This:

A Shower for the Hobbits?

What is this? A shower for Hobbits? Of course not, although it might work well as one. It is — you guessed it (you did, didn’t you? especially after the title of the blog?) — a urinal. For a moment I froze when I looked at this. And then I asked a friend who was with me: “Why?”

Yes, philosophical questions rear their ugly heads in practically any context. But here, especially, I think it’s a relevant question. I mean, really, WHY the f$%#! Are those standard, typical, urinals that expensive, that at frigging expensive places like hotels and multiplexes, they have to do cost cutting?

Of course not.

Like I said this post was long due. The previous context was the apparent inverse proportion between how pricey a place is, and the length/height of the wall separating two urinals in a restroom. For instance, a typical restroom for men in posh hotels/multiplexes looks like this:

Get rid of walls and partitions!

It’s like John Lennon’s dream come true.

“Imagine there’s no walls,
No partitions too,
Imagine all the people, peeing in harmony …”

Yes, break down all the walls and partitions. And what a better place to start than restrooms!

In Metro BIG Cinema, or the multiplexed version of the original Metro Cinema in south Mumbai, where tickets are 300 and above, we have something similar to this in the restroom:

Look at the screen, not, um, elsewhere

Okay from what I remember there is a small excuse of a board between the two urinals, but their purpose is to demarcate the area for individual, I guess, because they serve no other purpose (unless again, it’s designed with Hobbits in mind). Here is how the logic goes.

“We’ve given you a digital scree to stare at, so no one should look anywhere else”

Pray tell me: anyone who can afford those digital screens, one per urinal, why can’t they afford a proper partition? Surely affordability is not the issue.

So that gets us back to the point before: why are the rest rooms in more expensive/plush places less privacy oriented? Do people from higher classes of society belong to some sort of not-so-secret society, where this is an initiation routine — feeling comfortable to pee (almost) in the open? Or is this some sort of social justice, where like those poor people who are forced to pee out in the open, through necessity; more well to do people are forced to pee, (virtually) out in the open?

I for one have no answers. Let the theories flow.

Seriously, when was the last I ever wondered how should I spend a day?

Even in the early days of their marriage, when V was doing a regular job … She smiled. V knew how to enjoy a day off. Maybe, he needed to learn how to enjoy a day on, if there were such a term. V should know. After all, he was the writer, proudly unpublished.

But did she really enjoy the days in the office? Did she enjoy work? Or was she just too busy to ask those questions?

I must stop this. I cannot afford to become another V

For a moment, she wanted to switch on the laptop, and review her todo lists, to see if she can take care of some of the long pending items on it. How to make your holiday more productive. I can write a book on it, she thought.

“Breakfast madam”, said V, breaking her reverie.

Typical V! She thought, remembering the early days of their marriage, when V used to prepare their breakfast on weekends and holidays.

The tray was laden with a double omelet, three crisp toasts, assorted fruit slices, steaming hot cup of tea, and a slice of fruit-cake — warmed up in the microwave, she noted, as her hand brushed it. Simple fare, and yet she knew the sincere effort he would have put in it, to choose, to prepare, to arrange.

“Thanks V”, she said. Then, noticing that he was not going to get another one, she asked,  “What about you?”

“I ate at an Irani place with Rakesh”

“Oh. How is he?”

“He’s fine, I guess. Did not ask”

“So you guys just sat and talked about writing, eh?”

His expression changed a little, as if he remembered something said that was bugging him.

“Pretty much. Not that there is much that one can talk with him about writing”

“Come on V. Why are you always so disparaging about his writing. He doesn’t write that bad”

“Darling! He’s a great friend, and a best-selling author, but please, let’s not talk about his writing”

“And what about your writing, V?”

She almost regretted saying that. She didn’t want to pick up a fight, not today. Lately, though, her frustration with V’s dismissive attitude had started to get the better of her.

“It will have to wait till I write something”, he said, a bit evasively, she thought.

“So let me get it straight: you don’t want to talk about his writing because he has actually been writing, and getting published, and getting read. And you don’t want to talk about your writing, because you have not done any of it?”

“Yes”, he said, simply. “Because if one is to talk about good writing, none of those things matter”

“And you, who has written nothing, can sit on that judgement, apparently.

“Since when did writing become a prerequisite for judging other people’s writing?”

She knew it was wrong. But she could not put a finger on it — just where that gaping hole was, in the intricate defense he had built. She wanted to find that hole, and bring the scaffolding down, just to shake him out of his fantasy world. But she knew she did not have a heart for it. She kept silent as she put a piece of cake in her mouth.

“You know”, he said after a while, “it always baffled me how poor his reading is, for a writer.

“And since when did reading become a prerequisite for good writing?”

He frowned.

“You know what your problem is, V? You confuse your being well-read with understanding writing. I’m not saying you don’t. I am not qualified to say anything about that. But it’s not an automatic connection, you know. Reading is inherently a second-hand activity. So what if you are very well read. Why do you brag about it so much? It’s not like you’ve done any of that writing. You just freakin read it! Big deal”

I’m doing it all wrong. This vehemence. Why? I love him, still.

She looked at him. If he was hurt, and she knew he was, he wasn’t showing it. Instead his expression bordered on a stupid incomprehension, as if he wanted to feign ignorance, or worse, as if she were talking in a language that he did not understand.

Maybe, he needs it. Maybe, because I love him, I owe it to him.

“That’s a total tangent”, he said finally. “And wrong on so many counts, that I don’t know where to start”

“Then don’t”, she said, as she opened her laptop to check out her ‘todo’ lists.

Already posted to twitter and FB. Posting to blog for ‘completeness’. . All feedback appreciated, as usual. Share, if you feel like it.

The idea that the nakharas of desi girls are unparalleled in the world is highly suspect. No I wasn’t going back to native charms, I was leaving Uma to go back to Indira who had newly acquired a FB profile, where she was posting her photos in the latest western clothes, updates about her visits to spas, and hair stylists, snaps of pastas and enchiladas she was cooking at home; Indira whose father owned a, now prospering, packaged foods business; and all this with an additional promise of freedom from unmitigated feminism of the likes of Uma.

I was excited to be going back to Indira, and I thought I had the right expectations — after being away for four years, I was prepared for Indira to seem less like the person I had lived with, and more like a person I knew only as an internet friend: casually familiar, but really unknown.

Our reunion was success by any metric. We went to movies together, shopped in malls, entertained old friends (always side by side — our new found intimacy on display) and our families (with smiling faces), bought a new SUV, furnished the house with designer curtains, modular kitchen, and a state of the art home theater.

And yet, six months later, I found myself thinking — not whether to get out of the relationship again, but how.

A week later, I was back with Uma.

—-

Anyone who’s commented on Indira’s FB wall, has commented, at some point, that there are two or three Indiras: the naive Indira, the emancipated Indira, the ferocious Indira. Maybe they stop at three because it’s difficult for others to imagine more.

Early on, all that seemed true. I’d see the naive Indira who accepted me back joyously, being taken over by emancipated Indira, who would question me unlike before, who, ultimately, being taken over by ferocious Indira who would contradict me in public, or ask me to shut up.

But then the multiple Indiras vanished, and a dull, everyday Indira surfaced. I stopped noticing her old self, her new self, and the contradictions therein. Within weeks, I was routinely telling her what food I wanted, when my socks needed to be in washing machine, and clothes ironed, and when the bed needed a change of sheets. I had learned to shower her with praise when she cooked continental food, and bring home flowers and chocolates, when I crossed a line, and she wouldn’t talk to me. Everything was familiar, normal, unremarkable, as it should be; I was living with Indira.

Then it started to go wrong.

My marriage to Indira wasn’t a love match, but rather arranged by my parents, without even asking me what I wanted. So I had not really seen Indira as a human being, just as someone who my parents had arranged for me. Like one arranges a job for someone incapable of finding one.

Three weeks after we were back together, I noticed, for the first time, that Indira sweated too much, all the time. That despite her numerous trips to spas, and beauty clinics, she rarely looked like the photos she had uploaded on Facebook. I started calling Uma again. One must have backups.

Within two months, I had stopped bringing in the roses, and chocolates. I had learned my lessons after accidentally listening on the other line, her boasting to a friend that she faked anger to garner my attentions all the time. It only spoils them if you give them too much attention. Besides, they’re all attention whores.

In three months, I had my first bed rage incident: I forced her to do it, using my strength, and the power of societal norms, when she complained for the fourth night in a row of a splitting headache. I wasn’t going to let the ferocious Indira to control the naive Indira.

Then when she contradicted me in front of our driver, I shouted at her and asked her to shut the fuck up. My driver looked at me with new found respect. I don’t know how Indira felt, as I couldn’t look into her eyes.

I confessed about these changes to a friend who assured me it was fine really, and that we would have a fabulous life together, if we both kept on doing the small things right, not thinking too much about such one off incidents, all too common in relationships.

But I had no doubt if our relationship could be successful. I knew it could be. I hated what I was becoming.

I struggled, I regressed, I improved, I tried learning from others  — except so many seemed (to me, not to them) worse off: a public abuse here, a not so subtle inquiry about our sex life there (I’m still furious with myself for answering), tips on how to keep my women “in her place” everywhere — it just didn’t stop. And Indira was becoming more assertive, dominating, giving back to me every now and then, like a closet feminist who has come out after all those years.

And so it goes.

In any breakup, there is this moment when a person who was a part of you just an instant ago becomes a surrealistically familiar stranger. After that moment, inertia and denial can only delay the inevitable.

On my last night with Indira, I held her tight, and cried; I knew this second goodbye was final. When I first left Indira, I left her for Uma. When I left Indira again, I left Indira and went back to Uma.

—

Why do I feel better with Uma? Maybe because I chose her, unlike Indira who was chosen for me. Perhaps the artificial stability of arranged marriage had made us take each other for granted, never having to think about the other person as person, and we ended up suffocating each other. We masked the faults of other, romanticizing them with platitudes handed down by elders, but those faults surfaced once I started thinking. Perhaps Uma and everyone else has some of those faults, too. But with Indira, I could see them glaring out at me, like those intimidating Hindi soap vamps whose closeup occupies all 60 inches of wall mounted Plasma TV, in HD, with a deafening background music to complete the horror.

Partly, it’s worse with Indira, because I expect it to be better, given our forced union long back.

Indira’s naivety is still glaringly obvious. But couple it with a new-found feminist ideas , and in double quick time, the western dresses or the Rs. 800 worth haircuts start losing their charms. Maybe Indira is naive because of her conservative upbringing under a brute of a father, and an equally ignorant mother. Maybe, as she mingles with people at her workplace — well rounded, articulate, confident  — she will be a better person. I know she will be. I’ve just resigned myself to the fact — that I won’t be a part of that future.

I’m glad I went back to Indira, and I’m glad to be back with Uma. Life has come full circle but the center has shifted. I didn’t go to Indira to find stable relationship, but I did find it; I now know where I belong. As Laozi might have said, sometimes the journey of a single step starts with a thousand miles in the opposite direction.

(As I left in my old car for Uma’s apartment, FM had an English classic hour on, and I settled back to immerse myself into Billy Joel’s “She’s Always a Woman”. Finally digging it, after all these years

Note: This blog is a piece of pure fiction, and any resemblance to any other non-fiction pieces such as “Why I Left India (Again)“, are totally accidental. But then accidents do happen. Especially when your intentions are not very clean.

When I was too young to drink, I had taken on a, for that age typical, position that drinking is a bad thing, and I will NEVER drink. The NEVER lasted for a couple of years, by when I was not too young to drink anymore. I let go my former diktat to myself. I started with the stronger brew: the iconic Old Monk rum. Then, for a while, scoffing at beers, and insisting that wines are a snobbish waste of money, I stuck to rum, despite inability of my system to really cope with it. Over the years I had puked in the roadside gutter, I had a new year’s first day completely wiped off the calender due to extreme bouts of vomiting, and so on. Finally, I embraced beer, another U-Turn, gradually started loving it.

My first girlfriend was not comfortable with the very concept of drinking, so one fine day I stopped drinking. Drinking was never such a big deal to really risk a relationship over. I was off it for over a year or two. Then when I broke-up with her, there was no real reason not to drink. So I started again, sticking mostly to beer this time around, which suited my constitution — the next morning you don’t have to worry about headaches, and stomach issues. In IIT, it became a religion of sorts. More so. It became a unit. You could measure money in no of beer cans. You could measure height. You did. Some of the best times of our life in IIT were spent over draught beer in a vegetarian pub in Ghatkopar, and  baby-corn pakoras and other munchings. But drinking never threatened to become a need. And none in the group has even come close to being dependent on alcohol. Rarely do any of them drink now, if at all.

Later, I was again in a relationship, and although this time my wife to be was okay with my drinking earlier on, when I called up on her birthday — okay correct that, after her birthday was over, at 0030 next day — horribly drunk, she was concerned about my ‘drinking’. Another period of ‘abstinence’ started.

Over the years, I picked up wine drinking, and pretty much enjoy drinking wine, and occasionally a good beer. But these days, I drink with very very few people (add another very if you want). Many believe I don’t drink, which actually suits me. Sometimes white lies or refusal to correct wrong impressions is the easiest way out. But increasingly we live a public life, thanks to Facebook and the likes. Keeping such white lies going is mostly not worth it.

What has this to do with ‘ethics of drinking’, you ask? I’m getting there. It’s about choosing ‘who’ you drink with, and who you don’t drink with.

Yesterday, for instance, I learned that a friend I used to drink regularly with died recently. His distant relations who gave me the news attributed it to his alcoholism. He was as old as I am — late thirties. He supposedly died due to complications after jaundice. The link between his alcoholism and his death might not be rock solid, but on circumstantial evidence, I’d probably attribute it to his drinking problem. Was I responsible for his death, a tiny bit? I know it’s preposterous line of thinking. But then how about everyone collectively, who drank with him? Why couldn’t we have had good times without the ‘substance’. One thing I’ve noticed through my periods of abstinence is that I did not have significantly bad/different time then. Drinking starts as a means to companionship with actual human friends, and then, for some, it becomes ‘the’ companion.

So here is the hypothetical question: if I had known he was going to be an alcoholic, would I still have shared a drink with him? The answer is a firm no. Borderline? No. So, in a way, I was relying on  my judgement of what’s to come, when I continued drinking with him. If you ask me, there IS such a thing as ‘ethics of drinking’.

Yes, you can’t really stop an alcoholic-to-be by refusing to drink with him/her. Mostly, s/he’ll just find someone else to drink with, or drink alone.

Back in the IIT days, a friend asked me my opinion about trying out alcohol. I advised him not to, considering he was emotionally struggling then. I said, if you drink now, you’d probably be dependent on it. For some reasons, he agreed with me. (If I remember it correctly, I told him, if you want to drink to forget your worries/pain, don’t drink). Later in his life, he did start drinking, but in those crucial years, I still believe he could have turned alcoholic if he had picked up drinking at that time. There IS ethics of drinking, if you ask me.

Here, then, are the rules I’ve set for myself.

1. I’ll never drink (in small intimate groups — unlike social occasions where drinks are served) with any friend who drinks at any time because he ‘has to’, at that time. If I can see him not being able to say “no”, or I’ve seen him being unable to say no, for me, he’s potential alcoholic. I won’t drink with him/her.
2. Goes without saying, I’ll not drink with a ex-alcoholic, or current alcoholic.
3. I’ll never drink with anyone who becomes abusive after drinking.
4. I’ll NEVER initiate anyone into drinking.
5. I’ll never drink with those for whom drinking is a ritual — every x days.

You can’t always list down all rules. You have to take a call on a case by case basis, based on a guiding principle. I know at times you hurt people by refusing to drink ‘specifically’ with them. If you are not drinking at all, it’s easy. But if you do, and if you choose, you’re in for trouble. But when was ethics without troubles.

This blog is an attempt to explain my ethical position, to lessen some of the hurt people feel. On the other hand, I know this could work exactly the reverse way. I will take that risk. Those who prefer white lies over truth probably won’t be able to take me much in the long run, anyways. Better now, than later.

In the past, on the issue of smoking, I have taken a somewhat contradictory stance, when some of my friends were trying to use peer pressure to make another friend quit smoking. I had refused to join them and shun him. There is a small but important difference. I never smoked, and never encouraged smoking, but refused to ‘oblige’ people to quit smoking, just as I refuse to ‘oblige’ people (even possible alcoholics) to stop drinking. I’m too much of an individualist to do that. People have a right to kill themselves, slow or fast, or take risks. It’s like shunning a person who drives recklessly. But I’ll not join him/her in that venture, if I think s/he’s crossing that thin line — of self control. They’ll have to do that slow dying without me. If there are contradictions, I’ll live with them. I’ve lived with bigger contradictions.

To recap: Not much has happened in episodes 1, 2 and 3, beyond some thoughts by characters — about life, love, writing, and other petty things.

Chaitali was woken up by a jazzy ring tone she hadn’t heard before. Another quintessential V habit, she thought, changing the caller tune every other day. For a moment, she tried to think if she had heard the music before — it did sound very familiar, but she could not recall where she had heard it. Then she really woke up.

First thing she noticed was the room: she was not in the bedroom, but in the living room, slumped on the sofa, her neck somewhat stiff. The next thing she noticed was the bright sunlight in the room, unlike the semi-darkness that she was used to when she woke up every day. She sprang to her feet when it dawned on her that she had overslept! She went to the bedroom and found her phone; it had a few missed calls from the office. Only then did she notice V’s absence. She kicked the bed in rage.

Why didn’t he wake me up, she thought angrily. One day I don’t get up on time, and he leaves the house without even waking me up, when he knows I hate to be late to the office. And where was he, anyway?

It was more than a year now that V had quit his well paying job with a multinational company, as a senior tech-writer, and was doing nothing. Well, mostly nothing, apart from some freelancing assignments, once in a blue while, which rarely paid for the internet connection.

Oh, yes, he is also writing his novel!

She noticed the bitterness creeping in, and admonished herself.

Why am I suddenly so critical of everything about V?

After all, V was the same V she had once fallen in love with. Most people change, she thought, and that is why so many marriages break down.

But V hasn’t changed! And what about me? Have I changed? Or have my expectations changed? Is there a difference?

Absentmindedly she entered the kitchen. Just as she was about to make tea, she saw a large mug covered with a coaster on the dining table. She picked up the coaster. It was V’s trademark tea that she seldom got to drink these days. He used to make it early in the morning when he was working, but now he woke up so late that invariably it was she who prepared the tea. It was lukewarm. She warmed it in the microwave and walked back into the living room. Gladly, she sipped the lovely tea, slumping down into the sofa again. She contemplated if she should call in sick, now the day was quite messed up anyways. Just then she heard the key turning in the latch, and V entered.

“Good morning”, he said, a tad too brightly, she thought.

“It’s more like mid-day”, she said, the anger returning to her.

“Yeah, this is the time when the day starts for most normal people”

She gave him a cold stare.

“Why didn’t you wake me up, V?”

“People don’t oversleep, unless they want to”

She looked at him with disbelief. It’s not that she did not know he was capable of saying that, but she did not think he’d give her that line.

“V! I don’t ever want to be late to office. You know that. So I don’t want to oversleep”

“Well, maybe you needed to, then. Maybe want is a wrong word”

“This isn’t your fucking novel V –  try one word, and replace it if it doesn’t seem right“

“Whoa! I’m sorry. But why are we so agitated early in the day? It’s not like they’re going to fire you for oversleeping one day?”

“That’s not the point V. The point is: you know I hate it, and …”

“Why?”, he cut her mid-sentence.

She looked at him with exasperation.

“I am so not having a ‘why am I doing this job’ conversation with you at this moment”

“You never have that conversation with me”

“Yes. Because you enjoy a position from which it’s easy to have that conversation. And you enjoy that position because I am doing this job, rather than having that conversation”

Immediately, she regretted her words.

“Don’t kid yourself, honey. You don’t do the job so that I can enjoy my position — I’m assuming you mean the freedom of not having to work for a living. You don’t need to do it this religiously for that. You do it for entirely different reasons. You self-esteem is tied to it. It’s just that you don’t acknowledge it”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“I never said anything’s wrong with that”

I can’t win this argument, though Chaitali. Besides, the wave of anger had subsided, especially with guilt taking over.

“Okay I’m sorry I took it out on you. But you know how much I hate to be late to office”

“I was going to wake you up. But I saw you sleeping here, and I couldn’t. You look so tired these days. I though I ought to let you sleep”

She looked at his earnest expression.

He still loves an outdated idea of me, she thought, a vulnerable little thing to be protected.

“Do me a favor, V. Next time something like this happens, please don’t exercise your precious moral judgement on the situation. Just wake me up, OK?”

“Oh it won’t happen again for a few years”

She smiled, despite herself.

“And now that I’ve rest of the day free, I should try and remember the last time you paid me a complement that wasn’t underhanded”

It took him a few seconds to register the first part.

“You mean you aren’t going to office?”

“This is what I love about you, V”, she said, in mock sarcasm, “You know how to ignore the important part of the message and pick up the trivial”

“Oh well, I’m glad you still love something about me”, he said, “there is still hope”

Lost Art of Gratitude | The Sunday Philosophy Club

44 Scotland Street | 44 Scotland Street

Smith is hardly a religious conservative. His novels may ridicule post-modernist fads, psychoanalysis and other Freudian obsessions, feminist insistence on ‘gender neutral parenting’, and so on; yet on the typical modern issues such as homosexuality, gender equality, for instance, he sides with the liberals. And as I see it, he’s a quintessential liberal: believing in equality of sexes, rejecting social taboos of alternate sexualities, rarely bringing up religion, interested in music, arts, and so on, understanding of (even if mildly caricaturing) alternative thoughts, personal freedoms, and so on. Rarely do we see from him a cry for authority, moral or otherwise; quite the contrary.

And yet, the only reaction I got for that article rejected the lament, equating the ‘old fashioned morality’ with authoritarian social morality as a relic of religious stranglehold on the society. But religions don’t invent morality. They just borrow it from the society around, tweaking a bit here, a bit there, to create a brand-ready package, with a simple interface (before the hundred odd revision it’s bound to go through, as the time goes by, of course). What atheist call (and I’m one of them) the ‘secular’ morality, is not very different from a core teachings of many religions. I suspect, it also comes from the society around it, after applying bit of critical thought. In essence, what Smith is lamenting, is the loss of  civic values, that have nothing to do with religion, but with being ‘better’ human beings. Of course, it’s all very circular, and to define social morality is a tricky prospect. And yet, somewhere, we all understand what it means — we in a specific date and time and place, at least — don’t we? How else, do we long for ‘universal declaration of human rights’, if we have no idea, as society, what we’re talking about?

So, anyways, the comment got me stared on so many tangents, that I never replied to it. A brief viral fever meant I did not write about it, as I wanted to, and finally when I sat down to write about it, it was so jumbled in my brain, that I decided to write it down anyways. How bad can it get?

One of the points Smith brings up, is that of chaotic modern families, where children grow without a moral compass. Irony is, Bertie, the precocious kid from 44 Scotland Street series, does have a moral authority in the family, in Irene, his feminist mother who takes an almost pathological interest in his upbringing, taking ideas of Melanie Klein, as fundamentalistically, as orthodox religious parents might take their religious tenets. Maybe Smith was just attacking a modern religion, as his post-religious world (nowhere in these two series, is religion at the center of anything, so attacking a dead God would have been meaningless). And yet, he is yearning for a moral compass, a benignly authoritarian morality figure (or figures), of sorts. A central contradiction?

When I think of parenting — something which I have to think about more and more, as my kid is growing at an alarming rate of one day every day — of the kind of parent I would like to be, of all the literature I’ve read, of all the movies that I’ve seen (and I’m aware these are not the best places to look for that, but art tends to create social tokens that are easy to present to the other, without a need to have to explain yourself in a thousand words, to others, and more importantly, to oneself. So it’s convenience I’m after — although, I’m sure I’ll use more than a thousand words

The Moral Compass

anyways) , the image of Atticus Finch (for those who haven’t read To Kill a Mockingbird, stop right here, obviously, you need to go read that, if you have the time and patience to read what I’ve written!) comes to my mind. Of course, Atticus is a single parent. But that’s somewhat inconsequential. Because, Atticus is in so many ways a father I’d want to be. Arch-liberal, understanding, clear in his thinking, gentle, approachable, trusting, always there when needed and yet ready to dissolve in the background when not needed,  never over-reaching or over meddling.

And yet, and yet, Atticus is the moral compass. By walking the walk, the unglamorous ‘right’ walk, the everyday, non-heroic walk, he is setting an example for his kids to follow (as we see James picking up bits and pieces from him, even though, as a kid he has all his big brotherly vices). And Atticus, although not overtly, is a moral authoritarian, slipping in his moral diktats every once in a while — making James serve his term with Mrs. Dubose, or letting them know in no uncertain terms that they are not to disturb the Radley’s, or indicating to Scout that you don’t comment on the eating habits of guests, and his tacit acceptance of Calpurnia’s authoritative regime as housemaid, to name a few.

For, can liberalism survive, if it lets ultra-conservatism thrive as just another valid viewpoint? Isn’t that the basic question our world is grappling with? Isn’t that what Smith is hinting at, through the article, and his novels? Don’t we all hope to stamp out ultra-conservatism, by espousing an authoritarian liberalism? That great contradiction in terms?

I don’t know if I will ever be even half of what Atticus represents, just as a father. But if I do, I know I will feel proud. Despite any moral authoritarian excesses, once in a while. For, a compass that just shows the direction is useless, unless there is someone who can decide which direction is to be taken. And sometimes, we all have to bear that cross.

1. The title is a tribute to Alexander McCall Smith — although the story has nothing to do with him, either in style or content. But I’ve been searching for a title for just about all the time I’ve been writing this, and none came to mind.
2. The story has been been written over some fifty odd sittings, over nine or so months, two countries, (at least) 3 cities. At times a few words, or sentences were added, or deleted. At time I just read and reread it to find a way to take it somewhere. Consequently, there is no flow. This has been, undoubtedly, the hardest story, in terms of effort I put in. Not that there is anything to show for it.
3. This is just an attempt to keep fiction writing alive, perseverance for the sake of it, mostly. And I suspect even the usual suspects are going to be disappointed. So read at your own peril, especially if you’re a first time visitor.
4. And still I’m happy, that it’s out. It’s finished, somehow. I’m going nowhere. And that, I believe is a good thing.
5. Kids, stay away. Has a bit of mature content.

Now all the disclaimers done, let’s start at the beginning, for a change.

I looked at Shivani as she gulped down another peg of scotch. She was dressed in a crimson colored sleeveless top, and a pale yellow skirt. In her late thirties, Shivani carried all colors well. But then she hardly looked her age. One had to look carefully to see a few graying hair (she, thankfully did not color her hair and they looked real), or watch her face from a close distance, to see inevitable signs of aging. Still, with two children and a job to manage, it was surprising that she managed to look that young. But one look at her eyes would have been enough for anyone to know that she wasn’t as young as she looked — her gaze was sufficient for that. That is, if you looked into her eyes and did not look away as she held your gaze. That night, though, she was looking almost schoolgirlish, as she kept on glancing sideways at Nirmal, her insane adulation for the creep visible to anyone who cared to look. But who, from the predominantly twenty something ‘we are the world’ generation would look at a women in her late-thirties with a gaze that told you to stay away? If you discount me, that is?

Not that I like the school-girl look — I detest its lack of substance actually, something popular culture mistakenly holds as carefree or innocent — but she was looking so much lovelier, with that trace of vulnerability that wanting something desperately introduces in you. The drinks were having their effect too, I guess, wearing down her defenses, and that ‘I’m in control’ look from her face. It must have been her fifth drink; I had stopped counting, and even stopped being surprised. At couple of pegs, I was already reeling a bit, myself. I’m a bad drinker, and so I am generally extra careful to not lose control. But I watched her, as she watched Nirmal, her boss — our boss, actually. Nirmal was openly flirting with Alpa, the new harebrained temp who’d joined us recently. But I wasn’t even looking at Alpa — by consensus the hottest temp ever to join our setup in a long while. My eyes were riveted on Shivani. I watched her, and watched her – a luxury I was denied otherwise, even while working in the same team.

I watched the delicate shape of her lips, and wondered how would it feel, to trace it with my fingertips. I looked at her eyes — on the verge of tears (I imagined, although I’m sure no one would have agreed with me) yet cold. I looked at her arms, bared by her sleeveless top and I noticed that she had a little mid aged fat after all. My eyes followed the neckline of her top, and then down and I noticed a hint of cleavage, and how the fabric clung to her breasts. It always drives me crazy, the way female body leaves its marks on the clothes, making even a fully clothed woman look more sensual than one showing off lot of skin. I let my gaze linger there for a moment, before moving to her face, again. It was then that I noticed that Shivani’s gaze had turned to me, catching me ogling at her, and this time it was impossible to pretend it was anything else, like in the past, when my lecherous gaze — yes that’s what it was, after all — was more circumspect. I missed a heartbeat. My face must have betrayed the guilt, and I thought about how awkward it would be next time we sat across the table in the office, or passed each other in the corridor.

Then she smiled — not her usual, formal smile, but a knowing, mischievous smile — and motioned me to join her. I walked with heavy legs, and slumped down next to her on a bar stool.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying your drink”, she said, pointing to my glass, her expression unchanged.

“Drinks are overrated”, I said, trying to sound cool.

“And what isn’t?”, she asked, looking away, gulping down more of her drink.

You, I wanted to say. But that would have sounded corny. There was so much I wanted to tell her, like: you’re demeaning yourself by going after that lecherous fool. But then what was I? A love struck romeo, a gutless lecher with a thin mask of respectability? I wasn’t sure myself what I was.

I sat there, awkward, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry”, I mumbled, barely audible.

She smiled again, dismissively this time. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re flattering me”

I attributed that to the drinks that had worn her out.

“But you are so beautiful”, I added, surprising myself.

You bastard, said a voice inside me. She’s vulnerable, and probably drunk way more than she should be. Don’t manipulate her. But was I? What did I want? Was I kidding myself, calling this infatuation at best, and lust at worst, love? What was the difference between Nirmal and I? He at least would be honest to himself about using her. He would not kid himself that he was interested in anything more than her body.

She looked at me sharply. Then her eyes lowered. A tear rolled down her cheek. The next instant she looked away, staring fixedly at some wine bottle on the shelves behind.

When she looked at me again, she seemed in control. “You young people have such uncluttered minds”, she said, “sometimes, I envy that”

I thought about that. Thought of denying that. But I couldn’t form words. I sat there, sipping my drink. An uneasy silence followed, as she sat there alternating between looking at me with a curious expression, and looking away into distance; nowhere in particular.

“Care for a dance?”, she asked me finally, looking towards the small dance floor on the other end.

Instinctively, I looked in the direction where Nirmal was seated a while back. He was still there, at his animated best. Alpa was laughing at some joke he had just told her. Shivani followed my gaze, and gave me a disgruntled look, as if saying, “Come on, I’m not that obvious, am I?”

I wanted to protest that I could not dance. But I did not.

“Sure”, I said, adding, “But you should probably wear iron shoes to protect your feet”

“Come on”, she said, “Any idiot can slow dance”

There I was, holding Shivani in my arms, feeling her weight on me every once in a while, as all that Scotch started asserting itself more and more. In a few minutes, the intoxication that I thought I had before was gone. I was feeling like the same shy loser that I always felt, even with this incredible women in my arms — someone I had infatuated with, since the first time I saw her. I wondered where I could rest my hand, without it feeling like a molestation, and yet, at the same time, wanting to savor every moment, every accidental touch, every step, as she moved gracefully, even in her inebriated state. Every now and then, I checked if she was still stealing glances at Nirmal. But she wasn’t. She had probably accepted her defeat. The loser in me kept underlying that fact: don’t you get it, she is in your arms because she has accepted her defeat.

“Please take me home, will you, I don’t think I can drive back”, she said abruptly, in the middle of a track, just as I was beginning to get comfortable with her touch on my body.

“Now?” I asked in disbelief, when only minutes before, I was looking at the whole thing as ‘good till it lasts’ mentality.

“Whatever”, she said, “I may get sick”

Losers typically get their dreams served to them with a stark touch of real life.

***

After a trip to the washroom, Shivani seemed better. She fished for the car keys in her purse and handed them over.

“I hope you can drive. That’s my husband’s darling. If you’re going to fuck up with one of us, make sure it’s not her”, she said.

I stood there, my mouth open, and no words came out of it. It wasn’t even the preposterous implication, it was the casual way in which it was spelt. And yet her face betrayed neither a hurt nor humor.

“It’s okay to laugh, Kris”, she said, shaking her head, “What’s happened to your sense of humor”

“I rarely screw up with cars”, I said, trying to sound casual, and took the keys from her. As we got into the car, she slumped into the passenger seat next to me, and pulled on the seat belt. She mumbled the address. It wasn’t too far away from where I lived, and I reckoned I could find an auto to get back home.

Even as I was taking the car out of the parking area of the hotel, she dozed off, leaving me to listen to Norah Jones’  “Don’t know why”. I didn’t particularly mind her, especially when driving in the night. The traffic was almost non-existent, and I kept on glancing at Shivani, her face looking lovelier in the shifting ambient light. Her face, for some reason, was calm. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t fit it all into a cohesive picture. The passing reference to a bad marriage, the rumors of affair with Nirmal (undeniably true going by today’s events), the way she humored me, and this calm face, as she slept in her car next to me, trusting an almost total stranger like me. The only thing that explained the last, I thought, was that she didn’t care. I was not worth being scared of. I accepted that explanation, and decided to leave it at that. I was a use and throw paper cup, or the proverbial shoulder to cry on. I didn’t particularly mind that.

When we approached the road where she lived, I called her name softly thrice. She was fast asleep. I touched her arm, and nudged slightly as I caller her name again, louder this time. She woke up with a start, and looked unsure of where she was. Then, gradually the recognition dawned onto her.

“Are we there, already?”

“I think so. I need you to tell me where to go now”

“God, I think I had a drink too many”, she said rubbing her temple.

I wanted to laugh, but I dared not.

“Happens to all of us”, I said, trying to sound dismissive.

She looked at me, that naughty expression back in her eyes, “Doesn’t look like it happens to you”

“If only you knew”, I said, as I maneuvered the car into a narrow lane that she pointed at.

***

I parked the car in the front of a small bungalow that was her house. Their house, I thought, recalling the happy family photographs on her desk. Her husband, like husbands of all such lovely looking women, was ordinary looking but obviously well placed, probably a small businessman. That much was clear even from the photograph. But one look at the house confirmed that.

I locked the car and handed over the keys to her.

“You’ll be fine?”, I asked, more out of formality, yet wishing somewhere to prolong the moment of departure — did Cinderella try to delay the moment when that dream was about to end, I thought, and smiled at the ridiculous comparison, in every which way. The smile, apparently, registered on my face.

“Sure. What are you smiling about?”, she asked, her eyes narrowing, as if she suspected I was making fun of her.

“Nothing. I recalled something ridiculous I read”, I lied.

She weighed that for a moment, as if wondering if she should probe a little more. But then again, her tired mind gave up.

“How rude of me to not even ask you over for a coffee”, she said.

“No that’s okay. It’s too late for a coffee”, I lied again. “I better get going”

“Someone waiting back home?”, she asked. Her face seemed to hold the question, and not dropping it till the answer was received.

“Nah. Just TV and boredom”, I finally stopped the stream of half-lies.

“Come in then. It’s the same here”, she said, indicating the lock on the door.

I was a bit surprised.

“My kids are staying over at my mom’s place”, she said. “And Vikram, my husband, he’s out on a business trip”

Why was she telling me all this, I wondered.

“Isn’t it late, kind of? You should probably sleep. You look tired”

I must be different from that creep, Nirmal, I said. Or was I being different, so that I was noticed as a good guy?

“No I’ll be fine. Come in”, she said, as she opened the lock on the outside gate, and moved in without even checking if I was following.

Paper cup, I thought, as I followed her. Why should she not assume I was going to follow? Wasn’t it obvious to her, by now, if it weren’t much before, that I was smitten by her (or lusted after her — was there even a difference)?

The hall was a mess, as it is with many houses with kids. She quickly made some space for me on a sofa, and asked me to get comfortable, sounding apologetic.

“Should I make coffee?”, I offered, “you don’t look too well”

She looked at me. It was the first time that she really looked at me, without making me look away.

“You know, you’re very sweet for a man”

There. It’s easy being a nice man. Hide your libido, even partially. Keep your ego in control. And viola! Although, to be fair, it takes a lot of other factors: a few pegs of Scotch too many, an emotionally vulnerable woman, and few of your fellow men who lower the bar by being themselves.

I smiled. Even when I stood there stealing glances at her, every time she looked elsewhere, and mentally undressing her, thinking how would it feel to remove each garment, she was telling me I was sweet. I smiled at that irony.

“If only you knew”, I wanted to say, but just smiled.

“I need some black coffee”, she said, “how about you? Coffee, tea, or another drink?”

“Don’t bother. Just get me some water, please. I should be heading home, really”

She smiled dismissively, as she disappeared in the kitchen.

I looked around again. More pictures of the happy family. Her two boys, naughty like any kids that age, probably 6-8 years old. Her husband, with hair grayed bit more than in the photo on her desk, and hairline receded a lot more. I wondered how many happy families are like this, a collection of photos, selected for display, in homes and on social networks? Will these institutions survive, if we stopped projecting them selectively, and singing all is well? Or was I just reading too much into it?

“See if you need more sugar”, said Shivani, breaking my reverie. She was standing next to me, holding a cup with pale looking instant coffee.

A middle aged lady, by today’s unforgiving standards of age, probably going through her midlife crisis; and a horny, sensitive looking, young man, who’s trying too hard to lose his virginity: stuff erotic literature thrives on, I thought, disgusted at its banality.

She sat down on the sofa next to me, folding her legs under her, those shapely legs, with only her toes visible now, nails painted in a pale shade of nail polish, that was hard to make out in the dim light in the hall.

“It’s been a while since anyone looked at me with such care”, she said.

I was about to apologize again, when she stopped me.

“No. I’m not angry. I’m amused”

“Can I ask you one question?”, I said, trying to deflect the attention from me.

“Why Nirmal?”, she asked, preempting my question.

I nodded.

“Because, with him, things are simple. We fuck. We go back home, each to their families. It’s not emotional”

“And why do you feel sad then, when he is with other women?”, I asked, instantly regretting the blunt question. How was it my business, anyways.

I thought I had overstayed my welcome, and crossed that invisible line, but she looked straight into my eyes.

“Because I’m a woman, Kris. Just fucking is not enough. Would I cheat on Vikram for just that, again and again?”

“But …”

“Yes, I know. I knew it even when it started that it would be nothing else, but he is so chivalrous, when he has to be, you know. He made me feel special, even if I knew it was superficial, and deliberate. He looked like someone who could give, even if only in bed. Unlike Vikram, who’s now used to just taking. And to be fair, he did give. Because, for taking, he knew he also had to give. But now, it’s over. What he wanted was just a change of menu. Truth is, we both used each other”

I sipped my coffee in silence.

“I should go”, I said, getting up. A part of me wanted to kiss her. It even kept telling me that that’s what she wanted. But she was vulnerable, and drunk. There were levels of depravity I was not ready to step down to.

She got up and followed me to the door.

“You’re a nice guy”, she said again at the door, “stay that way”

Then, out of nowhere she gave me a peck on the cheek, and hugged me lightly. My hand moved to her back, gently patting her, innocently at first. Women know when your touch turns sexual, an experienced colleague had told me, the way they do when they want to brag about their experience. She surely did, but did not object. It was she who kissed me. I had kissed girls before, but never had I felt so much desire in a kiss. A kiss, so far, was something you had to do, on route better things. It was the unavoidable breath of the person (rarely pleasant), her saliva, in your mouth; it was the worry about position, and mechanics; just barely worth the effort — if not for the promise of things it led to — or did not. But with Shivani, I forgot the mechanics. I did not notice how her mouth smelled, although it must have smelled of coffee and alcohol — even that did not matter.

Still in embrace, she dragged me across the hall, to a small guest bedroom. We fell on the bed, awkwardly, resuming our kissing and touching. I kissed her neck, moving down inch by inch. Concentrating on it, as if I had to remember every inch of it for later, vividly, to save my life. I couldn’t believe I was with this beautiful women I had always desired. All my inhibitions about taking advantage seemed to be in some distant, inaccessible part of my mind. The dream ended abruptly though, when she unbuckled by belt, and pushed her hand in. I thought I could control myself, but then I knew it was too late. She withdrew her hand in reflex, while I collapsed alongside her, with an overwhelming feeling of shame and disgust, as she got up and went out of the room.

I just sat there, with no power to move.

“I’m sorry”, I mumbled, without even looking at her, when she came back.

“Don’t torture yourself over it”, she said.

I looked up, and saw her smiling — not derisively, as I had feared. Her smile was the smile of understanding. Incredibly, I saw sympathy on her face.

I got up. She indicated me where the bathroom was.

After a few minutes and a quick goodbye, I left her house, neither a nice guy, nor a real man.

***

I expected Shivani to give me the cold shoulder; not that we used to go beyond the curtsey smile before. But rather than avoiding me, or acting as if it all never happened, she was friendly with me. Every once in a while, she’d ask me to accompany me for coffee at the cafeteria, and indulged in small talk. She was the one who sent me a facebook friend request, and regularly commented on my posts. I was puzzled, but not that I was complaining. I liked being with her, even though my love/lust was now locked away in a distant compartment of my brain, protected by a layer of guilt, disappointment, and self-loathing — on more levels than one. Opening that locker, meant opening the whole can of worms. I had no courage for that.

And yet, it was impossible for me to forget that night, and behave as if it had never happened. I marveled at Shivani’s abilities to do that — to not look at the elephant in the room. Things between Shivani and Nirmal looked equally normal. I wondered if they had reached a compromise, and the affair had resumed again. I tried to read Shivani’s face, but unlike that night, when alcohol had opened up her face for scrutiny, it was inscrutable again. I gave up; in any case it was none of my business. The grapevine seemed to have dried up too, now that people saw me with Shivani. Maybe I was the part of the grapevine now.

Was Shivani aware of the way people talked about them, I wondered, or about her. I remembered a female colleague calling her a middle aged nymph, while male colleagues were less judgmental. That did not mean that they didn’t talk about her, though. Men don’t waste time in judgment, when it’s a women having an affair in question: they fantasize. It’s like she suddenly becomes accessible. I don’t mean to put myself above any of these representative men, of course.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”, I asked her, when we were alone in the cafeteria.

“About Nirmal?”, she asked.

I nodded.

“No”, she said, coldly, and looked away.

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry”, I said at last. What was it about this women that made me want to apologize for everything I did? Now, after what had happened that day, I did not harbor any hopes of having her. Having her — such a man’s phrase it is, I thought. But I decided that I must be honest at least with myself. Having her in my life would have been just too messy. Was I prepared for anything other than a fling, with this married woman, with two kids, and a well placed husband, even assuming for a moment that she was looking for something like that. Even the suggestion was laughable. Yet, then, why did she have this power over me?

“No it’s okay. I’m not pissed. I just don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”

“Sure”, I said.

***

“I must stop this”, she said to me a few days later, as we met outside the office, first time after that night.

“What?”

“Are you as innocent as you look, Kris?”

“What do you mean?”, I asked, alarmed.

“Are you even real? Don’t tell me you don’t know what people talk about me an Nirmal”

“Recently, I don’t”

“No wonder you still sit here and talk to me”

“Shivani, listen”, I said, conviction in my voice surprising even myself, “I would be your friend, no matter what you do”

A friend, who has always wanted your body, said a voice within me. A friend who has been leaching after you, stealing glances at your body, every time you aren’t looking. A friend who will use you, if given a chance, just as that creep Nirmal would. What sort of friend takes advantage of someone emotionally troubled, and drunk? Was I just offering this unconditional, non-judgmental friendship as a quid-pro-quo? Since you don’t judge me, I won’t judge you?

“I’d like to help you, and that is why I wanted to talk to you about Nirmal, but you don’t want to”

She looked away, wiping a tear.

“I know. I am just not strong enough, on that front”

But what was I going to tell her about Nirmal? That she should stop seeing him. She must know that herself. And if she should stop seeing Nirmal, she should also never get involved in me. She must know that herself, too. But would I tell her that, if — not that it was likely — she did get involved in me?

“Nirmal is going to invite the team at his place for a barbecue party, next Saturday night”, she said after a pause, “I hope you’ll come”

I was hardly going to refuse a party invitation, with good food and spirits, even though I hated the host. But I was surprised about the way she said it. Why did she want me there? As a fall back option? Surely at his own place Nirmal was hardly going to flirt with Alpa or some other girl. Or did she want me there, because she won’t be able to bear seeing him with his wife. Was I the shoulder she needed to cry on? Was I her sounding board?

“As an escort?”, I said, and then regretted it the very next moment, realizing how it could be interpreted.

Her face turned cold, even before I could start my apology.

“No I didn’t mean it that way, Shivani. I swear, I did not”

“As a friend”, she said, with infinite sadness, “if it’s not too much to ask”

I placed my hand on hers, for I did not trust my words anymore. “I will be there”, I mumbled.

***

Deja-vu was the word that came to my mind, as I saw Shivani at Nirmal’s place. Was this the same women, who had said, as a matter of face: “with Nirmal things are simple ….”. There she was, like that other night at the office party, like a school-girl, unable to even look in the direction where Nirmal was, and drinking like a pissed off teenager.

I was late. And the party was already at full swing. Nirmal, the showman had made sure that it was going to be a great party. But Shivani and I were doomed — Shivani, for obvious reasons, and I, because it was impossible not to think about her situation. Part of me, the jealous, possessive part, was of course in rage. It was easy to smother that part, and believe that it was just Shivani’s hurt I was thinking about. I mean, who pins her hopes on such a jerk? I wanted to get angry at Shivani, but the anger wouldn’t come. All I really felt, was pity, and sadness.

“Help yourself”, Nirmal said to me, pointing to the well stocked bar. For a moment, I thought I saw a wink on his face. I felt disgusted, both at him and me. I tried to keep my face straight, and helped myself to another drink, taking his words literally.

Shivani kept drinking in the same vein I had seen her drink before. And with the same results. No one could have accused her of being too high, but her hurt was more and more visible on her face. I was afraid Nirmal’s wife would see it and guess what was going on, although I knew it was a ridiculous thought. I kept my drinking in check, because I was going to drive. After a while, approached her, and gently asked, “Do you want to leave?” She looked at me, her eyes betraying the effort of looking as if she did not care, and nodded.

Unlike that day, however, Shivani seemed much more in control. As we drove back, she did stay awake, changing the music every other minute. After a while, she settled for Ghulam Ali. She looked at me, as if for approval. I was fine with anything that did not change every other minute. Okay, almost anything. If, on that day, she was laconic, today she compensated for it. It was as if she owed me some talking. She was alone, again, she told me, sounding casual. Her husband was again out on tour — he’s out like that twenty days a month, she added. And her kids were again with her mom: I wondered how many days a month that was the case? I didn’t ask that though, as I was also wondering again why was she telling me that? Part of me dreaded being alone with her anywhere, especially in her house.

When we arrived, I tried to make a quick exit.

“See you on Monday”, I said, handling over the keys.

She looked at me surprised. “Leaving already?”, she said, with a pout. “I was hoping to talk to you”

That’s too much to take. My resolve melted just like that, predictably.

We entered the house. It was in a much better shape. Maybe because she knew I’d come in. I wanted to laugh mirthlessly. How transparent I must be. How boringly predictable.

“I think I’ll have another drink”, she said, “how about you?”

“Are you sure, Shivani?”, I said.

She chuckled. “Stop babying me”, she said, her voice flat.

Then it happened. All those tears she had held back in public, suddenly decided to let loose. I stood there, not knowing what to do. The enormity of it hit me — my situation. I was terribly ill-equipped mentally to deal with even a part of it.

“Shivani”, I started saying, hoping I’d know what to say, when I started talking.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude”, she was still sobbing. “You’ve been very kind to me, and I’ve been horrible”

Maybe I should have been angry. But the sight of her, the women who was in control all the time, broken down like that, made anger the last of the possible options. I don’t know what made me do that, but I stepped ahead and gave her a bear hug. She rested her head on my shoulders and sobbed uncontrollably. I kissed her on her forehead, an infinite compassion took me over. We stood there like that for a long time. Then the sobs became less and less frequent. She was the one to move, as she went into bathroom to wash her face. When she came out, I was still rooted to the same spot. She came and touched my cheeks.

“Don’t mess up your life with me”, she said, “I’m too fucked up. You are just starting your life”

“It’s not like you’re at the end of it”, I said.

“Well, like they say, this is as good as it gets. You make choices, and you pay for them. And once you’ve made them, the choices make you in turn. After a time, there is no turning back. Yes, times have changed, but when you’re on the wrong side of thirty, with children, and a dysfunctional marriage, you know your choices”

I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me.

“No let me complete. I know what you’re thinking. I know, at your age, being a martyr is still glamorous. But that’s only because at your age, you don’t have the advantage of hindsight. You don’t know how fucked up, and futile martyrdom is — mainly because it is so darn boring, so … wasteful. In a moment, one chooses to live an alien life, because it seems like the right thing to do. Be it for love, honor, spite, ego … reasons don’t matter … because reasons don’t last, only consequences last”

“Use me if you have to. I’ve been used by worse men. Again I’m being dishonest. I’ve been in these ‘let’s use each other’ relationships before. I don’t think I have anything else left in me. I won’t be able to live with myself if I ended up using you, and you made up a martyr of yourself”

“Are you done?”, I asked.

“Yes”

“Shivani, when I started lusting after you … no don’t look surprised, I think you knew it all along … I did not worry if was using you. Okay, maybe I did worry a little, but I did not let it stop me. I just stopped thinking about it. So no, I’m not going to make a martyr of myself. I’m not that honorable. It’s just that on the way, somewhere, it stopped mattering, because I was being the guy I wouldn’t mind being — I grew beyond my lust. I found a part of me I didn’t know existed. If clinging to that part is being a martyr, then I guess I’m tempted”

“No. It’s just that that part is not the whole of you. And it should not even be. You’re much too young to transform yourself into nothing but that — however fine that part of you is”

“But if I used you, even mutually, it won’t survive, will it?”

She smiled.

“No it won’t”

“I want to help you”, I said.

“You have”, she said.

I nodded. She kissed me lightly on the cheeks, almost a motherly good-night kiss.

“I’ll be alright”, she added, “I promise”

“We’ll see. I’m going nowhere”, I said, as I opened the door, and walked out of the door.

I knew in that moment it wasn’t love. But it didn’t matter.

after the sunsets
lost their meaning,
and colors, in a
monochrome rendering
of the world

after the nights
lost their urgency,
rituals replacing
intimacy, and we started
noticing heat, humidity
and aftertastes,

after distance was, no more
inevitable pause, dreaded
but relief guiltily enjoyed,
space, zealously defended
a respite, eagerly anticipated

long after all that
and more, and less
i realized
that we did not have
to invent a pidgin
to say I love you

that love is the
easiest word to learn
in any language,
shared or otherwise,
and I,
and you

it’s the other way round
you have to invent love
to fit the pidgin,
to hold on to the
slippery meaning,
the illusive immortality,
promised when it all
begun, when we worried
needlessly,
about inventing pidgins
instead of love.

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