Killing the Red God

A serialization of my novel, "Killing the Red God". | Copyright: Hari Kumar | website: www.harismind.com | If this is your first visit, please start from the bottom (start of Chapter 1)

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Location: Singapore, Singapore

Friday, September 30, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 10

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)
If you like my writing, please help me popularise my blog--please recommend it to your friends.

If you happen to be a literary agent/publisher (or someone who can help me get my book published) and feel my writing has potential, I would be forever grateful if you could contact me through my website www.harismind.com

Now for the latest instalment....

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I think he was a Professor at the NUS. Once during a housewarming, this guy comes up to me while I am standing in a corner balancing my plate of food. He was a short, balding man in his late forties. “Your wife is ammayzing!” he says between mouthfuls, “What a fantastic brain in a fantastic baady! Looks like a fillum star and talks like Einstein! Ammayzing! Ammayzing! You are a lucky man! My wife Saroja, Yemmessee Physics. But now only knows how to make Sambar and beat the children,” he laughed before moving away.

After a while I heard a stifled cry of pain coming from the kitchen. A tall powerful man, one of the other guests who had downed the largest quantity of beer, came out clutching his groin. He had a pained look, almost of boyish hurt, on his face. Following him was Nisha in regal mien as if nothing at all had happened. The man dragged his family out and left quickly mentioning some excuse about going to Changi to receive someone, the wife, though, had a bewildered expression. We stayed back for the dessert, made small talk and left when everyone was leaving. In the cab (I hadn’t yet bought my car), Nisha tells me, “That big bear, I gave him a kick in his balls he’ll never forget. Next time he gets the urge to fondle someone’s boobs he’ll remember it.”


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(To be continued...)

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 9

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)
If you like my writing, please help me popularise my blog--please recommend it to your friends.

Now for the latest instalment....
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She clears the table, dumps all the food packets into a large trash bag, ties it up neatly and throws it into the trash chute. She then cleans the table thoroughly, first using a wet sponge soaked in a soap solution and then with another lightly moist sponge and lastly with a dry smudge-free cloth applying long, even strokes. She inspects the table for any smudges by keeping her eye close to the table and looking at it sideways. I am impressed at her thoroughness, at her quiet efficiency, at her perfectionism for a task so mundane.

Nisha was never too concerned about housework. In fact she did nothing of that sort. The early years in Singapore were blissful, though taxing for me. I had to do every bit of housework from sweeping (every day morning — ‘good exercise’, she told me, while getting ready for her morning jog), mopping (once a week), washing the clothes (every third day — but the machine did most of the work), putting the clothes out to dry (every third day — this was a real chore, loading the bamboo poles so that the lighter ones like Nisha’s panties and bras are at the farthest end and the heavier ones like the towels are closer, balancing it and gently easing them into the pipe holes), ironing (once a week — sickening!), cooking (only on week ends — meals on weekdays were mostly at the neighbourhood hawker. Nisha, thankfully wasn’t too fussy; she could survive on fruits, vegetable sandwiches made out of wholemeal bread, fish soup, mee goreng etc), shopping, feeding baby Pooja in the middle of the night (every night; luckily there was this genial old Indian lady living three doors from us, who offered to take care of Pooja during the day time for a small monthly fee of three hundred dollars. She would take Pooja just before I left for office and bring her back clean, well fed and asleep late at night. On weekends, after much wheedling, Nisha agreed that Pooja could remain with us. But feeding her and changing nappies were entirely my responsibility).
During those days, we were occasionally invited for a stray birthday party or a housewarming by other desi acquaintances. We never took Pooja along since, as expected, Nisha flatly refused to have anything to do with her. I felt it would be odd if I were the only guy changing nappies between beers, while the wife sits there shaking an idle leg. She would come made up like a Karaoke girl, with streaks of died brown hair, blood-red lipstick, in a short skirt and showing generous quantities of skin. While she is doing her marathon make-up, I would tell her after carefully crafting and rehearsing the words in my mind, “Dear, you would feel terribly awkward if you wear such clothes and make-up for this party. All the ladies will be in churidars or saris. It is a gathering of Indians only…” and she would reply, “Look, Dilip, if you don’t want me to come, you just say so. I’ll gladly stay here. But don’t expect me to be your obedient wife and accompany you in such shitty clothes. That’s not me, okay.” At the host’s, she would sit by my side sipping beer along with the other men, while the rest of the wives are closeted in an adjoining room, (usually the master bed room), talking about their children’s schooling, the sale at John Little or the latest serial in Zee. In the living room, sitting beside me, she would be making frequent and insightful contributions on the Singapore economy, its relations with Malaysia, globalisation, the Euro against the Dollar etc. while I would mostly remain silent with my beer mug. It was clear that she wowed the men from the expressions of naked amazement in their face. As the beer bottles became empty, the gaze of the husbands sometimes wandered to lower areas of her body.


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(To be continued...)

Monday, September 26, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 8

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)
If you like my writing, please help me popularise my blog--please recommend it to your friends.

Now for the latest instalment....
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“You’re so cute when you lie,” Kavitha says, her eyes bright with amusement.
“Okay. That’s enough of my personal life.” I get annoyed.
“You’re even cuter when you get annoyed.”
“I am not annoyed… See,” I give her an insane smile.
“It’s too bad you’re wife doesn’t know how good a lover you are,” the chicken bone is now clean, completely stripped of any meat, yet she’s still sucking at it.
“It’s too good you’re husband doesn’t know how bad a lover you are,” I retort.
“Liar!” she throws the bone at me. I duck.
“You know what happens to liars? Heard of Pinocchio? Your nose will grow long and long and long till you need an extra support for it… There!” she exclaims pointing at my nose. “Your nose just grew an inch longer!”
I touch my nose impulsively. She laughs. I laugh with her.
She points to my half-finished chicken rice, “Can I have that?”
I push it to her. She scoops a spoonful of rice after sprinkling oyster sauce on top of it. “The way you made love told me that you’ve been — like me — starving for years. Starving for love,” she swallows the rice. “And, remember,” she shakes her spoon at me, “Sex outside marriage is a sin. That is called adultery. But not love, love is no sin, it is God. Love is God. Haven’t they taught you that? So there is no need to mope around feeling guilty for having ‘sinned’ “ she makes a “quotes” gesture with her hands.
“Interesting theory,” I say, “but we did have sex, didn’t we? Besides, I am not too worried about the sin of adultery — in fact, I don’t believe in sin at all — but of the guilt of betrayal…”
“But the sex we had was so much outweighed by the love we had. And love being God, the net result of our action was so much more positive. Can’t you see? The world is a much more beautiful place now. And where is betrayal? Whom did you betray? Your wife? Hasn’t she been betraying you by starving you of love?”
“Well, I don’t know… I feel good physically and maybe mentally. But morally, this nagging guilt…”
She looks deep into my eyes and says softly, “I will help you overcome it, Dil. Believe me, we haven’t done anything wrong. We were starved souls seeking nourishment. We have just momentarily quenched our thirst. Now go to the living room while I clear this mess. I need you to help me unpack those cartons.”

I am not convinced at her, rather silly, theories on morals to soothe my guilt. But then, guilt is just another feeling that I was sure I would overcome. In due course, with or without her help. It’s a lovely world, this world of routine, of repetition that dulls sensitivities and diminishes feelings of guilt, of betrayal and, to a much lesser extent, of sin. Is this tiny guilt because I, perhaps, do love Nisha in some unexplainable way? Do I love her, my wife of thirteen years, mother of my only child, to whom I, as Kavitha claims, have never made love? For a moment, I ponder this heavy thought. I look at it differently: would I shed a tear if I were to know that she had suddenly died? I don’t think so. I will get on with life. Collect her insurance, be secretly happy in the knowledge that I would no longer need to pay the HDB mortgage, perhaps bring Pooja over, perhaps… remarry? No, I don’t think I would do that, any way certainly not within the first few years. Not after one bad experience. Bad experience? Was it really so bad? Was she really so bad? I have had happy moments with her. The first six years of our marriage was really quite blissful, and the three of us were actually happytogether. Well, almost, but then there is no such thing as a perfect marriage, is there?
Did she love me, and hence by some unwritten law I am duty bound to love her in return? Did she love me? Would she in turn cry for me if, say, a bus were to run over me tomorrow? Cry for this loser of a husband who can’t even afford a decent car? Her cheeks would remain dry like the deserts of Arabia, I am sure. Then what is this that has kept us together in miserable matrimony in these thirteen, sorry, seven long and winding years? Why wasn’t that D word — that horrible horrible word — ever thought of as a solution to this misery? Why is this seven-letter word so unthinkable for me? Is it my old-fashioned Indianness, that genetic legacy, that accursed adaptability, which prevents me to even think of that seven letter word? Or is it this sheer current of life that has overwhelmed me like a little leaf in a monsoon drain so helplessly caught in the gush of routine to even think of myself, my feelings, my self-respect, my happiness, my separateness? Or is it…is it this snip of a woman, who has opened me up like a pomegranate and showed me my desires sleeping within me like red rubies…


------------------------------------------------(To be continued...)

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 7

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)
If you like my writing, please help me popularise my blog--please recommend it to your friends.

Now for the latest instalment....
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Then one Saturday morning as I was reading the Straits Times, I saw her carry her pillow and bedding out to the common corridor and lay it on the patch of sun in front of our door. I noticed her trying to avoid showing her face to me. I walked up to her with the steaming mug of coffee in my hand and asked her casually, “What’s up, Nish?”
“Blasted ants. They ate up my face last night,” she showed her face to me. It was dotted with red spots.
“You sure it’s not some allergy?” I asked with concern.
“Nah. My pillow was crawling with ants in the morning. I think, it’s your spunk… I guess it’s sweet enough for the ants… Better get yourself checked for diabetes or something.”
“Cannot be. I got a full medical only last week. I am in the pink. I don’t think it’s because it’s sweet. Ants are naturally attracted to protein.” Secretly I was happy. I was hoping she would stop this disgusting habit. But she had other ideas. That night I noticed a small bowl of water under each steel leg of her cot. “Let’s see the ants get at my face this time,” she said gleefully, marvelling at her innovativeness.
But when that pert Preethy with her pageboy cut and sophistication, wandered into her bedroom and remarked with a deft twirl of her dainty fingers, “Nish, dear, is this your idea of a waterbed, or what?” triggering peals of laughter from her other bridge-mates, Nisha felt humiliated.
That night being that special once-a-month night she says between my grunts, “I am finished with these bridge bitches. I’ll teach that Preethy chooth, a lesson. Just watch. Instead of being a dumbo bimbo like her, I will rise up in the corporate circles. Get respect from men who matter. Just you wait and see…” She was fuming under me. I could feel it in the way her muscles tightened around me.

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(To be continued...)

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 6

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)
If you like my writing, please help me popularise my blog--please recommend it to your friends.

Now for the latest instalment....
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Sex with Nisha Version 2 was by the calendar. Once every month, two days after her periods. She opens her legs; I go in-out, in-out while she talks about her plans, office gossip, general bitch-talk.
I am not allowed to touch her breasts, her lips, her buttocks since she read somewhere that too much touching during sex will make them sag like over-ripe mangoes.
I come into a wide-mouthed glass bottle kept by the bedside. She could never stand condoms although that would have been more convenient for me — I had more than once grabbed the timepiece in my frantic groping-in-the-dark and come all over it’s innocent time-telling face — since she had this strange notion that rubber could be carcinogenic (“you want me to die of cervical cancer, do you, man?”).
While I go to the bathroom to clean-up, she carefully takes my deposit and adds measured quantities of aloe vera oil, a dash of turmeric powder, five drops of tea tree oil, three tablespoons of cucumber juice and a few other herbal extracts as if she were a seasoned chemist. She mixes them to a paste and that’s her one-month’s supply of beauty cream — ‘Oil of Dilay,’ as I called it — the secret of her youthful skin.
She keeps this mixture in the fridge and every night, two hours before bedtime she would take a teaspoonful of the cream and keep it outside to warm up to room temperature. Then just before going to bed she would wash her face thoroughly with a deep skin cleanser and then apply this sperm cream on her face and neck evenly in a thin layer. Seeing her sticky face is enough to make me sleep in the guest room. But I don’t tell her that — I blame it on ‘gas’ (thankfully, she is not too fond of sleeping with flatulent men; but looking back, I guess she knew that I was faking it and she couldn’t care less any way; she got what she wanted) and quietly retire to the adjoining room.

It’s been more than six years since she’s been using this semen paste, and the effects, I must admit, are nothing short of miraculous. Her constant source of worry was her skin; it’s chapped, lifeless look always haunted her. “The first thing one sees in a person is her skin, not her eyes, not her hair, not her tits” she would say looking woefully into the mirror. She had tried everything, Vicco Turmeric from Mustafa, skin tonics, Fancl creams, expensive oxygen treatments, skin tone therapies, Ginvera hydrating masks etc. Nothing seemed to work.

Then in some obscure book, she read about the cosmetic benefits of semen. The first month of using this potion itself created such a drastic and noticeable change in her appearance that the aged Chinese man, who lives with his wife in the next-door apartment and whom I usually meet in the lift during my seven o clock rush remarked, “You got new wife, ah?” When I shook my head, he looked at me suspiciously and said, “She look one kind, meh. Vely…vely…” he was struggling for the right word, and then he turned to his wife and said something in Hokkien. “Bootiful,” she said, as her eyes brightened up. “Hah! Bootiful bootiful,” he said grinning. “Not new wife, laah” I replied, “Recycled, mah.”
“Lee…cycle, Haah?” he asked.
I nodded.
Then he pointed to his wife and said, “Can lecycle, haah?”
I looked at the old woman and then at the bent old man, who I guessed, must have been in his seventies. I imagined the lady’s face plastered with the man’s cosmetic juices. She would need a triple dosage applied every couple of hours, I reckoned. For the man’s sake, I said, “Beyond recycle.” The lift reached the ground floor.
“Haanh?” the old man asked, his hand behind his ears.
“Bey-ond recycle,” I repeated as I stepped out of the lift, “Bey-ond”
“Buy one lecycle, Haah?” his eyebrows raised, his forefinger pointing to the ceiling.
I nodded, just to get rid of them; I didn’t have the time for any lengthy discussion. “Bye,” I said. I saw them nod their head to each other. “Bye,” the old man said, “I bye one lecycle…Xie xie ni,” he clenched both his fists together and shook it as a gesture of thanks. I waved at them and rushed towards the car park.
Within the week, I saw the old lady puffing away on a gleaming new exercise bike outside their apartment. I smiled at her as the man came to the door. “Lecycle,” the man said proudly pointing to the bike and giving it a thumbs-up, “Vely good”.
Nisha was overjoyed at the results. She once even broached the idea of starting a business. But seeing the flaccid look in my face (“I am not cocksure that that business would succeed, dear. Besides the raw materials are limited.” I had replied with intended pun) she decided not to pursue it with me.

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(To be continued...)

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 5

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)

Now for the latest instalment....
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We start to wolf down the food as if we just broke a long fast. I look at her as she fights with a chicken leg. She is now wearing a white tee shirt and a pair of shorts. Her hair is still moist and unkempt. Something reminds me of Nisha. I am uneasy. I feel sick.
I push away the food. “I am sorry, I can’t eat,” I say.
She looks at me blankly for a long ten seconds. Her face is expressionless.
I feel naked at her stare. Uncomfortable. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
She ignores my question and shifts her interest to her chicken leg, “Tell me, Dil,” she says between munches, still looking at the piece of chicken, “Is your wife beautiful?”
I nod, guilt growing in me, “She is pretty… Very sexy.”
She nods with me, “My husband’s handsome too… In a cold practical way…Hmm, this is good,” she says referring to the chicken. “Is she cold and practical too?”
I am puzzled at this conversation, “She is a practical person…but I am not sure whether she is cold or not…maybe sometimes…” She is not cold — I think — she is frigid!
“Can I ask a personal question?” she does not wait for my answer, “How often do you make love nowadays?”
“Why do you want to know all this?”
“You don’t have to answer it, if you don’t want to. Just a casual question… After all, we just made love. And that too, twice. So I feel a certain intimacy with you… Just forget I asked.”
“No. It’s okay. Once a month, I guess,” My eyes roll upwards as I try to remember.
“I don’t think you got my question. My question is: How often do you make love not sex? I can have sex with a dildo, but I don’t make love to it, if you know what I mean.”
“Once a month,” I repeat, nodding my head for emphasis.

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(To be continued...)

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 4

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)

Now for the latest instalment....
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By the time she returns, I am in my clothes. She looks relieved, "One of those pesky evangelists… Wants to make me a Witness: 'Be ready for the second coming', he says to which I reply: 'No thank you, I just came a second time today.' He looked at me blankly when I shut the door,"
I laugh out loud.
"I thought I got away from these pests when I said bye to the US"
"That's funny. I thought the security would have taken care of such trespassers," I say suspiciously.
She looks at me and quickly goes to a video display unit attached on the wall by the main door.
"Oops!" she says. "It's still disarmed. I had disarmed it after my 'heroic attempt', the other day… So that you can enter the flat and save me, when I have passed into dreamland."I walk to her with some curiosity.
"See," she tells me gesturing to the display, "Now I've armed it," she presses a button beneath the display. The button lights up and instantly a picture forms on the display. It's a view of the lift lobby. There is no one at the reception. Within a few seconds we see the receptionist coming to his seat. He is fiddling with his zipper, making sure it's not undone. "Hah! There!" she exclaims, "The guy had gone to the gents when that preacher sneaked in.
"Then she presses another button and the display changes to a view of the lift interior. Pressing it once again shifts it back to the lift lobby.
"Once this is armed, even the lift door will not open unless I press this button," she explains to me pointing to yet another button on the panel. I can also speak to the visitor by pressing this one here,"
"Impressive. So when are you giving me a set of keys?" I move closer and bury my nose in her moist hair.
"Let me see if you're worthy of it," she winks at me as she gently pushes me away, "Any way, come, let's eat…after all that work out, I am famished."



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(To be continued...)

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 3

Author's Note:
For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from
here (Click here!)

Now for the latest instalment....
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She is in the Jacuzzi, smiling, her head above clouds of floating foam. “So now, you want to be hassled,” she says.
“I want to make peace…I’ve come with a peace offering,” I give her the glass.
She smiles, takes a sip and says, “If you want to make peace, make love first,” and pulls me into the water.
She undresses me with an urgency, as if the fate of the world rests in my underwear. Yet the love we make is tender, prolonged. Our movements are slow, to the rhythm of Sami’s Tera Chehra… that wafts in and fills the bubbles of foam, the niches and crevices of our bodies. The music resonates in us, we become its instruments. Our bodies lose their denseness; become beats of the tabla, the breath of the flute. At the end of Roothay Huay I reach my peak unhurriedly, while my lips are locked in hers. I feel her shudder under me. We both lie in each others arms, eyes closed, spent, for how long I do not know. Adnan sings Tera Chehra… again: Ye zameen ruk jayee (this earth stops moving), asman jhuk jaaye (the sky bows down), tera chehra jab nazar aaye (whenever your face comes in sight).

I open my eyes as she opens hers. In that moment I see answers to all my questions in her eyes, as I know instinctively she sees the answers to all hers in mine. We lock our lips again; our tongues greet each other and intertwine in a primordial ritual. I hold the ovalness of her face in my wet hands and look into her eyes once again. A whole range of emotions sail through them. I lift her from the waters as delicately as one would a baby from its bath. Her eyes are fixed in mine. I place her dripping wet body on the soft bed, a grey patch grows on the white linen, the small purple flowers darken as if drenched by rain. I fetch a dry towel from the bath rack and dry her body gently. Her long thick hair is still moist in spite of my work on it. She then takes the towel from my hand and dries me with it. I spy an eyebrow pencil on the bedside table and reach for it. I gently push her to the bed and write on her lower abdomen:
“Is the heart awake, has the spirit returned?
In this passion-fire, all distress burned?”
She reads my lines, smiles at me coyly. I place the eyebrow pencil on to her outstretched hands.
It tickles me as she writes on my stomach:
“My heart's awake, my spirit's on high,
And clouds have cleared to a brilliant sky”
I kiss her again. A delicious madness engulfs me. Through my tongue it infects her. Our skins are warm. Hot. Feverish. We make love again. Our tummies rub. Our words make love with us. They mingle and become dark smudges…
We are exhausted now; a blissful tiredness spreads in our limbs. I lay, spent, on her softness; her arms encircle my back and play with my hair. Sweat breaks out in the regions where our skins touch.
The doorbell intrudes upon the soft sounds of our bodies making small talk. She gently pushes me away and steps out of the bed.
She looks worried. “Put your clothes on,” she says quickly. She grabs a bathrobe and wraps it around her before leaving the room.
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(To be continued...)

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Chapter 2 -- Part 2

For reading the first chapter, you may download it in Acrobat PDF format from here (Click here!)


I have a good look at the living room. It is tastefully furnished in Balinese style. The boxes are still there like an ugly pillar. There is a huge painting of Koi fishes in a pond. The water in the painting flowing into the room, signifying good Feng Shui. That is perhaps the only thing that is not Balinese in this room. But then Feng Shui is important. At one end of the room is a large glass door, with French windows on either side that leads to a spacious balcony. I step into the balcony. There is a rock garden with a water feature and a stone Buddha at one corner of the balcony. There are rattan chairs in the middle and a lush garden beside it. A lovely breeze is blowing, playing with the bamboo wind-chime that is suspended from the overhang, making throaty, erratic sounds. I can see bumboats plying the Singapore River. There are a few high-speed boats too. I watch the boats tearing the water, as if unzipping its fluid skin. I get bored after a while and step back into the living room.
I walk to the large display set that houses the TV and the music system, besides some nick-nacks. There is a loose pile of CDs on one of the shelves, mostly Ghazals by Pankaj Udhas, Chitra Singh and Adnan Sami. I choose three Adnan Samis and feed it to the machine. His soulful voice floats in: Pyaar bina jeena nahin jeena (Living without love is not life), Mujhse bichhadna kabhi na…(Do not ever desert me)
Perhaps it is Sami, I do not know, but I am in the mood for some whiskey. I select a Black Label and a glass from the bar and pour myself a stiff one after dropping two ice cubes from the fridge. I take a sip and then another…
I do not know if it’s Mr. Walker or Mr. Sami or both who is responsible for the strange stirrings in me. I am at peace with the world. At peace with Nisha (let her be, let me be). At peace with Kavitha…? I have to make peace with her, an urgent need. I pour a peace offering and drop another two cubes in it and walk to her bedroom. The bathroom door is ajar.

(To be continued...)

Friday, September 09, 2005

CHAPTER 2 – The Poetry of Sex

“My husband’s clothes are in his cupboard. Do help yourself and change into something homely,” she waves her arm towards one of the rooms.
“It’s okay. I am fine.”
“We have work to do, Dil,” she almost sounds like my boss reminding me of a deadline.
“What work?”
“Help me with this mess, please,” she pleads. Her hand makes a rough sweeping motion indicating the boxes and suitcases on the floor.
A dark thought sails through my mind: Was this all an elaborate ploy?
She reads my face and says pulling up the sleeves of her churidar to reveal a scar on her wrist, “This was Dallas one year back. At the peak… no… at the depths. Six days in hospital. Rohit — that’s my husband — saw me bleeding, said, “Have a nice day,” and went for his board meeting. The cleaning lady called 911.”
“Oh… I am so sorry…”
“No need to be. Not your fault any way,” she looks at her wrist and rubs it with her thumb and says, “Shit! I am filthy…! Tell you what, Dil, I’ll take a quick shower and then we’ll have our brunch. After food we’ll fix this place, okey?”
She hurries to the bedroom. “Just be a minute,” she calls from the bedroom, “An hour-long minute, that is,” I hear her chuckle. “Make yourself at home, Dil. Have a drink, put some music or something.”
I hear the faint rustle of clothes, a wardrobe being opened and shut. Again I hear her voice calling from the bedroom: “Do you want to step into the bathroom with me, Dil? I know you’ve seen me naked.”
I don’t reply.
“I am naked now… If you don’t reply till I count to 5, I am gonna come there and get you. One…Two…Th,” she says, to which my reply is instant: “Look, Kavi, please don’t hassle me, will you,” I press my temple with the three middle fingers of my left hand.
I hear her laugh and then a door swinging behind her.

(To be continued...)

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Chapter 1 -- Part 29


After a while I ask: “What makes you think I care?”
“Care about what?”
“About you… about you fucking around?”
“I didn’t say you did,” her voice muted, she turns her face to the window.
“Hmm,” I say, “Yes, you didn’t… So we’re a bunch of careless people…”
“…in a careless world,” she adds without facing me.

I wave at the receptionist as we enter the lobby. It’s the same guy. I wonder about the difficult life these guys must be having. Kavitha says a perky “Hi!” to him.
He smiles back, though not without some curiosity and concern in his eyes. “Are you okay, madam?”
“Me?” she asks incredulously “Fit as a fiddle. Dee diddle diddle.”
He looks at her strangely.
“Ta ta” she waves at him as we step into the lift.

**********END OF CHAPTER 1
**********

**Watch out for CHAPTER 2--The Poetry of Sex
**


(To be continued...)