I stared at the decayed planked wall inside the decrepit room. The wooden door creaked open and yanked, propelled by the dusty ceiling fan. The pigeons flocked at the edge of the sill and the throaty coos irritated me to death. I feel suffocated speaking to the wall every day and desperately wanted to run away from the boisterous life of old Bombay, the sight of blue-and-yellow cabs, trucks and buses screeching to life, the blaringly loud horns.
The rudderless life, aimless existence and stench of tobacco crushed on the floor felt like a half-dead orgasmic climax. I wanted to puke at the sight of everything. Relentless city noise has deprived me of tranquillity and sleep. The only solace is the alcohol and cheap whisky for 20 bucks. We are in the 90s. My life is cheap. Cheap packet of gold flake cigarette, cheap sex every day and cheap food. The polluted air is free, so is the sea gentle at times and stormy the next. The spangle of light stretched out, coalescing with the dappled sun that made me snigger at everything human and nature. I lumbered, to and fro, between the sofa and the door, inching to slouch on the same space.
Hunched shoulders, tingled skin and unwavering eyes gazing at the midnight’s dotted lights forming a shadow. She left her coat hanging the night before when we were making mad mad love and biting into each other, scratching skins to play silly games like termites crawling into each other’s flesh. I thought she wouldn’t come tonight. Weltering in the high heels and short skirts, she walked straight to flounce her designer bag on the bed. I pretended to ignore her. My senses are incapacitated with the ego riding high like the cheap whisky I drink at every nightfall, admiring the coconut trees lingering the sea. She left in the middle of the act yesterday. I hate her. Bitch! I wanted to yell.
The sullen look wore thin on my face and hastily pulled the short on my underwear before she started to kiss me sloppily and assaulting my skinny body. She winked at me. “So much trouble you took, na. What’s the point of wearing the short when I gonna pull it down.” I cannot bear to see her seducing effortlessly written all over the face, the edge she always commands without trying too hard. The smirk on her face, the look and roving eyes killed me every second. I wanna talk tough. “The door is open,” I tut-tutted.
She lit a cigarette. The smoke blew on my face. “Haan! Toh! The door is always open and let fresh air and breeze curl inside this small room like the foggy cigarette. Do you want me to leave? she japed at me. The wickedness, effortless gaze, simpering and cackle sent me in a stew. If I was chicken gravy, she would gobble me at one instant. “Your choice,” I blabbered.
I faked the act of looking unfazed for we are addicted to each other. She may have different lovers and a filthy rich husband but comes to me every night which gives an instant and adrenaline high. The fear of seeing her going away and the eyes furtively squinted at her moves, the steps towards the door. She stopped abruptly and pulled off the blouse to show the perfected sculpted bareback. She wanted to say, ‘Fuck off.’ I was pretty sure of that. She slowly turned around in her curvy shapes like an artist and trotted on the heels of a cat mewing behind the door, grabbed the poor thing, ruffling furs and kissed it. The poor animal shrieked and slipped away from her.
Slouching on the torn off sofa that bore our violence for shaking and jumping several nights, I was amused to watch an object flung towards me. I avoided it in time through twists and turns. Her stilettos almost kissed my face. She threw herself at me.
I don’t even know her name. We have been doing it every night for several months. She’s an egoistic and maniacal woman hell-bent to see me lose control and doesn’t flinch in saying. The large wry smile on her face is the triumph of seeing me growing weak at the idea and name of sex.
She never played the victim card. I did. She is an enigma and doesn’t flinch in asking for intimacy but claimed it as if a birthright. I loathed it for getting monotonous like morning brunch. She is nonchalant. “Roughen me, man. You are sexy. Caress my body and skin. I am not feeling anything. Let your hair down. You know the best thing about us is how when we kiss and your mind wanders. No complaint. I love to take the lead. You are easy-going unlike my husband and the lovers I meet during the day. I want more.” It’s a piece of cake for her.
I am panting. Words are flowing and dunno from where. Must be the effect of the imported scotch she brought from US. “I want you, only you,” I pressed harder on her. She flailed her hands and long legs slithering my lip and pressed my stomach. “Baby…” I breathed. She almost kicked me in the groin. “Stop calling me that. I am a free bird. I cannot be possessed by males like you. Set yourself free. Feel it.”
“I hate your husband, the money bag, expensive cars and hotel suites,” I doggedly say.
“You cannot…a dimwit you are. You don’t even know him and I am fucking you right now. Stop eyeing my boobs and hating my husband. It’s like asking for coins when you got the notes. Time to get out of this poor and dirty room for you are caught in this virus cheap mentality of poor vs rich, envying the rich. Such a fuck all mental ejaculation with this envy thing.”
“Come on! Fuck me harder, “she moaned.
I nodded. “It’s not like some fucking competition going on,” I almost told her.
I was tired of playing this game with a rich woman who got nothing else to do but dragged me on top of her every night. This routine ailed me. We fucked and smoke up. There is nothing between us. I loathed it. No meaningful conversation, no cuddling and laughing together.
She called me a train boggy but gelatinous. I termed her as the biggest earth-shattering mystery and a nymph wearing the chameleon colors. She freaked out and became violent when I stubbornly insisted on hearing her name. She doesn’t want to know mine, either. Names are our dirty secret, not the sex.
A dominant woman who flaunts the most expensive clothes, bangles and jewelry, she took pride in overpowering me with a kooky smile drawn on paper. Every dog has its day, I whispered into her ears. “You bet,” she faked a coquettish smile. I galumphed at the small victory. She spent the entire night in my kholi, the rat-infested dingy square room and I got a sadistic high way bigger than the climax admiring the flies and insects hovering above her head and the sleepless sleep broken by the ear-splitting pigeons cooing near the lobe. I tasted victory and sipped my alcohol that filled the nostril and swirled on the tongue. Sweet revenge has never tasted so good and lingered in the mouth for months and years. Harivarsha disappeared like a mystery was never seen again.
PS: This fiction has been inspired by one of the short stories in Adwaita Das’s novel Colors of Shadow. Click to buy the marvellous book about human lives and relationships on Amazon.
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