3. d

I move closer to Barkha. She moves farther.

I don’t understand what the fuck is happening.

I had been observing it since morning. Through the day she wore a sensuous black Ganji deep enough to give a glimpse of her miracle bosom. Her harem pyjama added to the voluptuous gorgeousness. I spent every moment of the day in the shade of her ebony seduction. Her every movement was a schooner of wine. My eyes were transfixed on every flinch of her stunning body. And an irresistible urge of attaining it burned through me. I approached her with my predatory instincts on every moment that I could. But she somehow, unlike herself , she lugged herself away from me each time. I was guessing if this was some new tactic she was devising. But my concerns grew stronger as the day ended and she avoided even a slight brushing of our skins. Forget sensuous touches. It was not so her.

Barkha, as her name meant, was a shower. A shower of chilled rain drops. The one which pricked you and soothed you at the same time. The shower of countless cold and wet needles. The shower which taught you of the pleasure that lay hidden in pain.
Like the abundance of a shower, Barkha was an abundance herself. An unending reservoir of lust. You could jump in. Take a plunge. Have a sip from it. Or, if u had enough guts, gulp the entire thing down. But this abundance showered only on the chosen ones. Like rain chooses to empty its clouds on the villages along the foothills of the mountains, and drizzles faintly on those over the other side.
Like everybody else, she too had her share of desires. Just that it was a bigger one. Big enough to keep her constantly occupied in an endeavour to quench it endless thirst.

I had noticed her pull towards male bodies through her overfriendly physical gestures and repeated attempts to establish a close affinity with male friends. My speculation was cemented by the news from Shamita’s room. A place for college girls to gather and gossip. A word spread out that she was loose. And I rode on the wave of that word. I impressed her, lured her and subdued her. I made a territory in the pool of her desires. A very large one. And I swam in it proudly, keeping petty contestants at bay. And what I got in return was hundred per cent accurate information about Shamit’s room briefings, Harshad’s heart and Dilip’s inner secrets. She was my Matahari. And my chocolate. My ebony obsession.

I call her up.

“I need a book…” I say.
“Which?” She says rather impassively. The draughtiness in her voice leaves a tearing scratch inside me.
“Any” I could have said. But I thought of being more specific in this delicate situation.
“Ramaswamy and Namakumari” I replied.
“Okay…” she said “take it tomorrow.”

She had begun attacking with a stream of ballistic missiles. I had to move forward facing them; attacking her and protecting myself from her jet stream of curt replies.

“I wanted it today….in fact…now!” I said appearing as normal as I could. That was my only defence and attack.

“Now?!” she exclaimed with gentle insolence and then fell silent for some moments. I had felt the heat radiating through her words. But I was unable to lead myself to the spark of it. “can’t you take it tomorrow?”

Damn! It’s the fuck up day. But one has to take chances.

“No!” I say. “Today…I am coming to your place…now!” I disconnect.

I rush down. Catch a rickshaw and reach her room. Using Piyush’s bike once has proved risky enough. I decide not to mess up my life further.

But I detest the idea of going to her house walking. It’s considerably far.

The rickshaw begins moving at the speed of light. Or at least I feel so.

(Contd.)

3.c

“Uth Bhenchod!!!” I felt a kick in my waist.

I woke up with a shock. I couldn’t comprehend the surroundings around me for a moment. I felt I was still asleep at my home. The kick had brought me back to reality. The place where I was. I looked up. Piyush stood with a wicked smile on his face. I thanked him for waking me up.

“Wake up…what did you get from home fucker?”

“There is nothing in the bag near the study table.” I said rubbing my face with my palms. “Don’t even look at it!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha” Piyush laughed villainously. His melodramatic laughter rattled the windows. He took long steps to the bag. I jumped to protect it. He jumped over me. We fought over the bag. A judo match. A wrestle duel. He finally over powers me. He twists my hand and sits on my back. He laughs aloud again.
“Fuck you rapist” I shout in return.

He leaves me and sits resting his back on the bed. I turn around massaging my hand. Villager had a hard grip. Madarchod!

“When did you come fucker?” Piyush asked stretching his legs.
“Afternoon” I reply yawning.
“How are you?”
“Best…until you wringed my arm!”
“What’s in the bag?” He asks looking at it.
“Diamonds”
“Heerey!” He pulled the bag close, opened it and pulled out a packet of Chaklis that Mom had packed in it.
“Chakna!!!” He shouted!
“No Gandu…Maa ka pyaar!” I shout back.

He pushes it back in. The next thing in his pull out campaign is a plastic jar filled with Besan Laddoos.
“Maa ka pyaar!” He mumbles poignantly. A longing spills out of it.
“Meri Maa…tumhaari Maa…divide them!” I say.
“Pick one” says he taking one of the laddoos.
“Take as many…whenever you want!” I declare.
“As if I need your permission…” He bites into the laddoo in his hand “Lovely!” words somehow find their way out from his filled mouth followed by “Welcome back!”

Yeah…I say! Welcome back! I am back.

“How are things?” I ask biting into mine.
“What things?”
“Everybody here!”
“Everybody’s fine….nothing much happened…what will happen in two days man?” He replies taking another bite of the laddoo.
“Cool” I say.
“Did Shamita come back with you?” Piyush asked me devouring the last part of the laddoo.
“No…Why?” His question puzzles me.
“Even she came around the same time you did…I saw her going to her room with her bag…”
“Okay…no man…she didn’t come with me…”
“But Harshad’s guess was partially correct I must say….”

“Harshad?” The sentence baffles me. But lesser than the name that is a part of it. I couldn’t comprehend why Piyush mentioned Harshad’s name in his situation. There could be over thousand conclusions. Nine hundred and ninety nine of which could be comfortable excluded. Except one. And that is Harshad poisoning Piyush’s mind with the same thought. A misunderstanding. A strategy to counter my afflation with Shamita. A strategy coming out of a blindfolded jealous mind. And this conclusion was strong enough to be worried about.

“And what was his guess?” I ask concealing my distress.
“That if we see Shamita around….then we will see you around too…”

Son of a bitch had dropped a bead of poison in Piyush’s mind to seep.

“And what else did he say?” I inquire with emergency.
“Nothing…that’s it!”

I just shook my head in acknowledgement. I forcefully displayed my discontent of my face. I had to build up my wall of defence. I had to state wordlessly that I disapproved this thought line.

It worked on Piyush. He changed the topic.

“Can I steal one more?” He asked.
“Go ahead Sonny…it’s your pick!”

I wasn’t much worried about the loss of laddoos from my bag. What ate me was the fact that Harshad was spreading his venom voraciously over the little universe that encircled me. I was sure Shamita had had a very good time at the Hill Station with the bastard. But she had chosen a very bad time to return. There was a large space left behind for Harshad to take his guesses.

As Piyush finished his next Laddoo, I thought of all that would follow and how could I counter it.

I say to myself once again,

“Welcome back!!!...the game is not the same now!”

(Contd.)

3. b

Morning had just descended into noon when I reached the weird city. I trespassed the toll zones which didn’t bother much about the motorbike riders. They let me pass.
I entered the arsehole of the world.

I had covered the distance of two hundred kilometres with a heavy heart. My head was a mixed bag of thoughts. Some from the world I had left behind and some of the world that I would be a part of soon. As I approached closer to my destination, the memories, words, thoughts from the past two days began shrinking like the evaporating drops of water on a glass pane. They left behind an outline with its centre shrivelling slowly. To disappear with a permanent blotch on it.

I crossed the Chowk, rode up the hill. I saw small shops along the border of the road. They all seem new to me. It always happens to me. A break from the usual, even a small one, makes the entities from the usual appear novel to me. It feels like coming back from a memory dilution. And these objects prove a mapping points for returning to normalcy. I try and recollect the sequence of the shops to test my memory. I pass by each of them, in the correct sequence proving the worthiness of my reminiscence.

I see familiar faces on the road. Some recognise me, some don’t. Those who do, smile or wave to me. I acknowledge their gesture with a similar response. They remind me of the day when I had reached home. During this passage, I recognize that I have set up a pseudo world here for myself. A world that is a pitiable attempt to replicate the world I lived in. An artificial world, like the one we see in old Hindi film sets. A world in thermacol and plasticine. A Plaster-Of-Paris imitation of the world I had left behind. And it’s not just me. It’s many more like me who have done this. We are a group of proxy existences. People who create their lost ambiences on compromising pieces and extracts of their precedent lives.

I park the bike in the veranda of our landlord’s bungalow. I climb up the wrought iron stairs to our floor. There isn’t anybody at the room. I thank god, since I consider this moment as extremely private and want it ti be crumbled by some hyperemotional idiot’s verbal outburst. I open the lock and enter inside. I look at the bed and I decide to change and lie down with eyes closed. I go to the overcrowded cloth hook and find out my shorts from the heap of clothes that hang upon each hook. My absence has pushed it to the innermost position in the sequence. I carefully unhook it from the notch and hurl it on the bed. I look at it.

I thank god again that I haven’t got a bag to unpack this time. Because when you unpack your bag after returning from home, you don’t pull out your stuff from your bag. You pull out the elements of your personal nostalgia from it. The clothes washed by Mom. The snacks she packed. The envelope of cash dad had pushed in. Some weird gift stuff from sis. A worn out note of fifty from grandmother. A pen left back by a friend. Things keep coming out and you keep going back to the days you spent at home. They tie you to these days till you get used to them. They don’t let you dissolve in today, keeping you afloat on it, attached to the borders of yesterday.

I wear my shorts and lie down on the bed before me. I close my eyes. The two days at home slowly unfold before my eyes. At one moment I realise how, at the same time yesterday, I was sleeping at home. I realise that I have come very far in very less time. I realise that I am so far away from my house that I can’t be there in a jiffy if I want. That I have transported myself in a completely different habitat within a span of hours. That I was far. Very far.

I feel water rolling down from the corners of my eyes. In straight lines towards my ears. I don’t feel like opening my eyes.

(Contd.)

Declaration

Bhagwad Expressway is a work of fiction. The characters specified in it are PURELY FICTIONAL. They bear NO RESEMBLANCE to ANY PERSON living or dead. Any such resemblances should be considered purely CO-INCIDENTAL and UNINTENTIONAL.

Readers are requested NOT TO draw any conclusions from the work.

(This Declaration has taken shape owing to the growing discontent amongst audiences regarding their exploitation in the form of characters in the work. Such readers are requested to look at this work as pure fiction and enjoy it.)

World around needs to grow up urgently!!!!

- Writer

Chapter #

3.a

I woke up with a gloom. The parting day.

I hated the days when I had to go back. More than I hated being at home. But there was a certain comfort to it. Being in your own space. Sleeping on your own bed. Stare at your own ceiling. Bathe in your own bathroom. And stand before the mirror which has seen you change over the years.

It’s not about attachment with the people. It’s more about the attachment with inanimate things that holds me back. I am so accustomed to their presence, that it makes me feel at home rather than humans living there. And the thought of detachment from these elements weighs down on my heart. It fills my heart with molten iron and on cooling it laves the heart heavier.

I feel reluctant to leave. I feel lazy to even move a finger. I forcibly take myself out of the bed. I feel like smoking. But I can’t. I am at home. I realise that I haven’t smoked much in last two days. I didn’t feel the need to. I can’t live without them there.

I heavily walk to the mirror and look at myself. I turn away and brush my teeth. The though of going back grows like a festering tumour within me. It chokes my throat. I brush my teeth. I fill my moth with a minty lather to counter the clog up in my throat. Brushing suppresses it successfully. But doesn’t overcome it. I finish other chores with the same lump stuck in my throat. I dress up and get ready for the journey back to the weird city. A prison with the walls of freedom.

Everybody in the house suddenly realise the onset of my absence. The change in their behaviour is evident. A dull outline of acceptance marks their faces. Acceptance to the fact that I was supposed to be here just for two days. That I was no longer a part of the household now, but just a visitor. A visitor in my own abode. A place which I would visit rather than return to. The brief returns which I spent here were like stays in some mediocre hotel. Run by people who you were directly related to. Whom you had seen all the years of your life. They served you. They pampered you and saw that your no demand remained unattended, unlike the times when you were a part of it. Because a visitor always remains an outsider. And that was what the distancing from home had made me. An outsider to the place where I belonged to.

I had my breakfast. Everybody behaved cheerful, concealing their twinge. Me too.
I wore my shoes and everybody grew restless. I promised them I will come back in a month. I assured them that the two cities weren’t far from each other. And I console them saying I was just around. Dad held up my words. He repeated the proclamation that he had made when he had agreed over sending me to the other city. “Come on…it’s just two hours by the Expressway”

Mom handed me over with bagsful of eatables. Dad handed me over my source of survival. Cash!

He came down to leave me to the bike. I greeted him farewell.

I sat on the bike and left waving to everybody.

The lump in my throat had by now occupied my entire chest. I left back my building. Then my lane. Then the turn which had brought me home. I kept leaving behind everything that had drawn me home.

The tyres of the bike touched the highway. I was on my way to the weird city. And the arsehole of the world.


(Contd.)

2. s

I get pulled towards them. Like they have lassoed me. I feel like a zombie walking on his master’s command. Except that I have no master. Or I don’t know who my master is. I only know these voices. These vague voices.

In slow steps I move towards them. The voices open their large moth. They suck me inside. A high power vacuum. My feet detach from the ground. I begin floating. I am dragged towards those voices. I give in to their pull. I go flowing towards them. Like a gush of wind takes a dry leaf along with it. I sway upon them then and land before their source.

A voice blares something over the hand held speaker into my ear. Two voices sing rhythmically to compete with the voice on the speaker.
I come back to the senses dazed. I can just see these men on speakers tearing their throat out and voices ringing in my ear. I keep looking at them. And something catches my dilating pupils.

Bhagwad Geeta.

This time it was ‘Geeta Gyaan Prasaarak Sangh’. Another sect claiming to be the true patrons of Bhagwad Geeta. Another fundamentalist organisation exploiting the mysteries in Bhagwad Geeta.

The man said “Geeta Geeta….Bhagwad Geeta!...Real Geeta…No editions.. Geeta Geeta…Bhagwad Geeta!”.

Two men behind him sing aloud “Bolo Krishna Krishna Krishna Krishna Krishna Krishna Krishna…..Bolo Radhe Krishna Radhe Krishna Krishna Krishna Krishna”.

All backed by a neatly chiselled idol of Krishna.

And a Krishna on the cover of the Bhagwad Geeta. The eternal Sudarshan Chakra on a tallest human index finger on one hand and a clean palm with rays radiating out from it on the other. As I looked up, I realised that it was the same as that on the book. A neatly chiselled Krishna.

I don’t understand why couldn’t I realise it before. Hadn’t I observed it before. Or was it that there was some different idol here which was not there on the book. That they had changed it instantly. Or was it that I had seen something else.

The wheel-chaired beggar blew air into his wooden pipe with seven holes. And sounds of a flute filled touched the station’s roof and spilled all over the place.

Something came fluttering at my feet. I looked down. A peacock feather had rested on my toe. I picked it up.

A man covered in blue distemper from station renovations, walked past me. His body brushed mine. I saw my hand. It was coloured in blue.

“Oye!...What are you doing here?” Sudesh wakes me up. “I thought you would stand there….I am so sorry for the delay yaar”

I just shake my head blankly.

“And what happened?...why are you standing here?...you buying a Bhagwad Geeta?...I can’tr believe this!!”
“No yaar….was just seeing”
“then it’s fine…don’t buy it!....it’s all a religious propaganda!!”

We walk towards the bridge. I turn back keep looking at the stall those guys had put up. That is the same moment the fluted beggar, The feather fan seller and the blue distemper came and stood together. Looking at me. I looked back. In pure astonishment.

The three of them stared at me into my eye. I gulped them down through my eyes.


(Contd.)

2. r

“Let’s go in” I say.

In an hour Sudesh and I were standing outside Mac’s. I had almost ran to Sudesh when I had seen him coming. Overwhelmed by the outrageous happiness of meeting him, I had dodged an Autorickshaw and went over to hug him in the middle of the road. Our high-pitched abuses to each other, had sent a wave of shock through the silent god-fearing people in the premises of the Railway Station.

There was no other peaceful way in which I could meet Sudesh. Over the numerous years of friendship, starting from school, we had developed a bond which went beyond the defining constraints of the word ‘Yaar’. Before I left the weird city, we were a part of each other’s every joy and plight. Circumstances had distanced us, but the chord between us had stretched like a rubber band over the fate marked expanse, recoiling itself and bringing us together as and when times arrived. A stage you attain visibly after a decade of friendship. A stage where you need no assuring factors for the connection that you share. No phone calls, no messages, no any other media of communication, till it becomes extremely necessary. A line of attachment that goes beyond all this to constantly reassure you at the back of your mind that your friend is there for you. A friend whose girlfriend who cannot eye upon.

After a round of public display of our emotional outburst, we moved to the safety of the footpath outside Mac’s. I suggested Sudesh that we go in.

“It’s crap yaar…” Sudesh replied.

“Mac’s?” I asked.

“Yup…It’s an economic drain” He stated.

“How?..” I ask. This time I am bewildered.

“Where does all the profit goes to?” He asks.

“Let’s go somewhere else” I reiterated his line. He had a point.

“Let’s go to the Irani across the railway tracks.” He suggests.

“Yeah…” I agree instantly.

I could always prefer an Irani over Mac’s. The rules were almost the same. Both had self service. You could sit at both the places as long as you could, till you had something before you. An both places provided a good environment for conversations. There were other things that differed too. Primarily the menu. Beginning from Chai to Chicken Biryani, it served everything that you could think of eating at different points of time. And what differed secondarily was the service. There were no over smart employees on the other side of the counter. Their smiles were real. Their affection was real. And their will to serve was the absolutely genuine. They served because it was their passion to serve. Because loved doing it. And they had spent years mastering the art of service. They knew that customer was the not just the king. He was the friend, a brother, a son and means of his daily bread. So they treated the customers like fellow humans. They knew the value that sprinkle of humanity in this large city of business. And that was what preserved them over the time in this Metropolitan. And that was what made them the preferred ones. It always scored a point over the fake plastic trained smiles at Mac’s. Where customers were treated like targets of business. The end points of the purchase process. And the multiplicands of profit.

We are about to cross the road when Sudesh’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket. Looks at the caller’s name. Gets awkward for a second and pushes it back into his pocket. It’s his girlfriend. He loks at me and gives a sly smile.

“I am in the loo” He says.

“And I ain’t there?” I ask.

“No…you are not a problem.” He smiles.

We laugh.

His phone rings again. He doesn’t pull it out this time.

“Attend it fucker” I suggest humbly.

“Why the fuck?...can’t she give me a moment with you?”

“Did you tell her that you’ll be meeting me?”

“Yeah”

“Then maybe she’s guessing that I’d turn you sodomous”

“My arse!!!”

“Yeah!...that’s what she cares for!”

His phone rings the third time now.

“Bloody shit man!...”

“Attend it jackass”

“Later man”

“You!...gonna be screwed!” I said making a gesture with a fist banging sideways in the air.

His phone rings once more.

“Attend it!” I decree.

“Yeah man…one more….and it turns messy”

“Go suck!”

“Yeah sure!”

There is a certain hypnosis about a girlfriend’s call. It mesmerises you and takes you away from the position you are standing in. You cross roads. Surpass traffic. Overcome hurdles. Cross rives. Jump over valleys. Climb up a cliff. Walk overs peaks. Swim through oceans. Transport over continents. And defeat celestial distances when you are talking over mobile phone with your girlfriend.

Sudesh slowly disappeared from my view and he drifted away talking with the new commander of his life. I stood where I was. Crossing the road. I resorted to the railway station shade to await his return from the distancing trance.

A cold wind blows out of nowhere in the scorching heat of the city. It soothes me. I keep looking in its direction. It slowly captivates me. It touches every pore on my body and seeps through it. I feel a coldness spreading across my skin. It burns lightly on my crust. It enters the layers below. It enters my blood. It enters my head. It makes its way to the mind and freezes my thoughts. I go blank. Everything before me fades gently. And I hear those alien voices again.

(Contd.)