The letter had lain on the desk for a week. There seemed no point in reading it. And anyways, I could still smell her around me. No point in reading the constant reminders of one’s failings.
I had anyways survived an extremely bad week at work. The boss was about to be laid off; the next man in seemed to be extremely hostile to my continuity--not just at work, but in the world in general! Worse, I had failed to deliver on time, for the second time in a week. Now, that was a first. It had hurt on Monday morning. I spoke with the CDE and decided the transparencies would not be ready by the next day. We had yet to begin ideating on the copy, much less start writing the copy. The hurt was slowly replaced with embarrassment as we hurtled from one failure to another. It was all falling into place—a dark alley that seemed to be running up my now-much-abused arse. And there was this throbbing headache to handle. The weekend was truly to be a refuge from stress.
But how would the stress go away when her clothes still lay strewn on the bed? The formidable rack of shoes had fallen over, spewing its contents all over the hallway. A few perfume bottles had cracked, evidently remnants of a struggle. The room smelt pleasant, almost as if she was around, hiding behind a couch waiting to spring a surprise. The smell was too much for my now-sensitive nose. Perhaps the cat was still around, and had soiled the bed. Surprising how her room repulsed me already!
We stayed in separate rooms, but she usually slept in my bed. We fought all our battles there--wondering how long before we would reach a point of no return. Her career was just shaping up, and the ego hassles from work would find their way back home. I had enough on my hands to think about where she was coming from! We usually began with the genial abuse and ended up slapping each other before hitting the bed to quench our animal passions. It was a strange love by all means.
She loved the strange melancholy nature of our pad. I loved the view of the river, even though the mosquitoes and the stench explained the low rent we had to pay. It had been rented from a pensioner safely lodged in a city 300 miles from here. As long as the rent checks reached him before the end of the month, he'd stay out of our business. She loved lighting those infernal scented candles on the long windowsills. We had lovely French windows that were never left open, lest the stench slinked in.
Even so, I wondered if her true fear was that her husband would someday see her lighting those beloved candles of hers at a stranger’s house. It was the typical precursor to a night full of passion, and short on sleep. They had been a happy couple.
I hated myself for triggering off the worst argument of their married life. She was barely an acquaintance then, an object of animal lust, who was to be leered at in the private sanctuary of one’s mind. I loved taking off her clothes while she walked past at the Gym. She had that figured out much before we spoke for the first time. It seemed to be the fuel for her vanity. As every beautiful woman figured, she hated being told she was pretty; or so she pretended. She desperately wanted every male on the floor to lust for her, to beseech her for a glance, perhaps even kill each other for a chance to sleep with her.
It was probably my harmlessness that helped her choose. Darwin could screw his nose and turn over in his grave for all I cared. We hit it off right-away. She pretended to be fascinated by my profession, “Copywriters are quite the romantic sorts, eh?” I had nothing to say, as usual. A silent mysterious smile was a nice weapon for the dumbstruck. It struck me as unusual that we had begun getting so intimate within a week of acknowledging each other’s existence. She was truly living in the fast lane.
It was then that she told me about her husband. Globe-trotting, versatile, gifted, much-venerated academic. In contrast, I seemed an oddball by all counts.
I was Darwin’s nightmare! Going by his theories, I would probably not sow as many oats as the average male of my species. Even that was a relief, going by the way my life was headed!
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
The Story [Part 2]
Note: The narrative changes here. This is another meandering turn to a storyline that I have no clue about. Kindly indulge me by ignoring the randomness of this. This is practice, after all! But hey, if you did fall asleep midway, I'd really love to know! (the.poets.mind@gmail.com)
"Coward!" He had it spelt out in fine cursive script on the walls. She was not around to see him cringe. One more look was required to make sense of the situation.
Sarita was furiously pacing down the corridor, waiting for him to make up his mind. Her husband was still in the ICU. The police had made three rounds since morning. The statement was yet to be recorded.
It would be simple. He had received threatening calls for a couple of weeks before the attack. He had not taken them seriously since they seemed too farfetched to believe--which Dubai-based don would take interest in an entrepreneur when there were so many more richer industrialists to farm? It seemed a stupid decision in hindsight. Hindsight was always meant to be this clear.
Meanwhile, Sarita walked up to the bathroom, and yelled, "Are you building a castle in there? What's keeping you?” He felt the bile rise up; another wave of fear took him by surprise. She was cold blooded! He muttered to himself, "Yes, of course. With all the bricks that I'm shitting, I might as well build a castle for us."
He was definitely not the finest specimen of his species. He had gotten by on the inane copy churned out for a doddering agency. People romanticized his profession, and by virtue of association, hailed him as a creative person. "Hardly true!” his closest friends smirked, in private. They valued his loyalty too much to hurt his feelings. His great luck with women riled them; they were lookers by all means. Ego was indeed a painful associate in friendships of convenience. His loyalty meant all resources at his disposal were open to them. It was a heartening thought to be able to call up one of his many friends in times of loneliness. None of them failed to oblige. That ego boost was good enough for them to indulge his histrionics. Anyone who could manage so many relationships was well worth the admiration.
They thought of Sarita as an oddball. She was well off in every sense--fine homes in three cities, enough inherited wealth to keep up with her spending, a husband who was considered near-genius by his associates and indeed most people who knew him. He had successfully transitioned from Academia to the world of commerce and within the short span of three years, established himself as an engineering services provider of merit. He was yet to hit the big time, but an IPO would cure that. His increasing stature in his field (of ceramic wizardry, of the kind that laymen did not understand) was leading to larger contracts to design astonishing contraptions--ceramic braking systems, of the kind used in Formula 1 cars, except made much cheaper through his design and manufacturing processes. Most global carmakers had an eye on him. He was a kind and forgiving man, a fact they realized when he offered jobs to the younger relatives of the friends of the traitor who had cuckolded him.
Why then would Sarita spend time with a suave hustler like Sikander? They kept their counsel and never questioned either Sarita or Sikander about their relationship.
Sikander meanwhile was still stuck in the bathroom. The outdoors seemed dark and uninviting even at high noon. The police would surely get him, for no fault of his. Or so he thought. He was right, she was too good for someone like him. The heave of relief he had heaved a month ago was not settling on his chest, heavier by the moment. How could he have got caught in this mess?
So the wheel of Karma had turned a full circle.
"Coward!" He had it spelt out in fine cursive script on the walls. She was not around to see him cringe. One more look was required to make sense of the situation.
Sarita was furiously pacing down the corridor, waiting for him to make up his mind. Her husband was still in the ICU. The police had made three rounds since morning. The statement was yet to be recorded.
It would be simple. He had received threatening calls for a couple of weeks before the attack. He had not taken them seriously since they seemed too farfetched to believe--which Dubai-based don would take interest in an entrepreneur when there were so many more richer industrialists to farm? It seemed a stupid decision in hindsight. Hindsight was always meant to be this clear.
Meanwhile, Sarita walked up to the bathroom, and yelled, "Are you building a castle in there? What's keeping you?” He felt the bile rise up; another wave of fear took him by surprise. She was cold blooded! He muttered to himself, "Yes, of course. With all the bricks that I'm shitting, I might as well build a castle for us."
He was definitely not the finest specimen of his species. He had gotten by on the inane copy churned out for a doddering agency. People romanticized his profession, and by virtue of association, hailed him as a creative person. "Hardly true!” his closest friends smirked, in private. They valued his loyalty too much to hurt his feelings. His great luck with women riled them; they were lookers by all means. Ego was indeed a painful associate in friendships of convenience. His loyalty meant all resources at his disposal were open to them. It was a heartening thought to be able to call up one of his many friends in times of loneliness. None of them failed to oblige. That ego boost was good enough for them to indulge his histrionics. Anyone who could manage so many relationships was well worth the admiration.
They thought of Sarita as an oddball. She was well off in every sense--fine homes in three cities, enough inherited wealth to keep up with her spending, a husband who was considered near-genius by his associates and indeed most people who knew him. He had successfully transitioned from Academia to the world of commerce and within the short span of three years, established himself as an engineering services provider of merit. He was yet to hit the big time, but an IPO would cure that. His increasing stature in his field (of ceramic wizardry, of the kind that laymen did not understand) was leading to larger contracts to design astonishing contraptions--ceramic braking systems, of the kind used in Formula 1 cars, except made much cheaper through his design and manufacturing processes. Most global carmakers had an eye on him. He was a kind and forgiving man, a fact they realized when he offered jobs to the younger relatives of the friends of the traitor who had cuckolded him.
Why then would Sarita spend time with a suave hustler like Sikander? They kept their counsel and never questioned either Sarita or Sikander about their relationship.
Sikander meanwhile was still stuck in the bathroom. The outdoors seemed dark and uninviting even at high noon. The police would surely get him, for no fault of his. Or so he thought. He was right, she was too good for someone like him. The heave of relief he had heaved a month ago was not settling on his chest, heavier by the moment. How could he have got caught in this mess?
So the wheel of Karma had turned a full circle.
20mph
Seamus sat by the sill, waiting for the sparrows to flit past. Each evening, he saw the pair flying in tandem, twisting and turning in the air. They flirted in the air, filling up his life with happiness that had been missing for over a decade now.
A picture of his wife lay on a dusty desk, hidden partially by the numerous sheaves of paper pretending to be filled up with his notes. He loved flying. She hated it. Her fear of heights was strange, she preferred wheels to wings. Her love for exotic cars used to worry him. He wondered if she would forever depend on her father to fund this madness--the passion to hit the road with a vengeance, and keep the right foot plastered to the floor. Almost as if her life depended on it!
Seamus understood the passion for speed, but never comprehended the fear of getting off the ground. Personally, he preferred his staid Oldsmobile to the flashy ones she borrowed from her father and brothers. They indulged her too much!
Two decades of lusting for those magnificient machines culminated in five superbly fulfilling years as an ace pilot. Those were the happiest years. That was also the start of his relationship. They'd met at a railway station, where he had come to see off his mother, and she, to see off her brother A* who was slumming--having decided to travel to the far north to seek solitude. He used to love the railroads; after all, their family manufactured most of the steel that went into making these rails. A*'s was a passion this speed-happy couple never understood.
They were married within a week. He, in his aerial jousts of happiness at 800mph, and she in her perpetually wheelie-ing rounds of ecstacy, travelling at 120mph. They were destined to be the fastest couple in town!
She had never understood how he could come back so fresh from his sorties when every colleague of his would be bushed from the sheer effort of staying up there. His knees are made of steel, she'd say proudly to anyone who cared. Most people would add "So are his ears!", beyond her earshot, of course. She was impulsive, to the point of being dangerous. That Shelby Cobra sure wasn't a good idea. But there simply was no point in explaining that to her.
In hindsight, he thought, perhaps there was a need to have done that! Things had changed so much since the last night they spent together. He had just begun to appreciate the thrill in turning round a corner at 80 mph. Driving with the top down was just as enjoyable as doing a pirouette in the air!
He wondered if he should have allowed her to drive; after all, there wouldn't be any planes flying blind into you at a corner. "That's that", he thought. "No point living in the past." He looked at his feet, wondered how much more of his disability pension would need to be accumulated before he could get a snazzy electric wheelchair that could go at 20mph.
A picture of his wife lay on a dusty desk, hidden partially by the numerous sheaves of paper pretending to be filled up with his notes. He loved flying. She hated it. Her fear of heights was strange, she preferred wheels to wings. Her love for exotic cars used to worry him. He wondered if she would forever depend on her father to fund this madness--the passion to hit the road with a vengeance, and keep the right foot plastered to the floor. Almost as if her life depended on it!
Seamus understood the passion for speed, but never comprehended the fear of getting off the ground. Personally, he preferred his staid Oldsmobile to the flashy ones she borrowed from her father and brothers. They indulged her too much!
Two decades of lusting for those magnificient machines culminated in five superbly fulfilling years as an ace pilot. Those were the happiest years. That was also the start of his relationship. They'd met at a railway station, where he had come to see off his mother, and she, to see off her brother A* who was slumming--having decided to travel to the far north to seek solitude. He used to love the railroads; after all, their family manufactured most of the steel that went into making these rails. A*'s was a passion this speed-happy couple never understood.
They were married within a week. He, in his aerial jousts of happiness at 800mph, and she in her perpetually wheelie-ing rounds of ecstacy, travelling at 120mph. They were destined to be the fastest couple in town!
She had never understood how he could come back so fresh from his sorties when every colleague of his would be bushed from the sheer effort of staying up there. His knees are made of steel, she'd say proudly to anyone who cared. Most people would add "So are his ears!", beyond her earshot, of course. She was impulsive, to the point of being dangerous. That Shelby Cobra sure wasn't a good idea. But there simply was no point in explaining that to her.
In hindsight, he thought, perhaps there was a need to have done that! Things had changed so much since the last night they spent together. He had just begun to appreciate the thrill in turning round a corner at 80 mph. Driving with the top down was just as enjoyable as doing a pirouette in the air!
He wondered if he should have allowed her to drive; after all, there wouldn't be any planes flying blind into you at a corner. "That's that", he thought. "No point living in the past." He looked at his feet, wondered how much more of his disability pension would need to be accumulated before he could get a snazzy electric wheelchair that could go at 20mph.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Her...
Over your grave, she had said!
An age had passed since the old familiar feeling of the staple-in-the-heart hit me where it hurt. I relived the day this morning. I saw her smile; random pictures, random people.
We had been holding hands; she was busy naming the kids (all eleven of them) while I tried redecorating the house with little artifacts that we would collect from our world trips. We were just about getting to the seating area, and fighting over the ornate baithak that I loved, but which she hated. She wrenched her hand away from mine; the coffee felt warm running down my bare thighs. The birds were unusually loud. The newspaper seemed to be in greyscale today.
Yes, the Jhoola was an unnecessary expense, so too was the farmhouse. We could afford it though; She was after all, the head honcho of a successful practice for a large MNC. She was unwilling to let me work--I was supposed to write! Fame and glory would be at our doorsteps, waiting to be let in, and be asked to sit on the large Italian couch that she preferred over the Sankheda Baithak that my native senses reveled in.
We had barely spent five minutes in each others arms when the memory arrived. I yelled her name out, loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear. The breaths were coming in short bursts. I had forgotten this was not meant to be.
I woke up with a start.
It still takes me a few moments each morning to realize the woman I wake up next to--the person who I owe my life to, the lady who's changed the gloom to glorious dawn, my closest friend and confidante--is not "her".
She was sound asleep. Her child-like beatific smile curved into a slight smirk.
An age had passed since the old familiar feeling of the staple-in-the-heart hit me where it hurt. I relived the day this morning. I saw her smile; random pictures, random people.
We had been holding hands; she was busy naming the kids (all eleven of them) while I tried redecorating the house with little artifacts that we would collect from our world trips. We were just about getting to the seating area, and fighting over the ornate baithak that I loved, but which she hated. She wrenched her hand away from mine; the coffee felt warm running down my bare thighs. The birds were unusually loud. The newspaper seemed to be in greyscale today.
Yes, the Jhoola was an unnecessary expense, so too was the farmhouse. We could afford it though; She was after all, the head honcho of a successful practice for a large MNC. She was unwilling to let me work--I was supposed to write! Fame and glory would be at our doorsteps, waiting to be let in, and be asked to sit on the large Italian couch that she preferred over the Sankheda Baithak that my native senses reveled in.
We had barely spent five minutes in each others arms when the memory arrived. I yelled her name out, loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear. The breaths were coming in short bursts. I had forgotten this was not meant to be.
I woke up with a start.
It still takes me a few moments each morning to realize the woman I wake up next to--the person who I owe my life to, the lady who's changed the gloom to glorious dawn, my closest friend and confidante--is not "her".
She was sound asleep. Her child-like beatific smile curved into a slight smirk.
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