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Monthly Archives: August 2011

Sniff.

The lift pinged.
The doors slid open.
He stood there, coffee cup in hand.
She sauntered in, her bag in one hand and coat in the other.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”

“New perfume?” He was smiling.
“Maybe.” She was smiling too.
“It’s a little faint,” he said, still looking at the floor numbers.
“Funny. Every time I breathe, I get it,” she replied and took a deep, deep, meaningful breath.

Very slowly, he turned his head back. Stood stock still for a couple of seconds. And then cleared his throat.
“Ah. So its…”
“Yes,” she said, quite simply. Smiling.
“Well. You always did have a flair for…finding the right…niche.” He seemed to be struggling.
She bit her lip to stop from smiling even more broadly. “Really? We’re going to trade pseudo entendres?”
He grinned. “I’m trying not to be indiscreet.”
She grinned too. “Really? Why?”

His grin looked like it would split his face in half. “Good point. By the way, I’d really like to…take in the fragrance…you know?”
“Oh really? Here.” She popped the bottle out of her bag and presented it to him.

He smirked. Took it. And sprayed it on his chest. Her jaw dropped.
“There. We’re even now,” he said.

She started laughing. And the lift doors opened.

 
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Posted by on August 30, 2011 in Fiction

 

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What’ll it be?

She saw him before he saw her. Sauntered up to the bar stool next to him and slid on.
“I’d like a Long Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against The Wall. Please.” she said pleasantly.

He smiled. “I’d recommend a Screaming Orgasm. It doesn’t last as long but packs a punch.”
The corner of her lips quirked. “Sounds like you got a Bad Habit there.”
He sipped his drink. “Yep. I started Between the Sheets and then ended up here. Where do you come from?”

She tilted her head. “Manhattan. Via a Boston Sidecar.”
He whistled. “Bend over Shirley! That’s a Mind Eraser of a journey.”
She laughed. “I know! All that way on a Black Bison and a Blue Motorcycle!”
He looked at her. “Nightmare. How about a Corpse Reviver, Red Hot Mama?”

She smiled. “I’d rather have a Slippery Bald Beaver.”
“How Old Fashioned,” he sighed.
“Tsk. You’re acting as if I’m a Sour Witch.” She pouted.
He almost laughed out loud. “Well, you have got me Bewitched.”
“Really? Getting a Wet Spot there are we?” she teased.
“Depends,” he replied. “Do you have a Blue Negligee?”
She smiled again. “No, but I do have a Slippery Nipple.”
He swallowed. “Well, My Fair Lady, shall we?”
She slid off the stool. “Absolut-ly.Harvey Wallbanger, get ready for my Silk Panties.”

A Midsummer Night’s Dream welcomed them, the Sea Breeze gently kissing them as they walked off into the Tequila Sunset.

 
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Posted by on August 29, 2011 in Fiction

 

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ADventures 11 – No country for young women

Big agencies always have Big Daddies coming over. Why, no one knows. Presumably they must do something to fill their time. And skipping from office to office commenting on loo hygiene and the peeling paint on the walls satisfies their life purpose.
Note: This entire post is based in reality fictional. 

Monday morning in a fictional ad agency in a made-up galaxy far, far away:

Servicing hottie: “Tra la la! Another day of tormenting creative people! Wheeee!”
Art Director, smoking, watching her go: “If that bitch comes near me before lunch, I’ll cut her.”
Copywriter: “Fuck, really? Wait, I’ll call her now only.”
Racuous laughter. The day has begun.

Monday afternoon, post lunch siesta, two female copywriters are discussing their love lives brand strategy
Copywriter: “Servicing cow has sent mail…FUCK.”
Other female copywriter (OFC): “What now? The client wants my fucking uterus in the script?”
1st Copywriter: “NO! BIG DADDY IS COMING TOMORROW.”
OFC: “WTF?? WHY??? SHIT I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR! FFFUCCCCK! I HATE MY DHOBI”
1st Copywriter reading mail out loud: “Ladies, Heard through the Glassvine that Big Daddy will be in town tomorrow. Please take appropriate action.”
OFC: “Has she marked everyone necessary?”
1st Copywriter: YES. Bless her, she always does. Okay, we need to leave early and shop.”
Male Art Director: “Haan! Finally! Stop wearing these old things. Go sexy! We need something to look at!”
The combined gaze of the women reduces him to ashes which are wafted towards his computer. His mouse now moves like in an ouija board.

Next Day, 10 am
Bright and sunny morning. The Branch Head steps out.
“Good morning!” is chirped out at everyone. Cleaners are gently reminded that if any dust is seen, their heads will be parted from their bodies. Secretaries are told to please polish the fucking china and get coffee from a decent restaurant this time.
The office is on time. The punctuality KRA of the quarter has been met with this one day alone.
Branch Head stops short in his journey towards the Creative Dept. Where are the women?
He bounds back in. And stops. ALL the women are in Indian clothes. With dupattas almost swaddling them.
He clutches his hair and almost wails. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE FUCKING PEOPLE? Why do they roam around almost naked on most days and look like they’re attending a funeral TODAY of all days?
A secretary walks past with some cups and his attention is diverted.

11:30 am.
Big Daddy enters. A welcoming committee comprising the Branch Head, Ass Licker 1, Ass Licker 2 and the new hire, an Account Director in her 30s – is stationed at the door.
Big Daddy walks in. “Hello, hello, hello all. How are you all?”
Hands are shook, flattery happens and then, Big Daddy smiles: “Oh helllooo. You’re new. What’s your lovely name?” He asks New Hire’s boobs, both of whom seem shocked speechless at this level of unprecedented attention.
New Hire’s mouth kicks into action: “F-f-f-fine, thank you. Er.” Her boobs are confused. Weren’t they being talked to? Why was Mouth answering?
Glances are exchanged amongst the rest of the (male) party. Bets were mentally calculated as to how long New Hire would last post this trauma.

12:30 pm: After an hour closeted with the Branch Head, Big Daddy is ready to explore virgin territories. Literally.
Servicing Saviour dials 1st Copywriter on extension: “ALERT! ALERT! The Vulture has landed! ALERRRRRT!”
Dupattas are stapled into shoulders, hair is scraped back – every woman now looks like she works in an NGO.

Big Daddy enters with welcoming committee, minus the New Hire who’s been sent home for rest and recuperation.
Big Daddy: “Hello, hello, hello, so nice to be here again!” He speaks from his heart, to the region around he women’s.
Assorted raggedy bunch: “Hiiiummhgfgh.”
Branch Head, maniacally nodding: “SUCH a pleasure to have you with us!”
Big Daddy surveys the range of swaddling dupattas around him. “Very….PLEASURABLE to be here.”
Mentally, every woman throws up.
Lips are stretched, rictus-like.
Beads of sweat start to appear.
Big Daddy is engrossed in a distance evaluation of thick South Indian cotton. What lies beneath indeed.

Branch Head, cracking under the pressure, brightly: Lunch?
Big Daddy: “Ah, yes. Great idea.” He points at the youngest sacrificial virgin servicing girl’s boobs. “Why don’t you come along? I can find out what you think of the agency.”

Strained laughter is heard. German prisons have more joie de vivre.
The Youngest smiles uncertainly. First her boss told her to dress conservatively and then piled an extra dupatta on her. Now she had to go for lunch?

The other women tearfully watched her go.
Servicing girl: “Poor thing. We should have put a third duppatta.”
1st Copywriter: “Or locked her in the bathroom.”
They sigh.
Life goes on.
The duppattas were put into storage till the next quarter.

 
 

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Punch out time.

She couldn’t go home. The thought terrified her. She put down her bag. And tried to think.
What could she do to while away time? How late could she leave, so that she’d have to spend the least amount of time in the house?
She turned her computer on again. What could she research? Was there anything? She checked her mail. Refresh. Why wasn’t anyone mailing her? Why didn’t people work when you needed them to?

She took a deep breath. And tried to stave off the feeling of a something being pulled inside her, slowly tightening the insides till it felt like she was an end of a string bag, bound tight with no breathing space.

When had water become so difficult to swallow? She put down the bottle and stared at the computer screen.
She couldn’t go home. She just couldn’t. Last night, she’d found drops of blood near the stove. She didn’t want to think of where it was from. Of how they got there. Of who’d put them there.

She shifted in her seat, adjusting her bra strap again. Her right upper shoulder was raw. She shook her head to avoid thinking of why and decided to empty out her bag. Of course she couldn’t do that at night. May be in the morning. She was normally alone in the mornings.

She stretched her neck, the result of a half yoga class she’d gone for before she’d been stopped. And tried to breathe. It was almost ten. The office was closing up for the night. She’d have to leave now. Or be kicked out.

She rose, her throat tight. And walked out stiffly, fear haloing her head.

The night watchman smiled at genially as she left. What a nice girl she was. And gotten married too. Not like the rest of these modern girls, with their divorces and short skirts. He harrumphed to himself and crammed another paan into his mouth.

 
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Posted by on August 26, 2011 in Fiction

 

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BFF.

“WHY in heaven’s name are you dating such a douche?” Rahul grimaced.
I sighed. How do you explain why you’re with a loser, knowing he’s a loser, knowing you’re a loser for putting up with the loser-ishness.
“He wasn’t such a loser when we started going out,” I protested weakly. There are some battles that you know you’ll lose even before you start. Like chocolate cake – 1,287, me – 2.

Rahul almost thunked his head against the table. Not a smart idea. It wasn’t exactly clean. “You’re a bright, smart and funny woman. WHY are you dating this idiot who pretty much ordered you to miss a fricking interview coz he wanted to go to a movie?”
I breathed in deep. Mistake. Angry fumes from the adjoining table’s cigarettes sneaked into my throat, opening gates that should have been nailed shut. “What do you want me to do? YOU won’t date me. And most other men are scared off. Only the losers are stupid enough. So what the fuck am I supposed to do? Die fucking alone?”

“So the answer is dating HIM?” Rahul looked even angrier than I felt. I just looked at his face. Like I did even when my eyes were shut. “I’m breaking up with him.”
He sat back. Satisfied. Smug. Smirking. Other words of the same ilk beginning with “s”. “Good. You’ll find someone else.”
I looked away and then back. Shaking my head slowly. “No I won’t.”
He rolled his eyes. Replay time. This was something we’d talked about ad vicious nauseam.

I drained my glass. “I won’t. Until I break up with you too.”
His smirk died. “What? What the fuck?”
“I’m in love with you. You know that. I know you know. And we’ve done this shit enough. And after two years, I think it’s clear you don’t feel the way I’d like you to.”

He sat there. And looked like a truck had stopped shy of hitting him in the balls. I wasn’t going to stop.
“And as long as I keep looking at you, I’m going to find every other guy lacking. And date only the idiots.”

The Sphinx act splintered. “You don’t date idiots because of me. You date them because you dominate the fuck out of normal guys. And then you don’t have any choice. Don’t fucking pin this on me.

The truck swerved and hit somewhere else. I couldn’t breathe. I just stared at him, my jaw clenched so I wouldn’t cry. “So you’re not dating me because I’m dominating, but we hang out every day because…?”

My jaw started to hurt. A tear escaped, trying to leave, as I should have been trying to.
He sat there and stared at me. I stared back. How do you explain why everything hurts, and you know it’s just going to get worse, and hate yourself for making it worse?

 
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Posted by on August 25, 2011 in Fiction

 

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Long Island Iced Tea.

The club’s empty-ish. Good.
Step in. And see him sitting at the bar. Alone.
An Alan Parson song, but not Alan Parson singing. I wouldn’t wanna be like you. Edgier than the original.
The music makes hips sway.
I walk over a little carefully. Already three drinks down. There’s no telling.
Not-Alan-Parson is brilliant. The last call yuppies are grooving, drinks in hand, looking cool now to offset tomorrow’s work day.

I sit down and gesture for a beer.
He looks over. And with a half-smile, turns back to his drink.
Tall. Muddled mocha colour. Refreshing.
His drink looked good too. Vodka, gin, tequila, rum going into sweetest looking lips I’d ever seen.

I smile. And wrap my lips around the mouth of the beer bottle. Consolation prize.

We sit there. I don’t know for how long.
And then he looks over. And smiles. I smile back.
He gets up, drops money on the bar. And looking around, slides a card key a little way away. Walks away.
I stretch. And grab it. I don’t care, what you do, ha ha ha.
A few more minutes.

A woman sits down on my right. Ample cleavage on display.
I suppress a desire to ask her if something’s fractured because everything’s swollen.
She looks at me. And then double-takes.
“Hi! Oh my God! How are you?”

I try to concentrate. “I’m good, how are you?”
She pants, “Oh I’m so gooooddd! You look different with the beard….”
I shake my head to remember who she is.
Her nails scratch my forearm lightly.
She purrs, “You look…edgier. How is everyone? It’s been so long. Are you here on work? You must join us for dinner.”

My lips stretch from end to end.
I wouldn’t want to be like you. Ha ha ha!
Not-Alan-Parson sneers at the card key in my pocket.

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2011 in Fiction

 

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Night riders.

Cool sea breeze. Like the air from the AC in their car.

Another car pulls up, the bomf-bomf-bomf of the speakers echoing through the silent road. From the past, the voice of Kishore Kumar wafts into his mind, singing “Typewriter tip tip tip tip tip tip tip tip karta hai..” His little sister loves singing this song ; she can never remember how many ‘tips’ are there.

The cab jumps over speed bumps on the highway. He mentally starts counting the number of bumps in the road like he used to do. He always lost count.

The cab driver asks him where to. He stares, hearing his parents worry about money while he sits in the middle so he can hear them more clearly when they start arguing and screaming.

A bag slides down and bumps his shoulder. He pushes it back, thinking of the times he’d pushed his sleeping sister’s head off his shoulder.

The cab comes to a stop. He steps out and takes a few steps forward. And turns back.
For a second, the cab looks like a grey Honda. For a second, there are three people from the past inside.
He shakes his head. Reaches inside the cab and takes out three bouquets.
He opens the latch of the cemetery gate and steps inside.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2011 in Fiction

 

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