2. b

“I need tips!” Harshad said. He is wiping the spokes of his motorbike. If you go speeding through the sudden rain of this crazy city, the next day you spend doing this, if you don’t have enough money left with you for a service. The money which you spend on alcohol and chicken for your friends. Friends like me.

“Tits?....get operated” I say.
“Tips fucker”
“For what?”

He doesn’t answer. But blushes instead.

“For what?....epilating?”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing…..tell me…”
“I want to impress her..”

Chutiya. Speaking on serious terms, I don’t think anybody can give you tips to impress a woman. They get impressed by you, if they have to. And don’t if they don’t have to. It is that simple. But when a feeding friend asks, you have to stand by his side.

“Hmmm” I hum a pause like a knowledgeable man. “To impress a girl you actually need to know her…because every girl is impressed by a different thing…” The sermon begins.

“That’s why!….that’s why I’ve come to you…you know the right things man!....”
“Come on now…its fine” I smile modestly
“Please tell me how to know a girl yaar…you know na….I am not so good at these things…Please help me yaar!”

“Yeah dude…” I say with poise.

“Listen now….see…If you have to know a girl…you need to get close to her first”
“How?”
“Try to be with her more…spend time with her….try to know what she likes…what she doesn’t like…what she wants…what she needs…once you begin to know her well…you will automatically start impressing her…because you will know what will impress her….understood?”
“Yeah…but…”
“But what?”
“But……will I impress her automatically then??”
“Yes man….” Damn! This man needs an extensive explanation every time. Dumb dick! “See…when you will know what she likes…you will start taking care of it…you will only gift her those things that she will like…and then she will start liking you…and then….do I need to tell?”
His face reddened as he smiled. He looked away. I teased him. He blushed further.
“Thanx man!”
“Come on dude…but remember….understand her…know her completely and only then think about further things okay? ”
“Yup..”
“And don’t forget whatever she says…because her every word will be your key to her heart!”
“Yes sir!” he stood up and saluted me. He had learnt it from his father probably. He must have taught Harshad right from childhood. “Beta salute karo!” I felt like laughing madly at this thought. As a child he must’ve saluted every relative visiting his place. And his father must’ve felt proud at his salute. “Beta…Salute karo!” Old habits die hard.

“Chal….isi baat par…let’s have beer.” He said winding up his rim clean up.
That’s what I love him for. He is always ready to treat.

“But have you got cash on you?” Every free fed is worried about the generous.
“Enough to buy beer for both of us!”

Pretty cool! I was completely fine with it. As long as he has enough to buy me beer.
He went to his room to come back appearing more presentable for a human society. His efforts to adapt himself to humanity are appreciable. I allot with him with as much time as he needs.
In the mean time I think if my words will have any effect. I know how deceptive a human mind is. But an effort makes all the difference. His demand for tips was an opportunity. The hum pause was when the plan shaped up. And my suggestion to him was the backdrop for its execution.

I hope it works out.

Plan:
Harshad will get close to Shamita as a friend. She will start leaning on him. The more she leans, the more frank she will be with him. And at a point she will reveal her lascivious affair to him. And he will withdraw himself from falling for her any further. And one problem will be solved for both of them. Seems cool.

He comes back dressed up.

He walks past his bike. I sense an effort to walk. I keep my fingers crossed. I pray to god that he takes his bike. He comes to me.

“Let’s not take the bike. Its still muddy. Tomorrow I will have to wash it all over again.”

‘Bhosda!’ I say to myself.

(Contd.)

Chapter @

2.a
“We need your support” A big placard said as they entered our premises.

They came and stood in the corridor. They had a head leading them. Dressed in posh white shirt and a black trouser. Washed, ironed and starched. Spectacles on his eyes and neatly combed hair. Clean shave to add the grace. Dhananjay. The spokesperson of the dumb arse youth organization on the campus. Every year they had this relationship program. With the sole motive of recruiting new members for the organization. Every year Dhanajay visited all the classes in the free hour. Every year spoke of the on-campus problems. Every year he threw the same big words. And every year he was able to get of with some new members for his organization. Or support in his terms.

It was a classic act. He would enter the classroom. And he would start speaking.
“Hi friends!...Myself Dhananjay…the spokesperson of the MYO…Maharashtra Youth Organization…and I am here to help you people. Because we are an organization which always stands up for students’ questions! Our aim is to solve all the problems faced by you and give you a better campus. And what we want in return is your support.

As you must’ve seen, we have so many problems in our campus today. We don’t have good facilities. We don’t have good administration. We don’t co-operative staff and to add to it all….we lag behind many colleges in many fields like sports, cultural and educational activities. We are always struggling to solve all these problems. But this is not possible without your participation. So I ask all of you to participate by being a member of our organization and help us in our work. So….who all is ready to be a part of our organization? ”

And few hands rise up. As if they were waiting eagerly for this moment. It seems that sometimes these hands always expected them to be raised. They wanted to be raised. Like they always knew that they would have to be raised. That they were the ones, who would be the first ones to rise. That it would be their moment. That it would be their chance to steal the show. That it would be them who would be supporting. That they would be the new members. With their political inclining set right in their cradle days. They came with the dream to be included in the large brigade of the youth politics in the nation.

The organization is just a name. It is an on campus political party. Fed by a state-level political party. Which is in turn fed by a larger national level political party. Struggling to be a part of the students’ committee formed through elections. Bloody affairs. More the support, more the votes. More the votes, more the representatives in students’ committee. More the representatives in students’ committee, more power. Economic, political and administrative. And other perks like alcohol, food, expenses, conveyances and women. And the dream of this power, pulls the so called support towards them. And other such organizations across the nation.

It took Dhananjay an hour to complete endorsing his organization through all the new classes. He came out with his men. Walking straight. Upright. This was a rather unusual way to campaign for his organization, going classroom to classroom repeating the same speech every time. Sheer stupidity that comes with a price of exhaustion. Like a recorded message he plays himself. Every time. Time to time.

I look at him from where I stand under the Neem tree. With all that effort to visit every classroom, he should look weary. But he doesn’t. Maybe it doesn’t tire him. Maybe it’s not an effort for him at all. It’s his elixir. It gives him life. Or it’s elixir that keeps him going. Early morning consumptions.

He moves on to the next building. I stare glumly at them. They move silently from one building to another. Like a large bug made out of humans. Crawling with a hurried lousiness. In a silent buzz within itself. They move. On his way to the other section, Dhananjay throws a look at me and smiles. I pretend to smile wholeheartedly to him. He does the same. We know each other since the day when I had involuntarily yawned in his speech in our classroom, spreading a small wave of laughter. He had smiled the same smile then and asked for my name. That was it. Just my name and a smile. A poisonous one. I don’t know how he had taken me then. As an opponent or as a challenge. A challenge to make me a part of his movement. I had managed to keep myself away from the MYO or any of its counterparts in the year. And I don’t know how he takes me now.

The effortful smile on my face was about to fade when suddenly he stopped in his way and turned back. He looked at me and called me towards himself. Bewildered, I shake out of my momentary languor and take steps towards him. He leaves behind his men and starts walking towards me. A weak wave of fear runs through my center. We meet each other at the axis of the distance between us. Facing each other. He wore a friendly look. I wore any look I could find at that moment.

“How are you?” He asks me.
“Fine man” I reply safely.
“What’s happening in life?”
“Nothing…usual stuff!” I say smiling.
He smiles in return.
“Feel like doing anything unusual?...” He grins this time.
“Sorry…what?” I am a bit baffled.
“Join us….and I bet you won’t give this answer to anyone else…” the grin doesn’t fade from his face.
I just smile. I think of a political answer. I get it.
“I am always with you sir!”
“Baaheroon paathimba?” He speaks in our mother tongue to connect with me. The organization itself is based on this issue. Just like their maternal organization. Mother tongue is the word. Their prominent political agenda in the state. And their reason for the overwhelming response in the state politics.

External support his question means. His smile darkens.

“Aata tari…baaheroon paathimba…vel aalyavar aahoch aamhi” I hold myself proud of giving the most politically appropriate answer. No, I wasn’t supporting him externally as I said in my answer. I wasn’t supporting him at all. I don’t support anybody except myself. Everybody else have their means of supporting themselves. And against what I answered him, I haven’t yet seriously thought about joining him later too.

He pats me on my shoulder with a smirk.

“Alright….your wish!...But remember…Anything you want…..Anytime…We are there…After all….You and me….we are born to the same soil…to the same mother tongue”

I just nod. I stretch out my hand for a shake hand. He pats me on my cheek and leaves.
I stand there. I don’t know how to react to him. To patronize with him or to dispose him. I just stand there blankly. He hits me on my identity. He categorizes me on something that I don’t prefer to be categorized as. My mother tongue. Categorize me on my talent. My qualification. My choice of vocation. These are the choices I made for myself. These are my identity. Not what I was born with. I did not choose it. I did not demand it nor did I earn it. It’s just a mere coincidence that I was born to this. Or in any other region, religion or caste in that case. Sorry Dhanajay! You cant classify me so. I decline this label.

But your proposition is not that bad. I will think. I smile to myself.

(Contd.)

SORRY!

Sorry! Writer was drunk last night. Apologies.

1. k

This is a weird city.

When I had come to the arsehole of the world, I found it dead. I felt imprisoned in it. Trapped between the forest of four storied lifeless buildings. I wanted to break free. I wanted to run back home. Coming from a fast paced city, I felt the zero pace of this suburb suffocating. I wanted to run madly around it. And I wanted the place to run with me. I wanted to fill it up with action. Pump Life into its laziness. Send its adrenaline rushing. I wanted the people create a cacophony. I was not used to this silence. I wanted to change this place. Because I badly felt out of place here.

And then Dilip came up with an idea one evening. To leave the suburbs and visit the city. We took the city bus.

And the moment I stepped into the, I felt the lost hustle and bustle of my last city come back to me. The city had embraced me in its arms. It had dissolved me in. I had felt the rhythm of it. I had touched its heart beat. And it had touched mine. I had found life on the barren patch of land. And I was into an affair with it.

Content was gushing through my heart and spreading all over through my veins. That was when I had discovered a connection between us. A connection between me and the city. A connection between my city and me. A connection between this city and my city. A connection between the two inseparable entities. A connection of love, hate, friendship, jealousy and other such contrasting feelings. A connection with feelings. A connection which is today an Expressway. A dream project that had come true.

My hatred for the place slowly turned into love with time. I have developed a thick bonding with it now. But the period of this struggle to create it was troublesome. Yet all is well…that ends well.
As I stand on the footpath of JM Road waiting for her, I realize this. That this is a weird city. On one hand it isolates you, and on the other, it clutches you close to her heart. A crazy city.

She doesn’t come yet. But I hear weird voices coming from a distance. I walk in their direction.I am supposed to wait for Aparna near the large Gulmohur tree. Opposite Crosswords. Our regular location. We were to go to her place as her parents had gone for a wedding to my city. Which also means I will have to rush with my undertaking, as the distance between the two cities was just two and half hours by Expressway, and they could return any moment. Otherwise, there are other days too, when they go to office. But that was during the day. Such evenings seldom occur.

The sound gets sharper. I am pulled towards that mysterious sound. It sounds like a cacophonic rhythm played aloud on speakers. With a harmonium and little cymbals. The curiosity builds up in me. It grows. It grips my being. Like a huge creeper it winds itself around me and drags me towards itself. As I approach closer to the voice, the words slowly appear before me from the cloud of voices and music. Their haze moves aside as I advance closer to the words. At last they fill my ears with their sharp edges.

‘Hare Rama. Hare Rama. Hare Rama. Hare. Hare…
Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare. Hare…’

The words wrapped around me. I felt the soothing coldness of them touching me. I opened my mouth to follow their rises and dips with my voice. And the phone rang. A hard vibration and then the tune. ‘Vibrate then ring’.

I am shaken out of reverie. I come back to Anay. I see four bald foreigners dressed in light saffronish pink robes. They were chanting the name of Rama and Krishna in their own trance. A similar stated Indian stood besides them with a counter full of books on Krishna. And the center stage was grabbed by the ever famous Bhagwad Geeta.

The book of the books. The base of Hindu culture. Quoted some thousands of years ago by the Lord himself, to guide his beloved friend Arjun. It has been the national bestseller since the day it was spoken. People went crazy for it. And not just a generation, but generations after generations. It had given an identity to a religion which was struggling for a holy scripture. A religion which only had epics, statistics, philosophy, psychology, mathematics and medicine but no holy scripture to follow. A religion which must’ve felt left out without it. And it must’ve come finally. From a sage with fourteen assistants writing it. Smartly inserted in an epic. Safely spoken out of an Incarnation’s mouth.

It’s relevance changed over time. From a way of life, to a code of conduct, to a secret knowledge of the high castes, to a religious propaganda, to a means of attracting west, to a base to run your religious sect and endorse it to laymen, to a subject of research. It has traveled a long journey.
It has been the motivator of wars. The source of clashes and reason for uprisings. The bloodiest of hostilities have initiated from this holy book. Covered under the veil of righteousness.
In modern times it is the weapon of the fundamentalists. The senior IIM Baba’s management curriculum. And book of trust for the Indian courts. ‘Geeta par haath rakhkar kasam khaaiye…..ke main jo bhi kahunga sach kahunga’.

Yet Geeta is the source of life for so many people around our lives, who follow and believe every word in it religiously.Another religion sellers were putting the word of god on sale once again. Along with an exclusive cover showing Krishna driving Arjun’s chariot.

‘Bhagwad Geeta. As it is.’

And the ISKON logo.

But what had caught my eye was the picture of Krishna. A young confident gentleman as on the book. Firmly holding the straps to the horses. Eyes set on the opponent, road or the aim, whatever applies. A charming lad with a peacock’s feather on his crown. A friend, a philosopher, a guide and a God! Krishna the ultimate being. The pole star of the Pandavas. The lover of Radha. And the man behind the Kurukshetra war. The US of those days. And the meaning of my name. Krishna.

The phone rang again. I hurried thrusted my hand into my jean’s pocket and pulled it out. ‘Aparna Calling…’.
I press ‘Answer’.

“Where are you?” her voice overcomes the surrounding traffic.

I look around for a landmark. I see the petrol pump. Oh Damn! I am not supposed to be here.

“Near the petrol pump"
“Why did you go there??.....weren’t we supposed to meet opposite the Crossword?”
“Yeah…but I felt like walking few more steps…”
“Shut up! Liar….now wait there…I’m coming..”
“Okay!”

I had met Aparna in my free time. Every time is a free time for me actually. But then I had enough time from my lethargy to go to a cybercafé and check social networking sites. And in one such visits I had found her through a common fan club. I loved these sites then. These were my gateway to socializing. At minimal costs of 10 or 15 per hour, I could a hell lot of people. From different places. Of different ethnicities and with same enthusiasm to socialize. Finding new friends. I would say, finding someone to lie down with. Socializing is just a name. All that everybody wants to do is to get laid. And they find new ways to do that. Social networking is a new medium for it. For the likes of me, who cannot afford pubs, discos or even coffee joints, social networking comes as an answer. I had met Aparna through one such endeavour. I wan on a Dom Moraes’ fan club. She was there too. I dropped her a ‘Hi!’ She dropped me a ‘Hi!’ That’s where it all began. Fortunately she was from the weird city. Localite! Been staying there since childhood. That augmented our chats more. And the day arrived when we finally met. And then there were coffees, poetries, movies, readings, screenings and at times shopping too. Rest all followed too. Sometimes I feel I am in love with her. Sometimes I feel, there would be a vacuum after she leaves. Sometimes I feel, we should be together for lifetime. But, that’s just sometimes. There are no promises. There are no commitments. There are just moments to live. All we do is just live them to the fullest.

Her scooty halts beside me. Its shrill horn fills my ears. She wont stop honking till I plug my ears with my fingers.

“Yes…Yes…Yes! I saw you Appy!....now stop honking!” I say shouting over the honk device.
“Why are you standing here?” Ma’m asks.
“Waiting for you…”
“But you were supposed to wait there.” She points out to the large Gulmohur.
“But I am waiting here!” I hold her hand and change the direction.
“leave my hand you jerk!”
“I won’t!”
“Bachao bachao….dekho yeh gunda meri iijaat loot raha hai!” She gets faux melodramatic. Aparna occasionally burst into such fake overtly melodramatic episodes. With enactments that match the flavour of a 1980s Masala movies.

“Yahaan tumhaari awaaj sunanewaala koi nahi hai raani….aa jao meri baahon mein!” I perform my Amrish Puri.

She punches me in my belly. I cry ‘Bitch!’. She snaps ‘Arsehhole!’ We both laugh.

“Now tell me….what were u doing here?” she always has this tone of authority as she talks to me. Before the world, she is just clinically harsh. A hard nut to crack. Which I had already cracked with the cyber nutcracker. I only had to enjoy the core now. And I had got used to it now. So much that it would not be easy to let it go.

“I was seeing these books!” I pointed at the ISKON books.
“Really??...you liar!”
“Really!”
“Bhagwad Geeta?”
“Not exactly….all of them”
“Why?...want to wash the sins of sleeping with me?”
“Is that a sin??...Then let me be a sinner”
“This assures me that you weren’t watching Bhagwad Geeta at all!....jerk!…You must’ve reached here come chasing some girl…”
“No really…”
“Yeah…I know…..Bhagwad Geeta...you are Krishna anyways...but in sense of women...not otherwise!!”

The line struck me hard. ‘You are Krishna anyways’. I couldn't her the rest of the sentence. It just vapourised in air. That one line give birth to an unfamiliar turmoil within me. It churned within me my state of being. I felt something come to my throat. Maybe the same universe I had swallowed with butter when I was a kid. Which Yashomati Maiyya was shocked to see. I look up. A blue tarpaulin hung some feet above me. It had cast a blue shadow on my body. As if it was an integral part of me. I remembered the notes of a Basuri that Ameya had taught me in the school years. The peacock feather my Granddad had given me many years ago, came swinging down from the branch of the tree above me. The words reverberated in my ears. ‘you are Krishna anyways’

“O re!....what are you thinking?” She pulls me out. Like most women, she too was good at it.
“Nothing!”
“Nothing??....liar….Must be thinking of a new way of getting me laid…..saalaa Fucker!”
“Yeah…that gaali suits me in your case!” I divert the investigation with humour.
“Yeah…yeah…come get seated now and molest me on the road…horny arse!”

I sit on the pillion seat. I neglect her words. Her only words that remain with me are, “you are Krishna anyways”. Was I Krishna? Would I quote Bhagwad Geeta? Would I start a war? Would I cleanse earth of wrong doings? Will I carry Gowardhan mountain on my pinky? Or will I dance over the Shesh Naag‘s fang after defeating it? Or……will I bed 16000 women?

Aparna rode past a cow. I found the cow staring at me. And me at her. Like an old connection that goes beyond centuries. Of a God dressed up as a Gwala or the cowherd and a cow standing behind him. It seemed to me like the same one.

I knew her…in my last life!

* * *

(Contd.)

1.j

I was taken aback by her answer. Is this what all her pain and sufferings come to?

“Tell me na Anay…What do you think?”
“Is it important?” I snap back.
“Yes….It is!” She almost shrieks and starts crying again.

I hold her again and start comforting her.

“It is important what you think….please tell me what do you think...” She says in a tear soaked voice.

I feel pity for her at that moment.

“Should we talk about it here?” I ask.
“Let’s go to the room”
“Let’s go to the canteen”
“I don’t feel like going anywhere today….let’s sit in my room”
“Okay..” I agree.

I am the only privileged one who is allowed to enter her room whenever she or I want. At times, it makes me comfortable to enter her room. It is always so tidy. Unlike our room. Messy. Even the messiness in her room has tidiness to it. Except once or twice, when one of the Victoria’s Secrets was lying noticeably on the heap of clothes on her bed. And I always get something homemade to munch whenever I enter her room. But today, that pleasure might not be on the list.

I enter her room. Shamita goes straight to the loo. Preeti is about to leave for her lectures. She greets me. I greet her. She picks up her books and leaves. This is usually the time when studious are in a hurry. She reaches the doorframe and turns back.

“Please try to put some sense into her….she has gone crazy” he says in a soft tone to me and leaves immediately. She doesn’t even wait to know my reaction.

Shamita comes out of the loo and sits on the bed with her chin resting on her knees. He shorts slipped down slowly as she sat folding her knees, pulling them close to her chin. Without her knowledge, a phenomenon had been uncovered. I stood staring at it mesmerized. It ended into another Victoria’s Secret. I had an uncontainable urge to touch the phenomenon. I went closer pulled by them. On being close, the phenomenon mesmerized me more. I stretched out my hand. Everything around me darkened into an illuminated darkness. The phenomenon glowed in its place. It was the moment of rendezvous with divinity. My hand was almost upon it and the world brightened up suddenly. Realization struck me on my medulla oblongata. I was standing near the bed she sat on. I hadn’t been there to slide my hand over the phenomenon. My presence there had a higher cause to it. I Sat down besides her. I offered her one of my chewing gum strips left in my pocket from I don’t know when, to comfort her. She smiles with tearful eyes and takes it.

“Tell me now Anay…what I should do?…” She says.

It is a difficult question for me to answer. If she was to decide purely on my response, I would’ve clearly asked her to ask that bastard to Fuck Off! But the problem here was of love. She still had the same amount of love she had for him before. And with this, things would never change by my statement. People, especially women, become blindfolded in love. And in this extreme psychological condition, they never accept logic presented to them by individuals surrounding them. So I had to find an answer. And guess who helps me now. Bollywood!

“What does your heart say Shammy?....what do you want?” I speak out my favourite lines.
“I want to go back to him...”
“Then that is your answer”
“Really?”
“yeah Shammy…nobody else can decide your happiness except you…..so do only what your heart says…If you want to go back to him…then go back to him!...Just be a bit careful…and I know that you will be” I place my hand on her head.

Never ever try to preach a person in love about his mistaken path. One, you will be categorized as Bad. Two, you will not be heard at all. Let them learn from their experiences. Burnt child dreads fire. Had learnt it in fourth standard for a scholarship exam.

She smiles amidst her tears. I smile back.

The smile says it all. She is going back to him. Sidelining every moment of pain and exclusion. She was prepared to run back into his arms. She had already decided it. All she wanted was a social approval. He roommates had already declined her idea, leaving her helpless. Shaking her predetermination. Leaving her in tears. And I was the twig which she needed. Upon which she could step and raise herself. Rise high and touch her otherwise insoluble decisive perplexity about going back to him. And now that she had it, I am assured that she would go back to the bastard. I resolved her dilemma. But it had given birth to a new question. How were Harshad and Piyush to be told about it? Without letting them know the past. Without bruising Shamita’s character. Without letting them feel that I am lying to them because I am close to her. And without letting the thousand other qualms clog the minds of those two chauvinist male lovers, whose minds are certain to run in all directions towards her, excavating and envisioning her existent and inexistent past. It was difficult.

Shamita had wiped her tears with the right mega sleeve of her top. The glumness on her face had disappeared by now.

“Thank you Anay!......you are the best!” She says turning to me and hugging me again. This time, out of happiness. Tighter than last times. For a second I gasp for breath after her blitzkrieg hug. Then I feel a venom spreading into in the heat of the hug. I loose control over my equilibrium. I am about to tumble over the edge of her bed. To gain my balance back, I struggle to grab something for anchoring myself. I land my hand on something and it sinks into it. It emits a warmth that envelopes my hand into it. The warmth which reaches my heart like a lightning and fills into my body. My half alive corpse gurgles with bliss. I dig my hand deeper into it. My fingers ink into it, curling up. Involuntarily forming into a gentle clutch, kneading it in a reach for support.

I am holding the phenomenon.

(Contd.)

1. i

It is one of the most uncomfortable moments in my life. When a girl hugs and cries. If I am into a relationship with her, it is my chance to further proceedings. But if it is a girl who is just a friend, I become utmost uncomfortable. Like now.

Her tears were drenching my T-shirt. He arms were around me. She was sticking to me. In her entire self. I could feel her warmth. I could see her collar stretched to her shoulder. I hugged her and patted her back with extreme efforts to divert my feelings. As I took my mind off the volcanic movements within me, I realized that she was crying.

“Tell me Shaami Kabaab…what happened?” That’s what I call her. Shaami Kabaab. It has long story to it. We used to call her Shammy. People still do that. Then one day I tasted Shaami Kabaab at Mohd. Ali Road. And the name reminded me of her.

Next day I called her that. Shaami Kabaab. She was mad at me. Reason. She asked why I called her that. And I replied she could be as hot to east as Shaami Kabaabs. But the name became the connecting factor between us. It was an anchor with which I pulled her out of delicate moments. The name always draws a smile on her face. Or at least made he open up. Like now.

“He called up again last night!” She said wiping her tears.

I hugged her tighter. The ‘He’ she refers here is her ex-boyfriend. I would take the liberty to call him a bastard. In truest sense. I consider bastard the worst of abuse. That is because other abuses just hit you. They degrade you. ‘Bastard’ abuses your source of life. Your mother. Her character. And her integrity. It’s worse than son of a bitch.

That bastard went around with her for two years. In third year, he broke up with her. Got another woman. Got married. And in fourth year, he started calling her again. Saying that he missed her. That he wanted to be with her again. That he was not happy with his married life. And this girl, lost into the past every time he called up. And the old flame turned into fire. And each time he was talking to her on phone, she had to fight this fire. And after that, she spent at least eighteen hours surviving the great emotional upheaval she went through on the phone call. And when he couldn’t convince her, he abused her on phone. Easy way out. Last night was one of those kinds. And the morning was this one.

“Don’t cry Shammy…come on….what did he say
He…….he said…..he said he loves me!” She cries more.

Bhenchod! What a move. Now he just doesn’t need her. Now he has realized he loves her. And what about all these days she had spent with her irritative loneliness? Where was he then? Where was his love when she was going through the post break off turmoil? Everybody, and I mean Every damn body had to face her aggravation then. And now, the bastard comes and says that he loves her. How convenient!

“Bastard!” I finally say it before her.

The moment the word is uttered from my mouth, her demeanor changes instantly.

“No Anay…” She said wiping her tears “…He means it!”
“How do you know…”
“He cried last night on phone…”

What a judgment of genuineness. He cried on phone last night. And what a woman to believe it. How easily his tears could change her attitude towards him. What do we classify this as? Naivety or stupidity?

“….He wants me back in his life Anay…” She said further.

I just nod my head.

“What do you say Anay??” She asks me.

“What do you feel?”

“I want to go back to him Anay!”

(Contd.)

1. h

It is a house just around the corner. A few steps from my house. Not a long walk. Then a right turn. A few steps more into the large arch formed by two Gulmohur trees. You will stand before a gate. You have pull out your mobile and call the number. Someone will appear on the terrace of the bungalow and will ask you to wait. And then, within a span of five to ten minutes, Shamita will appear at the gate.

How she looks, depends upon the time you visit her. If it is early morning, she comes as untidily as she can to appear sexy. The collar of her top sliding to her shoulder. One of the Victoria’s Secrets peeping out. Shorts or Pyjamas, depending on the season, creased and crumbled. She comes tying her hair, her waist flashing the silver chain around it glows in the morning sun with her belly, as she raises her hands to hold the silky mass in place.

If its breakfast time, She comes with wet hair and radiant face, the splendour that usually surrounds a freshly bathed girl. But this woman makes it even more special. She comes out softly drenched. Like hurriedly dressed up after her bath, without caring much about wiping the water off. And in this dampness, her wear holds on to her closely. You do feel like watching a miracle.

If it is afternoon, her loose hairs curl up on her top. A plain light colour with a dark shorts below it. It’s a lazy afternoon after all.

But it’s the evening that tops it all. All make up. All high end clothing. All high end footwear. Everything that is created to make a woman look beautiful. To top it all, a perfume, that acts as a pheromone driving the guys crazy. It is the time when guys like Harshad and Piyush are struck in the heart. And motorbikes pass innumerably on the road before her room. It’s the time, when the middle-class girl from Mumbai becomes a Cinderella. And Princes contest to have a single glimpse of her. Nobody had ever turned their head when she used to pass by when she was graduating with me. Even I had to hang around, owing to my set up with Sonia. Maybe she had discovered her beauty at this place or she had improved with time. But for me, she has always been the old Shamita. The mediator with unexpressed sensuality. I stand before the gate of the house.

It’s breakfast time. I am expecting the usual wet marvel. It’s the everyday breakfast together and then going for lectures. The lectures part I avoid. And I am successful in holding her back from doing so, at times. These are the times when she doesn’t want to attend the lecture. It’s her decision and not my skill. At these times she doesn’t even want to be around the campus. We have many places to go in such situations, places which I had explored last evening or last night. Other times, she resists the temptation and attends lectures. At these times, I get back to my regular pastime like hanging around somewhere in the campus.

I had called her up around three minutes ago, and Preeti, her roommate had appeared on the terrace to deliver the message that the princess will be descending from the castle in five minutes. I have to wait two more minutes for her now. But that is just a theoretical statement. The truth is she can come down in any lapse of time ranging from two minutes to half an hour. And all I can do is wait. Another phone call can be made, but holds the eternal risk of you being signed off as impatient.

I am prepared for the delay. The repressed have no voice. They only can resent.

I pick up a Champak flower fallen beneath the small tree in that bungalow’s courtyard. The tree had grown enough to shower its flowers across the compound netting. That is a thing I like about trees. Thy grow with their own mind and decide it on their own, if the flowers or fruits have to be given to the owner of his neighbours. It is one of the simpler ways nature can slap human faces.
The flowers are so pretty that I cannot resist picking one up. I smell it. The fragrance is enticing. It has been an unknowing habit by now to give the flower I pick up, to Shamita.

I stand looking at the flower. I know she would take time. And suddenly I see her coming. I stay stunned. Not just because she is early. Also because she isn’t in her breakfast look at this breakfast hour. It’s her early morning disarray. Unkempt top and creased shorts.She comes to the gate and smiles forcibly. I find it odd. This is unusual. Not as unusual. It does occur. But whenever it does, it does mean there is something that has gone wrong.

“Good Morning!” I greet her with the flower.
“Good Morning!” She smiles sadly looking at the flower. I get the usual partial bear hug in return.
“What happened?...u haven’t taken a bath?” her Victoria’s Secret on the shoulder catches my eye. I try hard to get my eye off it.
“No yaar!”
“Why?”
“Don’t feel like re!” She ties up her hair. The waist chain glitters with the belly. Another Victoria’s secret peeps out. My heart begins racing. I turn my eyes away.
“Breakfast?”
“Nope” She pulls her top to cover her belly. That stretches her top over her attributes. Another lovely moment.
“Don’t feel like that too…”
“What happened re?” I ask with a false concern. But there is an evident disturbance on her face.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me yaar…come on….something has happened…It’s on your face…You can’t hide it from me…” I can be aptly phony when it comes to women. Or maybe I am truly concerned about them and I don’t recognize it.

She just nods.

“Come on…tell me…” I place my hands on her head.She suddenly hugs me and starts crying.