The Brave Pedestrian

We are, all of us, two people in one. Part of us deeply believes in social order, world peace, universal happiness, inner purity, karva chauth, 8% GDP growth, India Shining, no chuddies showing, awkward bulges concealed… you know, that sort of thing, which is so important for maintaining law-and-order in everyday life. Coincidentally, this is the part of us that we share with our parents and our children… especially our children. Because there is an invisible yet immutable law that we all obey: In the eyes of the children, thou shalt be squeaky-clean, sexless beings. And this brings on us a great pressure to conform – even more than the pressures of parental expectations of decency, which we all feel free to violate at some time or the other. (The ultimate nightmare of the young couple is not that mother-in-law or father-in-law will open the bedroom door at the wrong moment; it is that little Chintu will wake up one morning and ask, “Mummy, what was papa doing with his susoo ...

Our greatest joy in life can leave the biggest hole in our hearts, she reflected, standing before the mirror, studying the way her saree now draped around her. It looked good. To an outsider, it would look perfect. It would look as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Oh God, how rapidly everything had changed! Two months? No, less! Far less. Tears welled up in her eyes. She wept for herself. And then she wept for her husband. Sobbing softly, she wept for them both. Just a few weeks had elapsed since she had felt those lumps near her armpit, while soaping herself in the bathroom. Concerned, she had called her husband in. He had stepped into the wet bathroom, grinning. "So, you want me to help you soap yourself, huh? With pleasure, darling, with pleasure!" Suppressing the anxiety that was already gnawing at the pit of her stomach, she had handed him the bar of soap, and allowed him to soap her breasts, closing her eyes. It never ceased to amaze her how mu...

1.15 PM. February 8, 1965. A boy and a girl, unmindful of the sun, Sought some private moments on A lonely pier stretching into the Arabian Sea. An entwining of limbs, heavy breathing, a cry And millions of enterprising sperms were swimming Upstream in a mixture of viscous fluids. Some minutes or hours later, A hard-working little fellow Impregnated a singularly fortunate egg And I came into existence. From being a nothing, a nobody, I became a somebody. The rest of those millions of sperms… Each of whom could equally have become A little boy or a girl Were doomed at this exalted moment To be flushed down the drains With so much urine. So were these sacred moments or profane ones? Moments of creation or destruction? Were they beautiful or ugly? Were they sublime or smelly? Did my dad talk dirty? Did mom's cries of pleasure Disturb the sea gulls Or cause an unseen fisherman to hurry To meet his own beloved? To th...

Pressing my need into yours I gaze into your eyes Searching in their depths for an answer: a look that says, "Yes... you are deeply mine. We are One." But your eyes smile, and say instead, "This moment is ours. Journey on." And our limbs and our fingers intertwine comfortingly. Heaven is within us, palpable within the rhythm of our fluid molten flesh poised like an ocean wave about to break, waiting to descend like a thunderclap, a cry of migratory birds, a foretaste of eternal sleep. I have but to close my eyes, match my rhythm, submit to its oceanic will, let it take me, crush me into myself into itself into nothingness into allness. It is a breath waiting to be drawn. But I... I will not draw that breath. I gaze into your open eyes waiting for a fleeting affirmation of Oneness. I sense the moment slipping away from us. Your lids grow heavy, breathing quickens. A sigh, gasp, shudder. Molten flesh releases its heat. You ascend to your own private heaven. I gaze...

It is like a song that is sung in the dark. Her voice, rising, falling, rising higher Like waves, like the sea And his low voice as he urges her on. He delights in her cries, And she... She delights in herself, in free-falling Away from herself Into herself Hurtling backwards in the soft darkness Towards herself, arms and legs outspread. And she cries out in longing and the Joy of meeting And he responds to her song With his rhythm, Causing the waves in her belly, In her entire being. Waves that collapse upon themselves In a froth of pleasure And a high note through clenched teeth that trails Into silence And makes itself one with the night. Naked limbs softly twine and intertwine all night Warm brown flesh caressing luxurious cool white flesh Now in sleep, now in wakefulness... Silken smoothness pressed against creamy softness Dripping pleasure slowly like a burning candle all night Melting down but not quite going out before dawn. The song continues to play in the silence And ne...

1.15 PM. February 8, 1965. A boy and a girl, unmindful of the sun, Sought some private moments on A lonely pier stretching into the Arabian Sea. An entwining of limbs, heavy breathing, a cry And millions of enterprising sperms were swimming Upstream in a mixture of viscous fluids. Some minutes or hours later, A hard-working little fellow Impregnated a singularly fortunate egg And I came into existence. From being a nothing, a nobody, I became a somebody. The rest of those millions of sperms… Each of whom could equally have become A little boy or a girl Were doomed at this exalted moment To be flushed down the drains With so much urine. So were these sacred moments or profane ones? Moments of creation or destruction? Were they beautiful or ugly? Were they sublime or smelly? Did my dad talk dirty? Did mom's cries of pleasure Disturb the sea...

[Friendship, love and trust have many meanings. This story is about one of these meanings.] He lay awake in bed, waiting for her to finish her kitchen winding-up chores and join him. By the time she came in and began undressing for bed, he was very nearly asleep. With drowsy eyes, he gazed at her taking off her saree. She had grown a bit plump of late, but it only made him love her more. "There is more of you to hug now than when I married you," he sighed, wrapping his arms and legs around her in the dim light of the bedlamp. "This is sheer luxury!" She reciprocated by kissing him, and then turned around, determined to fall asleep quickly. Tomorrow was another tough day ahead, and she would have to cook a full formal lunch, keeping in mind his guest. Not just the daal-chaval that she made on days when she was feeling tired. "Turn off the lights, please," she said sleepily. "Not yet," he breathed in her ear. "Let me enjoy looking at...

There was a time, about 7 years ago, when my blogger nickname was Friendly Ghost or FG. And just to debunk the myth that I am always a serious-minded person, I want to repost this blog about a chat that I had with a bubbly blogger-buddy whose nickname was Saakshee. March 12, 2007: Those of you who are privileged to know the quirky Saakshee know that she's looking for e-pals now. There ain't nobody on this iLand who has a cyber-libido like her, and who has as large an appetite for cyber-flirting as she does. But here's some breaking news: until Friday, it seemed as though she was devoutly an atheist who turned up her nose at the Hallowed Spirit. But one found that she falls down most ardently before Him. Indeed, she wishes to embrace Him with a passion. How did a ghost make this startling discovery? While chatting with her of course! Read on: FG: So you don’t wanna talk serious tomorrow? Saakshee: NO FG: You wanna flirt as usual? Saakshee: YES FG: okeedokee… Sa...

Chapter VII: FLASHBACK — How Henderson Met Namita Henderson had come into her life very recently. More precisely, he was brought into her life by Tony. Tony knew Gaitonde because the cop had nabbed him one day in the act of smooth-talking a foreign tourist, and taken him in for questioning. And because he had used third-degree methods without asking him any questions or charging him with anything specific, Tony, alias Mayank Tandel, had confessed to the murder of Deepya in Gorai village. A few discreet enquiries over with the Gorai village police  thane  had given the wily Gaitonde some very interesting information. Deepya, in his dying declaration, had said that the heavy oar had fallen on his head. Nobody had said anything about a murder, and so the police had put it down in their files as an accidental death. That night, Deepya was cremated beside Mayank's father, and his wife had wailed with her arms thrown around Mayank's mother. If anybody knew the truth, they w...