3. f

She continues talking on phone. The warmth of her body glues me to her. I don’t feel like letting her off. Her touch spreads through me. It absorbs me into itself. I melt in its warmth. She jerks me back. I keep on holding her. She continues talking. I unhear what she speaks. It’s her personal matter. She is my personal matter. I gently rub my cheek over the smoothness of her neck. She hits her elbow in my stomach. I bear it. I kiss her gently on her neck instead. I have learnt from great Indian leaders to love in return of hatred. I hear a small sigh. She hits her fist on my hip in return. Her conversation with Harshad on phone goes on uninterrupted. I love Matahari for this. She doesn’t let even the closest confide know whom she is with and doing what when such incidences of seduction occur. I slowly slip my hand down, taking it below her belly. I rub it over her zip. She tries to push me back in vain. I spread my fingers and hold the entire region in my hand, anchoring my fingers at soft notches. I press the area gently. A light moan escapes her mouth. She hits me lamely on my thigh. I unzip her pant and push my hand into the newly formed gap. I feel her body shudder.

I run my fingers over the smooth cloth of her Victoria’s Secret. My finger reaches the upper edge of the Secret. I fondle with it. I touch the softness of her lower belly that descends into her depth. A temptation blooms within me. The temptation to pull it down and reach the depths. To feel the touch of the tender skin at the edge of the depth. To rub my finger softly over it. To caress it with tips of extensors of my palms. To scratch a steady line with my blunt nails. I hear a soft gasp. I pull the elastic edge lower. She disconnects the call and turns around.

I look into her eyes. The hostility in them transfixes me. I keep looking into them with my hand struggling to get out. Within a fraction of the second, her hand lands on my cheek. Everything darkens before me for a moment.

“Stay off fucker!!” She almost shrieks.

I move back. But my hand is stuck in her zipper.

“Pull this shit off my zipper you motherfucking arsehole!”

I drop the book and put my other hand on her mouth. She abuses further in a muffled voice. I desperately attempt to pull my hand out of her zipper.

She manages to free her mouth from my hand.

“You womaniser…”
“Shut up Barkha…you will wake up everybody!!”
“Let them wake up and see what an arsehole you are…”
“What happened?”
“You are asking me what happened?...Don’t you know what happened?”

I have a fair idea of what has happened. But I continue to be ignorant. But I want to hear it from her. Just as a matter of conformation. I jerk my hand to get it off her zipper. It moves in millimeters.

“What?!” I ask.
“Will I have to tell you that too?”
“Yes!”
“Okay…” She attains pseudo calm. “…Tell me…did you enjoy?”
“Enjoy what?”
“Her you fucker!”
“What?...Who?!”
“Her!...Shamita!...was her cunt juicier than mine??” She spit words out.
“Shut up Barkha…what’s got into you?”
“Come on tell me…were her thighs warmer?...”
“Shut the fuck up Barkha!!...”
“Why?...cant handle the truth??”
“What truth??”
“What truth??!!...Sleeping with Shamita you son of a bitch”
“What?!!...who told you this shit?” I know who has. But again I give in to the factor of confession.

“Whoever told me…what you have to do…you had your dick happy na…”
“Whichever fucker told you…is lying…or doesn’t know the truth.”
“Then…what’s the truth?...you took her to a hotel room for taking notes from her…”
“Nope…I took her to meet her brother…”
“To the hill-station?”
“Yes!”
“Do you think I am a fool?”
“I didn’t…but now I think you are…you are outta your mind Barkha…” My hand slips out of her zipper in my final attempt.

“And you are outta yourself you bastard!”
“Alright…If you aren’t listening to what I have to say….you will know the truth at the right time…see you than Barkha!” I say calmly and leave.

She stays dumbfounded by the serenity in my line. I leave there quietly. She stands speechless, dumbstruck by my move.

I exit her compound and walk away with heavy steps. And a stab-punctured heart.

I know who is behind this. He has a due to pay now.

(Contd.)

3. e

I get down from the rickshaw and I call her up. She doesn’t answer first three calls. She answers the fourth one.

“What?!” she stings.
“I am outside your house” I say.
“Why?”
“…the book”
“I said tomorrow”
“I said I was coming!”
“Anay…”
“Barkha…”

A brief pause passes between us. “Wait there…I am coming” she breaks the silence.
With all the lights off, her house seems sleeping. A restful darkness peeps through its windows. A see a quick switching on and switching off of her study lamp. Her room fills up for a second with its light. The way lightening fills the skies for an instant.

The door of her bungalow opens and she comes out watchfully, with the book held to her chest. She closes the door carefully, to avoid waking up her grandmother, the only inhabitant of the bungalow. The indirect benefactor of my sexual exploits with Barkha. She sleeps early and wakes up late. To add to her generosity, he doesn’t hear properly. Her Mom and Dad stay in Dubai. My statistics say she couldn’t get through any institute there. Her reason says that the quality of education is better in India. Be whatever, she lives here alone with her grandmother, studying in my college and prefers me to share her bed. This information is enough for me.

She comes walking feather light steps and stands before me.

I look into her eyes and smile. She returns it with a stern glare.

I move a step closer. She pushes me back with the book and holds it out for me. I take it touching her hands gently. She quickly draws them back.

I hold the book tighter. My first attempt wasted.

“What happened?” I ask “Why you so grumpy?”
“I am not…” she snaps back.
“But the nosy here doesn’t say so…” I touch the tip of her nose.
She slaps my hand off with an irritable “Don’t touch me…”

Second attempt failed. Her behaviour is getting on my nerves. This is an ordinary reaction seen in people who suddenly stop getting something that they are so used to getting without much effort.

“What happened Barkha” I ask her with a sprinkle of firmness, holding her by her shoulders.

“Nothing Anay…” she says shaking my hands off her shoulders. There is a sharp edge of sadness to her voice.

“Then why are you behaving this way??...” It erupts out finally.

The phone in her hand rings exactly at that moment. He answers the call instantly.
“Yeah Harshad…tell me.” She says a bit louder for me to understand.

She moves away from me talking on phone. I follow her. Her swift moves blow me over once more. I keep walking behind her. We enter the compound of her bungalow. We reach a dark corner in her premises. Her attempts to gain privacy give me a chance to follow her to the cosiest of places.

She stands with her back at me. I move closer. She moves farther.

This time I am determined.

I move closer to her again. The darkness in the corner intoxicates me. She stands still. I wrap my hands around her.

(Contd.)

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.)