Lust

FF #17
Shambhu rubbed his drowsy eyes, shook his unkempt dreadlocks, and gazed again through the fumes of hemp. Oh what dazzling beauty! What flirtatious long eyelashes on the kajal-lined eyes, the lustrous black hair, the glowing dark complexion, the swan-like sway of those hips, the mellifluous giggle. Something was familiar, yet so unfamiliar. He had to have this woman!
He looked down from his vantage point. The churning seems to have ceased now. One of the groups loitered around dejected, possibly conniving. Another group had gathered around the woman, her inviting giggles responsive to their offers. What was going on? Maybe the job was finally done, the drinking was over, or maybe they were all just taking a break. No, the two groups seemed racially divided; there was some dispute in the offing. Yet again! Why did these guys have to fight after deciding to work together! Who cares, Shambhu decided. It was the damsel in his mind. Seldom was he so distracted: he had to have her!
Something had changed by the time he reached. The previously dejected race appeared triumphant, gleefully licking their lips. The other group was still gallivanting with the woman. Murmurs started within this latter group, and suddenly cries of "Thieves!" and "Cheats!" arose. They quickly became aggressive towards their opponents. There'd be yet another fight. He shook his head, ignored them and headed towards the woman.
"Oh beautiful lady!"
Her smile was bewitching. She looked and sounded ever more familiar, but who cares. He leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers.
"You haven't recognized me, Shambhu! I'm Mohan."
"Indeed you are mohan—your beauty has enchanted my mind!"
"No Shambhu, I am your buddy, Mohan. I was helping our friends recover the nectar."
"Everyone is a friend of mine until they succeed in changing the balance of nature. Whoever you are, come to me!"
"Shambhu, you don't understand, I'm a man!"
"Does it matter, Mohan? You are beautiful, beautiful as I had never realized or felt before. I'm enveloped with lust for you. Let us unite together in passion."
Mohan considered, only for a moment, and then fluttered the long eyelashes along his long lotus-petalled eyes and smiled mischievously, "Actually, why not... let's try that too. After all, the world worships your phallus."

3 Feb 2017

Bus Stop

FF #16
I lean against the gnarled trunk of the majestic raintree at the bus stop. It has an enormous canopy that stretches across to the other side of the road, a nostalgic reminder of the Bangalore that used to be.
I see him as I glance around. An unusually fair complexion; is he Anglo-Indian, I wonder. His medium cropped hair is certainly more brown than black, the heavy stubble on his slightly elongated jaw seems brownish too. His nose is particularly sharp but looks well-balanced by his shy smile that seems to reach his eyes, giving him a friendly look. In his mid to late 20s, he's probably 5'11" in height, but his leanness makes him look taller. He's Hindu, I conclude, as I notice the kara on his left wrist and the several turns of religious red thread tied around the right wrist. He probably isn't Anglo-Indian then, more likely from northern India-- northern Punjab, Kashmir? I notice the yellow soles of his white sneakers as he strolls around the bus stop. His blue and pink checkered shirt lies untucked over his faded blue jeans. Handsome guy. A bus arrives; not mine. He adjusts his grey and orange knapsack and walks towards it.
I'm feeling adventurous this evening, I too get in.

13 Oct 2016

Break

FF #15
The doorbell rang. I was extremely busy cooking that afternoon; I was hosting a dinner for my colleagues later that evening. My kitchenette was right at the entrance, so between stirrings, I turned and opened the door. There was a lady in her 30s, with three little kids.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Do you speak German, or should we speak in English?”

I said my German was almost non-existent, so I would certainly prefer English.

“I would like to take a few minutes of your time to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind” she said, with a German accent.

I was quite new in Germany, so naïvely, I suggested they all come in, since I was cooking, and had to continue, or at least continue to stir. She seemed rather pleasantly surprised, and they all entered the flat.

“It smells very nice!” The eldest two children, probably seven and five, nodded in agreement with their mother.

“Okay, so my first question is, where do you think the world is headed,” she continued.

I was surprised. But remember, I was new to the country; I was already combating culture shock, so nothing was really surprising now. And I was just about 25, and rather naïve.

I told her that I thought things were progressing well in the world; there was scientific, technological and social progress, poverty was gradually getting reduced. I have always been an optimist anyway.

She disagreed. There were wars, she said. But your EU has totally got rid wars of Europe, for example, I countered. The Iraq war was an anomaly, and had all kinds of reasons.

She brought out a small book. I recognized it; I had seen it with a trainee in the lab and had turned its pages. It was anti-science propaganda literature of Jehovah’s Witnesses, a rather crazy sect of Christianity. No wonder she was surprised that I’d let her in. She made her biggest mistake now; showing me the book, she claimed that science cannot explain everything.

I’d finished the dish I was cooking, and could take a break. I gave her a two and a half hour lecture on Newtonian Mechanics, Relativity, Quantum Physics, Genetics and Evolution.

“I think I have taken a lot of your time; thank you for the discussion,” she said. She looked rather exhausted as she opened the door, the kids in tow.

Back to cooking, I’m sure I had a huge grin on my face.  

27 Jun 2016

Daughter

FF #14

“My daughter will start going to school in a few years, I am seriously considering moving back to India.”

Gourab and I were walking a bit behind the others; his daughter was asleep in the stroller. I had heard of this older fun-loving couple earlier from my Indian friends who lived in Cologne; and now a bunch of the Cologne folks were visiting Munich for the weekend. I’d been showing them around the city. Indeed, he and his wife were both fun to hang out with, and interesting to talk to.

“You see,” he continued, “The other day a senior colleague of mine was telling me that his daughter had announced that she is a lesbian. I love Germany, but I don’t think I want to bring up my daughter here.”

I wasn’t out to this bunch, but I wasn’t going to let this go without protest.

“Gourab, what if your daughter did turn out to be lesbian? Would you force her to get married and lead a painful life?”

“No, no, how could I ever see her pained?” He stopped, bent down to the stroller and brushed her hair.

“So wouldn’t this is a better place for her to be herself, if she were different?”

He walked in silence for a bit. I wondered whether I had offended him.

“Actually, you do have a good point,” he sighed, “I have to really think about it.”

They did move back to Kolkata after a few years. Their daughter would probably be in her mid-teens now, discovering and understanding her own sexuality. It has been a long time that I have completely lost touch with them, but I am pretty sure her parents will dote on her, no matter who she becomes.

25 Jun 2016

Cola in Spain

FF #13

Europeans are spoilt for holidays. Austria, for example, has the highest number: 25 paid vacation days and 13 public holidays. Everyone in Europe, even the lab rat scientist, is particular about their holidays. July and August are usually vacationing time; all holiday destinations in the continent are packed during these two months. Because of this, and because I’d had enough sun in India during my childhood, I would work in peace during July and August, and either travel in Europe in June or September, or visit India during the winter.  

I hadn’t planned my holiday that year. So when Ana mentioned that she was excited about an approaching conference in Salamanca, a pretty university town in western Spain, I decided Spain it’d be for me too. I would fly to Barcelona, spend a few days there, and take a train to Salamanca coinciding with Ana’s visit. We’d hang out in the evenings. She’d return to Munich after her conference, and I’d explore other parts of the country for another week before flying back from Madrid.

I loved Barcelona; Gaudi’s architecture was a revelation. After dinner, I would try out the one of the three famous gay bars of Barcelona. Spanish red wine, the Rioja, is famous. Sadly, I wasn’t much into wine those days. I’ve never been able to develop a taste for beer either. So just for the sake of convenience, I’d order a cola in bars. This was basic Spanish that I had figured out from my Spanish phrasebook: “Una cola, por favor,” one cola, please.  However, whenever I ordered the drink, I was getting rather strange reactions. The barman would stare at me for a few seconds, and then get a bottle of Coke or Pepsi, open it, pour it in a glass, hand it to me—all the while staring at me. Or some variation of this act. I put this to their surprise at my not ordering wine, or maybe they hadn’t seen an Indian in their gay bar before.

Salamanca is a romance in sandstone. Ana’s parents had travelled from Andalucía to meet her there. We went out for dinner together in the evening, and I ordered my drink: Una cola, por favor. Ana was sitting next to me; her eyes widened with horror.

“Neel,” she said in a low stern voice, “In Spain, never, never, say ‘cola’!”

While her parents were ordering, she whispered that ‘cola’ is a child’s word for the penis in Spanish.

She couldn’t stop giggling when I mentioned that I had been ordering colas in the gay bars of Barcelona.

24 Jun 2016

Nico

FF #12
Ana and Sunita were originally friends of my friend Jiten—the three had met in their German language class. Ana is from the Spanish province of Andalucía, and Sunita is a second generation Brit of Mauritian-Indian origin.   A month after I moved to Munich from Berlin, I bumped into Ana and Sunita near the Kunsthalle, and exclamations and greetings were exchanged. Ana too lived in Munich now; she worked at the Institut für Physik. Sunita was visiting her from Berlin.

Ana and I started meeting on Friday evenings. We would explore the city, and particularly its restaurants and cocktail bars. We would try new cuisines and new restaurants. However during Sunita’s visits, we’d go for Japanese, since both women loved sushi. Occasionally other friends of Ana’s or mine would also join in for our Friday restaurant researches, widening both our social circles.

I’d heard a lot about Nico from Ana and her friends. A passionate Flamenco dancer, he was doing his PhD on Homer and his epics. I had never got to meet him until his last day in Munich. Sunita was also in town, and after we finished our Japanese dinner, we went to meet him briefly. A tall, handsome guy with unkempt wavy hair and long sideburns, Nico was in a hurry, since he wanted to go to his favourite Flamenco club here for one last time—and go home and pack after that; his flight to Heathrow was in the morning. Ana insisted that she would go and help him pack after he finished Flamenco. Sunita and Nico exchanged numbers, since she too would be moving back to London in a few months.

“And that might be the beginning of a new love story,” I teased.

Strangely, all three ignored my joke. And after Nico had left, I figured why, because Sunita commented that she’d introduce him to her gay friends in Oxford.

I was stunned. Here was a gorgeous guy, gay; and yet perhaps the only one of Ana’s friends in Munich I hadn’t met. I had just started coming out to my very closest Indian friends; but I wasn’t out to Ana and Sunita yet.

I was too disappointed and preoccupied for the rest of the evening.

I couldn’t meet Ana for a few weeks— she was visiting her boyfriend in Spain, I had a paper to submit, and so on.

But as soon as we’d ordered dinner the next time we met, I came out clean.

“Ana, I have to tell you something I should’ve told you a long time ago: I’m like Nico.”

Ana stared at me, and gave me a sad smile. Apparently one of the reasons she had never invited him to our Friday dinners was because she thought I might not be comfortable with his homosexuality. Our common friend, Jiten, the only other Indian she knew, wasn’t comfortable around gay folks.

“Actually Nico was asking about you when I went to help him pack that night… he said he found you very cute.”

23 Jun 2016

Govinda Films

FF #11
“Do you still watch Govinda films?”

It was Anurag. The voice was unmistakable, even after a decade of not being in touch. He lived in LA now, and was in town for a few days, visiting his sister. A long chain of friends and acquaintances had helped him track down my number.

We had first met in a rather crowded Diwali Party in Munich; we had common friends, and we got along very well because our sense of humour matched perfectly. We hung out a lot. Occasionally, on a Saturday evening he and I would rent a video of the stupidest Govinda films from a Pakistani spice shop; we would cook in his flat, and watch the film—others would join in for the dinner, but refuse the film.  We started seeing less of each other when he began dating a German colleague, although we would occasionally manage to get together for dinner, a drink, or a film. Understandably, Govinda film nights ended, and so did our very Indian jokes and humour if his girlfriend was around. Culture and humour are, after all, very interlinked. I moved countries, lost touch more. I got to hear from the grapevine— and a bit from him— that his relationship status was getting increasing complicated, before it descended into complete chaos. I was curious about that too.  

I picked him up from his sister’s place and we went to a café nearby. He filled me in on his work, and of course on the complications. He and his German girlfriend had broken up because she didn’t seem to be interested in taking their relationship any further ahead; he had come back to Nagpur and got married; back in Munich, his ex-girlfriend had become interested in him again; his wife had become upset when she came to know all this and had left him; gone her way. He had moved to the US. A few years later, he and his wife had bumped into each other in the US, had become friends, and had again decided to give marital life another try. It seemed to be working. Good for him.

“But Neel, what about you? There were so many girls interested in you in Munich— you flirted with each of them, but nothing seemed to happen, or at least I don’t know if anything happened. You aren’t even married yet. What’s the deal?”

I smiled.

“Ah, Anurag. As you point out, there were a lot of girls interested in me, but nothing ever seemed to happen. On the other hand, you know very well that I’m not a saint. Use your brains and think off the track a bit; what could it be…”

He frowned and looked hard at me for a second or two, and then his forehead cleared up and he gave a huge grin.

“Really! I must say, I’d never ever thought about it! But that still doesn’t answer my question— do you have a boyfriend?”

I reminded him that this also meant he had slept with a gay guy: after all, I used to sleep over on Govinda nights.

“Indeed! Let me tell my wife and create some more complications! By the way, Govinda no more acts in movies, so which're the stupid films we can watch now?”

22 Jun 2016

Thou Shalt Not

FF #10
Vidya’s locker was wide open, and the pinkish wrapper looked like the packet of biscuits she often shared with us. We had just finished our Chemistry practical classes; our lockers were right outside, along the passage. The first semester had begun only a month ago and we were getting to know each other. But Vidya was a good sport, and I could be a tease.

“Yay! Vidya has biscuits again!” I loudly announced and put my hand inside her locker to grab the packet.

My fingers felt something soft. The rapidity with which the brain inputs data, calculates and concludes is formidable: this couldn’t be biscuits; it was a woman’s locker; the object was soft; the wrapper was pink; one sees ads of all kinds on television. I felt blood rush to my face, my ears warm. I withdrew my hand within milliseconds, turned and rushed away. Vidya didn't seem to be around, but there were three other classmates in the proximity, and each had witnessed and understood the incident. The two girls were looking at each other with shocked expressions, or so I thought. The other witness, Subbu, followed me.

“Tell me Neel, what did you find inside Vidya’s locker?”

I admitted that I couldn’t be sure, but the object in the pink wrapper felt suspiciously soft. He knew exactly what I was thinking it could be.

“You don’t have sisters, do you? No wonder you are ridiculously naïve about feminine secrets. Forget Chemistry practicals; I, Subbu, am going to impart to you the most important practical lesson of your life: thou shalt not pry into feminine belongings!”

*

Almost a year later, a bunch of us, close friends by now, were spending a long weekend in Mahabaleshwar. All three rooms in a guesthouse had been booked. The girls were sharing the two small ones while the guys got the big room. I happened to go to the room Vidya was sharing. Two pink packets, similar to the one from her locker, were lying on the bed.

They contained face tissues.

21 Jun 2016

Persuasion

FF #9
“Wake up! Kaalmegh day!” There was urgency in my younger brother’s voice; he didn’t want me left out.
It was still rosy outside the window. We, the co-conspirators, could hear my parents in the dining room, my father was saying something rather loudly about Kaalmegh. We jumped out of bed. Kaalmegh couldn’t be missed.
My parents had been discussing Kaalmegh since a while, or rather my father had been telling my mother about it, and how healthy it is, how getting up early everyday and drinking Kaalmegh would make him even stronger than he is. The previous evening, we had all made a trip to the medicine shop across the street to buy Kaalmegh. My father explained that Kaalmegh means dark clouds, and this is a magic medicine made by sadhus thousands of years ago to make men stronger and wiser. Today he would start drinking Kaalmegh.
We got to the dining room just in time. My father filled half of a white cup with water, and poured a spoonful of Kaalmegh into it. The black liquid gradually spread until the water became very dark. This is exactly how dark clouds look when it is about to rain, I told my brother. We held our breaths as my father gulped it down.
We witnessed this ritual the next morning, and the next. My brother and I both had the same question, a joint plea: “Could we also try a bit of it?”
The question seemed to shock my father. He shook his head gravely and said, “No, no. It would be too bitter for you guys.”
“But I do like karela, I like its bitterness,” I protested. My brother too claimed that he did-- but that’s not true, my
mother always has to coax him to eat his portion.
My parents looked at each other, and my mother confirmed that we both indeed liked karela. My father reluctantly agreed to let us try Kaalmegh. Two more cups were fetched, half filled with water and a teaspoonful of the dark liquid was mixed into each cup.
We both downed our Kaalmegh in no time. I saw my brother grimace. I am sure I did not. But it was certainly bitter, perhaps more so than karela, nevertheless not as bad as my father had suggested. And I like bitter stuff, I told myself.

*

We brothers continued to drink a cup of watered Kaalmegh every morning for half a year, and then both of us absolutely refused to have anything more to do with it.
A decade and a half later, my father admitted that he had stopped drinking this awful Ayurvedic concoction as soon as we had volunteered ourselves into it. He hadn’t expected us to continue with it for the six months that we did.

19 Jun 2016

Dust

FF #8
“Give me a rag before you leave. Your books seem dusty; I’ll dust them if I’m bored of my novel while you’re at work.”
There were three large open bookcases in the living room of my small flat. I protested a bit, but then I handed her the feather duster—I was getting late and didn’t have time to argue with my aunt. She had arrived the previous night. There was enough food in the fridge for her lunch; I had refused to let her cook, since I insisted that her visit was to be a break from all that. I would take her sightseeing after I got back from work, and then she was staying for the entire weekend of course.
I only remembered several hours later, possibly too late. Just before she had arrived, I had pushed my gay literature collection —novels and volumes of short stories; no pornography, I hasten to add— in a hidden pile to the back of one of these shelves. I wasn’t out to the extended family, you see.
I feigned a headache and left work quite early.
She was sipping coffee and reading her book; she offered to make me some coffee. After some small talk, she mentioned that she had dusted two of the bookcases, but had been too tired to do the middle one. This, incidentally, was the one with the hidden stack.
I only managed to scrutinize the shelf in question after I had dropped her at the airport, early on Monday morning. The books weren’t quite the way I thought I’d arranged them.
My cousins in-the-know would have intimated me had there been gossip about me in the family grapevine. Nor has the aunt asked me about marriage since.

17 Jun 2016

Laughter

FF #7
I dreamt of Sudha’s laughter last night.
We used to find it easier to laugh at Ravi’s jokes if she was around at the department get-togethers. We would all join in, either because laughter is infectious, or because watching Sudha laugh triggered it— she would throw back her head and have a hearty laugh, her curls and her body vibrating at different frequencies.
I hadn’t expected their son to be 16 years old already, I once remarked to them.
She had giggled, “He was a mistake!”
“And Madam didn’t even realize that he was coming until it was too late—imagine!” Ravi had joined in, shaking his head, “We had no choice but to get married!”
They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled; an eloquent smile, I remember thinking at that time.
I refused to believe the gossip when it reached me. Apparently he was having an affair with one of the PhD students from another department. Someone even pointed the girl out to me.
I finished my dissertation and I moved to Germany and then to the US, and gradually lost touch with Ravi.
Several years later, I saw a news article posted in the institute network on Facebook. Ravi had committed suicide. It mentioned that he had been estranged from his wife and son for a decade.
His suicide note blamed his loneliness.

16 Jun 2016

Phone Call

FF #6
Weekend international telephone call.
After some pleasantries with the mater and discussion about recipes I'm trying, it's the pater's turn.
“Have you booked your tickets yet?”
Yes, I had and I would be spending three weeks with them.
“That’d be another 56 days, then,” he calculates.
There appears to be some quick parental consultation at the other end, and he continues, “Incidentally, your mother and I wanted to discuss something else as well. You see, you have been living in Germany for a year and a half now; you are earning well.... If you give us the green signal, maybe we could... you know, talk to people and find a suitable…”
No, I won’t go for arranged marriages, I firmly convey.
“Ah!” There is more urgent parental discussion, and, “That is wonderful news! There isn’t much time left, but if you give us the details, maybe we can contact her folks, and who knows, it might even be possible to have the ceremony during your visit, or at least the registration for now!” I hear excited giggling from the mater.
I rapidly recover and stutter that there’s no one in mind, and that I would have to go out now; we’d talk again next weekend.
I sit motionless, my palms and soles are cold. Their excitement scares me.
I’d have to tell them at some point, I guess I owe them that.

15 Jun 2016

Beggar

FF #5
Cycling wasn’t cool enough those days, and that mattered to Milind. But autorickshaw fares mattered to me. As a compromise we had parked our bicycles way before we reached MG Road, the most happening part of the city.
Bangalore was a very different place in the 90s from the city we know today. The number of trees here were certainly many times that of cars. We were research scholars at the Institute on meagre fellowships. Most of us dressed rather shabbily, either because we didn’t really care, or maybe because we couldn’t afford to be fashionable, and at least I didn’t have much of a dressing sense anyway. Except Milind. He dressed sharp— his jeans clung to his legs perfectly, the rest of us wore shapeless sacks in comparison. Neither Science nor the meagerness of the fellowship could change the Bombayite in him.
As we walked along Brigade Road towards the cinema, we saw a beggar ahead of us. He would latch on to every passerby, and insist on being given money.
“I detest this kind of behavior! He shouldn’t be harassing people if we don’t want to give alms!” Milind kept grumbling to me.
We passed by the beggar. He ignored us.
“Even the beggar knows that we are from the Institute!” Milind was deeply offended, possibly hurt.
Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and stared at me, “Neel, we’ll have enough time after we buy our tickets. Let’s go shopping—I think you need better clothes.”

14 Jun 2016

Smile

FF #4
“You probably haven’t even realized that the traffic isn’t moving!”
I glanced up from my book at the speaker sitting next to me, then at the immobile traffic through the window. He was right. And that’s precisely why I ride the bus to work instead of driving myself. We made some small talk, and every time I try to go back to my book, he started a new thread. I closed my book. He was bored of the journey, I figured, and I could as well continue the book tomorrow. The guy had a warm smile, the kind that reaches the eyes and crinkles them at the corners. In his late twenties, quite good looking, one could say. By the time his stop arrived, I knew that his name is Karan Katariya and that his friends call him KK. That his father had been in the army and so he had lived all over the country. That he’d been in the city for three years now, that he is a software engineer, and that he shares a flat with two of his colleagues. That although untrained, he likes to sing Hindi movie songs, preferably when friends, beer, pakodas, kababs were around and it was raining outside. Just before his stop arrived, he suggested we exchange numbers and keep in touch. The smile with the eyes crinkling at the corners, made me actually save the number he gave me.
I looked him up on Facebook, to see whether we had common friends, or friends of friends—you know, the kind that gives one a clue whether there’s something more to it. No. Disappointing. But well, that might not mean much either. However, had the Facebook clues been there, I might have called him, or messaged him myself. But I waited for his call, which didn’t arrive.
Until Friday evening, possibly after three years or so.
I was out grocery shopping, and was in the queue for billing. I moved out of the queue when I saw it was him calling.
“Hello Neel, I am Karan,” he said, “You don’t know me yet, but I’d like to suggest something interesting, that might benefit you.”
I know the spiel. I have had folks pick up a conversation in random places, ask for my number and call me up the next day to suggest investing in some venture that they and their friends had started. The preceding conversations are never that personal. Nor are there smiles that stay in one’s mind for these many years. I think I was way more polite and friendly on the phone with him than I usually am to other such callers.
I searched for his Facebook profile once I got back home. And I deleted his number.

13 Jun 2016

Luck

FF #3

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaachhooo!"

There was a bit of a commotion in the room. People were whispering, nudging, discreetly pointing at sneezer. Creases of worry seemed to replace smiles, laughters, eyebrows raised at new gossip, and a diversity of facial creases.

Dorian noticed the change. The circle of admirers around him seemed to be thinner, distracted. Distracted from Dorian! As far he could see, there had been no earthquake, the Prime Minister was presumably still alive, the alcohol in the party seem to be still flowing freely. Yet he had ceased to be the centre of attention. His good-looks, his charm, his magnetism, he, Dorian Gray, was no longer working the usual way. Now that interested him. What could have happened? He tried listening. That was not something that he usually did. But then unusual circumstances called for unusual tactics. He heard people talking about a sneeze and something about six fingers. Six fingers? He was intrigued now.

There seemed to be another person in the room, near the food-- specifically the desserts-- who seemed to be unaffected by the commotion. Dorian went up to him, "Hi, I'm Dorian." The man reluctantly placed his plate on the table, and extended his hand, and then suddenly retracted it and sneezed.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaachhooo!"

He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, and then his hands, and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, I seem to be coming down with a cold. I'm Mohun".

There was something strange about the hand he shook. Mohun noticed his glance and giggled.

"I used to have a sixth finger. It fell off within a month after I was born. That's what remains of it now."

The room seem to have emptied.

"Where has everyone disappeared?" Dorian cried.

"Actually it's me. My sneezes, rather. My sneezes are supposed bring misfortune to others. Bunkum actually, but people get worried by it".

Dorian thought to himself, unlucky for me too, I guess-- my admirers are all gone all because of your sneeze.

Irritated, Dorian turned around, about to leave too.

"You are a very good looking man."

Ah, a new fan, thought Dorian. Not so unlucky after all.

He turned back at Mohun and flashed a brilliant smile.

30 Nov, 2013

*This was written following specified prompts, one of which was "A Famous Character from Fiction"-- I've used Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray here. 

Platform

FF #2

The same platform, the tracks, the local train, the accident. Were the protruding handlebars of the train the culprit this time round as well? It might even be the same day today, just a year later. Everything feels so surreal. Is the guy different this time, or is that actually me too, and is that actually my body, or would we say, ex-body? I can see the body being pulled up onto the platform. The curious crowd; everyone on the platform talking about it. Someone near me says that the person is dead.

“He jumped in front of the train,” says someone else.

“No, no, he hadn’t jumped, he was trying to cross the tracks,” counters another.

“Arre na baba, that wasn’t an accident”.

My exams had been in my mind a year ago; did the ex-owner of that body also have to do something with his exams? Or some other problem? Was he new to the city like I had been, unaware of the local trains, the life here, and most importantly unaware of its pressures? The failed expectations? Was mine an accident? I do tell people about the handlebars that I hadn’t seen coming. I do tell people how the shortcut route involving crossing the tracks had been suggested to me. But I’m also aware that I should watch out for trains properly when I cross, if I cross tracks—I am aware that crossing tracks is a stupid thing to do, even for a shortcut. I am aware that I shouldn’t be on the tracks when a train is approaching, no matter how far it is. I am aware that I shouldn’t be standing close to a speeding train—yes, yes, I do know the laws of physics and the implications on pressure and all that. So what was I doing there, what was on my mind—ok, I know that my exams were… I know how disappointed I was with them. I hadn’t known then that I’d do well, so was I trying to take a shortcut to the café, or from the disappointments? There had been a blackout and when I’d woken up in the hospital room, I think someone suggested the handlebars to me—may be it had been the handlebars—what else could it have been. So now, have I been trying to take a shortcut again, or is that actually someone else? And if that is indeed someone else, what kind of shortcut was he trying to take?

15 Jun 2013

Horse

FF#1

A little boy had rung the doorbell. 

He was a loner and didn’t really know the neighbours beyond the hello and a nod at the elevator, but he recognized the kid from the 5th floor.

"Uncle, everyone is at the swimming pool. My mother is not back yet, and I am missing the party!"

He liked kids, as long as they were someone else's, but wasn't quite sure what this upset boy wanted him to do.

"I am thirsty."

The boy was scrutinizing his horse painting as he brought the glass of water.

"I love horses," he was told as the boy handed the glass back for more, "I have a baby horse upstairs, you know, he’s this big, and I feed him grass for breakfast, lunch and dinner."

He smiled, and tried to play along. But wait. Everyone has been talking about those horror stories in the neighbourhood school, and people were getting paranoid. And here he was, an unmarried man alone in the flat with a kid with a hyperactive imagination.

He told the kid that his mother might be back-- he shouldn’t miss the rest of the party, and in any case he wasn't thirsty anymore.

9 Jun 2016