Date with a writer

The other day I went on a date with a writer, you know because I am a writer, and I do have this weird notion that writers are good in bed.

I connected with him on Facebook. He sent me a friend request and I read his poetry where he pushes the books off the desk and his woman shatters the glasses kept on the study table, they throw away the clothes scattered on the clothes line and clean the bed off all pillows.

And then in clutter free room they make passionate love.

Well, if that weren’t an indication of his raging, intense libido, nothing would be.

We chatted; I told him that he writes well.

He replied, “Once written I don’t own it. Your eyes and soul make it beautiful.”

I smiled because even with a writer, you need to wade through a ton of bullshit before you can have an actual conversation.

And then he ‘opined’ the ‘postulate’ that since we were in the same city, we could perhaps meet sometime.

His ‘opining’ and ‘postulation’ wasn’t really necessary because had he not asked, I would’ve suggested a meeting myself.

I had been depraved of a good romp in bed for so long that lately my bidet was my favourite gadget at home. But that didn’t mean I was into one-night stands or friends with benefits. I really needed to get to know the guy well and to be courted, before I even started anything. I am old school like that.

We met at Starbucks, where I walked in a Mango dress carrying my Fendi bag and wearing Aldo shoes.

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It did not take much to recognise him there, the only man sitting in a corner furiously typing away.

He was the kind of writer who would buy kurtas from FabIndia and then poke holes in it to fit into the ‘struggling writer’ stereotype; the kind who would carry his Macbook Pro in a jhola and order Pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.

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Write Club Magazine – Edition 11

The Chronicles of Jim and other stories” marks the eleventh edition of Write Club Bangalore Magazine. You can read it for free under Kindle Unlimited, if not, it is just INR 49.

It starts with a darkly disturbing series of diary entries, by a troubled young man in “The Chronicles of Jim, written by Ashwin Kumar.

Moves on to the riveting Mythological Fiction called “Monster” written by Write Club, Bangalore’s recent enviable talent, Yedu Bose.

The series of stories then takes a dramatic turn and entices us into Romance with Kartik Patiar’s, “The Hot Cup of Cappuccino”.

Of course, now that you have read mythology, psychological horror and romance, you wonder what else does this book have to offer. And we don’t disappoint you with Anjali Torgal‘s fantasy/sci-fi short, “The Tree Whisperer”.

Since, we can’t get enough of sci-fi, we have ensured you get enough of it. Read on to “The Sporulation of Sarpanch Sam”, by, undeniably, our favourite writer Pavan Kumar. If you can’t get enough of Pavan here, follow him on Instagram for his surreal poetry.

Now that we have set the atmosphere of strange, it is time to bring out the big horror guns, with Amel Rahman‘s “No Cats”.

You must be wondering about how twisted we are, with just one romance and everything else is horror and fantasy. No, we are not twisted, at least not much. We do love a good splattering of romance in our imaginary worlds. So, read on to get your mushy on, with Isha Shukla’s “The Stone Bench”.

What did I tell you about our obsession with a good sci-fi?

Ankit Jha, our resident writer, editor and compiler, delights us with this fantasy/sci-fi short called “Wrath of Gods”.

Next up is “The Diary of a Womb”, a socially conscious piece about the conversations of an unborn girl with her male twin, general fiction by Nidhi Srivastava.

Finally, to end this embroiling book is a story written by me, “Raja and Mia”, about a young tiger’s love for his keeper. Genre: Drama.

Read an excerpt here.

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The Mistaken Barista

Massive glass doors fly open as he enters, shrouded in bright sunlight, beige chinos and blue cashmere hug his chiseled form. He looks nothing less than a modern day Apollo. A God that deems fit to walk this realm of mortals. He walks straight towards me with purpose and a wide smile on his glorious face, his perfect teeth glowing like tiny stars and his eyes are deep blue gateways into the vast universe.

My world stands still as I clutch my apron, until my fingers turn blue and prick of a sharp nail brings me back to reality. Yet, I can’t keep my eyes off that heavenly specimen of mankind. I lick my lips and bite my lower lip hard, and his lips twist into a naughty smirk. His strides are decisive and he walks with the air of someone who always gets what he wants. Somehow that knowledge creates a puddle of desire between my legs.

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“So, am I going to see you tonight?” He asks, his voice a sultry invitation into the caves of my darkest desires. Looking into my eyes, standing less than two feet away from me, his nearness makes me want to swoon and fall into his arms.
“Yes…. Oh yes.” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper. And I kick myself for sounding so ready, so desperate.
“7 o’clock dinner and later at your place? That is if you are okay with it.” He asks again.

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The Date

“You look lovely, by the way. The profile picture, doesn’t do you any justice, you know.” He says.

Ah fuck, the hopeful look in his puppy dog eyes tell me that I need to return the compliment. I scrutinise him hard, I mean, there must be something I could compliment him on.

He is big, muscular. Clearly he works out, a lot. His beard; stands out in a disarray of tiny hair that just could not decide what direction to take. His hair is gelled; gelled to the point that each spike reminds me of a mini Eiffel tower.

He is wearing a white V-neck t-shirt covered with a grey woollen blazer; a blood red silk handkerchief stuffing down his breast pocket.

What is it that the fashion whores call those things? I think. Ah yes, a pocket square.

 “That’s a nice pocket square.” I say. Smiling brilliantly, a smile I am sure does not reach my eyes, hell; I don’t even think it reaches my cheekbones.

“Well thanks, darling. I am glad you noticed.” He returns my smile and speaks in a low baritone that is meant to indicate sophistication and class. He probably expects my knees to wobble, my heart to flutter like a humming bird, my body to surge with electric energy and my pussy to melt on his face.

Seducing beautiful woman looking at her lover with wine glass.

But all he gets is a smirk followed by a burp.

I should’ve known that, a starter of deep fried calamaris, was a recipe for burps and farts. Already my stomach complains at the onslaught of that sea dwelling urchin and I know I will have to pay a visit to washroom.

What is it that those elitist whores call it? I think. Ah yes, the powder room.

“Looks like the hors d’oeuvre do not agree with you, my love.” He is amused by the burp and the shock on my face there after.

“Looks like you are right.” I say. I am too classy to ask him what the fuck hors d’oeuvre means; but not that classy, because I decide that I will be saving his number on my phone as ‘The French Whore’.

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Of hiccups and hookups

 

HIC

I dropped the fork I was holding and it clanged on my plate with the clarity of a doomsday prophecy. Everyone in the small restaurant looked around in alarm. Asha had gripped our table and was about to get out of her chair. Her large eyes looked around in alarm for the source of the sound, like a deer looking for a predator. When she realised the sound was just me hiccuping, she sat down with downcast eyes. Her face began to color, it first looked like a freshly dug out turnip and then like a beetroot. I was amused by this and wanted to mention this to her but,

HIC

Someone at a nearby table jumped. It was my turn to blush. I wanted to apologise but was afraid it might turn into a volley of hiccups. I drank some water knowing full well that it would do nothing to cure my hiccups. My hiccups were like a popular meaningless pop song, the kind that once it got stuck in your head would take ages to get rid of. I still had to figure out a cure for my hiccups, so I could do nothing more than sit there hiccuping loudly and hoping it would stop soon.

HIC Continue reading

An Old Carton

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“Sweets, get going!!  We’re all waiting for you.”

“All?”

“Just come, will you? The heat is killing me, I’m going to kill you if you don’t come over in five.”

Would she be with them? The Chitra Basu. In her faded floral palazzo pants billowing in the warm summer wind, cat-eye sunglasses catching the glare of the sun and her lush locks shrouding half her beautiful face, brushing her supple pink unpainted lips. I picked my handbag, stashed some notes from the drawer, snatched the keys, locked the door and walked out before I could allow myself to hold back and hesitate. Continue reading

Dopey Hopes

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Morning shower used to be fun. Research says that lonely people spend longer hours in warm showers. Now my only sliver of solace and warmth is disrupted by calls from the cab-drivers. They assign a different cab-driver every day and every driver is a new nightmare. Despite satellites tracking and streaming my precise location right into his goddamn phone, the driver inevitably prefers to call me up and – against a backdrop of dire honking – I must explain in excruciating detail the herculean journey he must undertake to reach me at Number 12, 17th Main.

The commute is too long for the distance but too short for me to listen to music. I don’t like music because music is a lie. When you don a headphone, you’re immersing yourself in a lie but when you must immerse yourself in a lie, it’s a shame when you can’t immerse yourself long enough. Continue reading

He…She

He amused her,

She intrigued him.

He liked to hold tight,

She liked her space in the nights.

They first met for lunch,

He paid,

She ate.

Then for drinks,

And a night of uncomfortable snogging.

She gave it a month,

He gave it a few days.

They gave it another night,

It still didn’t feel right.

They met with friends about,

He had fun.

She had more fun with him around.

Maybe, they thought, maybe there was something like love to be found.

They created a routine,

Of texting, calling, meeting, sleeping.

He still liked to hold tight,

She still would put up a fight.

She had long hair, he loved to wrap around his hands and ride,

He had long legs, she longed to wrap her legs around and sleep.

He insisted on dropping her home every single time,

She cracked jokes about rapists waiting for her in the dark of the night.

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One night, after,

He held her and made her laugh for an hour,

She thought this could be what love looked like, when you watched above from a tower.

That night, she did not fight, instead slept in his arms,

It felt just right.

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That Valentine’s Day Story

You are in the open air parking lot of your high-school when you see her for the first time. You are drawn towards her—she’s the magnet, you are the metal. She has a name that you are scared to ask.

You see her again in the class—packed with a few hundred desperately inane students—the next day, and none of them matter to you. The sinusoidal wave equations, if at all you pay attention, dance funny. And in the next class, the one about the alcohols, phenols and ethers, you get up and sit three rows closer to her. The class after that—although you like limits and derivatives—is exhausting. The teacher doesn’t speak loudly, perhaps has a lisp, and the students—most of them—are either obnoxious geeks or teenage hooligans and you stay away from all of them. In fact, you stay alone, driven by an overpowering awe. Your admiration for her, from this point onwards in life, is laughable. Like your frayed and baggy, patchy jeans. Like your middle partitioned long hair. Like your cross shoulder unwieldy backpack. Like you!

You are awed by her for months, almost a year. A year and a half, maybe. You know her name now, you know she laughs a lot. You know, you aren’t the only one who is obsessed with her. You have overheard confrontations from some fuckboys in the alley. You have seen her name scribbled on the desks of the classrooms. You have seen her close friends being over-protective of her. You know she laughs loudly, maybe her friends are funny, maybe she’s always happy, or maybe she laughs only when you are around. These are just assumptions after all. You have never spoken to her. She seems unapproachable and you know you are still scared deep down. You have seen other guys being rejected, if not by her then by some other girls, so you are saving yourself from all the embarrassment. You know, you will never gather the courage to talk to her. And the day you do, pigs will fly in the air, in a flying saucer, full of Italian sausages.

It’s middle of the summer and you are in college fourth semester. You have found yourself some really good friends. You have learned a thing or two about life. Your hair is still long, your pants are still baggy and saggy and your backpack, although less bulky, is still off-putting. You have not changed much, except you talk more now. You’re quirky, funny and somewhat likeable. You talk quite often about her, to your really close friends and they laugh. They mostly make fun of you, but you laugh along. They have no idea, where you come from.

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You haven’t seen her in almost two years Continue reading

L8 CMMR

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‘Why don’t you work from home?’ Sandhya said, her voice drowning in the pitter-patter of the sudden rain and the relentless honking of the stranded vehicles. She said, louder this time, ‘Why don’t you work from home? From my home?’

His fingers tapped on his wrist-watch. He raked a hand through his wet hair and she caught the faintest whiff of sweat. ‘You stay nearby?’ he asked. Why would he ask that? Of course he knew. Although he hadn’t been home, they’d spoken about it occasionally. She’d mentioned how she walked to work and he’d joked how well that had been working for her. When he’d say something like that, she’d kick at his feet, or if no one was around, blow smoke on his face until he backed off, something she couldn’t imagine doing back in college when they were friends, good friends. She regarded him only briefly as he looked away outside the café at the rain and the people scurrying around to take shelter under heavy trees, holding his hesitance. A surge of chill, unaccounted by the cold howling wind, roused her body and she gripped his hand and stepped into the rain. Continue reading

Periza

I am on the edge of a rock, half-bent, clambering on a mountain, trying not to fumble, is when I see her coming along the far invisible lines of the road. She is alone and she is walking towards me. I am alone too, and I halt for a second and gaze at her distinctive, but alluring braids. I tell myself, I will wait for her. I don’t wait for anyone, for I am a solo traveller. I meet and greet people, share my experiences, listen to theirs, and then part my ways with a goodbye, and sometimes with just a smile. But I will wait for her, I tell myself­ again.

She is being chased by the local kids. She politely tells them, “no”, every time they try to sell her tea or coffee. These kids are street smart and quote one price to the locals and something entirely different to the foreigners. Kim, a fellow traveler, calls one of the chubby kids, “cheeky”. That’s one word I have not heard in a very long time, I tell her. It’s just an English way of calling someone that, she concludes. Continue reading

After Sunset

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The questions were as stale as their faces. Is it an art or a craft? How much does your fiction draw on your own life? Questions everyone knows answers to, if only vaguely, and all one hopes for, really, is a lucid confirmation from someone older and wiser. When he was younger, there was the charm but in its place had slipped in something far more sinister—a throbbing, almost proud, reverberation of age in his old eroded self.

Each time she met his eyes, she felt a tectonic shift in her being. It lent her movement the grace of a French actress and to her insides, a twisted frustration of a deep sea eel. Every tissue in her body softened, loosened and baked in his warm corporeal presence. The room, dense with perfume and hushed evening breaths, she was sure, was essentially empty but for the two of them. Him and her. Continue reading

Being Elsewhere

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Adil felt a fresh frisson of excitement watching the vista of the Blue Mountains unfolding before him. He clutched Girish’s handsome hand. Girish had, despite numerous nudges from Adil, dozed through the entire journey up the mountains until a few moments ago when a rough stretch of snores had woken him up. Adil couldn’t stop smiling – the day had finally dawned when he’d be travelling as Aditi – with a man. A tall dark man. His nails dug into Girish’s cheeks as he pinched them and Girish offered a tired smile. “Oh, don’t be such a downer, get excited already, we’re here, we’re hereContinue reading

A big heart

I knew the story of Mrs. Murphy, a young widow at 33. About her love saga with Mr. Murphy that spanned across 3 decades.

They met in kindergarten, at the tiny age of three and they knew then that their hearts belonged to other forever and ever. For 30 years, they never spent a day apart. Mr. Murphy would always carry Mrs. Murphy’s big heart on his strong shoulders and Mrs. Murphy would carry Mr. Murphy’s sturdy, noble heart in her delicate hands. Continue reading

Tokyo Drift

(Image Source: http://www.japan-guide.com/g9/3060_12.jpg )

I wonder if you know, how they live in Tokyo

Simran woke up to the sight of Tahir, in his red boxer shorts and a dishevelled blue tie flapping on his bare chest, dancing to a loud ‘Tokyo Drift’ playing on his phone, placed precariously close to the edge of a stool.

“Wake up, Simmi, Wake up! I’m so going to nail this interview.” Continue reading

With love…from Eden

Across the road, thousands bustling by the busy street, light snow trickling down the sky, her eyes met his. A moment of vast nothingness where all stood still, an eternity flashed them by, and she blinked. She blinked.

His lips twitched in an uncertain smile.

The eyes were old, they were wise with knowledge of her, a lost soul seeking the comfort of home. Home in each other.

Her foot shook and etched towards him, his tremulous smile an invitation to join him. Explore the tethering thin golden rope that connected their souls. Souls that knew memories from lifetimes ago. Continue reading

Chemistry

I attended one of those schools where much care was taken to separate vaginas from penises. The girls sat in a row of their own. The guys played on a ground of their own. Our roll numbers were neatly segregated too. The last vagina was roll number 22 and it was schlongs all the way up to roll number 45.

At roll number 23, I straddled the precarious divide between the two genders. Having no interest in numerology, I ascribed no particular importance to this odious prime number until I was assigned the table to perform Chemistry experiments with Aditi—roll number 22.

She was by far an unlikely girl to fall in love with but hormones work by way of optimizing the chances of mating and she had won bonus points for proximity. Every Tuesday, at 2pm, we would wait in line outside the lab for the old ladies to open the creaky doors to our dark dungeon of a lab. After a barrage of instructions, which included inappropriately graphic accounts of how acids could potentially eat your skin and flesh, we would walk over to our assigned tables in pairs of two. Continue reading