The Better Side Of Me

The Sinking Beauty

2011-04-27T12:17:00.000-07:00

The Sinking Beauty

The war veteran watched his sizzling limbs fly off as soon as he stepped on the hand-drawn X. The pretty little Londoner was already lulled to her land of Alice. Mr. Straight-as-a-gun-barrel had taken to polishing his proud Smith & Wesson. The comatose Willie swept the floors at these ungodly hours with his Japanese brand of silent-protesting against a deck-load of burden. Amélie’s left eye precipitated as she recalled how she became an outcast after her vociferous refusal of an aristocratic life partner. The jug of whiskey inside Jack started creeping the bejesus out of Rose.

Nobody could deny the tremors they felt as each shared a second of frothy horror at the thought of unholiest of the holies. Subconscious conspired an unritualistic mass awakening before it realized its limitations and settled down.

And then the war veteran cursed his war-tarred imagination. The pretty little Londoner crept into the burrow to find herself in a canal that had a little flicker at the end. Mr. Straight-as-a-gun-barrel pointed his Smith & Wesson at the oval mirror, fantasizing a won roulette, la Russian way. The comatose Willie rushed to the railing to trace the suddenness of the tremors. Amélie’s left eye pursed hard to squeeze out residual tears before she was handed a fugitive dinner napkin. And the jug of whiskey got a glassful of company as up above, the cords continued to reverberate the clot of mismatched lustful thoughts.

Willie was no sinner. He was an earnest rightful man who did not fall prey to any of the tantalizing cardinal sins. He had grown up in the suburbs of Wales before migrating to Southampton and joining the crew. He had lived a scrupulous, charitable life and did not indulge in depravations.

Willie, hence, stood transfixed at the sight the off-white offered at frequent intervals.

Willie had no knack for crystals or teacups. He did not foresee, nor did he daresay he could foretell. But beneath his dense crop of auburn delight lay acumen with a penchant of blooming under pressure. Willie would not tell me thus but I could read the next two hours forty minutes in his intuition.

The shell-shocked war veteran would die unrecognized as he travelled an absconding war-disillusioned. The pretty little Londoner would go further down her burrow and implore the Dormouse not to be so rude. Mr. Straight-as-a-gun-barrel would threaten to kill and then act on his threat before descending down the icy darkness. Amélie would scream her lungs out when they trample over her bony frame. And Jack would surrender himself completely to the ruthlessness of fate before his nihilistic ego would spout a death-reflex – “Oh God.”

No, Willie wouldn’t disagree with me. But nor will he say it. He will just take it down with him, staring transfixed, as the speck would grow distant, disappearing after a quick moony peek-a-boo.

Meanwhile, the captain would desperately cling on to sanity, scraping his memory for a shanty. Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe, he would moan. They would all take turns – the captain, the architect, the able seamen, the lookouts. The learned ones would recall stories of Stead, the devout of them would pray for forgiveness, the introspective would chide themselves for their inherent wretchedness and the retrospective would wonder if this was how it was supposed to end. They would all take turns crying, increasing the sea level one drop at a time, increasing the temperature one warmth at a time.

They would think and they would pray. They would engage in the soul-crushing debate of the right to survival. And they would sail on, mourning for the ship that could not live to its epithet.

That day would then on be remembered as 15^th April of 1912.

Notes: This one is about a part fantasy Titanic incident in which at the end, captain and his crew instead of launching the exercise of saving as many people as possible, realize the futility of the rescue mission beforehand and decide to flee themselves. Parts that indicate this:

The speck that Willie stares at: Of the rescue boats being hauled away filled with the crew members themselves.

The crew members indulging in a debate of right to survival.

And so on.

A Few Words About My Fifteenth Time

2011-04-27T12:01:00.000-07:00

Regular readers might be familiar with my moodiness. I posted 2 parts of Riya and then I left it in the middle (I still hope to work it out). My last post was part one of 1 Dollar but the next post won’t be its part two. It will be me fulfilling one of my New Year resolutions – an art house post. To that effect, this one is titled ‘The Sinking Beauty’.

I had been toying with this idea since more than a fortnight. I now realize that excessive thinking can damage a venture, which was about to happen as I was on the verge of trashing the idea due to apprehension about execution. Then the familiar boredom conspired with sudden inspiration and a quick discussion with a friend later, work began.

Acknowledgements:

This story is dedicated to Lohna Matthu Sir, a fellow blogger who has by far been my biggest inspiration on the internet. His works are a class apart. This tribute in no way matches to his depth and wit but I’d still insist that one read carefully as it does has some layers.

Radhika Dhuru: For being a beam of support, for uncanny editing skills and for being that big bubbling cauldron of positivity that she is.

1 Dollar

2011-04-13T04:48:00.001-07:00

1 Dollar

Part 1

This one was a ten forty slow local for Kasara.

Not that it mattered though.

After getting a lazy wake up foot-shove from mother, I had munched on some left-over pav and come with her to Kurla station, where our workday daily begins. The best part about our work: flexible timings.

I entered the men’s first class compartment. It was bang opposite the station entrance and the laziness hadn’t worn off yet. My mother had taught me well. We were never supposed to enter a ladies’ compartment. Take my word, they are the most miserly and crabby lot. From the irritating tch tch to the unmasked contemptuous shove, they can be a real pain. Men are a lot better. They take pity on your tattered clothes, little curled up fingers and the pathetically pitiful expression on your face. Worst case- they’ll ignore you completely. But till the worst case arrives, you have happily collected around 15 rupees in 5 minutes. Next stop, next bogie. Life wasn’t so bad- you do the math.

Sometimes mother and I adopted different tactics. Instead of going into different compartments each, we got into the same one. You know the long long general bogie, right? She started singing this holy song, call it beggar pop if you want as this writer does, with the two thin wooden blocks clinking loudly, almost irritating everyone into submission. She stood in the middle of the passage, and I was supposed to go up to everyone and beg. “Make as much body contact as possible,” I was taught. “Tap them. Done? Now do it again. Brush against their knees, and look straight up at the standees after getting as close as possible. Make them feel they’re big and it’s their duty to help us small people. The key to being a good beggar is being innocently pesky.”

I followed her instructions. I was rewarded.

Today I went into the first class while she chose the adjoining general one. I started to hear the faint clanging musical tribute to Sai Baba. I took a quick glance at the compartment while digging my nose. Two people hanging by the rod, a couple of them leaning against the partition, some 10-15 sitting, plugs in their ears, newspapers in their hands, some with sacks on their laps, a white couple in half pants, two students chatting animatedly…

A white couple in half pants.

Big dig.

I decided to lasso myself to the whiteys. I like these whiteys. For one, they look good. I never miss them out when I’m working near some temple. I stand and run up to them or if not in an active mood, stare at them till they’re out of sight. Those blue eyes, chiseled features, yellow-brown hair, and pink lips and cheeks, can a human possibly get more fascinating? And then, they tip you well. Like, real well. I remember my mother telling me they once ruled India and looted us while departing, which is why people like me and her roam on the streets today begging. So I guess it’s only fair that they be the most generous lot. And they are.

Retribution, y’know.

They were sitting at the end of the compartment, leaning against this lower half steel partition with the upper half having the horizontal bars. I went up to them and conjured up the best woeful expression possible, extending my hand.

“Gimme some rupees please, sahib,” I pleaded. I touched my tummy, then my mouth, gesturing starvation. “I’ve eaten nothing since the morning. Some rupees please.” Yes, obviously they didn’t get me and I didn’t get their subsequent conversation either- the language divide. But mother says you have to talk. The more you do, the better it is for you.

The words of wisdom worked this time too. The man turned and looked at me for a couple of seconds. Yes, us beggars are an eye magnet for these whiteys. The woman with him turned too. She seemed unmoved though, and went back to staring out of the window. But the moment the man dug into his pockets, she turned.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Just look at this poor soul, dear,” the man ventured on to explain. His hand now sported a hundred rupee note. I almost drooled.

“What is wrong with you?” Her tone wasn’t exactly a beggar’s delight type. “You know we can’t afford to do that. We’re stranded here since two weeks and thanks to you, all we have is these measly hundred bucks.”

“But we are going to the exchange now,” the man feebly protested.

“And where will the money to reach there come from?”

The man looked dejected at the truncated effort at helping humanity as he kept the hundred rupees back in his pocket. I kept poking though. He sadly turned away. I decided to pin the hopes of lunch on my own countrymen and moved ahead when I heard a “Hey”. I turned around and it was the whitey again. He removed a funny looking note from his pocket. The lady started to protest but was sharply snapped. I neared the man and he gave me the funny note. I looked at it for a second and bent to touch his feet. I keep these for special occasions. He immediately withdrew them with an embarrassing laugh.

“Go, kiddo,” he said. “I hope you can find some use of this.”

I don’t know what it meant. I went away anyway. My job here was done.

“Next station, Mulund.”

I always liked the electronic announcement system inside the new trains. It has made India come of age, I feel. First Marathi, then Hindi and then English: assisting everyone with a possible vernacular handicap. Ain’t that sweet? Me and my mother would’ve had finished scrounging the most of the train by now. Mulund is our meeting point, when I bring all the money I’d collected neatly tied in a handkerchief I keep in the left pocket of my frock. And depending on the earnings, we decide if to settle for a measly vada pav or a luxurious meal hand-cooked by mother herself.

But today I felt a tad bit discomfited. I was pretty lax today- damn them foreigners. The thing they gave me, the note, was the culprit. Like, huge. I had never seen anything as beautiful before. Though slightly crumpled, the yellow fantasy was far too attractive to not be infatuated about. The corners clearly said it was a '1'. But unlike the genial looking Bapu there was this smug faced old man on the front, with shock of a white untidy hair combed back, a scarf tied around his neck before the abnormally large collared suit. Yes, all this was me ignoring my job, observing the note while sitting on the compartment floor among several other pairs of knees. The back of the note had this building made of so many pillars; it almost looked like a cage, a cage with a flag waving on the top.

Ah, the grandiosity.

So I never realized when the train pulled into the station. It was only when three of the shuffling feet brushed me, one of them almost deliberately hard, that I looked up and hurriedly got down. My left showed my mother’s impatient eyes coming closer. I started walking towards her slowly and we met near the exit. Nobody spoke for a few minutes. Mother was busy counting her earnings while we were walking towards Dinanath Chauhan flyover.

“Only forty three,” she finally cursed. She looked at me. I blankly looked back. “Do I now have to beg you to give me the money?” she said.

I handed over the handkerchief. She wasn’t pleased at the size. “What the hell were you doing?” she demanded. “Is this even a twenty?” She started counting. I almost prayed it to be lesser. A wounded ego and a lax daughter would be a difficult combination to face.

Turned out, it was “Twenty three,” she spat. “Only twenty three. When the kerosene prices are almost burning me alive, this bitch goes and gets only twenty three rupees. What are we going to do with only sixty six rupees and a gambler father to support?”

We had almost reached under the flyover by now. Bute’s wife was looking at the tamasha, and so was her imp of a boy, still curled up in that pink and grey mattress, watching gleefully with his chin cuddled up in his palms. That good-for-nothing whoreson.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” mother grabbed hold of my chin and crudely turned it to face her. Her left arm grabbed mine and started pinching me. “What were you doing? You earn a sixty single handedly. Today you give me a twenty three. And I’m supposed to take it just like that?”

I struggled against her iron grip. We beggars might be starving beings but when it comes to a hot-head, brute strength emerges out of nowhere. My flailing didn’t work. It only agitated her further. Her arm swung and whacked me square.

“Shut up now,” she said tartly. “Quietly come after me.” She went on mumbling obscenities in an undertone. Bute’s wife, that ugly obnoxious thing with a witch’s nose and tobacco stained teeth, came up to us as we entered the part between the parking space under the bridge and its end. She was one of the most repelling women. Not only was she uncouth, she the most irritating laughs ever which she incidentally was very generous with. But the worst part, she didn’t speak, she cackled. And for her, the whole ghetto was a family and she the counselor.

“What happened, sister,” she asked mother, touching her arm.

“Life happened,” mother dismissed her, brushing off her touch. “Don’t come near me. I have to talk to Parshu. He might just hit you.” Introducing Parshu, my alcoholic father. Nickname- Ungrateful bastard.

“You ungrateful bastard (See?), wake up,” mother said. He lay at the end of the flyover, with the roof just a few feet above his head. Of course, he was rolled and put there by others. A typical night goes with him showing up around 4 am and demanding to see “My fucking wife.” Why? “Dammit, coz she’s one slut who gives me for free. Give me her.”

After tolerating him for a few months, we had decided to move in with my uncle who lived in Kurla in a kachcha house, a much better option to living under a bridge. The other men however were not as patient with him. More often than not, they knocked him out, which wasn’t so hard when you faced a frail man living off tharra since last couple of years, and rolling him towards the end of the bridge so that when he woke up and groggily rose, the thud on the forehead will bring him to his senses. Each morning we came to him and fed him, coaxing him to go join some construction work where he used to go before me and mother moved from Varanasi. But then, it always ended with a spate of hot arguments ending with them clawing at each other before the others separated them.

“He won’t wake up before two,” Bute shouted from his morning ablutions from an across the street, on an open gutter. “Yesterday was easy. He just came and collapsed.”

Mother clicked her tongue and started rolling him back to a more comfortable spot, ignoring his semi conscious grumbles. I started helping her, using my right hand to push.

“He’s your father, not some dalit. Use both hands,” mother snapped. “What are you hiding in them anyway?”

And snap. I had been too obvious. Since getting down, the beauty lay crumpled in my left fist. I didn’t want to share it with anyone, especially not with my mother who I knew would’ve grab it and I wouldn’t have gotten to see it ever. But this was my treasure, and I didn’t intend to let go of it that easy.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Show me that,” mother swiftly moved towards me but I’d already anticipated that and instantly hopped back.

“You ungrateful wench, you dare to hide money from me?” She made another quick unsuccessful grab at me. I was alarmed. She was the kind of person inflammable in vacuum. I decided to take off to a safer location but mother wasn’t in a mood to concede defeat. “Catch her,” she shouted to others. There are usually around 20 of others snoring at night but only five around this time of the day. But then, how many does it take to catch a ten year old?

A minute later, I was sitting quietly amongst the din of the traffic and the fellows who held me by arms as mother forcibly uncurled my fist and snatched the note. My note.

“Whoa,” she exclaimed. “Do you know what this is?” She passed her glittering eyes over others’ awed faces.

“Looks like foreign money,” one offered. “A note of ten. That has to be a lot.”

“How much do you think?” mother asked softly.

“Wait for my man to come,” Bute’s wife cackled. “He knows all about it.”

“I’m sure,” Mother dismissed.

“It is because he can read. He’s a fourth pass, remember?” Bute’s wife said proudly.

“It must be around a thousand, I’m sure,” said Savitri, a wizened old woman with inhuman wrinkles all over her body as her USP.

“I say two thousand,” someone else chipped in.

“Whatever it is, it will be enough to last you for a week,” said Chunni bhai, walking in the gathering unnoticed. “You got an angel of a daughter.”

“Yeah, an angel ready to fly off before even blessing us,” my mother looked at me. I looked back defiantly. My blood was boiling. It was my note.

“Look at her,” she chuckled. “What happened baby? How come the angel’s black eyes are not gleaming beads but burning coals?”

“Give it back to me,” I hissed.

“What?” my mother mocked, only instigating me further.

“Give it back to me,” I said louder.

“This?” she pointed at the note. “Okay.” She extended her hand. “Take it.”

I rose cautiously and moved closer.

The whack sent me reeling back. “Did you see that?” mother said almost gleefully. “This girl won’t give me the money at first, and now she wants it back. I raised you only for you to become this thankless?”

What happened next is still a blur to visualize. All I know is some superhuman strength conjured up inside me and I made a dash at her. Before she could even realize it, I had bitten her hand, wriggled out of the five people circling us and kicked the face of Sonu, Bute’s imp of a son. And of course, gotten my note back.

Freedom feels nice and windy when you are running.

A Few Words About My Fourteenth Time

2011-04-13T04:26:00.000-07:00

Less talk, more business.

This one's called '1 Dollar',the protagonist being a beggar girl child. I started working on this last year. It got delayed due to various reasons. Thanks to the inception of summer and the customary break, I hope that I can breathe some fresh life into this one with a rejuvenated perspective that some recent events have brought in me. Any which way, this one, being quite long, I have decided to post in two parts.

Do let me know how you find it. I have said this numerous times and I say this again- I have open to criticism. Brutal honestly is all I ask for.

P.S. Check out The Bedtime Story post. You might just be in for a sweet surprise :)

A Bedtime Story

2011-03-04T04:14:00.000-08:00

This story was in the top 10 of 'Faces- A story writing competition' sponsored by the NGO Aastha and will be published in print soon.

A Bedtime Story

Once upon a time...

“What do you think I am- a toddler?”

I scowled.

Once upon a time I was. I still am, of course, but today I am just a ‘was’. I still live, lifeless, though nobody cares now. Not that it matters though. Not to me, not to them. I belong to nobody, I am nobody. My name was Riya, but nobody knows it today. To me, I am still Riya...

“I think I’ll just leave now. You’re going nowhere. Cut to the chase, dammit.”

“Do you or do you not want it?” I snapped. You should never let them get the better of you.

He chose silence.

“Then we’ll do it my way,” I said. “Argh, now I forgot where I was.”

“You are still Riya,” he said helpfully, his voice suitably humble.

I don’t want to get into my birth and all. Ma and Pa worked at construction sites and didn’t have any far-fetched ‘rags to riches’ dreams for me. I was born poor, lottery was a bitch and so the only priority was two meals per day which three of us shared with Pa getting the largest, always. My way of living was hands-raised-to-head-to-reach-the-mouth, as most of my kind do- carrying the cement around. At the end of the day, if the Bade Sahab was sober, I would get paid well. Our lives passed thus. We had never heard of any Sarva Shiksha Abhiyaan or the child labour ban. But we were still content. God bless ignorant bliss.

I never knew a day would come when I would have to knock on his door- my uncle’s, wait an endless wait, knock over and over again, get sworn at by harried neighbours until the door opened only to be stared at by a half familiar face, a feeling not reciprocated, and thus explain myself- my identity and my reason for being there.

But then, I don’t get premonitions, do I? How was I supposed to guess the death of my Ma and Pa, to foresee the fall, to guess the weakness of the protective nets? My mother dove in to save my dad. How did she expect to do that? By defying gravity?

It was all so sudden; I don’t even remember how that felt. Maybe that’s what they call numbness. The bodies were almost mashed into one with splattered blood and scattered bones. I could hear a few screams; see a couple of women swooning and had to wait mutely as Bade Sahab rushed to the spot.

I never knew he was so concerned about me- he gave me a thousand rupees and told me that he knew my uncle. I vaguely recalled staying in uncle’s chawl the day I came to Mumbai. That was about five years ago when me and my mother had arrived here from Bangla. It wasn’t surprising that the Bade Sahab knew of him- he kept the names and addresses of each of his employees’ relatives in a small black worn-out diary titled ‘2001’, lest something went fishy. I was strictly told to keep mum about the accident and never reveal myself to anyone. I had never seen so many Gandhis in my life so I readily obeyed. I was patted on the back and sent ‘home’, which, for a change, wasn’t the sloping roofed cow-dung floored one from my childhood or the tin walled one in my Mumbai life. It was made of concrete- something I helped build my whole working life but never quite enjoyed the benefits of. Now I was enjoying benefits of somebody else’s sweat.

“Sweet,” he smiled.

I ignored him.

It was around 11 pm. I knocked.

His house was on the top floor. “The first floor, at the corner,” Bade Sahab had told me when he personally dropped me in an auto-rickshaw, introducing me to a luxury I’d never before experienced. Overwhelmed, I had touched his feet. He had smiled and hugged me, repeating that I maintain a complete silence over the matter.

I knocked again. Then I spotted the doorbell. Pressing it, no expected ‘ding’ came. I took a second look at the chawl. The common ground the three sides shared had a small dais in the middle which I guess is used during the Ganesh Chaturthi and a flag post on the side. A saffron flag lay limp on it.

“Madhav uncle,” I called out softly, leaning closer to the door.

No response.

“Madhav uncle!” A bit louder this time.

“Chyamaila,” I heard an irritated voice from an adjoining house. I decided to shut up for a while. Just when I had almost given up, the door opened and he appeared.

My Uncle Madhav.

A staring Uncle Madhav.

I attempted a smile. He held the door with his left palm resting on its top. He gave no sign of recognition, no hint of wanting to inquire who the hell I was and what was I doing at that time in front of his house. I decided to fill that void. My parents had deserted me out of the blue (as instructed by Bade Sahab) and I didn’t have anywhere to go. He let me in, still staring. He asked no questions, prodded no further, just quietly made a little gap so that I could pass in. I did.

Closing the door behind me, Uncle Madhav moved near the cot. He dragged a worn out mattress out of it and spread it on the floor. His pillow with its greasy cover was kept on a side. He seemed satisfied with the courtesy he had extended.

“Sleep,” he said, in a throaty voice and lay back on his bed closing his eyes on the world.

I obeyed. In a short time, I was asleep too.

“It is a true story, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to.

“Listen, I’m not here to hear the poor pathetic tale of a poor pathetic girl. It’s already been,” he glanced at his watch, “fifteen minutes and all you’ve told me is how your life is a miserable whore.”

“Joke?”

“Fuck jokes. I’m not here to pity you.”

“Can’t stop me, can you?” Retorts work. Always.

Oh yes, speaking of pity, where did I leave you off in my pitiful tale? Right, I was sleeping at my uncle’s place. Now, if this writer guy who’s relating you my whines were attempting for a Booker or Pulitzer, he would’ve told you how I woke up with the din of people waiting for the common bath-n-shit room, the Hindi film songs from the neighbour’s radio, how I got up and went to the common balcony and would’ve given you a dozen pages description of the skyline, the human buzz, the pooping dogs and cackling birds, and the thoughts running through my mind while I observed those with heavy words such as ‘surging curiosity’ and ‘relishing nakedness of simplicity’ and describe some people to be ‘effervescently charming’ while others ‘eminently forgettable’ while being Kafkaesque like now. But you see he is not aiming for that. Psst, if you ask me, he can’t get that! So here we go- jumping directly to the dark parts.

The part when my uncle first violated me.

This didn’t happen the very next day I came to stay at his place. Oh no, my uncle is better than jumping at the first conveniently available female at sight. He tried to resist me, tried to stave me off. He maintained a distance physically and I am equally sure he tried to do the same mentally. Yep, full marks for trying.

This happened the third day, night rather. I was lying on the bed watching a mosquito trapped in a spider’s web when my uncle barged in. This was unusual; usually he gets in as if he is sneaking inside a stranger’s house with intent of robbery.

He shut the door loudly and I heard at least three different voices swearing for disturbing them in the dead of the night. One of them was ‘Chyamaila’, the Marathi swear which was by now my favourite. And boy, did he reek! Usually he removes his sweaty shirt and dirty pants, hangs it on the door, slips in his pyjamas and sleeps without even glancing at me. But today as he undressed, he threw the clothes on the floor and advanced towards me.

Chyamaila!

I stood up instantly, petrified. His pace quickened. Before I could react, he had locked me in a grip. His left palm covered my mouth, lest I cried out.

“Shh,” he whispered in my ears. I could smell the stink of the tharra even more vividly. His oily hair brushed against my ear and I felt something slimy against my cheek.

“Yum, you taste good,” he said.

I panicked and started struggling, trying to scream but only a small nasal sound came out. The grip was beastly. And now his other hand was kneading my breasts.

“My God! Have you ever looked at yourself, Riya,” he said, his breath fast and excited. This was the first time he had uttered my name. I hated the timing. “You look so bloody good. And damn, you feel even better. Your long fragrant hair…” He loosened my hair. I thrashed about harder and fell down on the mattress sideways with him holding me from the back. My hair half fell on my face and I sensed him smelling it.

“Your beautiful long hair, your growing breasts, your soft skin…do you have any idea how horny they all make me?” He was feeling me all over. I tried screaming again.

He twisted my arm. “Shut up,” he growled. “Or I swear I’ll cut you up. Heard of a kukri? That lies right on the top shelf. Be nice and this will be over soon. And you’ll enjoy it too. Trust me, I’m good.”

I eased up out of no choice. His hand slid downward and stroked my thighs. Curiously, I liked it.

“You know,” he said in a sickeningly silky voice. “The night you came in, I couldn’t sleep. The whole night I was staring at you. Doesn’t that tell how much I love you? But I tried to hold myself back. She’s your niece, I told myself. But love knows no boundaries, no blood-ties. All the time I was drinking, I fantasized about you. And now, I actually have you…” he paused. “Let me make love to you.”

He let go of my mouth and started tearing off my dress from the chest.

“Let go of…” I screamed, only half-heartedly before it was muffled with his iron hold on my mouth.

Now why scream if I liked it, you would ask. I’ll tell you something- not every rape victim cries after the man is done with her. Not every rape victim fails to have an orgasm if the sex is good. Not every rape victim is a victim of circumstances. But as far as the nakhras are concerned, every rape victim will do it.

Or maybe, it’s just me.

“Shut up, bitch,” he whispered acidly. He darted towards his pants, took out a handkerchief and gagged me. I tried turning away when he slid off my panties but a strong hand slapped my butt. It stung but I once again, I liked it. I decided not to resist when I saw his fat small throbbing organ ready to dip in me.

“That’s my Riya,” he moaned in pleasure. “Oh yeah, you’re so bloody good. See, that’s the trick-…”

And then he uttered those magical words that changed my life with him since that moment.

“…enjoy, don’t resist.”

I gave in. And I’ll tell you what, it felt good. I recall the one time I saw Ma and Pa at it. I was almost asleep when I heard a low groan near me. I opened my eyes a little and saw Pa on top of Ma. I was alarmed at the first but something told me not to interrupt. They went on for a few minutes at the end of which Ma let out a louder moan and Pa lay by her side, gasping like he did when he dragged a piles of stones for a long time. I remember the big smile Ma had on her face- and that told me it wasn’t pain but pleasure. A painful pleasure. Asking around the next day, I got to know that it was what is called fucking.

And now I was fucking. And it felt good. Real good. And at a point, I moaned too.

I moaned a pleasure moan.

“That should do it.” His voice was quivering in excitement as he got up and nearly pounced on me.

***

“Six, seven and... eight. There.”

He threw eight notes of five hundred rupees on the bed. The deal was of five thousand. I picked them up without a word. I was in no state to argue.

He was buttoning up his shirt. “Was it good for you?” he asked.

Small talk?

“You know, nobody wanted to do this. I once offered six to this ugly bitch but she was being such a prude! A prostitute with morals- can you believe that?” He laughed.

I looked into his eyes. There was an inferno of disgust raging in me. “So the more money you have, the flexible morals get, is that it?”

“And you say this?” he smirked.

I clipped my blouse, opened the door and banged it shut behind me. I was the smallest person in the whole wide world to have stooped to this level. Maybe I just needed to spit this out to someone, I tried justifying to myself. As I started walking down the staircase, the encounter with the pervert in the previous hour flashed before my eyes.

“Please please, I’m willing to give you anything. All I want is a story. Give me one with any family member raping you when you were a kid and you enjoying it before we do it. Just make it up, how hard can it be? Besides, you must get customers with special needs like me all the time.”

“Get away, you disgusting freak,” I resisted and started walking away. For a few moments, there was silence. Then there was-

“Five thousand.”

I froze on my tracks. A second later, I looked back. He was smiling.

“Only for my children,” I intoned. A fat tear plopped out drenching a bit of the tar on the road. “From the worst bedtime storyteller mom.”

A Few Words About My Thirteenth Time

2011-02-12T21:43:00.000-08:00

I’ll be honest. I am in a bit of a conundrum here about the story which I wrote two afternoons ago, whether or not to publish it coz of legal issues. But before we get into that, I’m gonna give you a little background here.

It happened last month, if my memory isn’t betraying me. I signed up for a story writing competition for an NGO that works for the rehabilitation of sex workers. It had a pretty novel fundraising strategy- invite people from three top colleges of Mumbai to write a fictional piece after a personal interaction with the sex workers, dole out generous prizes to the best pieces and publish those in the form of a book. Writers happy, NGO happy- both conveniently make money, or at least stand a chance to.

I signed up for it and went on to have this extremely interesting two hour chat with this lady. After coming home, for the first time, I jotted down all the inputs, drew a layout and decided on the style and tone of execution. Next day I realized there’s a word limit- 2500.

Fuck.

The style I wanted to opt for was very elaborate and to squeeze it in 2500 meant compromising the effect. I decided to chuck it and then Riya came to the rescue.

If you remember, Riya has been my unfinished dream project since ages. It has bothered me so much that I've always wanted to bring a closure to it by any goddamn way. Shockingly, then it dawned on me how many blatant similarities lay in the tale she told me and the tale I wrote, mostly in the introduction of Riya’s character. And hoo-ha-bang, thus ‘A Bedtime Story’ emerged.

This one has borrowed a large chunk from the original, edited it, refined it, and twisted it to fit into a brand new tale. It’s not completely original as I've plagiarized from my own work. But then, that shouldn’t really bother you- I’m willing to bet nobody has read Riya, going by the length (2 parts with more than 10 pages each) and the number of comments (none). That having said, check the slim version out. You might just like it. Just a little bit of warning though-

It’s rated- A.

Cheers!

Acknowledgements:

Neil Alex: As usual. For his valuable comments, feedback and proofreading. Damn dude, I owe you tons.

Candid Lounge

2011-01-26T10:50:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, yours truly is proud to present the extension of The Better Side Of Me-

Candid Lounge

First Post, Second Decade

2011-01-01T11:43:00.000-08:00

Er, I just thought it would be polite to update my blog on this eve; also because self promotion is not always a bad thing.

New year, new beginnings and new bloopety blah. I don’t know if that works for you but I, for one, think it’s just an excuse people want to start afresh. Insecure, dissatisfied beings that we are, we want something to conspire an ass-kick for us so that we may rise up to something constructive before settling into the sand-bag existence.

What’s that? Spoken like a true cynic? Why, thank you! Chocolate?

2010 has been another ‘meh’ year. Exciting in some ways, dreary in others, but comparatively a better one when one thinks about the holed up IIT aspirant days. Nerdiest one too, thanks to the ample time I get to chomp on all the things I like to do, that too in the name of education- from books to graphic novels and manga to movies and music. Softwares and photography came in as side orders to be relished with equal vigour. But this post is not about that but a blog-retrospect and some ‘resolutions’.

Hey, I, too, am your cockadoodie ass-kick-needing labradoodle.

So, looking back at my two years (is it?) worth of writing, review time-

1. The End: A part fiction post on a suicidal IIT aspirant. Decent start.

2. … : (I would never acknowledge that. Sucked badonkadonks)

3. The Break-Up: Clarification- It's fictional. An attempt at exploring the emotional description prowess. Turned out partly emo.

4. The Protagonyst: Inspiration phase- R K Narayan. Extremely noble concept with a cancer patient as the protagonist and an unexpectedly nice execution. An achievement by the then standards.

5. Cow-Boy: Average storyline, an attempt at capturing innocence of a 12 year old. Something Roald Dahl fans would dig.

6. Caller Tune: And yours truly comes of age. A 10 minute movie script originally meant to be adapted in an animation movie format, later made twice as a short movie. Then on, the fascination with dark themes stuck.

7. Depressing Life: A short nonsensical fun rap made while dawdling through exams.

8. Luhv: A lameass 55 fiction capitalizing on the Section 377.

9. The Watchmaker: An epic. Without mincing words, one of my finest works (though today, I can edit a lot more and make it smoother). Great concept and an execution to justify it.

10. The Girl Behind the Counter: A fine accomplishment from a genre I think is the hardest to dabble into- romance. Fictionalized events inspired from a real person.

11. A Dedication: A shortie. Smooth and sweet.

12. The Recipe: Another dark shortie. Neat, to say the least.

13. 13 Knots: Came after a long hiatus. Inspiration phase- Arvind Adiga. Nice concept but a bumpy execution. The hangman’s tale is great in parts but loses out in some.

14. Riya I & II: One on which my biggest hopes rode. The psychological multi-layered tale was lost for two months with my PC conking off- all of the 40 pages. Though I managed to recover it, it had by then lost the zing. Maybe someday…

15. Fuck: Another fun-rap conceived in a sleepless night.

16. Colour Code: Another one of the successful attempts at deviancy. A stalker’s account.

17. Shadows: The latest. The screenplay unexpectedly brought in unanimous praise from all the quarters. Dealing with societal residue, it waits to be adapted.

Though above mentioned perceptions are my own, I maintain one is his own harshest critic. Sniff no vanity here.

So, 2011. What now? Well, there’s a tentatively titled ‘1 Dollar’, an Adiga-esqe story. But that aside, one of the challenges I set myself is another attempt at romance. You see, tasteful romance is a rarity in spite of that being one of the largest written and consumed genres. I’ve read too many stories and only a handful has managed to appeal- off the top of my mind, there’s one on the blogosphere and another’s Erich Segal. That’s one.

Next, abstract writings, one that I’ve been fascinated with since ages. If you see my blog list, a certain Lohna Matthu lies- one such abstract writer. He once posted excerpts from a novel he had abandoned, and I crap you not, that is one of the top 3 most brilliant prose I have ever managed to come across.

Lastly, I'll let loose the beast in me and go on a murder rampage. If nothing else, it is satisfying.

That’s all for ‘Reader Connect’ for now. Coming up next: Another go at fiction. Or (spoiler alert), a notification of a non-fiction blog, an idea I’ve been toying with recently.

Hang around till then :D

Shadows

2010-12-10T11:25:00.000-08:00

Shadows

Duration:

Around 15-20 minutes.

Opening scene:

Time: 8.30 pm

Thane station.

A man in his late forties gets down a bridge. His gait is slow, bordering unsure. He has a ticket in his left hand and is dressed in tacky wear. His hair is oiled and combed neatly with a side partition.

Recorded announcement with the Hindi part ending:

8.30 slow local for Mumbai Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus is arriving shortly on platform number 2.

The man waits, but seems shifty as he does so. He’s trying to smoothen back his hair repeatedly, cleaning his shoes at the back of his pants and then lifting his leg to brush off the dust, dabbing his forehead with his kerchief, once even warily checking if the fly is open. He looks around and sees a food stall. He edges near it and tries to see his reflection on one of the smooth surfaces.

Stall owner:

“Haan saab, bolo.”

The man is abashed and moves away quickly.

Recorded announcement:

The train arriving on platform number 2 is 8.30 slow local for Mumbai Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus.

The surroundings now heat up, relatively. There are only a few people standing on the platform near the edge and you see a gleaming engine’s front moving closer. The man breaks into a trot to get to the empty compartment, which incidentally is first class, and finally enters.

The compartment is totally empty. The panting man grabs the pole, swings himself inside and chooses one of the window seats. Now he’s relaxed. The recorded voice inside the new rakes is finishing the announcement of Thane station in English. The train jerks to start once again as the man settles down with a virtual ‘stage one completed’ satisfaction. He folds his hands and looks out of the window. Soon, he closes his eyes gently as the wind begins to play with and in his hair.

The screen fades.

Recorded announcement:

“Next station- Mulund”

The man realizes as he’s woken awake with a slight forward inertial jerk. Another man gets in the compartment. He observes the empty compartment till his sight sets on our man. Our man’s is a bit too drowsy to care and his eyes close momentarily, with the camera taking the perspective of the eyes.

The eyes open, lighting up the screen now the man is sitting opposite to him, looking directly at him.

The eyes close again as does the screen.

The Mulund man:

The eyes open and the Mulund man is smiling, still looking at our man. Our man sits up straight till his backbone is touching the backrest, which earlier had dropped diagonally, trying to appear civilized.

The Mulund man:

(Smiling an even wider wistful, smug smile)

Oh no, relax.

Our man feels even more uncomfortable. He suddenly realizes this might be the TC. He looks at the crumpled ticket in his hand and gives it to him hastily.

Our man:

(In an abruptly-woken-up croak)

Ticket?

The Mulund man:

Nah, I’m no TC. Although,

(Peering at the ticket)

It seems to me that you don’t travel much by first class.

(Looks up)

Our man looks at the ticket and realizes his mistake of getting into a first class compartment. He is suitably embarrassed now.

The Mulund man:

Why, you don’t look like you even travel by the train much.

Our man:

(Meekly)

Actually, there’s this event I am going to…

The Mulund man:

(Sarcasm dripping)

Ah. So those two rascals gave you the invitation passes and the train ticket and whatnot, huh…Paul?

Paul:

(Taken aback at the other person recognizing him)

How…

(Stuttering)

how do you know my name?

The Mulund man:

Come on. So what if I also happen to know other things too- like you’re a grave-digger. But how I know is not important now, my man. What is important is that what you are doing right now and is it the right, or let me put it this way, is it a ‘sane’ thing to do.

Paul:

(Baffled)

What?

The Mulund man:

Sane thing Paul, you are attending a fest, a social gathering. Is it what a person in his right mind will do? That is- is it what a grave-digger in his right mind will do?

The confusion outsmarts the obvious question of how the virtual stranger knew about it.

Paul:

(Bewildered)

What are you talking about? And who are you?

The Mulund man:

(Shaking his head, leaning back in his seat and speaking in a disappointed tone)

Paul, Paul, how many, no tell me honestly, how many times have we discussed this over? Thousand? Five hundred? Ok, take hundred, just so that you feel good about yourself. But it’s still a goddamn hundred times we discussed the same thing over and over and over again.

(Leans forward)

How the fuck do you not get it?

Paul:

(Surging mystification is now stabbing his inherent awkwardness)

I don’t know what you are talking about.

The Mulund man:

You still don’t get it? You wretched dimwitted turd pile, I am you. I am your own voice. I am your own head, your own fucking brain. Yeah, I do look somewhat different,

(The man looks at his own apparel of white kurta-pajama)

But then, seeing your doppelganger would’ve had you shitting bricks, right?

Paul doesn’t know how to react. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Opens it to say something when…

The Mulund man:

(Dismissively)

Tut tut. Accept it- I am you. I am just another side of that piece of meatball that you call ‘your brain’. And I am here to dissuade you from doing something stupid, from this being a big poop-show for you, for bursting the pretty pink bubble you have created, tied with a ribbon of hopefulness. Long story short- I am here with a sharp needle of reality and I wanna hear a ‘pop’ right now.”

Paul’s face multiples 345467 by 6541258 and gives an expression accordingly.

The Mulund man:

I knew you wouldn’t understand. That’s why we all decided that I alone wouldn’t be enough. And so more are coming here to persuade you. We all know if you slip this time, this wound will have serious ramifications.

Paul:

(Slightly disoriented and not knowing what to say)

We?

Recorded announcement:

(In all 3 languages)

Next station, Bhandup.

The Mulund man:

(Smiling)

Sweet! B’s coming now. Which reminds me- I am A, by the way. Wow, look at that, I rhymed! Anyway, we decided that just so as that you don’t get confused between so many of us, we are going to give ourselves names. I am A, the one coming soon is B, next one will be C… you get the idea.

Paul is standing up now and moves away a bit from A.

Paul:

What the hell is going on? Is this some kind of a…

Joke?

(Brays)

Corny. You watch too much cinema. And no need to be dramatic. Sit the fuck down.

A stops talking and looks at the door. Paul is looking at the door too.

Enter B. He is wearing the same white kurta pajama, although the face is different. He directly goes towards Paul and B.

(Without a hint that he just joined in)

Yeah, I know I look different. But then seeing your own mirror image…

Already said that, B.

Yeah, I know. But our Paul needs some reassurance first. Two mouths are better than one, right? So,

(Settles down opposite Paul)

where were we?

I was…

(Dismissively)

Bah, I know where we were. I was only warming up.

(Turns to Paul)

As you might’ve sensed already, we’re all a bunch of mentally strong people, just a bunch of wired neurons in your case- coz we don’t really exist. But this just gives you the idea that even you have that side to you- the ‘fuck you, world’ side. And that’s what we’re here for. We’re here to save you from getting all fucked up.

(Discreetly)

That’s too many fucks, B.

(Turning to A)

Shut the fuck up.

(Back to Paul)

Let’s back-track things a bit, shall we? A few months ago you are approached by two guys and two girls interested in making a documentary on your life, rather, a grave-digger’s life. The females sweet talk you into baring your heart out and what do you do? You tell them everything.

(Flashes of the documentary run on the screen with the following as the voiceover)

You tell them about your job, how you’ve been doing it since last forty years, starting at the young, what was the word you used, ah, ‘tender’ age of 9 with all those shitty lines ‘Continuing the legacy, in a way’ and other bullcrap. You tell them how you are a social outcast, but still want to be one with the others. You thought you managed to move them when they went all ‘Aww’ over you witnessing the beating up your childhood ‘friend’ received from his parents for playing with you.

(In a falsetto)

Aww…

Both A and B snigger.

(Continuing)

Half baked friendships, unfulfilling life and constant loneliness in spite of having all those corpses for company- you told them all and they lapped it all. Then one day the minister comes and after a burial ceremony, casually mentions reading about a grave-digger’s documentary being shown in some Kala Ghoda festival. And what do you do about it?

Paul chooses silence.

(Tart tone, raising eyebrows in exasperation)

You sit in the train and set off to see it for yourself. I got a simple question- who do you think needs you there?

Frame fades out.

Recorded announcement:

(Begins as the next frame comes after the momentary blank screen)

Next station- Bhandup.

As the train halts, another person comes in and heads towards the troika. He is dressed in a similar fashion.

And this would be…

Paul:

(His tenor is suitably bogged down after the verbal lashings)

Bingo! Wow Paul, for a gravedigger, you are not so dumb. I tend to wonder why we are here in the first place.

Paul:

(Annoyed)

Do you have to keep saying that?

(Sits down beside Paul)

Oh yes sir, we do.

(Groaning the first line as if he is tired after a long walk)

Look here Paul,

(The tone soft)

I want you to know that the only reason why we are here is that we love you and we don’t want to see you getting hurt.

(A and B roll their eyes. C ignores them)

You do remember your last time, don’t you?

Dissolution to flashback in a B&W tint:

(There is a practice of the graves being re-dug from time to time to make place for others’, coffins opened and the remains- mostly ashes- are gathered, put in a pot and stored. Usually, the time a coffin stays buried is around 3 years in a Mumbai cemetery)

Paul is shown digging a grave around the evening time. As he opens the coffin, he is horrified when he sees a decomposing body with the face smashed inside instead of residual bones and ashes.

The DNA test establishes the body to be that of a slain politician. Next scene shows the interrogation by the police, Paul roughly shoved at relentlessly. The following one shows him taken into custody and being thrashed for details.

Next scene: He is let out. By now, he is physically shriveled and contorted, not to mention disillusioned and traumatized.

End of flashback.

You hear the loud noise of a fast paced hooting train passing by. Camera pans from the train to Paul who has dug his face into his palms in a conventional teary-eyed pose.

You, Paul, were flogged for doing your job. You were whipped for being a good citizen and informing the cops. What was your fault? Where did you err? I’ll tell you why this happened. Because you are a social reject. Because that is how the world works- by trampling upon the trampled. What do you think, if you had money, they would do this to you? They knew they had nothing to lose and you had no one to turn to. Add it up, what do you get? Your life.

Paul:

(Bursting out)

What’s your point? That it’s better to die than live a gravedigger’s (deliberate emphasis) life?

No, my point is you would only make a fool of yourself if you go. Listen, people don’t want you there. If they cared for you so much, they would’ve publicized about the hell you’ve been through during the murder incident ages ago. In the likes of the rich and mighty, you’ll only get spat at. There are rulers and there are the ruled. Everyone knows the kings. You know Akbar, you know Shivaji. Now name me one servant in the history who dared to stand up and wasn’t shot at.

Paul:

(Trying to defend a defeat)

Shivaji was a servant of Mughals too.

(With a slight edge in his voice)

Don’t flatter yourself, Paul. The servants we’re talking about here are the kinds of a king’s horse’s poop cleaner. Was your Shivaji a poop cleaner?

No reply.

(Gently)

It’s not your fault, Paul. It’s the world. It’s a shit-hole.

Scene fades.

Then lights up.

Paul is subdued and is crumpled up in his seat, brooding. A, B and C are looking at him. The train has stopped and a person enters, obviously D. He takes a quick look at the atmosphere and sits down beside C. All of them are silent for a while.

(Suddenly speaking up)

What’s up his ass?

Others chuckle at the sudden break in monotony.

(Turning to Paul)

I’m…

Paul:

(Muttering dejectedly)

D. I know.

Smart. We’re only a station away from our destination.

You say destination?

Yeah, you know it. Our man is still bathing in sunshine.

(Turning to others)

All you guys, all of you are hopeless.

(Annoyed)

Oh yeah? What have you got?

Watch and learn.

(Makes C get up and sits beside Paul, putting an arm around him)

How you doing, Paul?

Paul ignores him. There is a brief silence.

(Persistently)

What are you thinking?

Paul:

Shouldn’t you know? You are apparently my own mind.

(Smirking)

Yeah, I was just trying to make a small talk.

Once again, Paul doesn’t reply.

(Turning to the three)

Shame on you guys. Look how much you’ve depressed him. It’s okay Paul; I know how to lift you up. Shall I tell you a little story?

(Suddenly pepping up and rubbing his hands together)

Oh ya, let me tell you a little story. So, a long long time ago, there once lived a man. Now this man tried to stand up against norms. Guess what happened to him?

Takes a dramatic pause.

They nailed him. Know who he was? Anyone? Guys?

(The following few lines shot in a rapid way, the answers being shot from one to another)

Bhagat Singh.

Correct.

Maharathi Karna.

That’s right.

Jesus.

Wow, good one!

Mangal Pandey.

Go on.

Mahatma Gandhi.

Yep.

(Smirking)

Paul Fernandez.

(Clapping his hands)

Ooh, now there’s the question! Will he or won’t he? You see, our Paul is fortunate, more fortunate than Jesus himself. Why? Coz he’s got us. He’s got Anger, he’s got Bully, he’s got Compassion and me, Dread trying dead hard to knock sense into him. Our defeat is his scar. Our win is his victory. And as the next station comes, it will be our decider time- either we will win or he will lose. What would he like to do to himself? What would you like to do to yourself Paul?

The train hoots, signaling an oncoming station. Paul’s face is impenetrable. It is rigid as he gets up and moves slowly towards the door, his fists clenched. The faces of all four turn with him, watching him go. The train comes to a halt on platform 2. The announcement is ringing about the arrival of a Thane bound local on platform directly opposite.

There is an F.O.B. between the two platforms. Paul ignores it and goes straight ahead to the platform 3.

(Smiling)

Gentlemen, our man’s getting a train back home.

The others beam too.

Paul is nearing the edge of the platform, not stopping to wait for the train to arrive properly. The engine whistle is gradually rising. Someone screams for Paul to hang back.

Screen blanks out as there’s a crash, with piercing screams and rapid footsteps filling up the audio.

Any voice- A, B or C’s- palpably stunned:

That was not supposed to happen.

A Few Words About My Twelfth Time

2010-12-08T04:47:00.000-08:00

This is probably a longest time that I've taken to write a not-too-long script and its screenplay. The concept was always at the back of my mind. Execution began (questionable accuracy) roughly 7 months ago. I had watched a documentary last year in one of the college festivals. Though shoddily made, it explored the life of the repressed classes- in this case, a gravedigger, which left an unconscious impact on me. Couple it with one of my primary influences Arvind Adiga, and you get an Omkar wanting to write on such people. And thus is born what I choose to call "Underprivileged fiction" or fiction about the societal residue.

For this, I wanted to team up with a close friend. Somehow, that never worked out and I was stuck with an unfinished script with the usual bouts of insecurity at not being able to do justice to the concept. Work piled up and this was lost under the piling debris of priorities. And then came today.

I had missed out a lecture by a noted journalism personality. Feeling hugely guilty about it, a resolve built up- a "Let's make this day awesome" resolve. Now, I have no idea how awesome, if at all, this day has turned out to be, but I managed to write the script and also make a screenplay for the same. Tentatively titled 'Untitled' (a lame excuse for not thinking of a suitable title yet), it should be out, as per the tradition, in two days.

Hang around till then :D

Acknowledgements:

The aforementioned friend for never taking up the script work. God bless your laziness.

Arr0w- For editing, criticism and correcting a few n00b errors.

16:9 film festival for exposing me to one of the most breathtaking student films (titled Mai. A film by students of Whistling Woods) and this documentary.

Transgressional fiction, graphic novels, dark movies and all the deviant works for being there for the likes of me to dig. You make God’s middle children feel respected*

*See also: Fight Club.

Colour Code

2010-10-03T09:28:00.000-07:00

Colour Code

Yellow.

The colour of that small bulb in my room. The small bulb, emanating dull light luminous just about enough for me to make out my nose from my mouth as I stare into the mirror.

The colour of enigma, which was how I first came across the colour when I started registering them and attributing them to a certain elements in my life. I had to settle for this monotony to compromise darkness, it was no choice. My room was your typical Potter’s hole in the wall. The cardboard partition that made my room a ‘room’ was the farthest my parents could go to cater my whims. It doesn’t help a lot when your uneducated migrant mother lives with your understandably cranky businessman father whose profit graph has taken a fancy in skiing.

Those dull yellow light rays lent my room the best they had. It wasn’t much, but hell, I didn’t want brighter watts either. I used to stare at that bulb for hours at times, just watching that filament- tungsten, I surprisingly remember- erode away slowly for my cause.

Yellow. I never fancied that colour much. And as on today, I hate it.

Yellow is what is everything that’s wrong with the world. The colour of fire- yellow. The fire of missiles, the nuclear weapons that cause destruction, which shred lives and mince no regret while doing so. It is the colour of disgust. Look at your pee, your shit, your vomit. It is a synonymous motherfucker if I use it on you.

The sunrays are yellow. The rays those are ever ready to scorch and toast you alive if you leave yourself to be awed by its charisma. It is ruthlessly overwhelming when it comes and shows you its wrath. As if, in the test of human nature, nature wants to defeat humans only because it is so desperate to underline ‘survival of the fittest’.

Yellow- the colour of envy, the colour of a meek surrender. The colour of the palatial bungalow that was her house. That beautiful colossal structure in the heart of town. The one with a giant balcony of the size of my room. The balcony of her room where I wanted to chide her over her meeting other men. The place, staring at which, I realized that if I wanted to be with her, I had to accept even the most loathsome of her habits.

The tint under which she yanked at my heart and tore it to smithereens. The diffused yellow club lights which made her face radiant with each tequila shot, and their same tone when she refused to recognize me and got bouncers to throw me out. I am no stalker, I am a lover, but she refused to give me a single chance.

My agony is yellow when it ends. The turmeric my best friend used to bandage me with when I cut myself was yellow. Yes, yellow can be good. It is the colour of the candle-light under the grace of which, I fantasized our numerous dinners. It was the colour of her joy when she was adorned in that glittering metal. It was what she looked most beautiful in, when she gingerly placed that yellow rose in the silky bun of her hair.

Yes, yellow can be good indeed. But smolder me white if I still don’t hate yellow.

You see, it is red that I like.

Red is the colour of an audacious hope. The colour that my mother wore each single day of her miserably impoverished life on her forehead. The colour of chastity and benevolence, of inexplicable faith and trust. The colour that mutely cajoled that we might be living in a ghetto, but it is ‘we’ that matter, not the ‘ghetto’.

It is the colour of celebration. The colour of the shirt which my mother loved to buy for me when Diwali was near. The colour of crackers’ covers before they degenerated into that despicable yellow. It was what I loved even the meat of.

Red is the colour of comfort, the colour of emotional support. The colour of a few patches on the face of my best friend after he suffered acid burns in his factory accident. That never deterred or wavered with my affection towards him though I knew it would repulse her. I hated her yellow bred hypocrite guts. And I stayed by my friend throughout.

It seduces, that red does. I remember my hard-on’s whenever I saw her in her red one-piece. It is what her lips were made of, the same lips that she laid on one turdface in the backseat of a car barely minutes after they spat those orders of throwing me out of the club.

Red is the colour of glee, of satisfaction. It is the colour you can extract out of a person and feel no regrets about. It is the colour I bathed in after I cracked her skull open. That whore always was a wild child. Loved to play and loved to be played with. So I did. I tied her up and proceeded to slowly toy with death’s infatuation.

It is patience, and it is elegance. It is what trickles out when you cut the veins. Peeping out at first, doing a quick check of the new panorama and then oozing out in a friendly way, just the way you want it, sweetly, softly and slowly, causing you a little harm but doing the damage all the same. It is quirky but boy, is it smart!

Sadly, red can disappoint. It is the colour of healing, of danger. The colour of the siren of an ambulance as well as the police van. The zooming vehicles- one that scrambles to save your life, other that pines on stripping you of yours.

Brown. Alas, it is what my life has progressed to now.

You know brown? It is the colour of pain and anguish. Of the lathis I get the feel of for the funsies of those animals in uniform. It is the decider colour, that of the gavel- the ridiculously overrated motif in the law abode.

Brown is the colour of the food I get in prison, solid or liquid. The gooey mess that we create a brawl for to shove down our throats. Yes, brown can have a sense of humour. It gives me life till it gives me death.

It is the colour of the rope I am going to face. It is the colour of the planks of the platform I shall stand on. And interestingly, as I lay here in the cell, brushing off the lethargic overlapping legs of my cell-mates from time to time, I think about the red blood that will drip from my throat if the noose is not lubricated, in the dull yellow light of the corridor.

Brown, the colours you get when you mix yellow and red with a little help of the blue. The only thing I now wonder is if I should hate it or let it pass.

Toughie.

A Few Words About My Eleventh Time

2010-10-03T01:04:00.000-07:00

Man, this place has effectively digressed into a dead man's zone. I guess it's time for me to revive it by working on my near dormant networking skills. We shall see how that goes, but for now, here's the primary element for revival- another post.

Well, as has happened numerous times with me, inspiration strikes at the most undesirable or tumultuous times, here, the former. Exams are going on and I wasted last night in typing out my new one. I am of course in the middle of another biggie, Riya still being on hold, but we'll talk about that later.

So what's my eleventh one like? It's called

Colour Code

Ambiguous? Yes. This is a mental monologue, more of ramblings actually, of a convict. And you might actually want to have a go at this without worrying about the length- this one's only three and a half page short. For his crime, events that led to it and other stuff, you will have to hang on for another day. As is the tradition, the story will come up a day after the intro post.

Till then, toodles!

Acknowledgements:

For the first time, I took some help in editing. So R3d, I owe you one.

Ishu, I know you hate me calling you that, but I still will! Thank you for taking up the task of an ego-massager and liking this one when I needed a second opinion.

Pawan anna, the one of the shining lights of blogger. I don't get to read much of your stuff for fault of my own but whenever I do, you inspire me man. This one's probably one such byproduct.

All those readers who wear invisibility cloaks but are just not savvy enough not to let my visitor radar register a blip. You kept this blog going, snail's pace notwithstanding. A hugeass thank you!

Fuck

2010-08-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

Before you judge me, let me declare that I proudly suck at poetry. Me writing such ones are only an attempt at satirizing the new breeds of poets- the FB poets- by aping them in the most ridiculous way possible. (See also-http://creativelyfertile.blogspot.com/2009/06/depressing-life_09.html)

So here's Fuck- a 3 am creativity. I know not many would get this one so here's my attempt at explanation- this one's about a dweeby guy talking about his abrupt break up. If you still don't get it, bah, I don't blame you. Go back to Facebook, you need those poems.

Fuck

There was a lilt in my step and the world seemed my hay,

I actually laughed when I heard a donkey bray,

It was then that my eyes lay on you,

Coo, I wondered, why am I turning muthafucking blue?

Was it coz at me you were smiling,

For the first time in my life, a hottie’s face I was shining,

But then I should blush red, shouldn’t that be the case?

Blah, maybe there’re just too many veins on my face.

Should I go closer, do I take my chance, I do?

Your smile only widened, cock a doodle doo,

She seems so nice; I gotta have this chick,

She’s baring no fangs; maybe she’s not even a bitch.

Words tumbled, pictures crumbled, the world seemed to stare,

As an uglyass douche came up to a chick with ba-donka-donks size of King Lear.

“Hello,” I said, “What is your name please?”

“Cut the game dude,” you said, “and fuck the tease.”

“I like you, I like you, I like you,” you said thrice,

Rocketing me on a Red Bull high, this for real O fuckin Christ?

“You look like my ass crack, but you do seem wise.”

Yay, there’s still hope for nerd twerps; bitches don’t always hate a vice.

“Shall we go for a movie,” she asked me,

“Hell yeah, baby,” and I added a “Whee!”

“That shit’s gay,” she said, “let’s not do that, shall we?”

“Okay dokay,” I said, “anything for you niggy.”

10 days later you dumped me.

Fuck.

Don’t get it, do you?

Neither do I.

***

Brickbats are most welcome. They only widen my grin!

Riya

2010-08-17T20:45:00.000-07:00

Riya

Do not read if you haven't read Part 1

Part II

Roshni had no inclination of hanging back. She knew that the following events will be the back-in-custody patient being escorted back to the hospital. Call it a happy ending, if you want. She stood up, summoning all her will-power to compensate for the lack of physical one and walked back to the main road. Her gait was slow; her eyes had gravel-fixation and her mind abuzz with thoughts. She wanted to shut it out- all the relentless crazyass thoughts of the equally crazyass evening. Solution- she decided to hail a taxi and go home straightaway.

Standing on the pavement was now a task, shouting out “Taxi” was a pain and telling the address was almost a torture. But the driver obviously had not set his priorities on his passenger’s comfort.

“Bandra? That’ll be a hundred and fifty, ma’am,” he said, as Roshni opened the door to sit in.

You wanna tell the same to the RTO? would have been Roshni’s reply if it was any other day. It would have also been graced with the company of a lecture on vulgar greed provoked by the other’s desperation. But tonight was different. It was defined with every synonym of tired- from weary to mind-fucked. She grunted an affirmative and started homewards in the cab of a smugly smiling cabbie.

The window didn’t roll down fully. It never did. And that was one of the points that never ceased to irritate Roshni. Mumbai is an incredibly sweaty place and keeping such obstructions made it even more suffocating, again, literally and figuratively. She rolled down the window as far as possible and stuck her forehead out. Her long hair flew in the wind, prompting the driver to readjust the rear view mirror to suit a visual delight.

Roshni ignored the voyeur. First things first, she decided. “You know of any medicine shop open at this time,” she asked the cabbie, withdrawing her head back in.

“Y-Yes, there is one at…” the driver, surprised at the unexpected question, spoke up.

“Take me there,” Roshni dismissed and went back to her fly-the-hair mode. The taxi took a turn from the Tilak square and halted a few meters from a chemist shop. Roshni got down and went up to the not-so-young man behind the counter who was chatting with his friend standing on the other side of the counter, who looked slightly older. The two of them appeared to be engrossed in an animated discussion.

“I swear man,” the friend was saying excitedly, a huge grin pasted on his face. “Her juicy pussy…”

“Shh,” the counter boy hushed his friend who hadn’t heard Roshni approaching. It didn’t work- he was too loud. Roshni chose to feign ignorance at hearing the unfortunate snippet and asked for a small strip of Saridon and a urine pregnancy kit.

As the counter boy went inside to get the kit, the friend, who was standing some distance from Roshni checked out the new arrival. He discreetly went near her and extended his hand, grabbing a jar of chewing gums. Of course the main intention was touching Roshni, at which he was successful- his hand having brushed with hers. Roshni got that a lot, and chose to ignore this just-another-time. He took out a strip of gum.

“Want one?” the man asked.

Roshni pretended the guy didn’t exist. The counter boy returned with the kit. “Would you want a bill,” he asked.

“No,” Roshni said flatly and paid and started to leave. Half way to her cab she heard the same touchy guy’s voice.

“Man,” he was saying, his voice dripping of lustful excitement. “Did you check out the ass on that bitch?”

Roshni turned back. The counter boy saw this and seeing him go pale his friend turned too.

SLAP!

That’s how hard a slap was deposited on his face. Roshni turned to the counter boy. “Man,” she said. “Did you check out the slap on this sonofabitch?”

When she returned to the cab, the driver was readjusting the rear view mirror inside the car. “Shall I start, madam,” he asked in a suitably humble voice.

The journey back home was uneventful. After almost twenty minutes, Roshni unlocked the door to her 1 BHK sea-facing apartment. She took out her cell phone and wondered if she should call someone. A doubtful moment later, she dismissed it and throwing it on the rug spread on the floor beside the pregnancy kit she had kept a few moments ago, she hurled herself on the sofa, digging her face into one of the cushions and curled up to a night the promised an addition of ‘mares’ to it. The previous events of the night unfolded before her eyes, till they finally shut and Roshni went to sleep.

The tall, dark and burly watchman opened the door to her office building. Anita at the reception was busy on the phone, talking in her professional inaudible voice, her specks perched a little low on her nose, her hand scribbling furiously. Roshni went ahead to take the elevator, which was some way from the waiting room. The doors to the elevator opened and the lift-man gave her a smile of recognition. Roshni tried to reciprocate it above her thudding heart. She felt a familiar insecurity, like something was crushing her in the confines of the elevator. All is well, Roshni tried reassuring herself. This happened to her many-a-time when she was placed in an edgy situation. Claustrophobia that haunted her in the childhood returned, silence created an unnerving din and the surroundings seemed to slow down.

She pursed her eyes tight and began chanting ‘Hare Ram, hare Krishna,’ in an undertone till the relief of the small ‘ting’ of the elevator door opening swept inside, easing her up. She took a left from the lobby and opened the glass door to her office, her head bent down and marched straight to her cubicle. She didn’t want to meet the inquisitive, curious or an opportunistic sadistic glance by her colleagues. As she settled down her chair, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

Hari, the office peon was smiling at her. She couldn’t decipher if that was a pleasant or mocking smile. “Madam is calling you,” he said.

Roshni mumbled a curse and rose but couldn’t avoid the glare shot at her by Tina in her fellow cubicle, who pushed her chair back too. “Follow me Roshni,” she said.

The office of Editor Rao was a spacious zone and was draped in purple furnishings. Whether it was the curtains, the walls or the seat covers, purple reigned. Though not a color of mystery, it lent a perfectly enigmatic feel which befitted the editor’s aura. Nobody knew a thing about Rao’s personal life. Fuck personal life, nobody even knew her first name. Even her nameplate on her office door said Mrs. Rao, editor-in-chief Page 3 section. There were whispers that it started from K though. Rao had hailed from being the editor of a notable international magazine only to jump straight to be an editor in The Connoisseur. Having lived in US since last fifteen years (no confirmation again), she had a curious on-the-fence accent. Her impeccable dressing sense, hard and extremely professional demeanor and a penchant for keeping the conversations short, pointy and always work-related made lent her much more than a hierarchal intimidation. Today she was wearing an indigo cashmere jacket and surfing through the photos of the party held the previous night when Tina knocked.

“Come in,” Rao said in her mannish voice.

Tina entered followed by the damsel in distress. “Ma’am,” Tina spoke up in a polite voice she reserved only for her seniors and clients. “You asked for Roshni…”

“Why, yes,” Rao said. She looked at her. Roshni winced and reflexively wished for bodily condensation. “I believe you were assigned for the CM’s party last night, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Roshni said, her voice low.

“And somehow, I get the coverage only from your colleague and not from you,” Rao continued, her pitch rising. “Not only that, I hear you took off without intimating anyone moments after you arrived. This is highly unprofessional. May I seek an explanation?”

Roshni hung her head in shame. “I wasn’t feeling very well, ma’am,” she somehow managed.

“What do you think this is- kindergarten? And do you have any idea how harried your colleagues were. Tina here out of desperation filed a police complaint, for God’s sakes.”

Roshni felt more and more puddle-y by the moment. “I am sorry ma’am but…” she ventured.

“Roshni Kaur, the magazine’s market status being as dismal as it is, we can’t afford to compromise and give our employees a longer leash so that they can take off without intimating, costing us our business. I am suspending you for a week,” Rao announced living up to her tyranny. “Think about the mess you created in that time.”

Argument was futile, Roshni knew it very well. “Yes ma’am,” she mumbled and waited to be directed to the door.

“And oh, of course, get well soon.”

Roshni turned around and sped out of the office.

She didn’t want to take the taxi. In high stress situations, she felt claustrophobia even in taxis. Last night was a choice-less ride but today she could help it. Today she would take a train.

Though it was around 11 am, still an off-to-the-workplace time, in the direction opposite to Churchgate there wouldn’t be much human clogging, even lesser in 1^st class ladies compartment. Roshni went to the ticket counter, swiped her smart card and waded through the stream of people pouring in and out of the tunnel shaped corridors of the station. Once upon a time awe-inspiring, the station’s architecture was no more attention commanding for Roshni. She was habituated to the excellence now.

Next few minutes saw Roshni on the third platform waiting for her 11.21 fast local for Borivali. Roshni felt her forehead. The headache had begun again. But of course her head would throb- she had just been suspended for a week. Her career now bore a permanent blot. She leaned against the pole color-marked with red and white streaks and observed a wheeler carrying books ranging from Sudoku to comics, political magazines and cheap reads. Roshni went forward and picked up Sansanikhez Kahaniya, a magazine, as the name suggested, with sensational stories what some might describe as spicy and racy read about the dark side of the India and others, mostly the so-called sophisticated class, might call it as Roshni judged it before- cheap reads. The cover page had an outstretched bloody hand over a kid cowering in the corner. “Daughter-the flesh mart” read the caption.

Riya, her mind reflexed.

Riya? Roshni counter-questioned herself. It did look similar though.

“Remembered me?”

Roshni heard a small voice some distance away to her right. She immediately looked and saw the familiar face. It was her, crouched in the corner, leaning against a food stall beside a dustbin. She was smiling her innocently beautiful smile.

Roshni felt goose bumps clouding over herself. How the hell did she get away again? She looked away, trying to ignore Riya, trying desperately to submerge last night’s disturbia into the sea of lost memories.

“Can’t do it, can you?” Riya called out from her sitting place.

“Just leave me alone,” Roshni shouted out. The people around started throwing curious gazes at the sudden outcry. Roshni decided to avoid a commotion and started walking away.

“There she goes, leaving me all alone, praying so dearly, to let bygone be bygone,” Riya shouted back in a peculiar lilting tune. The words almost felt poem-like but Roshni didn’t stop. She heard the whistle of the oncoming engine but didn’t bother to wait up and get into the compartment. She just wanted to get to the end of the platform and… and… she hadn’t decided and what. Somehow, she just wanted to get to the end, be as far away from Riya as possible.

There was a granite slab acting as a bench there, mercifully empty. Even the platform end seemed unusually deserted, with just a couple of bums sleeping and a wandering malnourished dog. Roshni settled down on the bench and buried her face in her palms.

“I see you aren’t very happy. Are you always like this?”

Roshni looked up startled. It was Riya sitting on the ground, directly in front of her. Her chin rested in her right palm, the elbow placed on the right folded leg.

“What do you want?” Roshni demanded.

“Or should I say, were you always like this,” Riya asked.

“Just leave me alone you creepy bitch,” Roshni exclaimed. “Here,” she dug into her purse frantically, “take this. And this. And this,” she said tossing out all the coins she had. A couple of rupee, a two and a five lay on the platform now, in front of Riya. “Now go. Go away.”

Riya looked at the coins unperturbed. “You didn’t let me complete yesterday,” she said innocently.

Roshni hated the all-is-hunky-dory tone of her voice. “What the fuck is your problem?” she cried out. A few people standing some distance away were looking at her, none coming forward to inquire what the matter was, only interested as spectators. No wonder democracy never works in India.

“I wanted to tell you the story. It’s not complete. I’ll complete then I’ll go away. Deal?”

“But I fucking don’t want to!” Roshni was on her feet now.

“Oh yes, you do.”

Riya was right. Somehow, the resistance put on by Roshni was more a put-on. Roshni didn’t know why but she was extremely curious where the tale would go. It might be something you read, if at all your standards are so downtrodden, in the pulp fiction but alluring nevertheless. ‘Infatuation’ isn’t the right word but that’s the first word that comes to the mind. Besides, Roshni sighed, there didn’t seem any way to this pestering kid would not live up to her adjective. The headache was at its peak now and she didn’t feel like shouting anymore or catching the train to avoid her. She just wanted to settle down for some time and relax till it went away. She opened her purse and took out an aspirin tablet and gulped it down with some water. “Okay,” she said resignedly. “Go on.”

“Sweet,” Riya said and immediately perked up. “I’ll tell you what happened the day after.”

Riya’s Story

And that’s how went my first sexperience. It was fun but a strange thing happened- I bled. It was, how do I put it, excruciating-pleasure-over-pain thing, if you know what I mean. I thought it was the intensity of my uncle which caused it and didn’t mind. There was a strange joy in seeing the red liquid trickling down my woo-woo. My uncle though was ecstatic- he licked it and seemed to relish it and pushed even harder. That of course aroused my curiosity. When uncle left next morning, I was left alone and then I decided to discover myself some more.

I closed the door and windows and switched on the yellow bulb which lent the room last night’s erotic feel. I remembered the time, the moments when my breath was rapid, my body stiff and everything bleak except the luscious sensation down under, the sensation that nullified the fact that it was my own uncle riding me and that I was enjoying the incest-rape. I put my hand down my salwar and touched myself. My woo-woo seemed reminiscing too because it still pained a bit. I removed my hand.

The bed-sheet and the mattress had soaked up the blood. I felt angry at not being able to procure my own production. I ran my hands over it. Nope, not even a drop clung to my skin. So what, I decided, I will make some more. I removed my top, torn from shoulder, and the salwar. For a brief moment I looked up and saw my own reflection in the full body mirror. And I gawked.

My uncle was right. I was desirable. I got up from the mattress and went near the mirror, seeing myself from top to bottom. My hair was loose from the night before and fell in a seductively messy way down my shoulders, covering half of my left breast. My skin was wheatish and soft. There wasn’t a spot or scar on my whole body, except the minor one near my knee when mother had pushed me over the coal embers. I removed my lowers and went on closer to admire. My my, I was hoot worthy. Just standing there, looking myself, admiring my perfect features… I could do it all day. I gently removed the lock of hair covering my left breast and tucked it behind my ear. Those little nipples, oh wow. I ran my finger over them, ran them all over my body, my belly, my torso, my butt, before resting it finally on my vagina. Believe every word when I say this- it was beautiful. And just imagining how it had been caressed last night added to the beauty.

Last night.

Ah, last night.

I remembered last night and licked my arms from shoulder to the elbow. I tasted fucking good. I sat down and licked myself again. I bent, twisted, turned and licked every part possible. I looked in the mirror while I was doing it and admired me. I kissed myself. A deep, lusty kiss on the surface of the mirror with my eyes open. Damn, I couldn’t get enough of me. Where my tongue couldn’t reach, my fingers worshipped. I was so good, I was so beautiful. I was divine.

But something was still amiss. And I knew what it was- the liquid drug- my blood. I got up and searched in a chest of drawers kept in the corner of the room. My breath was excited now, always a symptom of something good about to happen. I surfed through a few medicines, some papers, random household materials, a nail cutter…

I stopped my search. A nail cutter will do. I opened up the two side-tools it has, whatever they are called. I pierced my thigh with it. It was blunt and it hurt but there’s an intoxicating pleasure in enduring pain. And I didn’t want to lose out that pleasure. I wanted to enjoy the process. I increased the thrust and it sunk in. Blood oozed out. The beautiful liquid, a, I repeat, liquid drug. I helped my index finger with some and licked it. The warm, salty taste pleasured me. I took more and let my vagina enjoy some, fingering myself in the process.

Boy, did I feel good!

Somehow, Roshni knew that a call was being placed to the reception of a certain hospital. She had to be somewhere- the lady placing the call. She had to be nearing them- Riya and Roshni- ready to swoop in, ready to accuse Roshni of manhandling, even as she again bore the unwilling brunt of another cheap-thrill tale. Premonition, was it? Roshni didn’t know. All she wanted to do was to wean herself away from the scenario but found that she couldn’t and she went on listening to the ramblings until…

“Hey you, stop.”

Roshni looked up hearing the not so alien voice and saw the not so unexpected plump and old lady jogging towards her. “Don’t do that to her,” she was saying and moving ahead.

“You know what, I don’t just eat leaves.” This was Riya. Again.

Roshni looked at her, bewildered. “You know what, I don’t just eat leaves” she repeated. Roshni didn’t prod. This was a sense of an impeccable déjà vu.

Not that Riya was waiting for an answer. “I eat twigs too. Actually, I more sort of nibble them, y’know. Like a little mouse would do.” She bared her teeth and did a nibbling imitation. “Mouse. Don’t you find a mouse cute?”

Roshni blinked.

“I am a nice person, ain’t I,” Riya asked. She grinned her innocent grin, only this time it turned out malicious.

Roshni stared on, confounded. The old, plump lady had reached by then.

“You, what’s your name?” she demanded sternly of Roshni.

Roshni looked up, staring blankly. She had already told her the name. The lady was Savita, nurse from Wallace hospital. They had met just the previous night.

“I am talking to you,” Savita forced. “Who are you and what are you doing here to my patient?”

“What is this, some kind of sick perverted joke?” Roshni demanded, the ‘demand’ tilting more towards being prefixed by ‘hysterical’.

“Yes,” Savita said. Roshni was startled. This is a joke?

Savita bent down to pick up Riya, who rose without a word and hugged Savita, burying her face in Savita’s breasts, just like last night. “She’s a patient in my hospital. She ran away just today. What do you know of her?”

‘Yes’ to the prank question and then irrelevant talks about the patient? Wait a second, Roshni felt an eerie sensation all over her. She was talking the exact same things as she had said the last night. Was this supernatural in origin? Who were these people- ghosts? Was she going insane? Roshni realized her aching forehead now sported beads of sweat and her heart rate was jacked. She got up in a jiffy and holding her purse tightly to her chest, started walking away.

“Wait,” Savita called out. “What were you talking to her about? And why were you manhandling her?”

Roshni quickened her pace.

“Hey, I am not done with you…” Savita continued, but stayed rooted to her spot, though turning and looking at Roshni walking away. Roshni was almost sprinting now. The spectators had increased by then and they looked on puzzled at her running away all of a sudden. Roshni didn’t care two hoots as she stumbled on some while trying to dodge her way past the gawking, sniggering and amused crowd and elbowed her way roughly through the ever jam-packed exit. She panted as she reached the foot-over-bridge and was almost breathless as she ran out of the station and summoned a taxi. But all the while she had a dialogue going on in the back of her head, as if it was a tape playing. She heard Savita Khare as she introduced herself, told about Riya running away and gave her the visiting card asking her to visit as “We need to talk”.

Roshni got in the first taxi she could hail. “Chalo,” she said in a high pitch.

“Where madam?” the driver asked, considerably perplexed at her demeanor.

“Just zip on,” Roshni almost shouted at him. The driver, abashed, turned the meter down and pressed the accelerator harder than usual and the taxi started with a screech.

“I think you should go home now,” Savita was saying, giving her a warm smile. “You look pretty tired.”

Roshni shut her eyes tightly and clutched her ears with both hands to block out the world. It seemed to work. There were no more monologues in her head.

Had she succeeded? Or was just the tape over?

Riya

2010-06-05T22:35:00.002-07:00

Riya

Part I

Roshni looked in the mirror and checked her make up once again. Something was amiss. Her face didn’t look radiant as usual. She looked at herself again. Just yesterday she had had her facial. The lip gloss was what suited her pout the best. Her long straight hair that curled down the ends smelt good. The beads on her chiffon sari rendered her the mystic quality of beauty. She reapplied cheekbone highlighter. Didn’t seem to work though. Finally, she dismissed it as stress and proceeded hurriedly out of her bedroom. Take an aspirin, suppress the headache, let a smile bloom and go fly, Roshni thought. Maybe add some pudin hara- the stomach was sick too. But tonight was going to be big. She had no time for minor issues.

Corporate world, baby.

As a page three journalist in The Connoisseur, Roshni was always expected to follow the same decorum. Apply several layers of wax, stay up to date with the latest dressing trends, get into the magazine van with a couple of photographers, who blissfully could afford to be dressed dowdily, that is, relatively; get down at the venue, straighten whatever little creases that might have appeared in her attire for the evening, recheck herself in the small mirror of the compact, dispose off the gum she had been chewing so meticulously in the van, take a deep breath to brace up for the innumerable rounds of silky conduct, fake giggles, plastic concern and put-on cheerfulness while sifting through wannabes and socialites to reach up to the ‘real people’. These included politicians, film stars, their muses, businessmen, their wives and girlfriends, in lost-the-count-of cases, both; and grabbing some bytes between them grabbing bites. Manipulation and maneuvering was an art Roshni was endowed with, so being a page 3 journo was a breeze for her. As the over-affectionate pictures of the hugging- “At loggerheads? And we? You got to be kidding me! We bond like a house on fire!” celebs, “No, really. We are just friends,” link-ups or even “Let me see that. Eww, I look hideous! Take one again,” socialites would be taken, she had to rush to write an unintelligible and corny piece of flattery about the hosts’ generosity and hospitability, the hired entertainers’ supreme sense of humor and how overall, ‘Everyone had a blast!’ Oh yes, the exclamation mark was important. How else is one supposed to convey all the vibrancy and prevailing gaiety at the party?

But tonight, though the same routine would have to be followed, the magnitude of the event was titanic. And so were the stakes. Her editor had almost threatened to fire her if she doesn’t get the most exclusive, extensive and invigorating coverage along with still motion back up. After all, “Why should always the Filmfare keep the gossip mills running?” God curse Mrs. Rao’s Hitler-y guts. Oh, why stop at that? Say Hitler-y, Mussolini-y and Stalin-y guts. Mrs. Rao was, plainly put, a major pain in the posterior. With her around, there was no room for compromise, no chance for manipulation and everything had to be, quoting Rao, “just purrfect,” which was in other words, Rao’s way of defining herself.

It was the chief-minister’s birthday party at The Resplendent. As well known, it was going to be a Bollywood marries politics, sports and business affair. All the media houses had prepared for the event for days outlining the people to be concentrated on, instructing their concerned employees to act intrusive to get the spiciest gossip. The Connoisseur had specifically chosen Roshni, though this would be her first assignment for such a high profile event. Good looking that she was, she was a male-magnet. Besides, she had an aura about her that made her the most confide-in able person you could ever meet, though every such “Don’t tell anyone that…” inadvertently found itself in print, many a time, intentionally so. She blended easily with the high profile crowd and even the ones with most starry airs about them found themselves drawn to Roshni. And then she was skilled at this choreography owing to her exceptional PR skills. Thus summed up the answer to ‘What makes a dream page 3 journo’.

But there was a catch though. And it was… oh no, flashback time is for later.

The mag van halted some fifty meters away from the venue. The impending road was as anticipated, clogged with media and security vans.

“You’ll have to walk from here. I can’t go any further,” the driver grunted, the passengers following suit. But the instant Roshni, her supplied photographers Aditya, Varun and Michael jumped down, along with Roshni’s senior reporter Tina, their groan remained a mere ‘o’. The spectacle of grandeur of the event had wiped off the rest 5 letters and replaced it with an admiring four- “Fuck!” Velvety lawns around the perimeter of the hotel preceded the enormous entrance made especially by the CM’s political party with a banner wishing him for crossing life’s golden jubilee (and by the way, make his’ the winning party at the oncoming election too). Proceeding in, every tree in the lawn glittered. There was a sleek red carpet for the guests from the main gate to the lobby. Flaunting the entrance, was the chief minister’s elder son dressed in an elegant copper sherwani and his 10 year old step sister, from the CM’s second marriage, wearing a gold embroiled red ghagra-choli, wishing everyone with a polite Namaskar and a hand shake. Some people, in a bid to playfully jeer at CM’s strong Marathi agenda, followed the ritual with a “Jai Maharashtra,” the son, not to be bogged down, responding equally vociferously. There was a separate side entrance for the media personas. A stringent security check followed. Roshni and others using it, found themselves in a huge banquet. The ceiling was unimaginably huge and glimmered with exquisite chandeliers. At every few feet on the wall, balloons and other decorations were politely swaying. At the centre, was a dais on which stood the chief minster of Maharashtra and his wife, young enough to be his daughter, acknowledging the wishes as the steady trickle of the guests began. The granite floor sported the most sinkable looking couches with rich upholstery. At the other end, into a similarly mammoth hall were the tuck-ins with a giant ice sculpture acting as the centre of attraction. The waiters, essentially at-least decent lookers, dressed in black blazers and pants roamed across the length offering a combo of appetizers and polite smiles.

Roshni gaped around and soaking in the sumptuousness braced herself for one of the most taxing nights. She still didn’t feel well. But did that matter so much? This was going to be the most important night for her career till date, mainly because of the stakes. But that couldn’t rule out the queer queasy feeling that was recurring in her stomach since morning. Ignorance and popping pills had not helped. She wondered if the protection she used the night she spent at her boyfriend’s place didn’t prove to be one after all. Her heart gave a violent jolt as she cursed the timing of the abject insight. She had to talk to him about it. Him-the landlord cum somebody else’s husband. Nope, bad idea. He would freak out and maybe beat her some more. Roshni felt the healing wound on her left shoulder pricking as she thought about how he put a hot frying pan against her skin during one of their arguments. But this could be serious. After all, she had missed her periods this time. But they are usually irregular, Roshni tried to comfort herself. Fear had prevented her from taking a pregnancy test. A conformation would be far worse. So what is she supposed t…OH MY GOD, IS THAT SHAHID KAPUR?!

Her scruples suddenly subdued, she hurried to be the first hound as the shutterbugs went crazy but felt nauseous as she approached the chocolate hunk with a drool-worthy face. No, she couldn’t take it anymore. In spite of what is at stake, she couldn’t take a chance, she realized as her frantic trot to the temporary media infatuation was redirected to the frantic search of a restroom. Bad timing Rosh, she thought as she held back the fluid in her throat. Her head was throbbing now. My my, wasn’t that just fucking painful. Ignoring the puzzled looks of her colleagues, Roshni approached an usher and then cantering to the ladies room, threw up in the wash basin.

Had she screwed up? Why, yes sir most certainly she had. Was there a chance of reimbursing for it? The skies look cloudy to me. You still wanna fly, baby? God damn, where did that mocking come from? The stomach was still sick, the queasy feeling had increased and an ever escalating pain in the head wasn’t making it any easy. Today was supposed to be a dream night. Why, why did this had to happen?

“It’s been more than 10 min now. Get hold of yourself,” Roshni mentally chided herself. She tried to avoid looking at the small pile of toilet papers that she had used to dab her eyes beside the pot in the cubicle- that only made her cry harder. Last 10 minutes had been sheer torture. All this time, her catastrophed future whirlwinded in front of her eyes. What would now happen of her, starting with residence. If it had not been for one of the socialites that rented her a 3 BHK in Lokhandwala, there was no way she could’ve found accommodation, let alone able to have been afforded it, and for what return gift- just a flattering coverage in the magazine, not to forget all the sex.

Roshni had incredible unprecedented difficulties while hunting for accommodation a few years up the line. Single woman searching for flat was narrow-eyed upon, albeit, of course, less than single men.

“You see, I like you. I got no problem with you. And then, you are a Punjabi too. In fact, I would be more than happy to rent you my flat,” one of the prospective landladies had said. “But, ahem ahem, we live in a society, you see. It’s pretty unsafe for single girls living alone.” Roshni had tried to reason that it was her problem but “The problem is with you supposedly modern, westernized mentalities. You forget your values.” Asking what exactly she meant invited a flared up response- “You might not agree but it is unacceptable. You are young. And you are good looking. And what did you do you said, ah yes, a page 3 reporter, right? So you’ll come late at night, maybe drunk, maybe with strangers in your arms…”

Roshni had stormed out before she completed.

She had to live in a working woman’s hostel for some time, much to her detestation. But as she escalated up the social ladder, she had met a certain art exhibitionist who had taken interest in her. Preliminary introduction, progressive interaction and informal rapport building later, he had once offered to escort her back to her residence. When polite negatives lay unheeded, she allowed herself to be carried away by a lucrative Mercedes ride. The discussion after destination stop led to ‘day’s last destination’ shifted forever. She was finally a developed journo.

But what now? Roshni was in the firing line. Her editor Rao had an uncanny ability to prove her threats correct. Be positive, she instructed herself. You shouldn’t…

There were some rapid noises- the sound of door opening and closing, some shuffling footsteps and excited breaths. Roshni fell quiet and tuned her ears to the happenings. When she heard the sound of some cloth being torn and some animated squeals, she immediately exited her cubicle with her head bent, her hand covering her eyes from forehead, trying to escape discreetly. But two pairs of stilettos, as she saw with her eyes forced to keep only the floor in focus, blocked the doorway. They had obviously noticed her, for they seemed to edge away. Shit, Roshni thought and closed the door behind her. She heard another door inside being shut hard and a faint sound of a latch being turned. She quickened her pace and trotted to the way she entered before she was stopped by a security guard.

“Wait,” he said. “Media personnel? Your exit is on the other side ma’am. Down the hall, to the right. There’s a board there. You can read EXIT, can’t you?” Roshni turned away and made her way across the hall among the people she might not have the chance of interacting with again, through the environment she might not be a part of again, out of the party and a life that might not be the same again.

She could read EXIT.

There was relative quietness. She made her way out of the hotel by treading on a multi-colored-stone path that semi-circled around a bubbly fountain. A blue jet of water shot up in the sky and spiraled down. Red and green followed suit. The path gave way to concrete podium. An usher neared but Roshni waved him away and exited the side gate of The Renaissance into a brightly lit street of Juhu.

Cars whizzed by as Roshni aimlessly walked, her gait slow, steps mismatched, head bent, brooding, and sometimes led, sometimes followed her shadow that was engaged in a game of flexibility. Now it grew, now it naught, Roshni indulged in it, chanting it like a mantra as she walked. She looked up in the sky. The familiar moon and Sirius greeted her. Or were they mocking her? Whatever, screw them. What do they know? All they do is one reflects light, other emits light. Light. Roshni. It reflects me. She looked up again, half expecting her own face be reflected there. The moon was still blemished, pimpled with black marks and Sirius still a dot. No avail. The world went on, least bothered.

As minutes ticked by, Roshni felt a steady surge in her spirit. It might not be that bad after all. Perhaps, Rao would understand. Only thing Roshni will have to do is be tactful and handle the matter with extreme assiduousness. Maybe she should inform her now. No, bad idea. Who would like to be roused from sleep only to be greeted with, “Oh, hello ma’am. Umm, I screwed up.” A pink slip will be in offing immediately then. But what about back up? No freaking chance. Firstly, it’s too late for that. Secondly, the tacts to be followed, the gossip to be concentrated upon, the people to be focused on, it was all wee bit too convoluted to be explained. Only hope- Rao would be compassionate. It might be too audacious a hope but that was the only thing to be banked upon right now. Otherwise…what otherwise? She has to keep hoping.

Roshni took a left. This street was quite an unfamiliar and deserted one. Wide pothole-free roads, unusual for Mumbai, BMC’s pride, swept ahead outlined with off-white pavements on both sides, red blocks forming its border. A small ray of light could be spotted ahead, growing distinct by the second, indicating a vehicle zooming in the other direction. Calm, quaint bungalows with lots of shrubbery and few trees so dense that they blocked out much of the street light lined along the street. Roshni walked on observing the dried leaves, pan masala wrappers and plastic polythenes that partially obstructed the drainage inlets. The blue light from an ATM shone a few meters ahead, a watchman flopped on the chair outside looking motionless and comfortable, headgear in his lap. Roshni passed him and saw him stirring up slightly only to doze off again. The discreet buzzing of the insects and night crawlers went on in the background forming the only disharmony in the otherwise divinely serene atmosphere.

She noticed a small figure on the pavement to the right. It looked like a girl. Not much old, Roshni discerned, probably just 14-15 year old. What the hell was she doing on the pavement at this time of the night? Roshni felt a protective wave of concern and pity. The girl didn’t seem like she was a beggar. In fact, she seemed to be from quite a decent family. Her hair was parted from the middle, tied in two pony tails reaching up to her shoulder. She was wearing a sky blue plain skirt reaching just above her knee and was, well, observing, probably, the tar on the road. Wow, she seemed quite engaged in her observation. The girl bent ahead, drew some figures on the road and relaxed back again, her eyes still down.

Roshni went nearer.

“It ain’t none o’ yer fault,” the girl proclaimed loudly.

Roshni almost jumped back in fright and yelped the next moment as she twisted her ankle. “Damned pencil heels,” she murmured, forgetting all about the cause of her fright. It dawned back quickly and she looked at the girl. The girl was still looking at the tar. Was she talking to her? Was she talking about her?

Something disassociated the girl with her infatuation with tar and she looked up. She was munching leaves- Dried leaves Roshni had observed a few minutes ago which lay scattered over the street, mostly near and on the pavement.

Roshni was horrified. “What are you doing?” she said, alarmed. “Spit it out.”

The girl just smiled. Her teeth were yellow and had some fine paste and chewed leaf bits clouding them in places.

“Come on, for God’s sake,” Roshni’s tenor rose as she moved closer. “Spit!”

The girl’s smile widened. “It ain’t none o’ yer fault,” she repeated.

Roshni felt like yanking her mouth open scraping out the shit. But the girl seemed to be obeying. She stopped chewing.

Now she took a gulp.

Roshni was too shocked to be vocal. The irrelevance of her statement was miles beyond concern. She kept staring at the girl. The girl still wasn’t looking at her. Finally, she grinned again. Roshni still went on gaping but by now she had retraced her vocal cords. “Wh…why did you do that,” she asked slowly, trying to sound kind.

The girl said nothing and went back to her tar reading. Roshni looked on both sides of the street. Desolate. Totally. Not a single soul in sight, except the sleeping watchman. She glanced at the girl’s left, at the mostly clean surface, lightly blew at it to clean the dust and sat down beside her.

Both remained mute for some time. The girl seemed in a trance. Roshni spoke up again, “What’s your name, dear?” in a cajoling tone.

The girl looked up again, facing the other side of the street. “My name,” she said, and paused. Roshni waited and suddenly “Riya,” the girl exclaimed and started laughing. It was not a creepy laugh though that is what would’ve befitted the context. This one was a cute laugh, more like one does when one is tickled. A friendly, endearing ‘hee-hee’. The girl stopped laughing as suddenly as she had begun and leaned closer to Roshni sideways, letting her head settle in Roshni’s lap but still not facing her. “I like you,” she said. “You smell nice.”

Roshni was taken aback by the sudden display of affection and wondered how the girl could find her breath nice when she so desperately craved for a mint, feeling that her breath smelt acrid. Or was it her perfume? There were hardly any traces left though. But then, this probably shouldn’t be taken for its face value. After all, it was coming from a girl who ate leaves. And what’s with the head-in-the-lap thing? Roshni didn’t feel like moving away though. The girl was cute in an unusual way. She had a pretty moon shaped face with a dusky complexion and her almond-like eyes formed the cherry topping though her messy hair did minus the marks a little bit. Then she had this weirdness in her. Far too appealing, at least by Roshni’s tastes. So she just sat still, unable to conjure up a reply.

“She didn’t tell me a bedtime story,” Riya said, her innocent voice having a charming effect.

“Aww,” Roshni sympathized. “Your mommy didn’t tell you the story?”

“My mom’s dead,” the girl shot back, her voice hard.

Take-aback time again. “Oh I’m sorry.” This time the recovery was swift though. “Then your dad…”

“Dead.” The girl rose up and Roshni for a moment saw a mortally wounded look in Riya’s eyes, which slowly began accumulating tears. Roshni looked panicky. “C’mon baby, don’t cry,” she said, clinging on to her cool. “Okay okay, we’ll not talk about him. Tell you what; I’ll narrate you a bedtime story. Do you promise to go back to your home then? Do you live in one of the houses here?”

“No, I’ll tell you one,” Riya said, the prospect brightening her up, evaporating her tears. She settled back in Roshni’s lap.

“Umm, okay. But first tell me where you live…”

“Shh,” chided Riya. “Its story time. Okay, once upon a time, there lived a little girl. She was my age. Her name was Riya…

Riya’s Story

Once upon a time, I lived. My name was Riya. It still is, though nobody knows it now. I still live, lifeless, though nobody cares now. Not that it matters anyway. Neither to me, nor to them. I am just another entity here. I belong to nobody. I am nobody, at least to people. To me, I still am Riya. A Riya who’s beating around the bush, a Riya who’s merely mystifying things up, a Riya who probably is boring you now to the point that you might consider going away than listening to this going-nowhere monologue, a Riya who thinks most probably you are already gone and there’s no point talking any further. But still she continues because she has something to tell to anybody who’s concerned, to anybody who’s kind enough to be willing to sift through her wayward tale.

You still here? Thank you. I wish I had someone like you in my life, when I had one.

I don’t want to go into the details of my birth and my subsequent insignificant afterlife. You see, being a construction laborer’s daughter doesn’t have its share of adventure. It wasn’t conspicuous though. I was taught to accept things the way they are. My parents didn’t have any far-fetched ‘rags to riches’ dreams for me. They were realistic- I was born poor, there wasn’t much scope of moving up the financial ladder and thus the sole goal was two meals per day which three of us shared, my father getting the largest, always. My way of living was hands-raised-to-head-to-reach-the-mouth, as most of my kind of youngsters do- carrying the cement around. We are not regarded efficient enough to do other skilled jobs like concrete mix, lay the bricks, polishing or other such stuff. At the end of the day, if the Bade Sahab was in a good enough mood, I would get paid handsomely, that is, half of my mother’s wages. I had to get the timing right, though. For that a deep study of the Sahab’s tenor, facial expressions and mood had to be made. Now that was one thing I was pretty skilled at. Our lives passed thus. We had never heard of any Sarva Shiksha Abhiyaan or the ban on child labor. But we were still content. God bless the cheerful ignorance.

I never knew a day would come when I would have to knock on his door, wait a seemingly endless wait, knocking at regular intervals, get sworn at by harried neighbors, until the door opened only to be stared at by a half familiar face, a feeling not shared by him, and thus explain myself- my identity and my reason for being there without prior intimation.

But then, I don’t get visions. How was I supposed to illusion the sad death of my folks, to foresee the fall, to guess the weakness of the hypothetically protective nets? My mother dove to save my dad. How did she expect to do that? By defying gravity?

I had to witness that first hand. I guess this added to the sympathy factor. They fell a few meters away from me. I don’t remember how that felt- maybe that’s what they call numbness. The bodies were almost entwined, an amalgam of splattered blood and scattered broken bones lay. I could hear a few screams; see a few women swooning and our Bade Sahab rushing to the spot of gore. I never knew he was so concerned about me- He gave me a thousand bucks and told me that he knew my uncle. I vaguely recalled staying in his chawl the day I came to Mumbai. That was about five years ago when me and my mother had arrived here because the money-orders father was sending were becoming rather irregular. It wasn’t surprising that the Bade Sahab knew of him- he kept the names and addresses of each of his employee’s relatives in his small black worn out diary of the year 2001, lest something goes fishy. I was sincerely appealed to maintain a hush-hush about this incident and never reveal myself to anyone ever again. I had never seen so many Gandhis in my life and I readily obeyed. I was patted on the back and sent ‘home’, that is, his place, which, for a change, wasn’t the sloping roofed cow-dung floored one of my childhood or the tin walled one in my Mumbai life. It was made of concrete- something I helped build my whole working life but never quite enjoyed the benefits of my sweat. Now I was enjoying benefits of somebody else’s sweat.

Sweet.

It was around 11 pm that I raised my fist to knock on his door. The chawl was quite quiet already, with only the yellow bulb outside some of the rooms filtering light through the mosquito nets on the horizontally crow-barred windows. His house was on the top floor- the first floor, at the corner, I was told as the Bade Sahab personally dropped me in an auto-rickshaw, introducing me to a luxury I’d never before experienced. Overwhelmed, I touched his feet and plopped a few tears for his kindness. He smiled and caressed me repeating to maintain a complete silence over the matter. I don’t know how but I had moved on already. I didn’t miss my parents anymore. Was I being insensitive or mature? Or would you rather say weird? Maybe because the death had brought me some unexpectedly pleasant changes in my life that I was aloof to what could otherwise have been a tragedy for my then virgin fourteen year old mind. I got money, I got a free rickshaw trip, an assurance that he’ll take care of me and a brand new proper home. I couldn’t want more.

I knocked again after waiting for some time. Then I spotted the doorbell. Pressing it, no expected ding came. I looked around. There was a small balcony to the left at the end of the corridor that linked the four rooms in our side. It overlooked a small lane that was at the back of the chawl. I could smell a minor stink of fish and guessed there might be a bazaar there. I took a second look at the chawl. It was a basic C shaped, if C were drawn in with straight lines. The common ground the three sides shared had a small dais in the middle which I suspect is used during the Ganesh Chaturthi and a flag post on the side. A saffron flag lay limp on it.

“Madhav uncle,” I called out softly, leaning closer to the door.

No response. “Madhav uncle!” This time was a bit louder.

I heard some of my father’s favorite cuss words from an adjoining room. I must confess, was intimidated a bit. But did I have a choice? I persisted till the disharmony from the other room grew louder and the door I had knocked on suddenly opened.

An ape appeared. No wait, my bad, it was just an extremely dense chest haired human. My uncle Madhav. A staring Uncle Madhav. I attempted a smile. It wasn’t reciprocated. He held the door with his left palm resting on its top and stared wide eyed at me, betraying no sign of recognition, no hint of wanting to inquire who the hell I was and what was I doing at that time in front of his house.

He just stared, wide eyed.

I attempted introducing and explaining myself and did a pretty decent job of it by telling him that my parents have deserted me out of the blue (as instructed by Bade Sahab) and I didn’t have anywhere to go. He let me in, still staring, wide eyed. I later discovered it was just that his eyes were aligned that way. He asked no questions, prodded no further, just mutely made a little gap so that I could pass in. I did. He closed the door behind me.

His house just fitted the minimum requirements of a home. There was a black iron cot on which lay a mattress covered with a fraying brown bed sheet on one side and a small TV facing it, lined along the opposite wall. The wall on the left had some compartments carved in them in which random stuff was kept while the one on the right was the proof of the dismal state of the limestone used. There was a round clock hanging from the wall below which there was a whole body mirror, an unusual thing to splurge on for a limited-means man like uncle Madhav. The living room, the only room, had just a plastic table and a wooden stool. Clinging from a few nails on the back of the main door, 2 pairs of shirts and trousers hung. At first glance from the near doorway perspective, the house was almost empty. I removed my slippers and furthered from the door. I heard the sound of door being latched. Curiously, I hadn’t heard the sound of one being turned when the door was opened.

I attempted an awkward smile which was left unattended. He just moved near the cot, dragged a worn out mattress out of it and spread it on the floor. His pillow, with a covering now greasy, was kept on a side and with that uncle seemed satisfied.

“Sleep,” he said, in a throaty voice and lay back on his bed closing his eyes on the world.

I obeyed. In a short time, I was asleep too.

Bored, aren’t you? Already finding counting the rotating blades of the fan above you more appealing? Or have you suddenly developed a keen interest in the fertilization patterns of an earthworm? Not surprised, I am. Who would like to hear a poor pathetic tale of a poor pathetic girl whom you don’t give a shit about? Not me, if I were you. Okay, she lost her parents. So what? Okay, she was put up at her weirdo uncle’s place? So fucking what? Why should you put up with this? Just because this writer is your friend or because you liked his earlier works? Or maybe because somebody has conned you into reading this and you can’t seem to wean away?

I pity you.

Oh yes, speaking of pity, where did I leave you off in my pitiful tale? Right, I was sleeping at my uncle’s place. But you see, that’s not what my tale is about, it’s about something else. Let’s move on with it, shall we? Now, if this writer guy who’s relating you my whines were attempting for a Booker or Pulitzer, he would’ve told you how I woke up with the din of people waiting for the common bath-n-shit room, the Hindi film songs from the neighbor’s radio, how I got up and went to the common balcony and given you a detailed at least a dozen page spanning description of the skyline, the human buzz, the pooping dogs and cackling birds, and the thoughts running through my mind while I observed those with heavy words such as ‘surging curiosity’ and ‘relishing nakedness of simplicity’ and describe some people to be ‘effervescently charming’ while others ‘eminently forgettable’ blah blah. But you see he is not aiming that. Psst, if you ask me, he can’t get that! So here we go- directly jumping to the dark parts.

The part when my uncle first violated me.

But a little background here though. This didn’t happen the very next day I came to stay at his place. Oh no, my uncle is better than jumping at the first conveniently available female at the first sight. He tried to resist me, tried to stave me off. He maintained a distance physically and I am equally sure he tried to do the same mentally. But then the sad fact of him being a sex addict intervened. The first two days told me he was a recluse. He didn’t interact with the chawl ‘mandali’ as they say in Marathi here, meaning chawl people. He minded his own business, was a bit curt when a small talk was attempted with him and walked with his head down, making no eye contact. I later learnt that he wasn’t exactly welcomed too. The chawl consisted of all the Marathi speaking folks, all mostly in their 60’s and didn’t like the presence of my uncle, a ‘UP-Bihari’ whom they considered was polluting their rich cultural heritage, who got the room only because the original occupant, the late original occupant, was apparently a friend of his. My uncle didn’t give a damn either. In the first two days, he pretended I didn’t exist. But that suited me, y’know. I ain’t much of a talker myself, don’t go by this story. It’s just the writing style that makes you feel I am talking to you. I ain’t.

Hm..m. La la la.

See, I drifted off again! Insane old me! Anyway, on the first day I was left hungry the whole day. There was no food at home- I already told you how empty the house was. If it wouldn’t have been for the talkative aunty of the next door (lets call her talkative aunty) I would’ve slept with an empty stomach, an unalien thing for me.

That’s about the talkative aunty. Her actual name is Sharaja Gokhale, if you must know. And she, as I later found out, wasn’t a housewife. She worked as a… nah, I’m not going to spoil the suspense for you! It’s the least this writer guy deserves. There are a few more people and incidents I will mention but that’s for later. Now, we go back to the promised treat- the incident with my uncle violating me for the first time.

This happened the third day, night rather. I had returned from a meal with the talkative aunty’s family. I was lying on the bed, a yellow bulb illuminating the room and was watching a mosquito trapped in a spider’s web when my uncle barged in. Now, this was unusual. Usually he gets in as if he is sneaking in a stranger’s house with intent of robbery. He shut the door with a loud bang and I can swear I heard at least three different voices swearing for disturbing them in the dead of the night. One of them was ‘Chyamaila’, a Marathi swear word which is one of my favorites, which I still use many a time. Uncle today reeked of the country liquor called ‘tharra’. How do I know of this? Simple- my father often came home drunk. My mom usually used to be wary of him at such times. He would hit her at the slightest provocation though I do remember a few exceptions- once when she had chased him with a hot tava and another when she had created a racket screaming for others to save her. My uncle usually removes his sweaty shirt and dirty pants, hangs it on the door and slips in his pajamas and sleeps without caring to even glance at me but today as he undressed, he threw the clothes on the floor and advanced towards me.

Chyamaila!

By then, I was on my sitting up and looking at him coming towards me, I stood up instantly, afraid. His pace quickened and before I could do anything, he was roughly holding me, his left palm covering my mouth, lest I cried out.

“Hush baby,” he whispered in my ears. I could smell the stink more explicitly now. His oily hair brushed against my ear and I felt something slimy against my cheek. “Yum, you taste good,” he said.

I panicked and started struggling, trying to scream but only a small nasal sound came out. The grip was still beastly and all my attempts to free myself were proving futile. And now his other hand was kneading my breasts.

“My God! Have you ever looked in the mirror, Riya,” he said his breath now fast and excited. This was the first time he had pronounced my name. I hated the timing. “You look so good and you feel even better. Your long fragrant hair… remove that damn ponytail.” He loosened my hair. I thrashed about harder and fell down on the mattress sideways with him holding me from the back. My hair half fell on my face and I sensed him smelling them. “Your beautiful long hair, your growing breasts, your soft skin…do you have any idea how horny they all make me?” His hand now caressed my vagina. I tried screaming again.

“Shut up,” he growled. “Or I swear what I’ll cut you up. You see that third rack-there’s where I keep my knife. How long do you think it will take me to get there and gash you with it? Be nice and this will be over soon. And you’ll enjoy it too. Trust me, I’m good.”

I loosened up, less petrified and more because I didn’t have a choice. His hand slid downward and stroked my thighs. Call me a weirdo but that felt good. “You know,” he said in a sickeningly silky voice. “I have been finding you irresistible since the time you got here. The night you came in, I couldn’t sleep and I faked my snores. The whole night I was staring at you. Doesn’t that prove how much I love you? But I tried to hold myself back. She’s your niece, I told myself. But love knows no boundaries, no blood-ties. Every time I shagged, I saw you coming up in front of my eyes. I angrily removed your image away but I failed doing so today and you have no idea how good it felt. It felt so good, I shagged thrice and every time the feeling felt better. All the time I was drinking, I fantasized you. And now, I actually have you…” he paused. “Let me make love to you.”

He let go of my mouth and started tearing off my dress from the chest. “Let go of…” I screamed, only half-heartedly before it was muffled with his iron hold on my mouth. Now why scream if I liked it, you would ask. I’ll tell you something. Not every rape victim cries after the man is done with her. Not every rape victim fails to have an orgasm if the sex is good. Not every rape victim is a victim of circumstances. But as far as the nakhras are concerned, every rape victim will do it.

Or maybe, it’s just me.

“Shut the fuck up you bitch,” he whispered acidly. He darted towards his pants, took out a handkerchief and stuffed it in my mouth. He used the sleeves of his shirt and made a knot around my mouth. “And now, it’s show time.” Corny, eh?

He tore off my top and slid off my lowers. I tried turning away but then felt a strong slap against my butt. It stung but I liked it. I gave in and didn’t resist when I saw his fat small throbbing penis ready to dip in me. “That’s my Riya,” he moaned in pleasure. “Oh yeah, you’re so bloody good. See, that’s the trick-…”

And then he uttered those magical words that changed my life with him since that moment.

“…enjoy, don’t resist.”

You might wonder how these changed my life. They did because I actually listened to them. The writer guy wants to give an illustration here. All the self help books that we see, all those who have supposedly changed lives of millions, say like The Alchemist, we often tend to scoff at them saying that they’ve made the most obvious points, churned it out in a printed form and still emerged a bestseller. But you know what in them have changed lives? It’s not the brilliance of writing or some deep insightful views but most in-your-face things which we turn a blind eye to, that is, simple phrases like ‘You are responsible for your own happiness’. You know it all the time but if you start following it, we emerge successful. And so happened with me- these three words worked wonders.

After the initial half hearted resistance, I gave in and participated and I tell you what- it felt good. Real good. I recall the one time I saw my parents fucking. I was just on the verge of sleeping when I heard a low moan near me. I opened my eyes a little and saw father on top of mother, whose saree was rolled up and petticoat on the floor some distance away. I was alarmed at the first hint of my mother in pain but something told me not to interrupt. They went on for a few minutes at the end of which mother let out a louder moan and father lay by her side, sounding like he did when he has dragged a huge pile of rubble for a long time. I remember the big smile mother had on her face- and that told me it wasn’t pain but pleasure. A painful pleasure. Asking around the next day, I got to know that it was what is called fucking.

And now I was fucking. And it felt good. Real good. And at a point, I moaned too.

I moaned a pleasure moan.

Roshni would’ve loved me if I would’ve ended this with an And she woke up and realized it was just a dream. She was desperate for the story to end. Watching the little girl in her lap, listening to her as she so unflinchingly related this recoiling tale, she couldn’t help but feel horrified. Of all the events she had narrated, more than once she found her voice bottled up in her throat. She had such million questions to ask. And she now could take it no more.

“…”

She opened her mouth and no sound came out. She tried harder. This time she succeeded. “Is th… this girl you are talking about, is it you?”

Riya was looking at the sky all the time while narrating. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them, her gaze now fixed on Roshni’s breasts. She took her small hand and touched the pendant Roshni was wearing.

“That night, as I lay down to sleep, I had a big smile on my face…”

“No, for God’s sakes, no more,” Roshni frantically stood up jerking Riya off her lap. “Tell me, is it you? You said your name was Riya and now you tell her story. Is it your story?”

Riya was unfazed at the sudden disharmony. She spread on the pavement and picking up a leaf, tore an end with her teeth. “What do you think,” she asked, munching her snack.

“Who are you,” Roshni demanded. “What are you talking about? What is it that you’re relating in the name of a bed time story? What are you doing in the middle of the night here? You’re so disgusting, so unnatural for a kid,” Roshni was in hysterics now. “I mean, what are you? What? Ugh.” She immersed her face in her palms and moved them away the next instant, her tone hardening. “You, you are gonna tell me everything,” she said grabbing Riya by her shoulders. “Tell me. Do you hear me? Tell me goddammit!” Roshni was shaking her by her shoulders now.

“Hey you, stop.”

Roshni jerked up hearing a sharp alien voice directed to her and saw a plump old, lady jogging towards her. “Don’t do that to her,” she was saying and moving ahead.

“You know why I chew leaves?” This was Riya.

Roshni looked at her, bemused. “You know why I chew leaves,” she repeated. Roshni didn’t answer. Her mind was already in plenty of loops to digest, process, dissect and conjure up a reply to another morsel of irrelevant talks.

Not that Riya was waiting for an answer. “I don’t eat any leaves,” she said. “I eat only the fallen and yellow leaves, those which the tree has said ‘Go away’. The leaves also feel, you know. They feel rejected. So they feel sad. I eat them so that they won’t feel inferior to their green sisters sitting on the branches. I give them comfort so that even they can boast, ‘Yay, she ate me too. Fuck you, you proud and arrogant green leaves’.”

Roshni blinked.

“I am a nice person, ain’t I,” Riya asked.

Roshni stared on, confounded. The old, plump lady had reached by then.

“You, what’s your name?” she demanded sternly of Roshni.

Roshni looked up, staring blankly.

“I am talking to you,” she forced. “Who are you and what are you doing here to my patient?”

Roshni gathered her audible forces again. “Pa…patient,” somehow, she ejaculated.

“Yes,” the lady said, bending down to pick up Riya, who rose without a word and hugged her, burying her face in the lady’s breasts. “She’s a patient in my hospital. She ran away just today. What do you know of her?”

Now everything made sense. The disturbing story, the irrelevant talks, the strange demeanor… maybe she was a psycho. The best thing to do here, Roshni thought, go away and flush this nightmare out of her mind. For ever.

“No, I don’t know anything about her,” Roshni mumbled and started walking away.

“Wait,” the woman called out. “What were you talking to her about? And why were you manhandling her?”

Manhandling? This was funny. Roshni just shook Riya by her shoulders and the next moment it was termed manhandling? Roshni almost smiled. “I dunno,” she replied and resumed her walk back.

“Hey, I am not done with you…” the lady started again, with Riya still clinging to her, acting oblivious to the commotion around her.

“Stop, will you,” Roshni turned and burst out. “This girl here has psyched me out with her weird talks. Just go away. I don’t need to talk to you or anyone. I was not manhanding her or assaulting her or whatever. I was walking and this girl comes to me and goes blah blah about how she made out with her uncle and all. What am I supposed to do if not repelled and disturbed? Gimme a break lady, I am going away. I’ve had enough for the night.” Roshni felt her last of her energies seeping out of her with the last word she said. She sat down. A tear peeped out of her right eye.

This seemed to bring about a change in the woman. She dug into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. Scribbling something, she handed it over to Roshni. “Listen, I don’t know who you are and what you’re doing here, but I believe you,” she said. “I am Savita Khare. I work as a warden in J W Hospital. This girl Riya here escaped this evening. We’ve been searching for her since six hours and I find her with you at this time- that’s why the questions. Here’s a pass for you. Show this to the receptionist and she will direct you to me. Come and meet as soon as possible, that is, after you sleep over this. We really need to talk.”

Roshni didn’t reply till she felt a gentle hand resting on her shoulder.

“I think you should go home now,” Savita was saying, giving her a warm smile. “You look pretty tired.”

Roshni looked up. “You think?”

“But that’s not the only reason why I chew leaves…”

Both Roshni and Savita turned to Riya, surprised at her sudden participation. Riya too had turned and was gazing at Roshni’s feet. “I chew leaves because I like to.” Riya looked up.

Now their eyes met.