Born with an urge...
An urge he tried to understand...
But never could...
Cultural, hormonal or genetic – whatever the origin...
The urge remains...
The cop walked down the street. Armed with nothing more than a lathi and protected by nothing more than a uniform. He had to do this every day.
Walk his beat. Walk carefully.
“Don’t step on the faeces” he thought.
Faeces - The least of his concerns. There are other things a cop on a night vigil has to worry about. Stepping on the pavement dwellers, for example, while they slept through their fear. Mankind slept a disturbed sleeps on these streets. And it wasn’t the weather.
The pavement dwellers were disturbed by the thought of the eerie violence that could be upon them on a dark night such as this.
So they slept together. In batches of three or more. A rodent running through their legs would cause them to raise a fearful alarm. And whip out a knife or a stick or whatever it is that they slept with to protect themselves. They slept in fear.
Fear of the unknown quantity that could drain out the blood from their bodies. And leave behind a starved corpse unrecognisable to all apart from those who slept next to the corpse while it was alive the night before.
It had been out there for many months now. It had many names. And it had many faces. Few claimed to have seen it. Some saw a large bat. Others saw a giant mosquito. One saw a large snake. They argued about it all day while they went about doing what the poor do. They bickered over it while they ate their food. It entertained them in the morning and they feared it when they slept. For it attacked only in the night.
They deluded themselves into believing that it attacked only those that sinned. And they believed it to be true. The streets turned pious. Gambling dens, hooch joints and brothels resembled housed haunted only be the spirits of dead vices. White lies were no longer spoken. Tongues were barred from speaking evil. Man became as pious as man could.
Ironically, piety led by the devils hand.
For a city that never sleeps, streets fell silent after midnight. Apart from a stray suicidal vehicle, those lucky to own their own abodes refrained from stepping out. It had never killed the affluent. But the affluent always fear more than the poor.
The poor took strength from poverty and the absence of alternatives. And they slept a sleep wedged in twilight. Too tired to stay awake and too scared to sleep.
The cops walked the street to protect the city. Sometimes alone and sometime in pairs and sometime on bicycles. They walked the lonely walk of the fearful. They walked the dark alleys and the sub-lit streets.
They feared every corner, every blind spot and their blind side.
They wished they had four eyes. Two behind the head.
The commissioner, asleep in his secure bedroom at night, had asked them to refrain from using their vehicles. Vehicles made a noise that could drive the murderer away. The commissioner wanted him alive. He wanted to prove that the murderer was not some creature from the dark side.
The commissioner liked to believe that the murderer was human.
The cop walked the street. As he neared a dark alley on his right, an alley no cop would have stepped into alone, he thought he heard a cough. Something told him to stop. He stood still. He thought he heard a cough again. He was about to start walking again when he heard a muffled squeal. He was about to enter the alley when he heard footsteps running towards him. He looked up and saw two other policemen walking towards him. If whoever was in the lane heard them, there was a chance that he might get away. He gestured towards the cops to quiet down and tread slowly.
After a few moments of bewilderment, they understood. They walked on eggshells towards him, gesturing “What is it” with their hands, fear written all over their faces. He put his finger to his lips asking them to be silent and pointed to the alley on his right.
As they reached the entrance to the dark alley, he gestured towards them and asked them to back him up while he would spring into the lane. They took cover behind the shadows cast by the building at the corner of the alley. He sprung in, deliberately making a noise with his lathi. He was too scared of the element of surprise. "Who in the end might surprise whom", he thought.
Towards the far end of the lane, a man sprung up. The cop could not see the face shielded by darkness. The man was momentarily startled by the cop. But then he recovered and bolted.
The cop ran after him. His girth ensuring that he was slower than the man ahead of him. He panted into his whistle while he ran. He heard the two cops behind him come out of the shadows and run after him. As he reached the far end of the alley, he saw a man unconscious, lying on his back. The old man looked like he belonged to the pavement. The two cops had by then reached the man too. The old man looked dead. But his pulse was alive.
The cops were exhilarated. They finally had seen the one or at least the silhouette of the one. The one known as the bat and the mosquito and the snake. Now they knew that he was but a man. The cop asked one of his accomplices to follow him as he ran after the murderer. The other would go off and call an ambulance.
The two cops took off after the murderer. As they turned the corner, they saw him running a few hundred yards away. They ran after him as fast as they could.
The man kept running. They kept running. After what seemed like an eternity, they saw him duck into an alley. One cop followed him and the other, ran into another alley, further ahead, that ran parallel to the one the murderer had run into.
They two alleys both opened out to the main road on the other side of the alley. Both alleys had only one other lane that cut across and connected both. If the man ducked into that lane, the other cop could cut across and apprehend him. If he kept running straight down to the main road, the cop had him in his sights.
The first cop saw the man duck into the lane towards the right. Their plan would work. “The bastard will finally be caught” he thought.
As he ducked into the lane on the right, he saw someone at the far end. As he ran towards him, he realized that the murderer was nowhere to be seen. The man at the other end was his partner. The cop stopped and looked around. There were no other exits. Apart from a few old ramshackle two story chawls. “The bastard could have entered any of these” he thought. “But which one?”
He called out to the other cop and asked him to remain where he was. He saw a few lights come on at the sound of his voice. “This was a mistake”, he thought. “If anyone comes out of their houses in any of these buildings, they are in trouble. And I don’t even know which building the bastard entered”
He saw a few fearful faces peeking out at him through half open windows. “Close your windows, bolt your doors, switch off your lights and stay quiet” he screamed out. He screamed out his instructions again and asked the other police man to do the same. As he kept shouting out instructions, he walked back quietly towards his end of the lane.
The two cops were now at either end of the lane. And again, it was quiet, apart from a few stray dogs. The dogs had joined them in shouting out instructions and were still at it. Then the dogs fell silent too. And then it was really quiet. The only one with the courage to breathe was the wind.
He looked for his mobile phone. He had to call for backup. It was dangerous for one of them to enter the poorly lit buildings all by themselves. The man was capable of violence. He had demonstrated that forty three times now. It was not sensible for both of them to go together into any building. They did not know where the man was hiding. And if both of them were off the road and searching the buildings, the murderer could run away, while they combed the wrong place.
"But did his partner see the man" he wondered. He tried to gesture but the other cop was too far away. He had no choice but to ask him aloud. The other cop said that he didn’t. He did not see anyone when he reached his end of the alley.
The first cop found his mobile phone. And it was switched off. He tried to switch it on and realized that the battery had drained off. “FUCK” he screamed out loud. A few dogs barked back. He was always lazy when it came to charging his phone. He disliked them, but had to carry one because his wife nagged him.
He called out to his partner and asked if he had one. “No. I left mine at the police station. I had just stepped out for a walk with Thambe when this happened”
“Benchut, all this has to happen today” the first cop abused loudly. He thought about combing the buildings alone and then thought of his family. “No. It is not wise”.
There was nothing that he could do. He sat down in the middle of the road at his end of the lane and gestured towards the other cop to do the same. They had no choice but to wait. Wait until another cop walked this beat and could go get help. Neither could leave the place as it would give the murderer an escape route. “And who knows, the bhadwa might be watching us now”
And so they lay siege. Someone switched on their lights and looked out of the window. An old man looked out. The cop screamed at the old man. “If you want to look out, at least do that with your lights off”
They sat there for an hour. And nothing moved but the rodents. They had nothing to fear. There was no sound apart from an occasional street dog whimping and barking. And then it was nearly dawn. The man looked at his watch. 5:00 am it said. Something had to happen soon. He had to do something soon.
In an hour, people would start going up and about. Someone would come down for a walk. Someone would start the kitchen fire. He wasn’t sure if everyone in the had heard him. If someone does step out, for a walk or to buy milk, the murderer would find a hostage if not a victim.
And then his luck turned. Luck walked up to him with a pot belly dressed in an uniform. “Why are you sitting here baba” the new cop asked while he walked up to him. The man who lay siege on the dark lane nearly cried out loud. Tears of joy and tears of relief. “Go get more back up. Go now benchut and come fast”
“What happened”
“Arre, benchut, the murderer is in one of these buildings. Now don’t fuck my head. Go and come fast. And get backup. Lots of back-up and ammunition. We need to comb these buildings. He is in there somewhere”
The cop who had just arrived turned around and ran faster than his pot belly would allow. After a few paces, he had to catch his breath and started walking. He had just walked a couple of steps when he heard the other cop abuse him “Run fast bhadwa”. The man ran as fast as he could. At least till the end of the alley.
In the next half an hour, there were more than 20 cops in the alley with their primitive ammunition. More were promised soon.
The cops started combing the buildings in batches of five. Then more cops arrived. One cop was on a loud-speaker bellowing instructions to the building dwellers. “DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSES. SHUT YOUR DOORS. STAY INDOORS. KEEP YOUR WINDOWS CLOSED”
By 7:30 am they had him. A teenage urchin with murderous eyes. He had no weapons on him. He was crouching in a dark corner on the second floor of a building when they found him. He tried to fight back. He was strong but he was outnumbered.
They took him to the police station. And they beat him. They beat him till he was nearly dead. Then they beat him some more. They then took the nearly dead body to the nearest government hospital. A few of them, the senior ones, serenaded the media. “It was a successful operation” they said “no casualties and no collateral damage. The murderer is recovering from his injuries that he sustained while he tried to escape”
A week later, after fighting death, the boy recovered. And they questioned him. He said he was innocent. He said that he was a rag picker. He was addicted to pot and was crouching on the street, rolling a joint when the cops came upon him. He was scared and he ran.
But finally he accepted that he was the murderer. Before that he was beaten again. He finally put his thumb print on the confession. A week later he died. "Of natural causes" the media reported.
Two weeks later the two cops who lay siege were at the local bar. The bar was crowded again. The bar owner, happy that he was minting more money than he ever did, offered the two cops all they could drink on the house.
After a few drinks they discussed the evening. The whole bar was all ears. The two gloated and exaggerated. How they nearly caught the murderer. How when they ran behind him and nearly caught up with him and tugged at his torn shirt. They said that he looked behind and with his red eyes and hypnotized them into momentary stillness. And how the two of them were a part of the search party that finally caught the murderer. And how he fought. One against ten. It took twenty cops to finally overpower him. And how he finally sat in meditation in the jail cell and gave up his life. The drunk crowd oohed and aahed and applauded and raved and abused.
The two drunk cops finally walked out of the bar. They could go out on the beat again. Fearless and drunk.
“By the way, Do you know where Thambe is ?”
“Ha ha Ha, that fattu must have shat in his pants after that night and must be still cowering at home. Or he must have gone off to fuck that whore he dotes on”
“Ha Ha Ha”
Thambe never went home after that night.
It took the cops a couple of days before they realized this. Wives of policewomen in the city are used to not seeing their husbands home for a few days. And Thambe had a mistress on the side. He sometimes did not come home for a week.
But when he didn’t come home for more than a week, Thambe’s wife came looking for him.
Thembe never went home that night.
They found his uniform in a gutter.
One month later the murders started again. In another city not far away...
The urge remains...
The urge is strong...
The urge grows stronger...
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Still
Time was still. The man looked at his watch. Hours and minutes stuck in perpetuity. Defeated and motionless.
“How ironic” he thought. His lifeless watch reflected the barren landscape – dull, desolate, and still. Thirsty shrubs reached out to the dry, parched soil. The slight breeze that blew through the landscape during these acrid months appeared to have been imprisoned by the lazy dust that rested listlessly in the summer sun-baked earth.
The man looked at his car as it stood open-mouthed. Its defeated engine looking out at an angry victorious sun.
He had been there for a few hours now since his car broke down. His kerchief tied around his head and a bottle of water in his hands. A bottle that now contained the last few sips of lukewarm water after the liquid had made friends with sunshine. The poor man however had no choice but to wait.
Sweat trickled down his forehead and entered his eyes. He tried to flutter his eyelids to avoid the sweat trickling down into his eyes. Salt and sweat burnt his eyes and clouded his vision. He fluttered his eyes and looked out at the barren highway through a hazy tear screen.
He hadn’t seen a vehicle pass by since his car overheated and his driver had gone off to get water. Since then, it had felt as if his defunct watch had somehow managed to stop time and keep him imprisoned in a vulnerable, timeless and harsh present.
His patience had started getting the better of him. He looked at his bottle of lukewarm water, the acrid landscape, the isolated highway, and his useless car. He cursed under his breath. He cursed his luck, the weather and his driver.
“Benchut, why the fuck did the car have to get overheated today and where the fuck is Ramprasad”
His mind moved on. It moved on to unpleasant thoughts about a bag that was on the back-seat of the car. The bag worried him. The inconspicuous bag held gold, that generally, is a fortune for any middleclass father of an unwed girl child. The bag contained gold jewellery for his only daughters wedding, prepared by a family jeweller from their ancestral village, a few hundred miles away from the city.
The gold had cost him a fortune. It had cost him enough to make him worry about it.
He had set out last evening to go back to his ancestral village to collect the gold. He had to go alone, as the others in his small extended family were busy with other tasks that a grand wedding demanded of younger and fitter men. He had set out with his driver of eight years, a man he could trust with his soul, to collect his daughters wedding ornaments and issue the final payment.
He had forgotten about the gold since his car broke down. But now it worried him.
He pulled himself close to the car door and looked in through the car window.
And then all hell broke loose. His heart started pounding through his chest and worked its way up violently to his temple. It pounded in his head and engaged in a violent scuffle with his brain. He felt his heart and brain scrambling through his veins. His head exploded and his heart tore through his chest.
A lone man screaming on an isolated highway. His voice cutting through the caustic landscape, unsettling the lazy dust and ripping through the earth. Far away mountains, lying still, waiting in eagerness, unsure but eager - Can they absorb the angst.
A car standing still. Its open mouth seems wider. Terrorstricken. This is not the master that it has known
“BHENCHOT… BHADWA… MADHARCHUT”
A man he trusted for eight years had taken off with his daughters future. A man who he trusted with all his secrets, frustrations and happiness. A man who had, for eight years, been just another accessory in his car. A man he trusted.
He had to go after the bastard.
There was no point waiting here. His daughters wedding was less than fourteen hours away. He had to get back with the gold.
His daughter's father-in-law had said that he did not believe in dowry.But the man had also said that the only thing he expects is that his daughter-in--law enters the house like a princess.
Everyone knew what that meant. He, as the father of the bride, was expected to give. This was the social norm and this was how his society worked.
Of Course, the wedding was doomed without the gold.
Since the birth of his only child, a daughter, he had realized that the girl was to be his most precious asset and yet, ironically, his biggest liability.
He loved his daughter. He would not let her down. His family name was at stake. He could not let his ancestors down
He had to get home. And he had to get home with the gold. He had to act.
Waiting around was not going to help. He had to act.
Act now.
"Act now you you bastard. Come on. You have seen a thousand movies where the impossible has become real. There must be some truth to it. Miracles happen. They happen to those who are desperate and who believe."
"Pray now you bastard. Call out to the one who has blessed you all her life."
“JAI MAATA DI”
He tried to pull himself up and stand up on his feet.
His wheelchair moved away from him
He fell to the ground.
He looked up at the scorching sun, his car and then his wheelchair.
Then he cursed god and his fate.
Why the fuck did this have to happen to him.
Why was he cursed.
Cursed with a daughter. Then cursed with a paralytic stroke that had rendered his legs useless for the last one year.
And now cursed with this misfortune...
“How ironic” he thought. His lifeless watch reflected the barren landscape – dull, desolate, and still. Thirsty shrubs reached out to the dry, parched soil. The slight breeze that blew through the landscape during these acrid months appeared to have been imprisoned by the lazy dust that rested listlessly in the summer sun-baked earth.
The man looked at his car as it stood open-mouthed. Its defeated engine looking out at an angry victorious sun.
He had been there for a few hours now since his car broke down. His kerchief tied around his head and a bottle of water in his hands. A bottle that now contained the last few sips of lukewarm water after the liquid had made friends with sunshine. The poor man however had no choice but to wait.
Sweat trickled down his forehead and entered his eyes. He tried to flutter his eyelids to avoid the sweat trickling down into his eyes. Salt and sweat burnt his eyes and clouded his vision. He fluttered his eyes and looked out at the barren highway through a hazy tear screen.
He hadn’t seen a vehicle pass by since his car overheated and his driver had gone off to get water. Since then, it had felt as if his defunct watch had somehow managed to stop time and keep him imprisoned in a vulnerable, timeless and harsh present.
His patience had started getting the better of him. He looked at his bottle of lukewarm water, the acrid landscape, the isolated highway, and his useless car. He cursed under his breath. He cursed his luck, the weather and his driver.
“Benchut, why the fuck did the car have to get overheated today and where the fuck is Ramprasad”
His mind moved on. It moved on to unpleasant thoughts about a bag that was on the back-seat of the car. The bag worried him. The inconspicuous bag held gold, that generally, is a fortune for any middleclass father of an unwed girl child. The bag contained gold jewellery for his only daughters wedding, prepared by a family jeweller from their ancestral village, a few hundred miles away from the city.
The gold had cost him a fortune. It had cost him enough to make him worry about it.
He had set out last evening to go back to his ancestral village to collect the gold. He had to go alone, as the others in his small extended family were busy with other tasks that a grand wedding demanded of younger and fitter men. He had set out with his driver of eight years, a man he could trust with his soul, to collect his daughters wedding ornaments and issue the final payment.
He had forgotten about the gold since his car broke down. But now it worried him.
He pulled himself close to the car door and looked in through the car window.
And then all hell broke loose. His heart started pounding through his chest and worked its way up violently to his temple. It pounded in his head and engaged in a violent scuffle with his brain. He felt his heart and brain scrambling through his veins. His head exploded and his heart tore through his chest.
A lone man screaming on an isolated highway. His voice cutting through the caustic landscape, unsettling the lazy dust and ripping through the earth. Far away mountains, lying still, waiting in eagerness, unsure but eager - Can they absorb the angst.
A car standing still. Its open mouth seems wider. Terrorstricken. This is not the master that it has known
“BHENCHOT… BHADWA… MADHARCHUT”
A man he trusted for eight years had taken off with his daughters future. A man who he trusted with all his secrets, frustrations and happiness. A man who had, for eight years, been just another accessory in his car. A man he trusted.
He had to go after the bastard.
There was no point waiting here. His daughters wedding was less than fourteen hours away. He had to get back with the gold.
His daughter's father-in-law had said that he did not believe in dowry.But the man had also said that the only thing he expects is that his daughter-in--law enters the house like a princess.
Everyone knew what that meant. He, as the father of the bride, was expected to give. This was the social norm and this was how his society worked.
Of Course, the wedding was doomed without the gold.
Since the birth of his only child, a daughter, he had realized that the girl was to be his most precious asset and yet, ironically, his biggest liability.
He loved his daughter. He would not let her down. His family name was at stake. He could not let his ancestors down
He had to get home. And he had to get home with the gold. He had to act.
Waiting around was not going to help. He had to act.
Act now.
"Act now you you bastard. Come on. You have seen a thousand movies where the impossible has become real. There must be some truth to it. Miracles happen. They happen to those who are desperate and who believe."
"Pray now you bastard. Call out to the one who has blessed you all her life."
“JAI MAATA DI”
He tried to pull himself up and stand up on his feet.
His wheelchair moved away from him
He fell to the ground.
He looked up at the scorching sun, his car and then his wheelchair.
Then he cursed god and his fate.
Why the fuck did this have to happen to him.
Why was he cursed.
Cursed with a daughter. Then cursed with a paralytic stroke that had rendered his legs useless for the last one year.
And now cursed with this misfortune...
Monday, November 2, 2009
Thirsty...
Back in the days when the sun was at its brightest, life reflected the brilliance of sunshine and the soul sparkled with innocence - Back then I embraced darkness.
Brightness was stark and darkness was lush. Darkness was many hued, layered with curiosity, throbbing with the passion of sin and blessed with a deep dark voice of manhood.
Innocence, relatively, seemed effete and boring.
I dived into the depths of darkness. Far away from the reach of light.
Who needs light? Who needs sight... when there is blindness... and blindness can be… Exhilarating. Thrilling. Powerful. Magical.
Ah! To sell the soul in a whore-house frequented by deaf blindness. Darkness raping the soul with insane fervor and to the sound of buzzing psychedelia. Darkness and the soul creating devastating devilish dark hued fabric to dress life up for the night life in the moon light.
My fangs. Are drawn.
My wings. Are spread
I hunt. My love.
Your windows. Are they open tonight?
If yes. Lets drink to it…
Brightness was stark and darkness was lush. Darkness was many hued, layered with curiosity, throbbing with the passion of sin and blessed with a deep dark voice of manhood.
Innocence, relatively, seemed effete and boring.
I dived into the depths of darkness. Far away from the reach of light.
Who needs light? Who needs sight... when there is blindness... and blindness can be… Exhilarating. Thrilling. Powerful. Magical.
Ah! To sell the soul in a whore-house frequented by deaf blindness. Darkness raping the soul with insane fervor and to the sound of buzzing psychedelia. Darkness and the soul creating devastating devilish dark hued fabric to dress life up for the night life in the moon light.
My fangs. Are drawn.
My wings. Are spread
I hunt. My love.
Your windows. Are they open tonight?
If yes. Lets drink to it…
Friday, September 25, 2009
You know that I love you, don’t you???
“You know that I love you, don’t you”
“Yes baby”
“Then don’t ever leave me.” He sounded upset.
“Why do you say such things baby. And that too over a long distance phone call. It hurts”
“I don’t know what comes over me. Sorry. I guess I am a bit frustrated. Life is not really great, you know”
“Don’t worry babu. I loooove you”
“I don’t have much money you know. Or I would have come down to meet you. Things are really tough. I lost my job because of the fucking recession. I think the bastards needed an excuse to kick people out and recession was their excuse”
“Doesn’t matter. We will meet soon honey. Till then we have the phone baby. And If you don’t have money – I will call you”
“You are chooo sweet honey” he cooed.
“I love you baby.”
He saw her in his mind. She was radiant. Her jet black her and her cute nose. He wanted to bite the nose.
“Heh Heh… You know what I want to do now”
“No. What?” She was all innocence, wasn't she?
“Guess” he teased.
“Shut Up. That is all you can think of” she said in mock annoyance.
“You don’t like it? Ok. Wont talk about it” he teased again.
“No baby. Of course I do”
“Then why are you taking bhav”
“Shut Up”
“He He… listen to me na… You know what I feel like doing”
“No babu. Tell me”
“I want to kiss you”
“And”
“I want to feel your tongue on mine”
“And”
“I want to move down slowly, smelling your skin, kissing your neck”
Giggle. “Shut up. I am feeling ticklish”
“I want to run my tongue over your lips, find your chin and work my way down to your breasts”
“And then”
“Move up slowly again and find your mouth. I want to smell your breath. I want to feel the wetness of your mouth. I want my body to be warmed by your flesh. I want to tickle your breasts. I want to feel them grow in my hands.”
“You are so good baby" she cooed. "I can feel your hands baby and your breath. I love you baby. Come here na. What are you doing there. Come her Now. Pleeease”
“Shhh. Listen. Can you feel my tongue moving back down your neck. Can you feel my tongue moving towards your breasts. I can feel the taste of salt on your skin baby. I can smell your breast. I can hear your heart throb”
“Baby" she moaned "I can feel your body against mine. I can feel its warmth. I feel your strength. Your large manhood and your rigid hardness. Your hard harsh hands crushing my delicate body. I want you baby. I want you now. Move your hands lower down na baby. Feel me there. Find me. I want you there”
“Baby. My hands are reaching down. I feel your belly button baby. How I love it. Its depth. Its….
CLICK.............................................................................
"Hello... Hello... Baby... are you there baby.... Helooooo"
“Fuck” she thought “the line dropped.”
She wiped her brow. The air conditioner wasn't working for three days now.
She smiled to herself. And then stifled her laughter.
The fifty year old lady in the next cubicle was doing her version of the orgasm. It sounded suspiciously like an alien being tortured in Area 51. “Now which was that film”
“Poor woman. She’s giving it her all” she thought "But she wont last long. Its her first day live on calls and the big boss would be monitoring all her conversations. Alien shrieks don't work for the boss. But I wonder what her story is. Everyone here has a story. If only someone listened carefully, they would find a story screaming out loud through each fake orgasm"
That reminded her. She had to collect her paycheck from Burger King for the part time stint she did there during the last month. But she was doing two fucking shifts back to back this week. Sex sells. Even during a downturn.
"I wonder when I'll find time" she grumbled. "A million corny B-movie dialogues to be spouted sixteen hours a day - I can feel your large manhood and your rigid hardness. What the fuck is rigid hardness" she laughed to herself. "Hard harsh hands crushing my delicate body" she laughed again.
The middle aged alien looked at her in disgust.
Her phone was ringing again.
“Fuck! Seven calls on queue” she muttered to herself “Seven horny toads salivating, one of whom will help pay for my child’s education”
“Wait… I am coming baby”
“Seven calls on queue bitches. Everyone on the phone. NOW”
PS: This post is inspired by a tweet that grabbed my attention a few days back on Mentalie's blog
“Yes baby”
“Then don’t ever leave me.” He sounded upset.
“Why do you say such things baby. And that too over a long distance phone call. It hurts”
“I don’t know what comes over me. Sorry. I guess I am a bit frustrated. Life is not really great, you know”
“Don’t worry babu. I loooove you”
“I don’t have much money you know. Or I would have come down to meet you. Things are really tough. I lost my job because of the fucking recession. I think the bastards needed an excuse to kick people out and recession was their excuse”
“Doesn’t matter. We will meet soon honey. Till then we have the phone baby. And If you don’t have money – I will call you”
“You are chooo sweet honey” he cooed.
“I love you baby.”
He saw her in his mind. She was radiant. Her jet black her and her cute nose. He wanted to bite the nose.
“Heh Heh… You know what I want to do now”
“No. What?” She was all innocence, wasn't she?
“Guess” he teased.
“Shut Up. That is all you can think of” she said in mock annoyance.
“You don’t like it? Ok. Wont talk about it” he teased again.
“No baby. Of course I do”
“Then why are you taking bhav”
“Shut Up”
“He He… listen to me na… You know what I feel like doing”
“No babu. Tell me”
“I want to kiss you”
“And”
“I want to feel your tongue on mine”
“And”
“I want to move down slowly, smelling your skin, kissing your neck”
Giggle. “Shut up. I am feeling ticklish”
“I want to run my tongue over your lips, find your chin and work my way down to your breasts”
“And then”
“Move up slowly again and find your mouth. I want to smell your breath. I want to feel the wetness of your mouth. I want my body to be warmed by your flesh. I want to tickle your breasts. I want to feel them grow in my hands.”
“You are so good baby" she cooed. "I can feel your hands baby and your breath. I love you baby. Come here na. What are you doing there. Come her Now. Pleeease”
“Shhh. Listen. Can you feel my tongue moving back down your neck. Can you feel my tongue moving towards your breasts. I can feel the taste of salt on your skin baby. I can smell your breast. I can hear your heart throb”
“Baby" she moaned "I can feel your body against mine. I can feel its warmth. I feel your strength. Your large manhood and your rigid hardness. Your hard harsh hands crushing my delicate body. I want you baby. I want you now. Move your hands lower down na baby. Feel me there. Find me. I want you there”
“Baby. My hands are reaching down. I feel your belly button baby. How I love it. Its depth. Its….
CLICK.............................................................................
"Hello... Hello... Baby... are you there baby.... Helooooo"
“Fuck” she thought “the line dropped.”
She wiped her brow. The air conditioner wasn't working for three days now.
She smiled to herself. And then stifled her laughter.
The fifty year old lady in the next cubicle was doing her version of the orgasm. It sounded suspiciously like an alien being tortured in Area 51. “Now which was that film”
“Poor woman. She’s giving it her all” she thought "But she wont last long. Its her first day live on calls and the big boss would be monitoring all her conversations. Alien shrieks don't work for the boss. But I wonder what her story is. Everyone here has a story. If only someone listened carefully, they would find a story screaming out loud through each fake orgasm"
That reminded her. She had to collect her paycheck from Burger King for the part time stint she did there during the last month. But she was doing two fucking shifts back to back this week. Sex sells. Even during a downturn.
"I wonder when I'll find time" she grumbled. "A million corny B-movie dialogues to be spouted sixteen hours a day - I can feel your large manhood and your rigid hardness. What the fuck is rigid hardness" she laughed to herself. "Hard harsh hands crushing my delicate body" she laughed again.
The middle aged alien looked at her in disgust.
Her phone was ringing again.
“Fuck! Seven calls on queue” she muttered to herself “Seven horny toads salivating, one of whom will help pay for my child’s education”
“Wait… I am coming baby”
“Seven calls on queue bitches. Everyone on the phone. NOW”
PS: This post is inspired by a tweet that grabbed my attention a few days back on Mentalie's blog
Friday, September 18, 2009
Dead Worried
It has been four minutes since I died.
My wife sleeps next to what had been me, unaware of the corpse, which was once her husband that lies next to her.
She will be up in the next couple of hours. By habit, she will do her daily prayers and ablutions and set some tea on fire before coming back to wake me up.
Then I am afraid, all hell will break loose.
I hope God takes me away before this transpires. Nothing such has happened yet. I haven’t seen any light or any such thing. I am still here.
Formless and shapeless. Hopeful. Peaceful. Waiting.
One hour since death
My wife shifts slightly in her sleep. I want to reach out to her, hold her and comfort her. I want to tell her not to worry and that I am there for her.
I fear that she will awaken and ask for the bottle of water that always lies on my side of the bed.
We argued before going to bed last night – on some trivial issue. On lending some money to her cousin brother whom I never really liked. For someone who had taken voluntary retirement a few months back, it is difficult to take the liberty with money the way young people do.
My children take liberty with money. I have two sons. Both married, great jobs, on a high, and spending more than they should. I have tried to talk sense into them. They hear my ranting and respectfully ignore me. No one listens to an old man.
They take after me. I did not listen to my old man.
I married my wife against my fathers wishes. It was meant to be an arranged match. We had visited her house to see her. I, a London educated graduate, working with a bank in Bombay (as it as called then), was a price catch.
My father, a traditionalist with right wing leanings, would only settle for the best.
‘Best’ for him was defined by the size of my potential father in laws bank balance and his willingness to part with a large chunk of it in dowry. ‘Best’ was also defined by the colour of my potential wife’s skin. My father’s son had lived and dined with fair men and of course he had to have a fair wife.
The girl we have travelled to see that day did not qualify. It was a mistake. My father said he realised this the minute the taxi drew into the lower middle class suburb. He would have turned around right then if not for my uncle, who had recommended the match, and who had helped my father financially for my expensive education.
A grim father and an obedient son walked through an open door into a little house that announced aloud that it belonged to a mid-level government servant.
Sparse, minimalistic, functional and definitely not to my fathers taste.
We were greeted by many joyous, rotund relatives and a bald, sombre, humble father. The usual tiffin was served with laddoos wrestling with chaklis and chivda for space in the little plates brought out for each of us by rotound relatives.
“Where is the girls mother. Does she not have the courtesy to come and greet guests” my father whispered loudly to my uncle.
“She died when the girl was little”
“How can my son marry a girl that has not learnt the ways of women from her mother. Will she know how a good daughter in law is expected to conduct herself” my father must have thought. Thankfully he did not say it out loud.
The usual small talk followed with my father answering in monosyllables and sarcasm and I, Mr. London educated eligible commodity, cowered with timidity.
It was then, thankfully, that respite walked in the form of the eyes.
All I could see in her when she walked in were the eyes. She was all eyes and I was all eyes. Eyes met. Eyes spoke. Eyes explored. Eyes questioned. Eyes answered. Eyes were loving and tender and laced with dew. Eyes walked gracefully and sat opposite me. Eyes were bashful. Eyes were shy. Eyes were confident. Eyes told stories that no one else but me could see. Eyes hypnotised. I levitated.
Eyes could melt ice.
I melted.
The obedient son/slave of the father now enslaved by a vision seen through those eyes.
Vision of the eyes beholding me, tempting me and seducing me while I made tender love, each night, to the possessor of the eyes. A vision of them looking over me, lovingly, each morning while I slept. Eyes that would warn me of harm, comfort me in despair, guide me through life, and direct me when I wandered.
Eyes named Nethra.
While I was all eyes my father saw things differently. Nethra was dark and she was talkative and she was opinionated and her father did not own a bank.
My father walked out of the house in ten minutes. I followed meekly.
My soul stayed back and lingered.
For a month more I saw more girls than there were days. I saw all kinds. I found an excuse for them all.
My father was growing increasingly impatient and agitated.
I had to act.
I did.
When I wasn’t working or visiting sundry potential wives, I started frequenting the area where she lived.
Thank God I smoked.
Thank God I bought my cigarettes from a corner-store while I awaited the eyes to walk around the corner. On the eighth day they did. They walked into the store to buy bread and milk. Thank god for stores in India that stock and sell everything.
“Oh! Hello”
“Ha.. Hi” (I think I had farted out of shock.)
“What are you doing here”
“Nothing much. Had come to see a friend who stays close by. He is not at home so I thought I will wait here for him”
“Smoking is injurious to health”
“There are other things that are killing me right now”. (Shit. What did I say. I wanted to chew on the burning cigarette and make a hole in my tongue. Idiot. I was. I am.)
Giggle. (Oooh! She is soo cute.) “What???”
“No. Nothing. So you come to this store often” (Yeah. What a great conversationalist I am)
“Yes. We have an account here. So we pay at the end of the month. I come here every morning after I visit the market”
“What time??” (What an idiot. Go slow idiot.)
Giggle. (Please don’t do that… don’t giggle... It is doing things to me that you cant imagine) “Between 9:30 and 10:30”
Shit! Shit, Shit Shit…. I am at work at that time.
From the next day, I got to work two hours late each morning. Some in my office thought that my father was ailing. Others thought it was my mother.
And then it started. The wheel started turning and I could not bring myself to stop it.
I had to tell my father.
I did.
And all hell broke loose.
Then I broke loose.
We eloped. We got married at a temple with only a few friends of mine representing both the groom and the bride. Not, by far, the proper Indian wedding circus.
I also knew that I had to get out of the city. My father was friends with some right wing politicians (goons) and I knew his ego was bigger than his love for me. Another day and all the grime in the city would be hunting for us.
I took a friend’s old battered Fiat, most of his money and whatever little I had saved and drove out of the city. My heart beating a drum each time we passed a check-post.
We left the car with my friend’s uncle in Ahmedabad and took a train to Delhi. From Delhi we travelled aimlessly in cheap government busses.
I remember the first time we made love. In a bus stand lavatory at Gorakhpur. I know. It isn’t romantic. But we were on the move and too scared to stay for the night in any one place. We were young and our hormones got the better of us. And so in a foul smelling ladies lavatory at an isolated government bus stand, the newly wed couple consummated their marriage for the first time.
We travelled further up and I started breathing again only after we reached Sunauli, a border town in Nepal. We travelled further up to Kathmandu and stayed there, blissfully, in bed, for two months, till the money was nearly over. Then it was back to Bombay.
Back in Bombay, I realised that I had lost my job.
My father got me the job and my father took it away. He had not forgotten and he would never forgive. Thankfully he had accepted that what had occurred could not be undone.
The first few years still rankle. We stayed in a friend’s apartment until I found a low paying job in a textile mill. We then moved into a one-room ‘chawl’ in Byculla.
From Byculla, I rebuilt my life. I managed to find another job in a bank and in time, life blessed us with two sons, a larger house and reasonable prosperity.
My father never spoke to me till he died. My mother died a few months after I eloped. I would like to believe that she was probably tortured to death by my father for bringing a wretch like me into this world. Into his world.
I have never grieved for them.
I was too busy playing prisoner to the eyes.
I have been imprisoned for life.
Now even death has failed to secure a release.
And it is two hours since I died and its is time for her to wake up.
Two hours since death
I worry for her. Who would believe that the soul (or am I a ghost) worries after death. But I do. I wonder how she will live her life now that I am gone. I am not sure if she knows where I keep all my documents and information. She has never had to pay a bill by herself. She has never wanted to know how much money I have saved or about the insurance or the investments. I have never told her much.
My children lead their own lives. They live separately. They lead busy lives. They have no time for our middle aged bones. They do visit occasionally but I don’t think that they would be comfortable having their mother stay with them.
She doesn't even bloody take her medicines on time. She spent her entire life looking after me and the children and with time she has forgotten herself completely. Her health has been failing in recent years. She has diabetes and high blood pressure.
I took voluntary retirement only to take care of her. And since then she is completely reliant on me. She eats when I eat and I have to cajole her to take her medicines. She had become my baby for the second time in our lives. We were planning to go on a pilgrimage up north. I had booked our tickets last week. Our second road trip.
But now I am FUCKING dead.
And I have waited for two fucking hours for God to take me. To Release me.
And I have come to realise that there is no God.
My wife sleeps next to what had been me, unaware of the corpse, which was once her husband that lies next to her.
She will be up in the next couple of hours. By habit, she will do her daily prayers and ablutions and set some tea on fire before coming back to wake me up.
Then I am afraid, all hell will break loose.
I hope God takes me away before this transpires. Nothing such has happened yet. I haven’t seen any light or any such thing. I am still here.
Formless and shapeless. Hopeful. Peaceful. Waiting.
One hour since death
My wife shifts slightly in her sleep. I want to reach out to her, hold her and comfort her. I want to tell her not to worry and that I am there for her.
I fear that she will awaken and ask for the bottle of water that always lies on my side of the bed.
We argued before going to bed last night – on some trivial issue. On lending some money to her cousin brother whom I never really liked. For someone who had taken voluntary retirement a few months back, it is difficult to take the liberty with money the way young people do.
My children take liberty with money. I have two sons. Both married, great jobs, on a high, and spending more than they should. I have tried to talk sense into them. They hear my ranting and respectfully ignore me. No one listens to an old man.
They take after me. I did not listen to my old man.
I married my wife against my fathers wishes. It was meant to be an arranged match. We had visited her house to see her. I, a London educated graduate, working with a bank in Bombay (as it as called then), was a price catch.
My father, a traditionalist with right wing leanings, would only settle for the best.
‘Best’ for him was defined by the size of my potential father in laws bank balance and his willingness to part with a large chunk of it in dowry. ‘Best’ was also defined by the colour of my potential wife’s skin. My father’s son had lived and dined with fair men and of course he had to have a fair wife.
The girl we have travelled to see that day did not qualify. It was a mistake. My father said he realised this the minute the taxi drew into the lower middle class suburb. He would have turned around right then if not for my uncle, who had recommended the match, and who had helped my father financially for my expensive education.
A grim father and an obedient son walked through an open door into a little house that announced aloud that it belonged to a mid-level government servant.
Sparse, minimalistic, functional and definitely not to my fathers taste.
We were greeted by many joyous, rotund relatives and a bald, sombre, humble father. The usual tiffin was served with laddoos wrestling with chaklis and chivda for space in the little plates brought out for each of us by rotound relatives.
“Where is the girls mother. Does she not have the courtesy to come and greet guests” my father whispered loudly to my uncle.
“She died when the girl was little”
“How can my son marry a girl that has not learnt the ways of women from her mother. Will she know how a good daughter in law is expected to conduct herself” my father must have thought. Thankfully he did not say it out loud.
The usual small talk followed with my father answering in monosyllables and sarcasm and I, Mr. London educated eligible commodity, cowered with timidity.
It was then, thankfully, that respite walked in the form of the eyes.
All I could see in her when she walked in were the eyes. She was all eyes and I was all eyes. Eyes met. Eyes spoke. Eyes explored. Eyes questioned. Eyes answered. Eyes were loving and tender and laced with dew. Eyes walked gracefully and sat opposite me. Eyes were bashful. Eyes were shy. Eyes were confident. Eyes told stories that no one else but me could see. Eyes hypnotised. I levitated.
Eyes could melt ice.
I melted.
The obedient son/slave of the father now enslaved by a vision seen through those eyes.
Vision of the eyes beholding me, tempting me and seducing me while I made tender love, each night, to the possessor of the eyes. A vision of them looking over me, lovingly, each morning while I slept. Eyes that would warn me of harm, comfort me in despair, guide me through life, and direct me when I wandered.
Eyes named Nethra.
While I was all eyes my father saw things differently. Nethra was dark and she was talkative and she was opinionated and her father did not own a bank.
My father walked out of the house in ten minutes. I followed meekly.
My soul stayed back and lingered.
For a month more I saw more girls than there were days. I saw all kinds. I found an excuse for them all.
My father was growing increasingly impatient and agitated.
I had to act.
I did.
When I wasn’t working or visiting sundry potential wives, I started frequenting the area where she lived.
Thank God I smoked.
Thank God I bought my cigarettes from a corner-store while I awaited the eyes to walk around the corner. On the eighth day they did. They walked into the store to buy bread and milk. Thank god for stores in India that stock and sell everything.
“Oh! Hello”
“Ha.. Hi” (I think I had farted out of shock.)
“What are you doing here”
“Nothing much. Had come to see a friend who stays close by. He is not at home so I thought I will wait here for him”
“Smoking is injurious to health”
“There are other things that are killing me right now”. (Shit. What did I say. I wanted to chew on the burning cigarette and make a hole in my tongue. Idiot. I was. I am.)
Giggle. (Oooh! She is soo cute.) “What???”
“No. Nothing. So you come to this store often” (Yeah. What a great conversationalist I am)
“Yes. We have an account here. So we pay at the end of the month. I come here every morning after I visit the market”
“What time??” (What an idiot. Go slow idiot.)
Giggle. (Please don’t do that… don’t giggle... It is doing things to me that you cant imagine) “Between 9:30 and 10:30”
Shit! Shit, Shit Shit…. I am at work at that time.
From the next day, I got to work two hours late each morning. Some in my office thought that my father was ailing. Others thought it was my mother.
And then it started. The wheel started turning and I could not bring myself to stop it.
I had to tell my father.
I did.
And all hell broke loose.
Then I broke loose.
We eloped. We got married at a temple with only a few friends of mine representing both the groom and the bride. Not, by far, the proper Indian wedding circus.
I also knew that I had to get out of the city. My father was friends with some right wing politicians (goons) and I knew his ego was bigger than his love for me. Another day and all the grime in the city would be hunting for us.
I took a friend’s old battered Fiat, most of his money and whatever little I had saved and drove out of the city. My heart beating a drum each time we passed a check-post.
We left the car with my friend’s uncle in Ahmedabad and took a train to Delhi. From Delhi we travelled aimlessly in cheap government busses.
I remember the first time we made love. In a bus stand lavatory at Gorakhpur. I know. It isn’t romantic. But we were on the move and too scared to stay for the night in any one place. We were young and our hormones got the better of us. And so in a foul smelling ladies lavatory at an isolated government bus stand, the newly wed couple consummated their marriage for the first time.
We travelled further up and I started breathing again only after we reached Sunauli, a border town in Nepal. We travelled further up to Kathmandu and stayed there, blissfully, in bed, for two months, till the money was nearly over. Then it was back to Bombay.
Back in Bombay, I realised that I had lost my job.
My father got me the job and my father took it away. He had not forgotten and he would never forgive. Thankfully he had accepted that what had occurred could not be undone.
The first few years still rankle. We stayed in a friend’s apartment until I found a low paying job in a textile mill. We then moved into a one-room ‘chawl’ in Byculla.
From Byculla, I rebuilt my life. I managed to find another job in a bank and in time, life blessed us with two sons, a larger house and reasonable prosperity.
My father never spoke to me till he died. My mother died a few months after I eloped. I would like to believe that she was probably tortured to death by my father for bringing a wretch like me into this world. Into his world.
I have never grieved for them.
I was too busy playing prisoner to the eyes.
I have been imprisoned for life.
Now even death has failed to secure a release.
And it is two hours since I died and its is time for her to wake up.
Two hours since death
I worry for her. Who would believe that the soul (or am I a ghost) worries after death. But I do. I wonder how she will live her life now that I am gone. I am not sure if she knows where I keep all my documents and information. She has never had to pay a bill by herself. She has never wanted to know how much money I have saved or about the insurance or the investments. I have never told her much.
My children lead their own lives. They live separately. They lead busy lives. They have no time for our middle aged bones. They do visit occasionally but I don’t think that they would be comfortable having their mother stay with them.
She doesn't even bloody take her medicines on time. She spent her entire life looking after me and the children and with time she has forgotten herself completely. Her health has been failing in recent years. She has diabetes and high blood pressure.
I took voluntary retirement only to take care of her. And since then she is completely reliant on me. She eats when I eat and I have to cajole her to take her medicines. She had become my baby for the second time in our lives. We were planning to go on a pilgrimage up north. I had booked our tickets last week. Our second road trip.
But now I am FUCKING dead.
And I have waited for two fucking hours for God to take me. To Release me.
And I have come to realise that there is no God.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Ek Michael Ki Maut - Myshtery Rejolved
Choco recommends in shudh Hindi that I write about Rakhi Ka Swayamwar. "Web dainiki mein unke swayamvar ke barien mein chapne ka prayas kare toh hum use padne ka vachan detein hain." After that barrage, all of which I don't understand - who has the courage to say no.
I cant write much about the show. I have only watched one episode. A re-run.
This is how it all occurred.
I was surfing channels. I landed on this strange one. And then I saw her. She was dressed in pink. “Mujhe Aishwarya se bhi khoobsoorat brides banna hai” she blabbered.
The earth shook.
I cringed... puked... lost my appetite... then my mind… developed suicidal tendencies... screamed… jumped off a building... and died...
I entered Heaven. I walked around. I saw a Rakhi Sawant look-alike. Dancing.
Someone told me that it was Menaka.
I overreacted. I slapped her.
The Go-On-Darling sent me to hell.
I reached hell. I sensed respite. But it was short-lived.
I was in for a shock.
The devil is a fan. He is her creator. He named her Raakh-I and sent her to earth to recruit fresh ass-in-instants.
Now he awaits her return. He was impatient and angry.
I heard that she refuses to come back. “I likes Aarth too much” she tells him “All aarth-with-lings waant to marie me”.
I think she means earthlings. I also think she means marry. I could be wrong.
The devil, unable to take the pain of longing and separation, has taken to his bed. He is found there all day, roasting in a forever-melancholy mood.
He is now called the Dev-ill.
Over a period of time, I came to realise that the temperature in hell varied considerably. I asked someone called Atom Bhai Narakhia the reason for the temperature change.
He exploded.
He screamed that it is the bloody Dev-ill’s ass-in-instants keeping him in humour. Apparently, the temperature increases each time an ass-in-instants tells Dev-ill that Rakh-I is cumming. I think they mean coming.
Or maybe not. I don’t know. I was too busy getting roasted.
I got the devil to curse me and send me into exile - to the nether world.
Now this was easy.
I tried to explain to the horny fellow “Rakh-I isn’t cumming right now. Period.”
I don’t think Dev-ill understood. He was fuming. I had abused his Ash-wariya. He was in flames.
He went on to foam at the mouth and then promptly threw a fit.
I tried to get him to smell my slipper.
He spat on me and I found myself in netherworld - enveloped in the Dev-ill's spit bubble.
There I stayed suspended for no-time. Then one day after bursting the bubble with a pin (don't ask me where I got that from) and through a small window in time, I found my way back to earth. I came to realise that I was now a ghost.
“She has had it now” I thought to myself. “I shall haunt this Raakh-I to death”
I found her. It was easy.
I just asked one random Johnny “Oh Boss… Yeh Shaadi kidhar hai??”
He pointed towards Rajastan.
Soon, I found her and tried to haunt her.
“poo” I squeaked.
I meant to say "BOOOO." God promise.
She looked at me. She raised her eyebrows. “What a hots bhooth” she said “Itna safeds safeds aur mujhe pyar se poo bhi bulata hai. How cutes”.
“Mujse shaadi karoge” she sang.
I was shocked. She wasn’t scared of me. She wanted to marry me.
I asked her why.
“These facking Indian mards wants marries me” she wailed “They wants vergen”
“Please marry me bhooth. Please say yes. Yours my Shahrukhs and I ams your Gauris. Now come on byabye… lets do the marries”
Suddenly her mood swung again.
“I am pavitra bharatiya naari and I ams vargen… but no one believes my surgeon,” she told me.
Things were getting sad. I tried to change the subject.
I asked her if she uses botox
“How dare you” she screamed “I am a vargen.”
Suddenly I found her doing an item girl version of Madonna.
“I do not mean anything wrong” I squeaked “It was an innocent question”
“Then ok jaanu” she said as she fluttered her cute fake eyelashes “Yes jaanu… I use my botox…. every mornings… for the shits”
I couldn’t even die….
In short - earth, heaven, hell, netherland or Neverland (apparently Michael got a phone call just a few minutes before he visited his doctor)... there is no respite from Rakhi Ka Dimaag-pe-vaar
Monday, July 20, 2009
In Vino Veritas - Drinking to Death
In Vino Veritas - A short story contest... on Jason Evans' blog The Clarity of Night. Got to know about this because of Rohan.
Using the photograph below for inspiration, contributors were asked to compose a short fiction (or poetry) piece of no more than 250 words in any genre or style...
Here is my effort... Have to say that trying to keep the word count down to 250 words nearly killed me... in a week that gave me very little time to think or write...
Drinking to Death
Two young sweaty bodies in the throes of passion on top of a water tank of a high-rise rooftop - an inch away from a sheer fall and death. Bodies coloured and illuminated in blue fluorescent light cast by a neon advertising signboard.
He enters her with his tongue – exploring the woman inside her. Slowly, feeding her desires. She moans as he pulls out and bites the inside of her thigh, an inch away from where she wants him. He moves up. His hands replace his tongue. Fingers finding love.
He kisses her. Tongues find each other and dance.
His other hand reaches out, groping in the dark for the knife.
“Are you ready” he asks. “Yes” she moans.
He kneels between her legs and very slowly, he enters her. She feels him inside her. As she moans, he takes the knife and slashes his wrists.
Blood Drops On Breasts.
She closes her eyes and whimpers as he cuts her wrists.
He finds her wrists in his mouth while he takes his to her lips. They drink of each other. The taste of blood and sex – intoxicating the senses as wine never can. They keep stroking and drinking – immune to pain.
They had been planning this for days.
The stars shine down on their bloodied faces. Ruby red coupling with fluorescent blue.
The stars give way to the morning sun. He looks down at them with sadness and hides behind the clouds to curse and cry. Young. Horny. Stupid.
DEAD.
Using the photograph below for inspiration, contributors were asked to compose a short fiction (or poetry) piece of no more than 250 words in any genre or style...
Here is my effort... Have to say that trying to keep the word count down to 250 words nearly killed me... in a week that gave me very little time to think or write...
Drinking to Death
Two young sweaty bodies in the throes of passion on top of a water tank of a high-rise rooftop - an inch away from a sheer fall and death. Bodies coloured and illuminated in blue fluorescent light cast by a neon advertising signboard.
He enters her with his tongue – exploring the woman inside her. Slowly, feeding her desires. She moans as he pulls out and bites the inside of her thigh, an inch away from where she wants him. He moves up. His hands replace his tongue. Fingers finding love.
He kisses her. Tongues find each other and dance.
His other hand reaches out, groping in the dark for the knife.
“Are you ready” he asks. “Yes” she moans.
He kneels between her legs and very slowly, he enters her. She feels him inside her. As she moans, he takes the knife and slashes his wrists.
Blood Drops On Breasts.
She closes her eyes and whimpers as he cuts her wrists.
He finds her wrists in his mouth while he takes his to her lips. They drink of each other. The taste of blood and sex – intoxicating the senses as wine never can. They keep stroking and drinking – immune to pain.
They had been planning this for days.
The stars shine down on their bloodied faces. Ruby red coupling with fluorescent blue.
The stars give way to the morning sun. He looks down at them with sadness and hides behind the clouds to curse and cry. Young. Horny. Stupid.
DEAD.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
The Sweet Taste of Salt
Shazia walked up the stairs. Slowly. Her heart pounding. She legs heavy, like tons of lead. She felt the shackles, that society had put on her, as a woman, dragging her down as she walked up. She felt her desires piercing her mind, one needle at a time. She felt breathless, claustrophobic. The old, dirty, paan stained walls around her appeared to move slowly and come together to crush her. She walked up slowly towards her mousetrap, her one room cage, with all its animals waiting for their banquet - eager to feast on her desires. She was scared. But she had to tell them today.
A thousand thoughts with each step taken. Her life flew by her. She could see her childhood and her father. A policeman stuck for perpetuaty in the bottom rung of the police force and imprisoned in the bottle of cheap whiskey he consumed each night, drowning his frustrations at his pint-sized-life in the gold coloured poison-nectar. He would drink his sorrows and then come home to beat his wife and his children. Two boys and one girl. The girl, his eldest, and, in his opinion, the inauspicious wretch who destroyed his destiny along with his whore of a wife. The whore of a wife who he would fuck each night, after beating her up, while the children pretended to sleep. He beat them every night. With his fists, his belt buckle or with any weapon he could find in his drunken stupor. They hid the knives, each night, in the neighbour’s house. The one time he got his hands on a kitchen knife, he cut Shazia’s forearms and let her bleed until the terrified and pleading neighbours finally took her to a hospital. She still had the scars. He beat them everyday until she was fifteen and till his liver finally, fed up of him, delivered him to his end.
After her father died, they moved to her grandmothers house. The tyrant’s mother and mother of all tyrants. Shazia’s mother worked in the houses of the rich, cleaning their grime and helping them shine. Then she came home and cleaned the grime at home while the tyrant's mother, in her chair by the window, said the rosary.
Shazia went to school along with her brothers and excelled while they just about managed. As a ritual, they beat her up every year on the annual results day to wipe the smirk off her face each time she topped the class. They beat her every year until she finally hit back at the eldest brother. She hit him with his hockey stick and cracked open his chin. They never hit her again. But her grandmother almost stopped her school because of the incident and Shazia’s mother had to fight, grovel and plead to get her back into school. The grandmother finally agreed but not before her mother agreed to hand over every rupee of her income each month.
Shazia’s mother, to her, came before God. God never suffered at the hands of men. Men, the cruel bastards’ had use for women only as a body that satisfied their carnal desires or as a womb that protected them. She had experienced the wretched life of women in her society. A woman’s life is never her own. She can never have her own mind. She can never speak her mind. When she is a child and before she is married her life is run by the father. After marriage, her life is run by her husband and after the husbands death; she is dependent on her sons. No one understood women and no one wanted to. God did not understand women either. God, after all, is not a woman.
Shazia could never say no to her mother. Her mother loved her. Her mother had fought tooth and nail to give her an education. She had fought the tyrant’s mother and the tyrant’s sons to allow Shazia to take up a job. Not that it was much of a job. She made peanuts. But at least she was away from hell for ten hours a day.
Shazia had only one more floor to climb. She had been preparing for this day for months now. But she knew that this one time, even her mother would not understand. She was, after all, a product of the same society. Speaking to her mother, was what Shazia feared the most. Mother had battled men, poverty and the society all her life. But this would be the last straw. This would hurt. This would break her mother’s spirit. Mother would never agree. And Shazia could never say no to her mother.
Shazia worked in an old part of the city in an ancient establishment and had an unfulfilling job as an accounts assistant. She could do so much more. She was made for so much more. If only she wasn’t to be born a woman. If only she was born elsewhere, in another family, in another society, in another land, she would have archived so much more. Yet, she felt, it was better than cooking and cleaning in that chicken-coop of a kitchen.
Most importantly, she had ten hours each day of her life at her disposal.
And she had found love.
It was nearly a year now. In her twenty years on earth, she had never felt the emotions she experienced in the last one year. She felt buoyant and exhilarated. She felt wanted in her lovers arms. Love felt like a steady drizzle on a hot and humid summer morning. Lemon flavoured raindrops. Consistent, wet, fragrant, and refreshing - washing away the years of pain, agony, fear, and unhappiness. Love was like a floating feather and Shazia had found herself levitating, her feet always a few inches above the ground. Love scorched – making love in hot summer afternoons. Love was naughty and tickled. Love was risky and asked many questions. Love made her lie - to her mother for the first time in years. But love was never guilty. Love was faultless. Love was her only desire and her only hope. Love was also her only fear.
Shazia found herself smiling, thinking of love, at her doorstep. And then she realised. She was home. The smile disappeared. She walked in. Her head bent low, her eyes searching the floor - with dignity and humility, she walked in. She dropped her bags on the table and paid her respects to her grandmother, who refused to die, and was always seated on her chair, close to the only window in the room, a rosary in her hand. She hugged her mother and went to the little space in the corner of the room, designated as the bathing area to wash her feet. Each time one of the women had a bath, everyone else had to leave the house. The three toilets, shared, by the other ten families who lived on her floor were in the corner towards the right end of the floor. Chicken-coop for the soul.
Shazia, went into the toilet and locked the door. The smell of faeces hit her senses but that didn’t bother her. She had grown up in this place and the toilet was the only place she had any privacy. Not in the morning though, when everyone from the ten families lined up for their chance, a bucket full of water in their hands. She closed her eyes and gathered courage. She had to tell them today. Tomorrow would be too late.
Tomorrow would bring home the suitor her grandmother had found her. He would come with his extended family and she would be required to cover her face and serve them sweet tea and salty savouries. They would ask a few questions which her grandmother would answer and then it would be over. She knew that the events that would unfold tomorrow were only a formality. Her grandmother had already decided her fate - she would marry the balding son of her distant relative. She had seen a photograph and the man looked, according to her, like a bollywood villain, with paan stained teeth and a potbelly. But no one would ask her for an opinion. It was decided and she would be required to comply - with the dignity and humility required of a young woman in her society.
Her only hope was her mother. But she knew that this time, even her mother would not agree. She had tried for months to gather the courage, and yet, if her grandmother had not forced her hand by trying to get her to marry potbelly, she would never have managed to muster the courage to speak to her mother. Now she had to and she was scared.
She did not care for what they would think of her or the names that they would call her. She was prepared for the beating she would get at the hands of her brothers. She was prepared for the trial that she would have to face at the hands of relatives that her grandmother would gather, to deliver her to eternal damnation. She could fight them all. But she could not fight her mother. She could not think of breaking her mothers heart.
But she also knew that she had to try. It was her one last attempt at life.
Slowly, she walked out of the hell-hole she had locked herself in and walked into the hell that was waiting for her. She saw God at the stove, preparing chapattis for the evening meal. The devil, on her chair, praying her rosary with eyes wide open, watching, on TV, a young couple running around trees in an old hindi movie. A little devil, having just walked in and flung his shoes in the corner, sitting on the floor with his sweet tea and glucose biscuits.
Softly she said “Mummy, Can I speak to you for a minute”
“Bolo Beta” mother smiled a mother's smile
“Mummy. I wanted to tell you something. Please tell me you won’t get angry”
“Jaldi bolo beta” said mother, now impatient, her attention taken away from the chapattis.
“Maa… I can’t marry… please ma….please don’t hate me…. I…. I am in love ma... I love this person from my office…. I can’t marry that man grandmother brought…. I…. I love…. I love this girl called Deepti ma”
A thousand thoughts with each step taken. Her life flew by her. She could see her childhood and her father. A policeman stuck for perpetuaty in the bottom rung of the police force and imprisoned in the bottle of cheap whiskey he consumed each night, drowning his frustrations at his pint-sized-life in the gold coloured poison-nectar. He would drink his sorrows and then come home to beat his wife and his children. Two boys and one girl. The girl, his eldest, and, in his opinion, the inauspicious wretch who destroyed his destiny along with his whore of a wife. The whore of a wife who he would fuck each night, after beating her up, while the children pretended to sleep. He beat them every night. With his fists, his belt buckle or with any weapon he could find in his drunken stupor. They hid the knives, each night, in the neighbour’s house. The one time he got his hands on a kitchen knife, he cut Shazia’s forearms and let her bleed until the terrified and pleading neighbours finally took her to a hospital. She still had the scars. He beat them everyday until she was fifteen and till his liver finally, fed up of him, delivered him to his end.
After her father died, they moved to her grandmothers house. The tyrant’s mother and mother of all tyrants. Shazia’s mother worked in the houses of the rich, cleaning their grime and helping them shine. Then she came home and cleaned the grime at home while the tyrant's mother, in her chair by the window, said the rosary.
Shazia went to school along with her brothers and excelled while they just about managed. As a ritual, they beat her up every year on the annual results day to wipe the smirk off her face each time she topped the class. They beat her every year until she finally hit back at the eldest brother. She hit him with his hockey stick and cracked open his chin. They never hit her again. But her grandmother almost stopped her school because of the incident and Shazia’s mother had to fight, grovel and plead to get her back into school. The grandmother finally agreed but not before her mother agreed to hand over every rupee of her income each month.
Shazia’s mother, to her, came before God. God never suffered at the hands of men. Men, the cruel bastards’ had use for women only as a body that satisfied their carnal desires or as a womb that protected them. She had experienced the wretched life of women in her society. A woman’s life is never her own. She can never have her own mind. She can never speak her mind. When she is a child and before she is married her life is run by the father. After marriage, her life is run by her husband and after the husbands death; she is dependent on her sons. No one understood women and no one wanted to. God did not understand women either. God, after all, is not a woman.
Shazia could never say no to her mother. Her mother loved her. Her mother had fought tooth and nail to give her an education. She had fought the tyrant’s mother and the tyrant’s sons to allow Shazia to take up a job. Not that it was much of a job. She made peanuts. But at least she was away from hell for ten hours a day.
Shazia had only one more floor to climb. She had been preparing for this day for months now. But she knew that this one time, even her mother would not understand. She was, after all, a product of the same society. Speaking to her mother, was what Shazia feared the most. Mother had battled men, poverty and the society all her life. But this would be the last straw. This would hurt. This would break her mother’s spirit. Mother would never agree. And Shazia could never say no to her mother.
Shazia worked in an old part of the city in an ancient establishment and had an unfulfilling job as an accounts assistant. She could do so much more. She was made for so much more. If only she wasn’t to be born a woman. If only she was born elsewhere, in another family, in another society, in another land, she would have archived so much more. Yet, she felt, it was better than cooking and cleaning in that chicken-coop of a kitchen.
Most importantly, she had ten hours each day of her life at her disposal.
And she had found love.
It was nearly a year now. In her twenty years on earth, she had never felt the emotions she experienced in the last one year. She felt buoyant and exhilarated. She felt wanted in her lovers arms. Love felt like a steady drizzle on a hot and humid summer morning. Lemon flavoured raindrops. Consistent, wet, fragrant, and refreshing - washing away the years of pain, agony, fear, and unhappiness. Love was like a floating feather and Shazia had found herself levitating, her feet always a few inches above the ground. Love scorched – making love in hot summer afternoons. Love was naughty and tickled. Love was risky and asked many questions. Love made her lie - to her mother for the first time in years. But love was never guilty. Love was faultless. Love was her only desire and her only hope. Love was also her only fear.
Shazia found herself smiling, thinking of love, at her doorstep. And then she realised. She was home. The smile disappeared. She walked in. Her head bent low, her eyes searching the floor - with dignity and humility, she walked in. She dropped her bags on the table and paid her respects to her grandmother, who refused to die, and was always seated on her chair, close to the only window in the room, a rosary in her hand. She hugged her mother and went to the little space in the corner of the room, designated as the bathing area to wash her feet. Each time one of the women had a bath, everyone else had to leave the house. The three toilets, shared, by the other ten families who lived on her floor were in the corner towards the right end of the floor. Chicken-coop for the soul.
Shazia, went into the toilet and locked the door. The smell of faeces hit her senses but that didn’t bother her. She had grown up in this place and the toilet was the only place she had any privacy. Not in the morning though, when everyone from the ten families lined up for their chance, a bucket full of water in their hands. She closed her eyes and gathered courage. She had to tell them today. Tomorrow would be too late.
Tomorrow would bring home the suitor her grandmother had found her. He would come with his extended family and she would be required to cover her face and serve them sweet tea and salty savouries. They would ask a few questions which her grandmother would answer and then it would be over. She knew that the events that would unfold tomorrow were only a formality. Her grandmother had already decided her fate - she would marry the balding son of her distant relative. She had seen a photograph and the man looked, according to her, like a bollywood villain, with paan stained teeth and a potbelly. But no one would ask her for an opinion. It was decided and she would be required to comply - with the dignity and humility required of a young woman in her society.
Her only hope was her mother. But she knew that this time, even her mother would not agree. She had tried for months to gather the courage, and yet, if her grandmother had not forced her hand by trying to get her to marry potbelly, she would never have managed to muster the courage to speak to her mother. Now she had to and she was scared.
She did not care for what they would think of her or the names that they would call her. She was prepared for the beating she would get at the hands of her brothers. She was prepared for the trial that she would have to face at the hands of relatives that her grandmother would gather, to deliver her to eternal damnation. She could fight them all. But she could not fight her mother. She could not think of breaking her mothers heart.
But she also knew that she had to try. It was her one last attempt at life.
Slowly, she walked out of the hell-hole she had locked herself in and walked into the hell that was waiting for her. She saw God at the stove, preparing chapattis for the evening meal. The devil, on her chair, praying her rosary with eyes wide open, watching, on TV, a young couple running around trees in an old hindi movie. A little devil, having just walked in and flung his shoes in the corner, sitting on the floor with his sweet tea and glucose biscuits.
Softly she said “Mummy, Can I speak to you for a minute”
“Bolo Beta” mother smiled a mother's smile
“Mummy. I wanted to tell you something. Please tell me you won’t get angry”
“Jaldi bolo beta” said mother, now impatient, her attention taken away from the chapattis.
“Maa… I can’t marry… please ma….please don’t hate me…. I…. I am in love ma... I love this person from my office…. I can’t marry that man grandmother brought…. I…. I love…. I love this girl called Deepti ma”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Mother loves Jeremy
Jeremy was worried. The man was sitting right across him. The man had been looking right at him for the last half an hour. Every time Jeremy looked up, the man scowled at him. Jeremy glared back. He was at this swanky nightclub with friends. It was a friend’s birthday. It was his first time at a nightclub and he did not want to spoil it by getting into a fight. The friends were new. Jeremy was just two months into his first year in college. Everyone around him was new.
The music throbbed. Jeremy could hear it thud through his chest. He felt his heart pounding to the music. This was fun. Jeremy could never afford to get into a place like this by himself.
The man was scowling at him again. The man was running his fingers through his sideburns. Jeremy could feel the sweat on his sideburns. He was sweating but yet he felt cold. The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke mixed with the odor of sweat, room freshener, cheap perfume and stale food. An assault to the senses. Yet exhilarating. Strange places, these nightclubs.
Mother had told him not to go. No wonder.
Jeremy had lost his father when he was thirteen. Jeremy’s father had married late. His mother much too young for his father. Much too young to become a widow.
She brought him up teaching kindergarten at a local school. They never had much. They had each other. They had enough. Jeremy had to do well. He was his mother’s last hope. Jeremy excelled at school. Jeremy got a scholarship. Jeremy got admission into the swanky college.
Jeremy looked at him again. The man was glaring now. Jeremy glared back. The man looked familiar. He looked like his father. No. He thought he looked like his father. Very peculiar similarities. But then the bastard was dead. The old bastard was dead.
“I will kill the bastard if he looks at me again” thought Jeremy and looked up again. The man was still scowling, a strange look on his face. Jeremy thought he saw a half smile. A sinister, sarcastic half smile.
Jeremy’s blood boiled. Jeremy stood up. The man stood up as well. This was going to be a fight. A full blown bloody fight. Jeremy had never fought before. Mother had told him not to. Jeremy was his mothers only hope. Mother was protective. Mother loved him. Jeremy could never afford to get into a fight. Jeremy never got into a fight. Until now.
The bastard looked like his father. His fucking father. His old fucking father who fucked his mother’s life. Jeremy had enough of his father. Jeremy had enough of his mother‘s wailing about how her family destroyed her life by getting her married to an old man. “Lets get this done and dusted with, you fucking son of a bitch. I want to fuck you motherfucker. I want to fuck you till you die motherfucker. Come get me motherfucker”.
This was it. The man rushed at Jeremy. Jeremy had never been in a fight before. There was something in the mans hand. Something rolled up. “Fight back” Jeremy told himself. “Fight the bastard and finish him. Do it for mother”
But Jeremy felt weak. He felt the music pounding inside his rib cage. The lights were blinding him. “I am scared” thought Jeremy. “I don’t want to die”.
The man was nearly upon Jeremy. Jeremy found himself frozen. His legs wouldn’t move. He raised his hands to cover his face. The man was now upon him. He shoved the thing from his hand into Jeremy’s nose. It felt like paper. The man’s face an inch away from Jeremy’s. Jeremy pushed the man away but it was too late. He felt something run up his nasal cavity. He felt it in his head. He felt his brain explode into many different colors.
Beautiful colors. Beautiful colors in formation. Beautiful colors forming shapes he never knew before. Beautiful colors never seen before. Beautiful colors running riot. Beautiful colors alight. Beautiful colors in the sky. Beautiful colors making love. Beautiful colors… orgasmic passion. Beautiful colors of God. Beautiful colors are God.
Something. Something happened. Something happened again. His brain coming together. His colorful brain coming together. Another explosion. His brain exploded. No stupid. The colors exploded. No. Wasn’t the colors. Something else. FUCK
Jeremy could see again. He could see the man’s face now. The man was looking at him. He wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t smiling. Was he crying? Jeremy’s vision was getting clearer. The man was crying. Blood dripping from his nose, forming a little stream from the nose to the lips and then dropping to the floor in the form of little red raindrops. Jeremy could hear the sound of the little red raindrops hit the floor. Pitter Patter rain drops. Sound amplified.
Jeremy’s vision was getting clearer. The man looked so much like his father. No. Wait. The man did not look like his father. The man was not his father. He realized. He finally knew. It was him. It was him all along. He had done it. It was him all along. He knew now. He realized. Mother was right. Mother loved me. He wanted to cry. He tried to cry. He couldn’t cry
He couldn’t cry. Something exploded in his brain again. He could see all the colours exploding again. This time exploding outside in and forming a rotating blob of red. The blob was moving. It was moving down his brain. No. It was not moving. It was spreading. He could feel the blob move into his eyes blocking his vision. The blob changed color. The blob was black. It moved into his nose. Christ… He can’t breathe…. It’s in his mouth now… turning his tongue down his throat. His tongue is in his throat…choking him. Its moving again… the blob is in his vertebral column…. he is numb now. Shit… it’s in his chest too… moving faster… gushing in… Oh… this is soothing… calming… he likes the blob in his chest… he can feel the throbbing of the music slow down…. he is getting better…. The throbbing is really slow now… slower… slower…. It’s so peaceful…. Its gonna be fine… he wants to sing… black is a beautiful color… slower… Jesus… Jesus is black… Jesus is slow…
The throbbing is slower…Jesus is slower…slower…slower… slow… slo… sl… s.. ss… sss… ssss…. sssss…. sssssss…. sssssss.. sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
Silence. Peace
Mother walked in silence. She walked up the stairs. This was the second time she walked up those stairs.
She walked up the stairs the first time to collect the body of her husband. This time..... She broke down. Jeremy loved mother. Mother loved Jeremy. He was her only hope.
And he was lost. Lost Forever. To drugs. His first time….. his own choice…and his last breath.
The music throbbed. Jeremy could hear it thud through his chest. He felt his heart pounding to the music. This was fun. Jeremy could never afford to get into a place like this by himself.
The man was scowling at him again. The man was running his fingers through his sideburns. Jeremy could feel the sweat on his sideburns. He was sweating but yet he felt cold. The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke mixed with the odor of sweat, room freshener, cheap perfume and stale food. An assault to the senses. Yet exhilarating. Strange places, these nightclubs.
Mother had told him not to go. No wonder.
Jeremy had lost his father when he was thirteen. Jeremy’s father had married late. His mother much too young for his father. Much too young to become a widow.
She brought him up teaching kindergarten at a local school. They never had much. They had each other. They had enough. Jeremy had to do well. He was his mother’s last hope. Jeremy excelled at school. Jeremy got a scholarship. Jeremy got admission into the swanky college.
Jeremy looked at him again. The man was glaring now. Jeremy glared back. The man looked familiar. He looked like his father. No. He thought he looked like his father. Very peculiar similarities. But then the bastard was dead. The old bastard was dead.
“I will kill the bastard if he looks at me again” thought Jeremy and looked up again. The man was still scowling, a strange look on his face. Jeremy thought he saw a half smile. A sinister, sarcastic half smile.
Jeremy’s blood boiled. Jeremy stood up. The man stood up as well. This was going to be a fight. A full blown bloody fight. Jeremy had never fought before. Mother had told him not to. Jeremy was his mothers only hope. Mother was protective. Mother loved him. Jeremy could never afford to get into a fight. Jeremy never got into a fight. Until now.
The bastard looked like his father. His fucking father. His old fucking father who fucked his mother’s life. Jeremy had enough of his father. Jeremy had enough of his mother‘s wailing about how her family destroyed her life by getting her married to an old man. “Lets get this done and dusted with, you fucking son of a bitch. I want to fuck you motherfucker. I want to fuck you till you die motherfucker. Come get me motherfucker”.
This was it. The man rushed at Jeremy. Jeremy had never been in a fight before. There was something in the mans hand. Something rolled up. “Fight back” Jeremy told himself. “Fight the bastard and finish him. Do it for mother”
But Jeremy felt weak. He felt the music pounding inside his rib cage. The lights were blinding him. “I am scared” thought Jeremy. “I don’t want to die”.
The man was nearly upon Jeremy. Jeremy found himself frozen. His legs wouldn’t move. He raised his hands to cover his face. The man was now upon him. He shoved the thing from his hand into Jeremy’s nose. It felt like paper. The man’s face an inch away from Jeremy’s. Jeremy pushed the man away but it was too late. He felt something run up his nasal cavity. He felt it in his head. He felt his brain explode into many different colors.
Beautiful colors. Beautiful colors in formation. Beautiful colors forming shapes he never knew before. Beautiful colors never seen before. Beautiful colors running riot. Beautiful colors alight. Beautiful colors in the sky. Beautiful colors making love. Beautiful colors… orgasmic passion. Beautiful colors of God. Beautiful colors are God.
Something. Something happened. Something happened again. His brain coming together. His colorful brain coming together. Another explosion. His brain exploded. No stupid. The colors exploded. No. Wasn’t the colors. Something else. FUCK
Jeremy could see again. He could see the man’s face now. The man was looking at him. He wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t smiling. Was he crying? Jeremy’s vision was getting clearer. The man was crying. Blood dripping from his nose, forming a little stream from the nose to the lips and then dropping to the floor in the form of little red raindrops. Jeremy could hear the sound of the little red raindrops hit the floor. Pitter Patter rain drops. Sound amplified.
Jeremy’s vision was getting clearer. The man looked so much like his father. No. Wait. The man did not look like his father. The man was not his father. He realized. He finally knew. It was him. It was him all along. He had done it. It was him all along. He knew now. He realized. Mother was right. Mother loved me. He wanted to cry. He tried to cry. He couldn’t cry
He couldn’t cry. Something exploded in his brain again. He could see all the colours exploding again. This time exploding outside in and forming a rotating blob of red. The blob was moving. It was moving down his brain. No. It was not moving. It was spreading. He could feel the blob move into his eyes blocking his vision. The blob changed color. The blob was black. It moved into his nose. Christ… He can’t breathe…. It’s in his mouth now… turning his tongue down his throat. His tongue is in his throat…choking him. Its moving again… the blob is in his vertebral column…. he is numb now. Shit… it’s in his chest too… moving faster… gushing in… Oh… this is soothing… calming… he likes the blob in his chest… he can feel the throbbing of the music slow down…. he is getting better…. The throbbing is really slow now… slower… slower…. It’s so peaceful…. Its gonna be fine… he wants to sing… black is a beautiful color… slower… Jesus… Jesus is black… Jesus is slow…
The throbbing is slower…Jesus is slower…slower…slower… slow… slo… sl… s.. ss… sss… ssss…. sssss…. sssssss…. sssssss.. sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
Silence. Peace
Mother walked in silence. She walked up the stairs. This was the second time she walked up those stairs.
She walked up the stairs the first time to collect the body of her husband. This time..... She broke down. Jeremy loved mother. Mother loved Jeremy. He was her only hope.
And he was lost. Lost Forever. To drugs. His first time….. his own choice…and his last breath.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
CARS CAN PUMP KIN
I had a dream. Oh, I had one of those bigger ones. A big car. One of those big ones that you buy and imagine yourself driving down the road and everyone drops everything and looks at you with their eyes wide and mouth agape.
And...In my dream it actually happened… I drove down the road and everyone looked at me with their eyes wide in astonishment. I could almost read their mind. The eyes were actually wide. The mouths were really agape. A child asked his mother “What is this thing mamma??… Why does it croak? It is a Big Froggy, no??”
“Yes my child” I wanted to tell him “It is a big froggy that uncle…no… sorry... bhaiyya... It’s a biiiiiggggg froggy that bhaiyya’s mechanic dissects every month in his metal laboratory.” Children are sooo cute, no. Can I choke one to death please?
I dreamt that I bought this car for my mechanic. At least, that is what it seemed. The man, in his almost shoulder length Caribbean hairdo, dark glasses, long!! Shorts (are they Bermudas… does any one wear them anymore), floral shirt, rum breath, a$$H@@!# drove my car more than I did. I could almost see his gleeful smile and his hair blowing in the wind as he took the 500th post repair trial. I could see his golden tooth sparkling in the sun (this wasn't true… made it up in my dream… was frustrated… please understand). His father, of curly hair fame, thanked me when I paying him. “Tank You” ha baba, lemme know if any ting happens, Ok.”
These ‘Ting’ happened like shit happens.
I dreamt that I had bought the damn car second hand. Yup. I know you are grinning too. You B!tc#. I was always smart. Born smart. I am a work of art. Just like a whistling fart.
Why pay all that dough for a new car when it depreciates like a D!@k after a fu@K. Might as well buy a good (???) second hand car and save all that money. You idiot… you.
So, in my dream, I went to this friend’s (???????) brother’s wife's uncle’s wife’s brother’s nephew, who happened to be a car dealer. “Mere rishte mein hai yaar… kidhar aur jaega to maamu banega”. Reassured, I went forward with my head in the sky and my feet in my a$$. And as it turned out, my friend WAS right. Barabar bola tha… maamu nahin bana…
Ch@t!ya ban gaya…
This smooooth operator. This grease bag. This fat pumpkin sold me a bigger pumpkin. He made me feel good about pumpkins. “Boss”, he said, “Boss, Yeh pumpkin hai naa… ekdum best hai. Aur pumpkin ka color to dekho, hain. Pumkin kya dikhta hai boss. Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baithoge. Pumpkin mein ek baar bait ke to dekho. Wah! Kya Pumpkin hai sirjee”. In retrospect, all that remained was this small round pumpkin pulling his d!#k out (after finding it somewhere, hidden under multiple layers of meat) and getting off on the bigger “pumpkin”. Well, he did sound as if he was getting an orgasm.
I was his relative’s friend. So he thought he should pump-kin. He must have. That’s what my friend, in the dream, said a few months later when the engine screamed WHORE WHORE one morning. Horny pumpkin… my pumpkin.
And the things that happened to my pumpkin... apart from screaming out for WHORES every couple of months (a mating cry which, by the way, was answered, at lightening speed by the wannabe Caribbean mechanic slut), it found new ways to deprive me of my hard earned money between each WHORE cry. Oil leaks suddenly sprouted and when the mechanic had fixed that with his D!@k, it was time for the pumpkin to land on its ass as the suspensions gave way. Then the Air conditioning thought that that its only objective in life was to warm the cockles of my heart.
I contributed too. I loved my car, so I took it swimming. In the rains, that is. Then I pampered it more by buying it a brand new engine made by (guess who???) a Caribbean.
Now, in my disturbed sleep, I saw that my pumpkin has gone crazy. It has lost its gears. Literally.
And I am finally about to take a post pumpkin meal dump. Anyone who likes pumpkin… please give me a shout. I promise to sell you the most expensive pumpkin shit ever.
Who knows, you might just make it to the record books as the proud and bankrupt owner of the most expensive pumpkin... if you do manage to convert shit back into pumpkin.
Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baith ke jaoge, sirjeeeeeee.
And...In my dream it actually happened… I drove down the road and everyone looked at me with their eyes wide in astonishment. I could almost read their mind. The eyes were actually wide. The mouths were really agape. A child asked his mother “What is this thing mamma??… Why does it croak? It is a Big Froggy, no??”
“Yes my child” I wanted to tell him “It is a big froggy that uncle…no… sorry... bhaiyya... It’s a biiiiiggggg froggy that bhaiyya’s mechanic dissects every month in his metal laboratory.” Children are sooo cute, no. Can I choke one to death please?
I dreamt that I bought this car for my mechanic. At least, that is what it seemed. The man, in his almost shoulder length Caribbean hairdo, dark glasses, long!! Shorts (are they Bermudas… does any one wear them anymore), floral shirt, rum breath, a$$H@@!# drove my car more than I did. I could almost see his gleeful smile and his hair blowing in the wind as he took the 500th post repair trial. I could see his golden tooth sparkling in the sun (this wasn't true… made it up in my dream… was frustrated… please understand). His father, of curly hair fame, thanked me when I paying him. “Tank You” ha baba, lemme know if any ting happens, Ok.”
These ‘Ting’ happened like shit happens.
I dreamt that I had bought the damn car second hand. Yup. I know you are grinning too. You B!tc#. I was always smart. Born smart. I am a work of art. Just like a whistling fart.
Why pay all that dough for a new car when it depreciates like a D!@k after a fu@K. Might as well buy a good (???) second hand car and save all that money. You idiot… you.
So, in my dream, I went to this friend’s (???????) brother’s wife's uncle’s wife’s brother’s nephew, who happened to be a car dealer. “Mere rishte mein hai yaar… kidhar aur jaega to maamu banega”. Reassured, I went forward with my head in the sky and my feet in my a$$. And as it turned out, my friend WAS right. Barabar bola tha… maamu nahin bana…
Ch@t!ya ban gaya…
This smooooth operator. This grease bag. This fat pumpkin sold me a bigger pumpkin. He made me feel good about pumpkins. “Boss”, he said, “Boss, Yeh pumpkin hai naa… ekdum best hai. Aur pumpkin ka color to dekho, hain. Pumkin kya dikhta hai boss. Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baithoge. Pumpkin mein ek baar bait ke to dekho. Wah! Kya Pumpkin hai sirjee”. In retrospect, all that remained was this small round pumpkin pulling his d!#k out (after finding it somewhere, hidden under multiple layers of meat) and getting off on the bigger “pumpkin”. Well, he did sound as if he was getting an orgasm.
I was his relative’s friend. So he thought he should pump-kin. He must have. That’s what my friend, in the dream, said a few months later when the engine screamed WHORE WHORE one morning. Horny pumpkin… my pumpkin.
And the things that happened to my pumpkin... apart from screaming out for WHORES every couple of months (a mating cry which, by the way, was answered, at lightening speed by the wannabe Caribbean mechanic slut), it found new ways to deprive me of my hard earned money between each WHORE cry. Oil leaks suddenly sprouted and when the mechanic had fixed that with his D!@k, it was time for the pumpkin to land on its ass as the suspensions gave way. Then the Air conditioning thought that that its only objective in life was to warm the cockles of my heart.
I contributed too. I loved my car, so I took it swimming. In the rains, that is. Then I pampered it more by buying it a brand new engine made by (guess who???) a Caribbean.
Now, in my disturbed sleep, I saw that my pumpkin has gone crazy. It has lost its gears. Literally.
And I am finally about to take a post pumpkin meal dump. Anyone who likes pumpkin… please give me a shout. I promise to sell you the most expensive pumpkin shit ever.
Who knows, you might just make it to the record books as the proud and bankrupt owner of the most expensive pumpkin... if you do manage to convert shit back into pumpkin.
Kya lagoge aap jab aap pumpkin ke oopar baith ke jaoge, sirjeeeeeee.
