After all these years

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The ball landed near the bedroom window and Kumara Swamy went to pick it up.

“ I need a change,” Tatta said sinking deeper into his inclined reading chair.

“ Oh, you always say that…you said that on our first anniversary fifty years ago…” Patti smiled running a comb through her long white hair.

“ Yes, you are right. I have wanted to do it many times before…never could muster the courage really…until now..”

“Oh, it is just a fancy with you. You think like this for a while and then things go back to normal. I think it will last for maybe a week this time…wanna bet?” Patti gave Tatta a naughty smile.

“No, this time I know for sure it is different.” Tatta stared at the ceiling from his reclining chair. Something in his voice made Patti stop, she stared at him, comb stuck halfway through her hair.

“What are you saying…” her voice snagged on a tangle in her hair.

“I am saying I need a change. And this time I am going to do it.” Tatta’s voice was tired but determined.

“Ok, but why do you want a change after all these years…?”

“Because I am bored of it!” Tatta hissed.

Patti half stood up out of the bed, comb still hanging from her hair. She could hear years of resentment seep like vitriol into the silence of the afternoon.

“I see, and how long have you been ‘bored’ of it.?”

“You said it yourself. Around the time of our first anniversary…” Tatta’s voice was low again but like a coiled snake ready to strike. Continue reading

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Why that Bimbo Smart

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Bimbo sits a few cubicles away from me at work.  Of course, she’s Indian, probably Punjabi, I dunno, long black locks of hair, luscious lips, and white skin, the works.  The kind of girl who is pretty because she firmly believes and takes enough selfies to prove it.  Obviously, she’s no friend of mine.  Brrr…..I strictly avoid eye contact when she crosses me in the office walkways, my lips lined with barely concealed disgust.  Why?  Because she is shallow, has no ambition beyond her clothes and netting a fancy husband, makes as much noise at the workplace as ten pigeons in heat, and seems to be living it up despite my obvious disgust (which she is clearly not registering).   Meanwhile, I am dying of an occupational ailment, resulting from chronic insecurity and a need to take work till I get my ass-fucked, and then some more.

So recently, I…

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Sahib and the widow

Jaishankar shivered, not because it was too cold, which it definitely was, but because a jolt of desire ran down his body just as he set his eyes on the widow. He sat on a frayed cane chair, in her small verandah surrounded by towering pine trees and a splatter of wild geraniums. Her three children ran around the verandah in various stages of undress, their rib cages jutting out like those children in Somalia, completely oblivious to the chill; a chill that grazed the insides of Jaishankar’s bones, especially after it had rained all night in the hilly town.

“Sahib, coffee.” She said, holding a dirty tray with a cracked ceramic mug, and steaming filter coffee inside. Jaishankar stared at her, rather stared at her olive colored cleavage spilling down her blouse, the seams of which were on the verge of tearing. Her cheap cotton saree wafted of sandalwood and sweat; and some where between his legs, desire reared its head.

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“Theek hai ji, thank you.” He said. He regurgitated the phlegm stuck at the base of his throat and spat a mouthful at the bed of geraniums to his left. He watched in fascination as the dirty green, thick mold slid down a purple flower and splat on the grass bed below. He then cleared his throat and turned to talk about the matter for which he had visited the widow’s home.

“Saritha, I have heard rumours about you.” He said and allowed the base of his throat to loudly scratch his adam’s apple. He could feel another cluster of phlegm forming there.

Saritha squatted on the ground next to Jaishankar and shooed her three children away. “What rumours, Sahib?”

“That you…” He cleared his throat and spat again at his favourite bed of geraniums as a waft of freezing wind shook him with vehemence, “That you…you know…give favours, in exchange for money.”

The widow stared back at him, her eyes glistening. “What?! What are these rumours, Sahib? Who told you this?” Then just as understanding dawned on her face, her voice trembled, “Have you come to arrest me, Sahib? Where is the constable?”

“No..no I have not come to arrest, not just yet. I have come…” He cleared his throat again, and his pants suddenly became tight. A welcome surge of warmth engulfed his body and it took massive amounts of self-control to not grab the widows olive breasts and chew at her nipples. “I have come to ask, if you know, you will help me…how you help those other men.”

A heavy veil of silence fell over the verandah, even the children froze between playing kabaddi, and the only thing that broke the silence was a violent bout of wind.

The widow opened her mouth to say some thing; he could see her throat working and her collarbone jutting out in righteous defiance. He spoke quickly, to make his desperate point clearer.

“Look Saritha, you give me what I want and I will make sure you’re not arrested.” Jaishankar spoke, he was already antsy sitting out there in the verandah; wary of any passers by who might see the celebrated police inspector, Jaishankar, in the house of a whore.

“But Sahib, the rumours are not true. Look at us, me and the children, do we look like have any money to feed ourselves?” Saritha pleaded, her eyes filled to the brim. “It has been six months since my husband died, we are only surviving on the frugal savings we had when he was alive. My children haven’t had a proper meal in days. We are low caste people, Sahib. Not even memsahibs want me work in their homes.”

Jaishankar’s stomach dipped, while he knew she was telling the truth, his struggle with his sense of morality was short. Especially when his lions roared imagining Saritha’s supple breasts cradling his face and his hands squeezing her round, smooth bottoms.

“Fine, we have enough witnesses to state that you have been illegally operating as a sex worker, Saritha. Wait for me, I will come back with a constable.” Jaishankar spoke and stood up.

“No Sahib, please. My children will be on the streets, Sahib.” Saritha fell on his feet and begged him for mercy.

“Then give me what I need, Saritha.” He spoke, a rueful smile already lining his lips, his confidence along with his desire, reared knowing that the outcome would be exactly what he wanted it to be.

“Fine Sahib.” Streams of tears ran down Saritha’s cheeks. “Meet me at the abandoned boathouse by the lake tonight at 10:30 pm. I can’t do anything here with my children around.” She said, softly enough to make sure her little ones did not hear her. And instantly Jaishankar broke into a smile.

“Make sure no one knows about this.” He said and walked out, leaving his filter coffee half empty.

Lately he had been dying for a relief and none of the town whores were good enough to satisfy him. It wasn’t until he had laid his eyes on the helpless, young widow, Saritha, that he decided to concoct a small to lie to get what he wanted.

His chest swelled at the victory and his cunning mind. No other police inspector in the entire state could have boasted of intelligence as bright and vile as that of Jaishankar.

That night Jaishankar walked down the empty lake with a spring in his step and a song on his lips. Even the biting chill couldn’t dampen his spirits, perhaps it was the excitement of fucking Saritha or the four large scotch shots he had had that night. Even that darn phlegm had subsided after his drink. Some where in the mountains he heard a long howl and looked up to notice a full moon shining through an array of clouds.

By the third song he reached the abandoned boathouse, it was unlocked, a broken padlock lying among damp weeds next to the door. It was a beautiful night, he thought. The kind of night where the sky reflected its marvelous beauty on the water of the lake, the kind of night where even young, nubile, innocent widows learned to break locks and unleash the temptress within. His penis was hard, hard enough to be painful and he couldn’t wait to release it.

He opened the door, slightly ajar and saw her silhouette against the subtle rays of moonlight, falling through the slits of the wooden planks that made the boathouse. He paused a moment to admire the widow, even three children hadn’t dampened her curvy body, in fact if anything enhanced it all at the right places.

“Come Sahib.” She said, stretching her arms just as the mountains resonated with another howl.

In a dog like frenzy Jaishankar removed all his clothes before stumbling towards Saritha, he was done waiting. He had dreamed and fantasized about this woman since a month now. His right hand reach out to grab a blouse-clad breast, as he squeezed it hard and took her small mouth inside his whole. Saritha did not resist, neither did she initiate. Jaishankar had his way with her, tearing her clothes, biting her, chewing her nipples, bruising her, pulling out clumps of her hair. But now that he had her, there was nothing that was going to stop him from ravaging the widow, except for perhaps, the three little figures who stood by the door, with their father’s sickles in their hands and drool dripping down their mouths.

It did not take long before the wolf howled again and the widow commanded her children to unleash themselves on their first whole meal in the last fifteen days.

 

Why Hell is an Alumni Group

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So some lame-ass in my college gang of 2004 has suddenly decided that it would be an awesome idea to find the phone numbers of 57 other class mates (two dead, may their souls rest in peace away from all social media) and form a whatsapp group. The poor dear has convinced some of his other friends to go through the painful task of collecting all the phone numbers, with the sole intention of forming another whatsapp group that we could all rudely exit from.

But this time, I’m pressing pause on that exit button. And I’m watching the damn ball game. Or very soon, this will escalate into a full blown cocktail party invitation.

There’s the usual two-person conversations that happen with a 58-strong audience.

“Hey Mark. How’s Oregon?”

“Hey Jude. Oregon is amazing. But tell me about Portland. Because I’m sure that the 50 member audience mostly stuck…

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Halloween gone wrong…

“Tonight, some one is going to kill us. Pick us off one by one, when we least expect it, when we think we are safe in our cozy dorms, snuggled up to our furry feline friends; the killer is going to come unnoticed, sneak up on us and before our cats can even raise an alarm, bury a hatchet in our brain and watch in rapt fascination when tissues of grey matter squiggle out of the only deep opening in heads.” I said in a silent whisper, hoping that I sound menacing enough to scare the girls.

“Ahhhh” I hear two, satisfyingly, loud intake of breaths just as Fuschia, my Persian cat, snuggles up to me demanding a belly rub.

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“Jasmine, you can do better than that. Come on, this remotely sounding prophetic statement wouldn’t scare an 9 year old, forget 19 year olds.” Laura, my nemesis, spoke clearly exasperated by our incompetence to scare each other.

But then again, I knew she had it in for me. From her ordinary mousy brown hair to her spectacled black eyes; from her evident poo belly to her H&M’s clearance sale clothes; Laura was not the type who would be asked out on a date even if she were the last girl in the dorm. Continue reading

An Empty Goan Tale

I had wished they would all go away….and they had.  Every last one of them.

My over-talkative colleagues, my clingy boss, my non-existent boyfriend, my ever-questioning maid, the ever ringing phone, the overflowing mailbox.

And then, with a snap of a finger, someone’s cruel idea of a joke, I was there. I was away. On this island, with not a single human in sight. And a very very hungry stomach.

If I were in a finer mood, I would have seen things differently. I would perhaps have seen the waves thrash on a bed of rocks, spraying fountains of glistening green and frothy white. I would have imagined the sand lying beside it like a well-oiled woman because, in my brighter moods, I pretend I have an imaginative mind.  But the sand did bask in its watery glow, reflecting the silver of the rising sun, the palm trees and the rocks galore. I knew this because I saw it later in the photographs.

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For now, my eyes were fixated on a dog. A big scrawny one, with a pink patch on its belly that reminded me of diseases I could catch that would have me barking as wildly as that mad dog. Continue reading

Women and the big “O”

It was not like I do not know what Rita Faria looks like; I have been following her on Twitter, Instagram, Tumbler and Facebook for almost a year now. I am painfully familiar with the uneven arch of her eye brows, that stubborn right side molar which grows above another tooth and makes her smile look crooked enough to be called charming; the growing concentration of white hair near her perfect cowlick. And yes, her eyes, those deep grey irises that stare right through your soul and extract secrets you were not aware existed.

And yet, when I stand waiting here outside Starbucks, I can’t help but feel anxious that I might have missed her somehow. Maybe, just maybe today she might have chosen to wear jeans instead of her regular skirts. Or maybe her upper body appears heavier in pictures than it is real life. Or maybe her long, fiery red hair is actually deep brown and it is the trick of light that make them look flaming.

Lying in the sheets

I must have been waiting for almost fifteen minutes, when I see her walking towards me. If anything, my anxiety is heightened when I notice that her hair is as flaming red as it is in her pictures, her breasts are just as round and full and yes she is wearing a skirt that highlights her long, toned legs in grey pumps. Continue reading