
“It was different then, we weren’t even free in our own country, and women… well, as I said, it was different then. We have a long way to go… But you can choose. You have the freedom to make your own choices, your own mistakes, learn your own lessons. So, as I was saying, they told me about my husband-to-be. He was thirty-two. Shh… no interruptions!”
I stared at her, the words dying on the tip of my tongue.
“He was a business man, he was rich, had a huge haveli and was my father’s friend’s younger brother. It was a suitable match. I was to be happy, I was to take care of his house, supervise a small army of house-help and what not. Understandably, I was terribly upset. So, I sulked in my room and didn’t do anything but read my ‘useless’ books. After about a week of being left alone, I was finally tricked into leaving my room by my brother. He was home from the University. Yes, Lahore University. He was home with a friend and they were being pampered by the entire family. He tricked me with books…” she giggled like she was seventeen again and continued, “he left a trail of books and many clues, the grand prize was a copy of Jane Austen’s Emma! I ran out of my room and followed the books, solved clues, some were silly and some, tough. I had to recite the appropriate Kabir’s doha to my Grandmother and only then would she give me the next clue, which led me to the kitchen. There I had to finish an entire meal before my mother told me softly to look up the forbidden page number 1024 in the study. Oh! Milton would’ve been proud of me! Yes, he was a funny one, my brother… but he got half these ideas from that friend of his. His beautiful, mild-mannered friend, who wrote poems and stories in his black notebook. Well, we had not really seen each other but I had caught glimpses of him from behind the blinds that separated the guests from the women of the house…”
“So, you were in the same house and you didn’t even see each other? How is that possible?”
“Well, it was a big house, with separate rooms for guests, and curtains behind which we were confined. I was engaged, after all, I was to keep to myself… he had seen me walk from a room to another, he had seen me through the lattice, through the purdahs and curtains… but we had never really seen each other… Until that exceptionally hot afternoon; my mother was feeling faint and had asked me to prepare Khus sherbet for everyone. I offered some to my brother and him, that was the day he saw my feet. That night he wrote me a letter, it was a beautiful letter. He talked of my voice, which reminded him of silver, strong and beautiful. He wrote about my exquisite feet,” she looked at her tiny, beautifully arched feet and sighed, “he wrote, well, let me try and translate, hmmm… yes, ‘your slight frame, proud chin and all-seeing eyes could not be hidden behind a flimsy curtain. Your unafraid feet daring to break free of confines have captured my thoughts. I will speak to your brother and confess my love for you, if you will have me. Yours.’”
We fell silent, I stared at her beautiful feet and she closed her eyes. I could hear her breathing, I heard her sigh and shift in her chair. She put her soft hand on my wild unruly hair and cleared her throat.
“You must understand, I never wished to hurt my parents or my brother. I never wished any harm to the business man either. I was young and in love. That night, I read and re-read that letter in candle light. I left my room twice, only to return halfway. I finally gathered the courage to write ‘Yes’ on a piece of paper, I folded the thin sheet 6 times! My lucky number… to be young is quite something, sweetheart, you should enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I do!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, yes, with those cigarettes and that American whiskey. Must be fun”
Sometimes, its best to keep quiet and stare at your own feet, and hope they were prettier. Sometimes, you may utter a tiny whisper to change the topic, “Did you elope?”
“Next morning, my mother asked me to take some breakfast to my brother. I tiptoed into my brother’s room and put the heavy plate on the study table my brother had overloaded with books. I tiptoed to the bed and slipped the folded sheet of paper into his hand, he instinctively closed his hand on my anonymous note. I ran as fast as I could to my room and didn’t step out till my brother came to see me.”
“Behna, he had said, in his clear deep voice. I didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye and stared at the floor. His voice, kinder somehow, announced, he’s a poet, a writer. Poets don’t earn. Businessmen do. Even babus do. He is a dreamer, dreams won’t feed you or keep you warm. I kept quiet, but I couldn’t control my ridiculous, weak tears. He stood there, tall and wise. My elder brother. He had taken care of me since our father had passed. He had paid his teachers extra to teach me on the sly. He had given me books, convinced my mother to let me read them. He had taught me how to dream and now, now he was delivering a lecture against dreams and happiness, my happiness. I couldn’t utter a single word. I sat there in shock and confusion. After what seemed like a very long time, my brother cleared his throat and asked, if he gives up his poetry, his writing to take care of you, will you be happy? I shook my head. Ah! But he’s adamant. He has already procured a salaried position, he claims, he can write in his free time. I jumped up and hugged him, he laughed and asked me to stay out of line of fire, while he dealt with Maa.”
“Yes, it was quite a day. My mother stopped talking to me and the business man’s family severed all relations with us. Your Nana and I decided to have a small wedding ceremony once things got better.”
“Your mother didn’t talk to you?”
“Well, not forever! She knew I wouldn’t stop trying and she realised he wouldn’t either! She had to accept or else I would have stayed home even after my nineteenth birthday”
“You waited for two years!”
“Yes, it wasn’t that long… oh! even the business man convinced his family that all was well. He claimed I was too bookish and boring for him!”, she laughed happily and tried to tame my wild hair.
“Naani, your life is like a fairytale!”
“Not all of it… he never wrote me a story.
But certain moments, some memories make it seem like one. Oh! Don’t you worry, my little one, yours will be too. You simply have to wait for the right time…”
And I wait.
for we are trying,
19 August 2009 at 9:31 am (*Sigh*, Non-fiction., Random thoughts, Shiny offices, Short Short Stories) (Fiction..., Non-fiction., We try.)
trying very hard to keep our heads above the surface: noses (!) above the surface of the viscous liquid you’ve been pushed into! Yes, it’s quite disgusting and very pathetic. Everyday, I am here, trying, trying to battle for my sanity. Trying to keep myself and my being alive in the face of this inevitable drudgery. Slowly, very slowly and steadily, it seeps in. It’s everywhere!
In each and every beautifully decorated shop full of things none of us really need. In each convenience store, where they up-sell for our convenience. In every breath you take in the airconditioned office, the airconditioned cab pick up, the airconditioned cab drop. It peeks out from behind the fries doused in ketchup, the cheese cake that costs Rs 450++. It stares at you in the form of two plus signs after anything you do. A cup of coffee, a movie with popcorn, buying books, my handmade shampoo bar!
In every step I take, every well-thought out of, low-risk decision I make since my last “fuck up”, you push me towards that very end. The end for which the means are evident. Oh of course, I am better off than a billion, so are you, for you are reading this. But how is that enough? How does that help? It doesn’t when I stop trying to stay afloat and just let go. It doesn’t help me muster up the strength or the courage to get out. You demand this of me. I succumb, for you matter more than a billion.
You demand, I supply. Unfortunately, I end up paying more than I’d bargained for. Plastic. Pretty plastic. You and your new sets of demands, you and your directives, you and your expectations. Who exceeds expectations anyway? Why is meeting them not enough? I haven’t left you disappointed now, have I? I am expected to exceed your expectations? That is one flawed sentence, not grammatically, only logically. After all that is said and done, I lean on the edge of this septic tank, ask the guards for a light and light my perfect cigarette. Perfect.
Evil wears Bata
20 May 2009 at 12:00 am (Fiction..., I write., Make funny?, Short Short Stories) (Evil wears Bata, Fiction...)
In the capital of an insanely vast country, lived an evil evil man. Of course, it being a terribly huge nation, it did have its share of evil men, but this particular man was so evil, he was almost spectacular! His horrid gait, the shiny bald egg-shaped head, eyes that dripped malice and his ugly Bata sandals painted a truly ghastly image. His magnificently ugly face seemed to be etched out of sticky tar. Each feature was too pronounced, too sharp, too unkind. And his teeth could scare all your protective and over-powerful mythological Gods away!
He skulked around whenever they laughed for he needed their laughter and their bright warm smiles. He spewed evil whenever he talked, for it made them forget! He scoffed and coughed at them all. He spat great amounts of fluorescent green evilness around… it was something you ignored unless you had been infected… at close quarters. Needless to say, not many survived such a lethal infection, for it drained you of the will to live, to laugh, to smile, to try… Well, to be honest, only one had survived the infection.
It was hot, so very hot, the kind of hot that made you curse under your breath. The kind of hot that is touted as the reason behind the launching of a thousand ships (no, it was not Helen’s fault! It was just too hot!). It was the season of taking frequent cold showers and super high deodorant sales! The earth was parched, the wind slapped it around – harsh, bossy, annoying, very much like a Math teacher. His Bata sandals made no sound as he paced another excruciatingly hot footpath. He smiled gleefully, tonight I will feast! The rain approaches…
She managed to trudge through the aandhi toofan towards her rented abode. It was an apartment complex like many others in the capital’s satellite town, Gurgaon. The security guards had nodded at her, and she had continued to trudge, slowly and steadily, towards the elevators. She waited patiently for the elevator in the deserted complex – she liked being alone with her thoughts after the corporate whoring she had to succumb to all day. The suddent clap of thunder followed by very fat drops of water falling on the dry earth made her smile. She inhaled the smell of wet earth and smiled a happy angelic smile. Chai and sutta in the balcony, she thought. The doors opened to a tiny metal box, she entered and pressed 9. She hummed a long forgotten melody. The lift stopped on the first floor to pick someone up. She groaned. He entered the tiny lift and she stared at her feet to avoid eye contact. She saw the Bata sandals and smirked. Congratulations on finding the ugliest sandals ever manufactured!, she thought and looked up. She saw his eyes, his evil, malicious, beedy black eyes and she couldn’t look away. Shit! She felt the tiny hairs on her neck and arms rising in fear. Why she should fear a balding shorty was beyond her comprehension, but she was feeling very afraid… very weak and faint… and terribly short of breath. She tried concentrating on her breathing, tried to take support of the cold steel walls that seemed to be closing in on her and this very weird although familiar looking man. The words “Danny Devito playing the Penguin” slipped from her reach as she collapsed in a very ungraceful heap. Oddly enough, she heard him snicker.
“Wake up little girl… wake up…” someone said.
She opened her eyes and shut them again, very tightly. How can someone be so ugly!, she thought.
“Wake up… are you alright?”, he repeated and her brain seemed to turn to mush.
“No…! I am not…” she replied and was not surprised when her vision blurred; tears fell… salty, uncontrollable and very wet tears.
He smiled an evil smile at her, she accepted it for a sympathetic one. He helped her get up and told her to go home. They were on the 9th floor and her apartment seemed to beckon her. Almost maternal in its call. She rushed to find some solace, she had never felt so depressed or low or completely rejected in her life. She needed her bed and tubs of ice cream and her trusty Gold Flakes… She ran to her apartment, tears blinding her. She fumbled with the keys and dropped them, the sobs racked her body and her soul as she collapsed on the floor outside her apartment.
“Why me?” she wept and wailed and asked no one in particular.
He rushed to her aid and opened the door, a green light shone in the palm of his hand as he handed her a short glass of green coloured JD on ice. She stared at him aghast, but couldn’t stop crying. It’s JD! It’s green! How can I?, she thought while he forced her to take a sip of the ridiculously tasty green JD. She hurriedly gulped the drink. Why?!, her mind screamed. She shrugged. He guided her in to her little two bed room house. Without asking any questions or switching on any lights, he took her to her bedroom, and helped her get into the warm soft comfort of her bed. She hugged her pillow tightly and sobbed. He placed his palm on her mouth, she’s so beautiful… Lightening crashed and thunder filled his ears, shocked, he pulled away his palm. He placed a few bottles of water next to her and walked out, shutting the door behind him. A bright fluorescent green light took over the apartment complex for a second and dissipated. He was gone and she cried herself to sleep. The guards rubbed their eyes and looked at each other. Neither of them mentioned the light. They lit their beedis and ordered some chai from the nearby dhaba. The storm grew stronger, unlatched windows and doors punctuated the night with clangs and crashes. The capital’s satellite tried to sleep.
Over the next thirty six hours, she slept a fretful and restless sleep. She dreamed of him – she tossed and turned – she dreamed of his shiny egg-shaped head, and his eyes. She whimpered in her sleep and woke up several times to drink water. She saw the green light, the green slivers and the green lightening. She saw sad faces and heard laughter – it scared her senseless. She slept on, hoping for it to stop. She muttered and she mumbled. Evil, she said. Bata, she whispered. Eventually, the madness did stop. It stopped when she woke up with the sound of her cell phone battery dying. She jumped up, searched for her phone in her large handbag, found her cell phone charger and plugged it in. She then went to the bathroom and peed for the longest time. She had time to recollect her thoughts and recall the elevator incident. She shivered and hugged herself. Soon, she put all her energies in scrubbing herself clean of the elevator and the floor and that horrid looking man. She stripped her bed and pillows, she cleaned with a vengeance. She had never felt so dirty… never. So, she scrubbed.
She was scrubbing her hands with Dettol hand wash when her phone rang. She rinsed and dried her hands on her t-shirt. She picked up her phone, smiled at the name flashing on the tiny screen and plopped happily on the bed.
“Hii… Happy…”, she sang into the phone.
“Where the hell have you been?”, he screamed.
“Wha…?”
“Where are you? What are you doing? Why haven’t you called back? We were supposed to meet yesterday!”
“No. We were supposed to meet today… I”
“We were supposed to meet yesterday… anyway… where have you been?”
“At home.”
“I’m coming over.”
He hung up. She stared at the phone and then decided to check the calendar.
Wow. I missed his birthday. I slept through his birthday. SHIT.
She tried unsuccessfully to narrate the elevator incident to him. Details seemed to swim in and out of her mind… green JD… A strange man gave me JD and I drank it up?! She let out a strangled frustrated growl and he stared at her with disbelief and disappointment on his face. He had refused to accept the birthday gift she had bought a month in advance for him. She begged him to take it, and he just sat there muttering, I cannot believe this shit, over and over again. She tried to tell him, she even mentioned the green light and he rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know what happened… I’m really sorry… I was here… sleeping… unable to wake up”, she repeated and started crying. “It was horrible, Adi! That man, he… I don’t know what he did… I was so sad and I fainted and I couldn’t breathe. He helped me inside the house and left. I couldn’t get up… just kept on lying here… I don’t even remember his face clearly now… I just remember the Bata sandals!”
He smirked and she walked to the bathroom and carried her pillow covers back to show to him. “See…”, she handed him a damp, kajal stained pillow cover as evidence.
He sighed, shook his head and said, “I never did claim to understand you… anyway, are you hungry?”
She looked up, startled, and didn’t answer him. ”Babe… are you hungry?”, he tried to give her a hug and she just handed him the gift. She nodded and her stomach growled hungrily. They smiled.
He went to the kitchen to find the take out menus and was soon ordering some spicy Indianised Chinese food. She sat there cross-legged and rocked herself while humming some long forgotten song. He was back at her side and nibbling on her ear and then neck. She smiled and turned towards him, hungry and demanding. Their clothes were discarded, hands claimed skin, soft and damp and very warm. The lamp cast shadows on the wall… shadows moving in perfect unison with gasps and ragged breath… The thunder lit up the skies as they devoured each other… The bell rang, announcing the arrival of food.
She switched on the air conditioner, and sat back on her now newspaper covered bed. They both filled up on chowmein and chilli chicken. They ate and slurped on coke (with lots of ice), happily. The storm started growing strong. She kissed him, hungrily. He smiled and poured her some more coke. The rain fell hard on the air conditioner, vying for their attention. They were happy and radiating positive bright yellow warmth. She tilted her pretty head and stared at him. He looked so delicious and so warm… so bright and beautiful. He smelled so good… edible…
“I want you…” she announced.
“Again!” he laughed.
“Yes… I’m going to eat you up!” she said, surprised at the surity in her voice. As she moved towards him, she knew she meant it, she knew she was going to eat him up, devour his positive radiance, his happiness and his energy… she believed it as a strange hunger took over her. His eyes widened in surprise and fear as he fainted. She cradled his head in her slender arms and kissed him, breathing him in. Sucking the life out of him, she thought. The bright yellow dimmed while she sucked on his happiness… while she drank positivity, she could see herself through his eyes. She was child-like and in need of protection when he hugged her; she was goddess-like as she rode him; she was beautiful in his arms… she stopped suddenly. Just in time, careful not to damage him, not to hurt him. She kissed his forehead when she was done, and decided to let him sleep for a bit. He whimpered in his sleep and hugged her pillow. She sighed and walked out of the room.
Out in the balcony, allowing the rain to drench her, she lit herself a cigarette. She touched her palm to her mouth… tears rolled down her pretty face as she smiled – a wide uncontrollable smile. She stared at her palm – glowing a bright fluorescent green. Fuck!, she thought, as she smiled and laughed at the many bright yellow warm glows enjoying the rain. She smiled and she couldn’t stop, she had never felt so good. Fuck! She giggled.
Footnote: The title of the story was arrived upon after a giggly discussion with Mr. PD Das. He said Devil, I said Evil. Fun fun!
The Bar
19 April 2008 at 2:40 pm (Drinks, Fiction..., Short Short Stories) (Fiction...)
I started writing this some time back…
———————————–
On a typical night, this bar required five bartenders, two glassies, and a host. The waiters flitted in and out to serve the snacks; they usually stayed in the kitchen. The host wasn’t expecting this to be a typical night and had asked only two bartenders to report. It could have been considered a risk by some, but then, she never took risks. Never.
The host, rather hostess, was dressed to perfection. She wore her usual – a full sleeves, backless dress and the perfect pair of Jimmy Choos. She also liked Chanel No. 5, but tonight was more of an Elizabeth Arden night. Provocative was perfect for the occasion. As a rule, she never carried a bag. She didn’t need touch-ups. She always went sans make-up. Always, except for the clear lip gloss she dabbed on generously before and after cigarette breaks.
As far as bars go, this was not quite the usual fare. The bar ran along the entire length of the room – in gorgeous black marble. The fireplace would have dominated the room, had it not been for the armchairs and the coffee table, where coffee had never been served, unless of course it was Irish. The rest of the bar had similar furniture, large, medium, or small tables depending on the number of armchairs or couches surrounding it. It was all very plush, very posh, and very perfect in dim lighting. Also, exceptionally comfortable, especially if you like feeling rich and spoilt and tight-lipped while sipping on scotch in crystal decanters, or munching on peanuts served in a beautifully polished silver bowl.
She surveyed the clientèle and smiled to herself. So far, so good. Now, all she had to do was wait.
He stood there, behind the daunting marble bar and smiled a bored but polite smile at Mrs. Kapoor.
“Darling! Pray, get me my usual!” she purred, while playing with her insanely expensive and obnoxious looking diamond pendant, which was attached to an even uglier gold chain. The perfect French manicure made him shudder.
“Are you sure Mrs.…” he attempted to ask her a question.
“Call me Anita. No need to make me feel ancient…” she never used the word old. It made her uncomfortable. Surprisingly, ancient, was acceptable.
He smiled at her and continued, “Gin & T? At this time of the day? Let me make you a nice drink. A cocktail perhaps?”
“Oh! Sure… sure…” she answered rather distractedly. He mixed the perfect Green Apple Margarita, the green matching Anita’s disturbing dress. She clapped her hands together and let out a throaty laugh for exactly 3 seconds before accepting the drink. She eyed him again and thought – such a waste.
The hostess dabbed on some more clear lip gloss as she spotted him making his way across the lobby of the hotel towards the bar. He was so flawed, it was impossible not to find him attractive. The scar on his right eyebrow, the crooked smile, and the very lean body, too lean. The only beautiful feature he possessed were his hands. A pianist’s hands. Hands you would want to caress, hold and worship. Hands you would beg to be touched with. She smiled at him, and he nodded. She led him to the table next to the fireplace and ordered his usual, Glenfiddich single malt, on the rocks. He studied her clear skin, and the symmetry of her face, and the change in perfume. He smiled, and leaned back as she walked away. The dress was perfect, it left a lot of room for imagination, and he liked that. He liked her legs. He made a mental note of finding out her name later.
The bartender watched the exchange and shrugged. He poured the Glenfiddich into a crystal decanter, and placed the ice bucked and water pale on the silver tray. He handed it to her, “So, you’re serving him?” She laughed and said, “If only…” He raised an eyebrow, and she blew a kiss in his direction. He shrugged again, and said, “You are such an idiot!” She feigned shock and asked him, “Jealous?”
———————————-
Now what do I do? It started off well, and then I was interrupted… I haven’t been able to take it further. So, help! What to do?!
Sexual Politics III: Competition?
22 March 2008 at 3:08 pm (Drinks, Fiction..., I write., Love?, Short Short Stories) (Fiction...)
She decided to wait at the bar, instead of the restaurant/food-court. Yes, a bar next to a food-court, this is why she loved Delhi so very much! The bar was cheap, and they let her smoke in peace. The waiters were useless on a busy night, she was used to them taking ages to get her water, or even take her order. But they were sweet. They smiled apologetically when they wanted clarifications on the order, and lit her cigarette quickly.
The bartender was different today, sadly. The usual one made cocktails for her, just as she requested. On her last visit, he had served Mango Margaritas for her friends, and a Caprioshka with Absolut Kurant for her. It had been a crazy night! They had giggled and laughed and asked for complimentary peanuts and guzzled pitcher after pitcher! Finally the girls had wanted a nice cocktail and he had been kind enough to follow instructions. That was the thing with her, she would smile and talk oh-so-sweetly and always get her way! She never ever forgot to thank people. Never. That ensured her getting her way the second, third, or the gazillionth time around. Always. Well, mostly always.
Today, was different. Today, involved waiting, and she hated it. She had taken the wretched Metro and he still hadn’t reached. So, she waited and nursed her JD and Coke. She lit her cigarette on her own and stared at the smoke forming utterly lazy patterns around her. She smiled and sipped her drink. She speed-dial-ed him and cut the call before it could connect. She leaned back into her chair and continued dreaming with the lazy gorgeous smoke. She absently played with her silver earrings, and sometimes even twirled her hair around her index finger. The gray haze in the dimly lit room allowed her a trip to Lala-land. Her world. Her haven. A non-existent yet very essential part of her. She took solace in the quiet caused by the incessant chatter of people who didn’t matter. She planned her week, her days, her hours… the time she would spend at work, with the friends, with him, and with her books. She needed more time with him… She chalked it all out in neat columns despite knowing that it was impossible for her to implement any of her plans except of course the time spent at work. Work. A global firm, full of very serious and ambitious people. A firm with a gorgeous office, and not so gorgeous people. A firm that screamed quality?
“Is that really you?”, he spoke and shattered her reverie. She smiled and sat up, and took another drag. She nodded and presented him with an option to sit down. He jumped on the offer and planted himself firmly in the chair facing her. “So, how have you been?”, he delivered the greeting without really caring for the answer. Like hell, and you? She thought, but she continued with the fake smile that always seemed genuine and said, “Great? You?”
“Good, good. You look so… Wow! It’s been a long time eh?”, his eyes studied her gorgeous face, and the silver chain that caressed her beautiful skin.
Since I hung up on you and asked you to fuck off. Yes, it has, the humiliation of being cheated on has almost subsided, the pain had been drowned that very day with lots of vodka shots. “Yes, loooong time!”, she enunciated, and continued after lighting another cigarette “So, how’s everything? What you doing these days? Work or still studying?”
“I’m working now, with Dad”, he parroted to get it over with.
“Uhuh, nice… want something to drink?”, she helped.
“Sure, I’ll have a pint. I have to catch the 10:15 show.”
She ordered a Kingfisher pint, and another JD for herself. She lit his cigarette, and he mumbled an inaudible ‘thank you’. She leaned back and drank him in. Oh, he was quite hot. Her type, to look at. Clean, trimmed, well groomed, perfect nose and dark eyes. Tall, very tall and tanned. She raised her eyebrows at the diamond studs in his ears and laughed.
“What?”, he asked, his pride at being assessed positively hurt at the sudden although very sexy throaty laughter.
“Diamond studs?!”, she scoffed.
“Am I interrupting?”, a very nice voice asked.
They turned towards the man with the beautiful voice. She jumped up from her seat and hugged his 6′2″ tall frame. He kissed her forehead and tucked her hair behind her ear, he raised his eyebrows ever so slightly at the other occupant of the table and she obliged.
“Rohit, meet Dev.”
The men shook hands and took their seats. The orders were repeated, and Dev asked for a Black Label with Soda. The cigarettes were lit, Dunhills for her, Marlboro Lights for Rohit, and Marlboro Reds for Dev.
“Why this bar? Don’t you like the Whiskey Bar?”, Dev asked her, still unable to come to terms with the Food-court + Bar place.
“I like it. It reminds me of when I was young? Don’t you like it too? Rohit?”
Before Rohit could respond, Dev spoke, “So, how long have you known each other?”
“A long time,” she replied.
“Since first year college,” Rohit replied.
The conversation jumped from one topic to another, it careened dangerously on topics one never discusses after the “fuck off” has been delivered by one of the parties. It would relax, while everyone sipped their drinks, all in all, it was one uncomfortable table. Of course, she was at complete ease, she lazed in the over-sized arm chair like a gorgeous member of the feline species. She took Dev’s hand in her and exclaimed, like she always did, “My hands are tiny!” She also compared her hands with Rohit’s and whispered, “Not bad, they don’t look so small now”. She laughed at a ridiculously funny work story Dev had narrated and pointed out how adorable Rohit’s dimples were. She purred ‘Oh! Darling!”, whenever Dev paid her a compliment. The men were miffed, for very different reasons of course.
The evening wore itself out.
“Nice meeting you, we should catch up again sometime”, Rohit uttered the usual niceties.
“Sure. We will plan something out…”, Dev left it at that. She nodded and picked up her bag.
That night, in his expensive apartment, and even more expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, Dev competed with the memories of Rohit, and pulled out all his tricks. She became very loud. He looked very satisfied and very tired. She walked to the French window, and stood staring at the dark, silent, sleepy city she called her own. She lit a Dunhill, and inhaled. Exhaled. She stood there, posing for him. Smoking. Playing with her silver earrings, and twirling her hair. He turned on his side, stared at her glowing post-coital skin, her gloriously messy hair, and the tattoo on her ankle. He waited for her to finish smoking, only to ask her to light another, from his packet.
She walked towards him, and he knew. She smiled knowingly, and he smiled back. As she opened the packet of Marlboro Reds, she raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. “What is this, Sir?”
“What do you think it is, Ma’am?”
“Keys?”
“Yes, I think you should move in.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Now, come back to bed. I want to kiss you.”
“No, not now.”
“Okay, but hurry up. We have to move your stuff in tomorrow. It’s the only day I’m not working for the next two weeks”.
“Okay.”
She walked to the kitchen, and brewed herself some Jasmine tea. As she sipped on it luxuriously, she grinned, very Cheshire Cat like. She visited Lala-land, and planned the changes to the kitchen, the living room, and the guest-bedroom, which will be her study, rather library. She drained the cup and walked back to the bedroom. As she slipped under the covers, she let her hands trail the length and breadth of his chest… he stirred and let her bury her face in his shoulder. She sighed and drifted off to sleep.
Thank you, Rohit, she purred.
