Desicritics Category: Culture: Romance

Fiction: Bitter Coffee

IdeaSmith — Tue, 2 Mar 2010 06:22:51 EST

The Corner Coffeeshop was open for business but its traffic was at a lull. It was too early in the evening for the post-work crowd, too late for the students and AC-enjoying unemployed to be hanging around.

Outside, the sun had gone down but that curious combination of atmospheric density and light's acrobatic bending made it seem like daylight was still around.

Such were his thoughts, where another person would have called it twilight. He grimly thought to himself that she would have referred to Van Gogh's 'Starry Nights' while all along he'd be thinking of the diagrams in the physics textbooks about light refraction.

He was already seated on the bar-stool near the window, his bag on the seat next to his, to save it for her. In front of him was a cappuccino. With deliberate precision, he emptied two sachets of sugar into the cup and tossed the empty packets into the dustbin near the end of the table. She preferred espresso shots but he couldn't stand their acrid taste. But he didn't want another lecture on calorie count either.

Outside, the object of his ruminations had just neared the door and was standing but not entering. Then she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and walked in.

He saw her from the corner of his eye and put down his coffee mid-sip to receive her kiss. To his surprise, she turned, picked his bag off the seat and sat down with it in her lap. A second later, she seemed to have second thoughts and put it on the table.

Then she turned and said in a rush.

I need to tell you something and I need you to not interrupt. I’m going back to Delhi tomorrow.

But…

She held up her hand.

Don’t say anything. I’m going. The ticket is booked. And it’s one-way.

Her face was set in an immovable mask. She looked beautiful. But unrecognizable. Like a cold, marble statue that was displayed in someone else's house.

When you called me here for coffee, I thought you were trying to rekindle the romance in our relationship.

Her stiff expression didn’t change. She hadn’t even put her bag on the table. He tried again.

I know we’ve been arguing. But we’ve been through worse stuff. It’s…what are we doing?

She wavered and in a slightly watery voice said,

You’re having coffee. I’m leaving.

Come on, you don’t have to do this. Let’s talk about this.

Let's not.

she said. And those were her last words to him. He would think about that often. For such a talkative person, she was leaving him with so little. As if she didn't want to spend another precious minute or word on him.

Across the street, she plugged her earphones into her ears and switched on the iPod. It wasn't serendipitous, the song that came up.

Why she had to go, I don't know, she wouldn't say
I said something wrong, I long for yesterday
Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.

She'd been listening to the Beatles all evening on her way to the coffeeshop. It helped her relax and focus.

He hadn't said anything wrong. How do you tell someone that they had never said anything right in the first place? How do you explain that after three years? And how do you erase the memory of your own wrong choices?

You don't. You just stop and turn away.

She turned the corner and stopped under the street lamp. She asked herself, shall I reconsider? and turned to look in the direction of the coffeeshop.

It was dark now and the bright lights of The Corner Coffeeshop were attracting their clientele in now. She couldn't see him anymore, there were too many people around. Night had fallen.

Should I?

And in the same breath, the thought crystallized into realisation.

Let me not.

She took a deep breath and walked away.

Coffee was never going to be anything but bitter after this.

Ten Dating Don'ts For Men

IdeaSmith — Mon, 1 Mar 2010 11:52:46 EST

So I just read this article by [Redacted] Guy (yes, that’s what he calls himself) about the ten things he wishes his dates wouldn’t do while out with him. He asks for suggestions, so here are mine. Considering it’s a long list (List! List! My favorite word again!), I put it up as a post. Here’s what I soooo wish guys wouldn’t do when on a date with me.

1. Staring at my bust

There is just no excuse for this. Without entirely condoning it, I’m willing to see that a random guy on a bus or across the street may do this. He has the right to look where he wants. And I have the right to mentally strike him off my list of people I would ever go out with. But when I’m on a date with you, I don’t have that option anymore. Not at least till the end of the date, I’m at least that nice. Be nice to me and don’t treat me like a sex object the very minute we start the date.

2. Ogling other women

This follows from the first since some men use the excuse that ‘I can’t look at you so I’ll look at others’. We’re out on a date. That means you and I are getting together to spend some time with each other. Focus on the last three words. One date does not tie you to me but it does warrant the courtesy of your undivided attention at least.

3. Boasting

Showing off probably comes naturally to the male species especially when in the presence of the opposite sex. Animals do it, insects do it and human men do it too. Only don’t go on and on about it. The showing off is a mating ritual among the aforementioned life forms and ceases once the connection has been made. Assume that the connection has been made the minute the date has been accepted. There’s really no reason to go on and on about the number of foreign trips you go on, how earth-shatteringly important you are to your company, how you were having tea last week with the Dalai Lama and how many thousand books you read in the past year. It’s off-putting and most importantly it’s boring. I tuned out the minute you started throwing numbers at me.

4. Not listening at all

It’s a conversation. That means both people talk and listen. Talk some, I’ll listen. Then I’ll talk and you need to do more than stare around the room, ask the waiter for refills and interrupt to tell me about the movie I saw. Believe me, I could interest you with more than my bust. I have a sense of humour, an opinion and intelligence too. Give me a chance to let you see that too.

5. Calling me things like ‘Babe’, ‘Sweetheart’ or ‘Honeybun’

It’s a first date. I could be your girlfriend but I’m not, yet. We could be friends but we haven’t gotten to the place, right now. Undue familiarity and worse, sexist phrases are instant turn-offs. I have a name, use it. I might permit you to give me a nickname, but at least be original.

6. Playing SuperShrink

You’ve probably heard that women dabble in pop psychology. Maybe I have issues. Everyone does, it’s normal. Don’t put me under a microscope and psycho-analyze me on a date. It’s immensely offensive to tell me I am afraid of getting too close to men because of my Electra complex. If you’re a doctor, that’s work during a leisure activity. BORING. If you’re not a doctor, it tells me you’re just being a creep.

7. Caveating

It’s not cool to be commitment-phobic. I am not concerned with how messy your love life has been so far or how busy you are at work. You can go for a movie alone or have lunch on your own if those are true. If this date is happening, it’s because you agreed to it. Don’t waste my time and yours by coming to a date and then telling me why it can’t go further. If it’s not coming along as well as you thought, just tell me so. I may be disappointed but that’s better than being disgusted. If you’re that terrified of telling me the truth, at least wait till the date’s over. Don’t scuttle it while it’s in progress.

I wanted this list to be a ‘Ten things..’ but I’ve only managed seven. Does that mean men have fewer annoying habits on dates? Or does it mean that women are more permissive? Hmm? Women, add to these if you think up any others. Well, men you may too.

Twitter Fiction: Twocial Etiquette

IdeaSmith — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 02:28:40 EST

“And this is Kunal.”

“Are you on Twitter?”

“Yes, I’m @c00nal.”

“I don’t think I FOLLOW you.”

“I don’t follow you either.”

Kunal frowns as he turns to the Hot Dog stand.

“I think I hurt his ego a bit.”

“You just met!”

“Social boo-boo, telling someone you don’t follow them on Twitter.”

“What rubbish, nobody cares about these things.”

“Some people do. Maybe he’s one of them. Shit, I blew it.”

“Shh, he’s back. Ice-creams? Isn’t that too…I don’t know…something?”

“Ice-cream is cool.”

“Or maybe it’s c00nal.”

“No, this is c00nal.”

He says, holding out a spoon with a bit of ice-cream stuck to it. It’s green, not an appealing shade for food, she thinks.

“Ooh, you got her an ice-cream, c00nal?”

“A bite-sized version.”

He grins.

“A twitterized ice-cream.”

She replies, smiling back as she takes the spoon.

Twitter Fiction: Equal Sins

IdeaSmith — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 07:00:51 EST

Another writing exercise and this one, I thought up myself! (Pat on the back...thank you, thank you). The challenge was to write a 140-word story about Twitter. Samir and I did this under a timer. And finished in close to 14 minutes. I call this a twory.

~O~O~O~O~O~An 80s song went,

“The instant generation….Instant food, instant love.”

They didn’t know half of it, thought Sanjana. The Internet hadn’t even been around then. They didn’t have Twitter, that two-edged boon that make it permissible to follow somebody.

But was stalking allowed? Her eyes darted about before returning to her screen. Email hacking was passé. His Twitter account lay open to her. With only a moment’s hesitation, she clicked on ‘Direct Messages’. Even her suspicions hadn’t prepared her for what she saw. A screen full of naughty messages, bordering on risqué. That much she had expected, even if the numbers shocked her a bit.

She only didn’t expect to see a row of male faces.

She forced down a wave of nausea and logged out. A few clicks later, she finally took the drastic step as she hit UNFOLLOW.

Poem: Everlasting Night

Sandeep — Thu, 4 Feb 2010 13:13:27 EST

As this everlasting night lapses into silence
Our hearts lit with moonlight, eyes sparkling that light,
We waggle together with this voiceless accent.

Our lips part to talk but stop and tremble;
Like baiting, half-blossomed flower-petals,
Speaking the tongue of the tender night-breeze--
Only we know what we entreat each other
In this everlasting silent night.

Marital Bliss - Happily Ever After?

Purba — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 23:45:04 EST

We start early when it comes to acquiring aversions. As children we are mostly averse to milk, studies, pesky relatives who love tweaking our cheeks. I had all of these and a special one - an aversion to newlyweds.

My first brush with this strange species was as a six year old on a summer trip to Mount Abu. A giggly, coochie-cooing group infesting the back rows of our sightseeing bus. Unfortunately they took a shine to me and I was mostly perched on their laps, privy to the most inane conversations ever heard and embarrassing public displays of affection. Every time we halted they would scurry off to the nearest cliff and pose kamasutra style with me as the hapless spectator. Needless to say I was traumatized.

From Gangtok to Ooty, Kanyakumari to Kalimpong , there was no escaping them. You could hear them before you could spot them. Hysterically happy, over made up girls tottering on high heels clinging for dear life to their macho mates. But what puzzled me the most was how just a few years down the line the same couples would turn into stoical uncles and aunties with a bunch of wailing kids in tow. Domesticity kills and how! Quite like the before and after ads that slimming centres love splashing in newspapers.

Time stops for no one and soon it was time for me to bear the ignominy of being "newly married". After a whirlwind courtship where I managed to run up telephone bills that had my parents in the throes of panic attacks, I was ready to play house with the man of my dreams.

On our honeymoon, I was cautious, very cautious. I didn't giggle and maintained a safe distance from my puzzled husband. I looked somber, almost angry at the world. I was so sans the usual jingbang one associates with a newlywed that we had curious people make surreptitious enquires about our marital status or rather the lack of it. We didn't bother to clear the air.
Hey! We had fun too. Smoked my first cigarette, had my first bottle of wine, tried my hand at cooking and failed miserably. A tantalizing teaser to our rosy future.

Men and women have diametrically different expectations from this holy union called marriage. We, the fairer sex have silly romantic notions and the men expect us to be a wife, and not just an ordinary wife. Now these are guys who grew up watching ads which show the lady of the house cooking up a six course meal with a beatific smile plastered on her face. Is overjoyed when her kid comes back home in soiled clothes. And cleaning utensils is her lifelong passion. She scours and scrubs from morn to noon and she still manages to look like a million bucks. The occasional back pain is taken care of by MOOV massaged lovingly by the husband.

Then they marry us. Imperfect creatures who stress easily, worry constantly and think household chores are mind numbing.

After a few weeks of fun and frolic (honeymoon and a stay with in-laws) it was time to get down to the business of living together in our rented accommodation in Delhi. I was a novice at the threshold of domesticity, whose expertise extended to straightening crumpled bed covers and making amoeba shaped chapattis. But when you are young, hopelessly in love, technicalities of running a household are mere formalities.

For nearly a fortnight we sailed through. He found it amusing that I was such a cleanliness freak. I cleaned cupboards, rearranged closets, dusted furniture with passion. The window grills which had quite forgotten they were once white were restored to their former glory. We had a maid who would clean the house and the utensils. Life was good, sparkling clean, till it was time for me to enter the kitchen. All this while I had avoided this excursion thanks to the many dinner invitations and weekends spent with my parents. A stray day or two were taken care of by eating out.

But my mate was dying for some good ol' home cooked khana made lovingly by his brand new wife. He soon started dropping gentle hints. He would fix up elaborate breakfasts, show off his culinary expertise obviously expecting a reciprocal gesture.

When you are whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears, looking adoringly into each other's eyes do you actually have the time to confess that you can't cook to save your life! Well I had made a few half hearted attempts at it during my college days. But what do you do when your Mom, Dad even your kid brother are amazing cooks! You just eat right? That's precisely what I did and made just the right noises to further encourage them in their gastronomic pursuit. I thought this ploy will work as successfully with my soul mate too, but alas it didn't. Unable to procrastinate any further I made a desperate call to my mum, consulted my friends and voila I was ready to serve a dish or two. But the problem with cooking is it's an endless cycle of chopping, frying, stewing and to further the agony you are supposed to roll out chapattis as well. After a couple of hours of toil I emerged sweaty, near ecstatic and served my first dinner ever. To my utter misfortune it turned out to be palatable (actually delicious according to me). Darling, not bad at all...so what are we having for dinner tomorrow?

So began my domestic phase, coming back from office and having to worry about self made dinners. But the typical lazy bum I was, I tried to avoid it as much as possible. Honey you make the most amazing Palak Gosht, so are we having it tonight? Office was so stressful, can we order in? Let's pile on Gopa Di (a benign sweet neighbor).

To further add to the agony we were expected to shop for veggies as well. Come Thursday and both of us would head out with voluminous bags to the weekly haat. Two brave hearts scouting for the freshest of fresh vegetables. This onerous task was deftly passed on to my perfectionist of a hubby. I don't like getting too involved in all the nitty-gritties. But lugging all those heavy bags, the chaos, the noise and the smells would get so overwhelming and exhausting that we would end up eating out yet again.

Fast forward to the future. We are now responsible parents to our teenaged offspring who is even lazier than her mum. Indian women in ads are still cooking delectable treats for their family, but sans unhealthy fat and sugar. The family breaks into an impromptu musical while doing chores (what will they think of next). The newlyweds have gone global now. They are now traumatizing the world at large.

It has been eighteen years of domesticity and I continue to be a cleanliness freak but a reluctant cook. The husband no longer finds it amusing though. He still fixes up elaborate breakfasts and when it's my turn it's usually cereals (hey I believe in healthy eating). But now I have two ad-like ladies cooking and cleaning without a murmur of protest. They are my lifeline, my maids.
But the better, bitter?? half still has a cherished dream of me cooking a six course zinger of a meal just for him. Hopefully he won't have to wait another eighteen years for that.

Book Review: What Men Think About Sex - Guilt-Reading

IdeaSmith — Fri, 8 Jan 2010 21:18:22 EST

I've just finished reading my first novel of the genre called DickLit (as opposed to ChickLit).

The book by Mark Mason is called 'What Men Think About Sex'. My initial reaction, one chapter down was,

Whaaaaat? It's fiction?

and immediately felt cheated.

Despite its seemingly nonfiction (meandering into 'self-help' territory?*cringe cringe*) title, it is an out-and-out fiction story set in the form of diary excerpts of the protagonist.

The story itself is quite readable and Mark Mason even manages to pull off making The Clare Jordan Five and Three-Quarter Feet Handicap Stakes sound believable. The above is a contest between two men to seduce women whose names or seduction locations start with the letters C, L, A, R and E. All because the common object of their affections bears the now-offending name of Clare Jordan. Don't ask. It sounds bizarre but in a funny way, he manages to make it work.

On the other hand, I hate it when writers pull stunts like that, making a book sound like something else in its title. I only bought it because the blurb described it as the male 'Sex And The City' which at least half of you know (assuming an equal gender-ratio split in the readership of this blog) was originally a newspaper column.

I was mildly surprised at how like ChickLit it was. I even flipped over the cover to check that I hadn't misread what may have been a 'Marcy' or 'Margaret' Mason. No such thing....an ordinary, if not pleasant-faced man stared back at me from the book's inner flap. The format is even like Bridget Jones' Diary!

Okay, enough about what I don't like about the book...but when did I say I didn't like it? Such homogeneity with the female standpoint is reassuring.

Except, what is it with men and guilt? A particularly intriguing excerpt from the book goes on about the Guilt/Temptation trade-off. It says that men can and do feel guilt about succumbing to temptation. Exactly why they do succumb then and what's worse, doggedly chase after such temptation-laden situations is not answered.

"Because he does. Sorry I can't be more cogent than that, but I'm concentrating on Bloke Feelings at the moment, not Bloke logic. Which is by the way, your answer. Concentrating on feelings instead of logic is precisely what blokes do when Temptation's hovering."

That's cool, really is, since women have libidos too and yes, we give in to temptation too.

What stands out to me is that none of the women I know who cheat, have experienced the kind of soul-searing Guilt that Mason describes. It's not exactly that they are callous, but they've accepted their own folly and somehow made their peace with it.

It may be a fact that there are probably fewer women in such situations than men (okay, let that just be opportunity rather than character tilting the stakes). Be that as it may, shouldn't it be easier for an average man to reconcile this conundrum? Either be strong enough to withstand temptation & wise enough to avoid it. Or lay your guilt to rest. And yet it appears, they carry it around like a festering, burdensome sore, never resolving it and mostly adding to it.

The old adage,

All men are dogs!

...used to sound to me like Anticipatory Bail. Ever notice that it's only cheating men who say that? A sort of 'I can't help it, I'm a man' thing.

Somehow I'm not sympathetic. Truly womanlike, I want to say, good job he can't get out of the guilt then. He deserves it. Consider it my repartee to the guy who told me,

Why do women have periods? Because they deserve it!

At least I only bleed once a month. Guilt bleeds you every waking, conscious minute and if you don't know how to tackle it, the rest of your life is an endless pursuit of distractions from your own thoughts.

How about the book itself? I guess I liked it. A small part of me, the cynical one still holds out asking,

Do real men, I mean the ones walking around everywhere really think like this? About love and a special someone and the need for a 'spark' over and above good looks?

And then I think of Adi, Moksh, Rohan and I have to say, at least some of them do.

Should The Girl Ask The Guy Out?

IdeaSmith — Mon, 7 Dec 2009 09:22:55 EST

It’s a question I posed to a mixed group of friends. The women were all united in their belief that it didn’t make sense to do so. Most men (and this is an opinion I share) aren’t used to the concept of someone else taking the romantic initiative. And even if there is the possibility of a relationship, their absolute bewilderment over the way the situation happens could very well ruin it. The male ego just doesn’t permit such a relationship, even if there is interest.

The only trouble is when a woman likes a guy, it’s a real pain in the ass to sit around waiting for him to ask her out. Ask any woman about the frustration of watching a guy eye you all evening, start to walk towards you and then stop and turn back. It’s an ARRRRGGGGGHH situation.

The men on the other hand were largely open to the idea. I was quite surprised to hear the things that some of them said,

“It would be really nice to have the girl take the initiative for a change.”

“Guys like compliments and receiving attention too.”

“I’m hopeless at setting up the whole romantic scenario. It would be so great if she’d take charge of that.”

And finally the clinching deal for their side was a male friend who had just announced that he was getting engaged.

“My fiancé proposed to me.”

Now honestly, I think it’s wise to try something out before passing a judgement on it. So yes, I have asked a guy out as well. Not once, several times. It was an enlightening experience.

For starters, it’s horribly nerve-tangling. The worrying about how to ask, where to go, what to do and what the other person will think of you. I felt a rush of sympathy for all the men who had summoned up the nerve to ever express an interest in me. It does take a lot of courage and planning.

The one thing that surprised me was how the entire effort consumed me. Like I told a friend,

“The thrill of the chase is something I could get used to. The not-knowing, even the slight panic…there’s a heady high attached to it.”

I must also add that being in the driving seat, so to speak, being the one bringing together the whole production somehow automatically switched me into a place of only thinking about the absolutely necessary. A friend of mine was goading me into taking things to a more serious level. I thought about it and I surprised myself by saying,

“When you ask someone for a commitment, you are also saying that you’re ready to commit yourself. I’m not sure yet if that’s the case. I just want to see where this goes for now.”

As I said it, I knew I sounded exactly like a guy. And yet, I wasn’t being commitment-phobic, I wasn’t planning on two-timing and I wasn’t ‘in it for the ride’. I really, honestly didn’t know where things were going and having taken up the responsibility to take it somewhere, I just wanted to take it slowly.

The one thing that stands out is that the person who takes the initiative is definitely setting himself (or herself) up for the possibility of rejection…but even more subtly he or she is saying yes to being in a place of uncertainty for at least some time.

Since I started telling a story, I should tell you the end. The man in question is involved with someone else, a fact that I discovered several weeks later and then too only on pushing him. That can happen. He says he wasn't sure if it was dates or just friendly meetings. What the truth is, is anyone's guess. Should one take the risk of being stood up or humiliated? There’s no answer to that, except that guys do it all the time (take the risk I mean, not just what this guy did).

As I see it, being the woman taking charge means one is playing an unusual role and there’s ample scope to be misunderstood. If the guy is a jerk, he could easily use the situation for maximum benefit and get a lot out of the girl without giving her anything back. But then again, falling in love is always a risk, every time, in every single situation. Besides the reverse is probably equally true, especially in today’s day and age. A woman can just as easily free-ride on a guy’s attentions and then walk away without a second thought.

So at the end I’m inclined to say that if you have the nerve for it, don’t let social norms stop you. If you’re a guy who agrees with what my male friends said, try not to be an ass or a jerk about it. In the long run, it’ll encourage more women to take the initiative and things will only get easier and pleasanter for you. If like me, you’re a woman who can’t stand to sit around looking pretty and waiting to be asked out, go right into the chase. Just keep your band-aids and chocolates and close friends about. Just in case.

Fiction: The Cry Of The Pecker

Deepti Lamba — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 09:33:50 EDT

His wrinkled hand touched the knob of the bathroom door and trembled. He was a horny 60 year old bastard lusting after a 36 year old woman. He wasn't getting any and neither was she. They were the only two sex deprived adults in a household where the other two adults, his son and his wife, were getting on probably every other night.

The water fell in the bathroom and he imagined himself in there with her and feelings of shame and lust made a nasty heady cocktail in his mind. He let his body go a long time back. He had a round belly that made him look four months pregnant and his breasts looked as if they had worked double shifts at the breastfeeding factory but these body image issues did not deter him from shamelessly sniffing his daughter in law. He imagined his shaft poking deep within her bushy nether regions and her soft mouth open in a perfect O.

His pecker had come to hate him and turned him into a dirty old man. It had been over ten years since he had had sex. Vibha's death had closed the chapter when it came to enjoying female companionship but also irrevocably on his sex life.

Five years later, tragedy struck again when his younger son died of a car accident on the Jaipur highway along with two of his friends.

The car had a headlong collision with a truck that had only one working headlight. He turned his mind away from the call that came, the identification of the blood crusted broken bodies, the pyre and the arrival of his shell shocked daughter in law to stay with them from Jaipur.

He put his head on the bathroom door and remembered how she cried into her pillow late in the night and he stood outside her door letting his tears run down his wrinkled cheeks as well. His other daughter in law saw him standing outside Sheetal's door crying and returned to her room to give her stoic father in law privacy to grieve in peace.

But one night they heard him cry out loudly and they stepped out of their room to see their shell shocked father standing in the dark corridor with Sheetal. His son switched on the light and gasped. Sheetal had shaved her waist length hair and the warm yellow light of the cheap Chinese bulbs pooled against her clean bald head. She glared at her flabbergasted brother in law and his wife.

She held out her dead husband's electric razor which Gaurav, her brother in law, took and they watched her walk back to her room and lock the door. Gaurav shook his head and returned to his room, grumbling about midnight dramas were getting on his nerves.

His wife, Sonam, put a solicitous hand on her father in law's arm and asked him if he needed anything. He shook his head, told her gruffly that she was a good daughter and went back to his room. Sonam felt like his daughter but not Sheetal with her baleful eyes and cold silences.

Gaurav and Sonam bounced back from the tragedy within a year since the birth of their son came as a balm to their arid souls. There was laughter in the house again but Sheetal remained somewhat aloof and in a world of her own. She doted on the little one, cradled him in her arms and showered him with baby gifts but interaction with the family was cut and dry as if she was a roomie sharing space with them and nothing more.

Sheetal found a job and left in the morning and returned in the evenings. She shared household duties with Sonam like a automaton, served dinner, held the baby for a while and then promptly left for her room. Sonam shook her head, Gaurav shook his head and so did he while the cherub slept in his withered arms.

The pattern was shattered when Sheetal had bought a friend unannounced home for dinner. Her name was Bina and she was the antithesis of quiet Sheetal. Over dinner she ribbed Sheetal for her cool exterior and her soft beating heart for she willingly took up the work of an ill colleague and time and again stood up to their mean spirited boss. Bina filled the silence in all its cold pockets with her incessant chatter. She praised Sonam's cooking skills, said Gaurav was a thoughtful father and him - she looked intently in his quiet old brown eyes and told him that Sheetal thought he was the father she wished she had instead of that cold brute who left her mother.

His lips had trembled in response and he let his eyes slide over his silent daughter in law who refused to meet his eyes and trailed narrow lanes between her pooris and subzi. Her hair had started growing back – the fuzzy black had given way to a shaggy mop that she had neglected to style. He felt something twist in his heart and his chest tightened. He cleared his throat, nodded and gruffly asked for his pooris.

Sheetal never bought Bina back home again but the family were heartened to hear Bina's perky voice ask for Sheetal on the phone. They took it as a sign that Sheetal was beginning to pick up the threads of her life but they gave her space. They all had gotten used to her morbid self absorption but unlike his son and his wife he now found himself noticing small things about Sheetal. Like that crisp Monday morning when she finally moved on from wearing flat shoes to heels, when she began to wear more shapely blouses instead of the baggy sacks she used to wear to work and he remembered when his pecker moved a little when he finally saw the pink lipstick on her lips.

Part of him was heartened that she had finally begun to move on and part of him hated himself zealously for the reaction that came from a place he thought was long dead. He couldn't sleep the night his pecker came alive. The next morning he had a hard on because his widowed daughter in law painted her lips in front of him. He was a pathetic old bastard.

The tightened muscle felt good in all its 9 inch glory but his conscience tore him apart. She gave an absentminded smile to her little makeshift family and left for work. Sonam asked whether he was willing to hold the wailing two year old while she collected the dishes? He nodded and she plonked the frisky one year old on his lap and he gently moved the boy away from his boner and placed him on the floor next to him. It was all so wrong and yet felt good. He felt like a young man and as his boner shrivelled up and nestled back against his enlarged balls he told himself no harm had come. It was the way of men to hide the lust and dike the destruction it could deluge on those men loved best.

Five years of lusting and pining for a woman who thought of him as her father had made him feel like a teenager having wet dreams about a woman he knew he could never have. And the romance of it sang in his blood. He lay against his hard pillow and had fantasies of her, he gave in to desire once in a week and cleaned himself up with tissues later and made sure he never looked at her for too long when others were around.

He caressed the door behind which she took her bath. Five years had passed and she was a changed woman and he a changed man. Death had done that to them. He straightened his back and told himself to be a man and knocked on the door. The sound of water running stopped and a hesitant yes answered his knock.

He cleared his throat and spoke “Beta! Giresh will be here soon. He called and said the movie will start in half an hour. You better get ready fast.”

“Yes Babuji!” there was excitement in her voice. She had slowly thawed since her boss steam rolled into her life. The same obnoxious mean spirited slave driver of a boss fell for the iron willed Sheela and proposed marriage.

He stepped away from the bathroom and went into the living room and picked up the newspaper and blindly stared at image of a politician giving a toothy smile with a fat marigold garland around his thick neck. Minutes ticked by and there were sounds of horns blaring and the door bell ringing.

His grandson spilled inside with his school bag and mother behind him. They both wore big smile and behind them walked in Giresh. Tall, young vibrant Giresh juggling flowers and gifts for the family.

Sonam gave a girlish laugh “Babuji, you have to tell Giresh not to bring us gifts every time he comes over. He is spoiling Anil. He pulled in right behind us and got Anil all excited.”

Anil gave a toothy smile, his teeth were already stained with chocolate and Giresh put the gold Rocher wrapper in his pocket and strode over to his side and handed him a small sleek rectangular box and said “I thought of you when I saw this.”

He gave a weak smile and opened the wrapping and saw a Mont Blanc pen in it. His pecker felt puny and bullied in front of Giresh. He sighed and sat back and gave a weak smile “There really wasn't any need Giresh.”

Giresh shrugged and his eyes looked beyond the living room. His eyes lit up when he saw Sheela walk into the room and like Giresh's eyes his eyes too took in her silky shoulder length hair, the easy smile and the skip in her step.

“Time to go? We have a dinner reservation.” Giresh took her arm and she nodded.

They began to walk out. Anil like an incorrigible spaniel crowded around the two and they both gave him a tight good bye hug and Sonam behind them teased Giresh to bring her sister in law back home in it and no naughty business till they got married.

Giresh ribbed back that he respected the traditions of the family and had utmost respect for Babuji.

Giresh's words made him feel like a wriggling worm on a fisherman's pole. He remained seated on the leather couch with a stained smile on his face.

The car on the driveway started and he felt like crying as if his favourite toy had been taken away. His heart broke and he wiped his tears.

The door opened again, he raised his eyes and watched her in walk towards him in her vibrant red silk top and figure hugging jeans. She had come a long way from the grieving widow to a woman willing to love again.

She stood before him for a minute then bent down and touched his feet and softly said “Thank you Babuji.”

He touched her head and replied “Be happy, that is all that I ask.”

She stood up, flicked away the tears and left the house.

He sighed, picked up the paper and began to read. His pecker on the other hand wailed its horny existence.

The Song of the Infidel

Golden Boy — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 14:00:59 EDT

A few weeks ago I had the fortune of sleeping with a guy who could best be described as Adonis!

Fair-skinned, soft tresses that gently fell on his forehead, a cheerful disposition, and a quietness that permeated his very being, he made any person who came into his proximity feel tranquil!

Even in the heat of our unbridled passion, as we gave ourselves away completely to the heat of our youth and the lust we felt for each other's body and form, I kept admiring the beautiful innocence that the gods in heaven had graced him with.

Yet in this earthly ritual, even as I travelled through the contours of his luscious body, my gaze would come back again and again to his eyes ... looking for divine refuge, searching for the very essence of Beauty there, only to be hugely disappointed!

What was missing? In this perfect union of two heavenly bodies, why did I keep feeling a void in my heart that was painfully insatiated?

When the heat calmed down with the heartbeats and the world around made its foray into our consciousness; even as we lay spent on the bed I wondered what had left me discontented after a perfectly divine love-making experience. What goodness was missing there in his perfectly poetic face that I searched for in vain?

Ever so often, after that eventful night, we have crossed each other's paths as perfect strangers, exchanging glances of formal greetings only to hasten to a busy day ahead!

Yet every time I meet him, I search for that one thing in his eyes which I finally know is missing, an ingredient which if I had found in his eyes could by its mere existence given me the reason to abandon this life on earth in the faith that I have fully lived!

It is only now that I know his eyes lack the other essential half to complement God's perfection expressed in his beauty- the essential ingredient of love. If I could find the beauty and love together in his eyes even for a night, I would have found a glimpse of God Himself!

Holy sweet love, how you keep your distance from a pilgrim who seeks you in the most perfect of places!

Ya Khuda! Have you stopped placing souls in objects which you decorate with your light?

Where will I find the noor of your beauty coupled with the grace of your bountiful love?

So said, your pilgrim continues his journey on the Path to reach you! Forgive me my Complaint, but the Separation is turning unbearable. I need the balm of thy succour in this scourge of a desert, even as I worship your noor in objects you have blessed your beauty with!

Please provide me with the perseverance that alone can keep a dervish on His difficult Path, the lack of which would drive him insane!

Don't keep Yourself away for too long!