Monday, October 17, 2005

Fiction: The Thrill of the Chase

Winning a woman’s heart is like a conquest. Once she has fallen in love with you she is no better than a trophy hanging on a wall above the fireplace – a fond reminder of a successful kill. The thrill of romance is in the chase - approaching her, breaking the ice, getting her to agree for the first date, wining and dining her, slowly making her fall in love with you – that is the chase. Every time she looks into your eyes she sees the future, she sees what she can become because of you. Promises are made, which in the heat of the moment come from the bottom of your heart. You leave no stone unturned in winning her. You make her feel special. Each meeting is an improvement on the previous one. Finally the relationship becomes a series of dates – fantastic but meaningless. Were you just trying to tame a wild beast, trying to prove to yourself that you still got it? You wonder.

The realization slowly sinks in. You don’t love her, never did. You loved what she represented – a big fat kill – a challenge that you accepted and won. You call her. Tell her ‘We have to talk’. You make excuses.

It’s not you, it’s me.
I have fallen out of love.
You deserve someone better.

Your mind is concocting stories, coming up with lies faster than you can think. She just sits there dumbfounded, hardly able to believe what she’s listening. You walk away, leaving her behind in tears. You are oddly relieved, even a little happy. You justify your every action to yourself. It was for the best, you say. But guilt slowly creeps its way into your heart. You need a break. You cut yourself from the rest of the world, immerse yourself completely in work. A month goes by. Your conscience is now clear.

You are out partying with your friends. You spot someone dancing. You like what you see. Her every move is irresistible. Your eyes regain that lost spark. Your friends catch you eying her. They spur you on – go for it dude! They make jibes – she’s out of your league! ‘Want to make a small wager out of it’ you tell your friends.

You walk over to her table. Make a witty remark about the music. She and her friends laugh. You ask her for a dance then make fun of your own dancing abilities. You stumble. She laughs. She helps you out with a few moves. You are a fast learner. Now you show her a couple of your moves. She is amazed. She claps. ‘You tricked me, you are a great dancer.’ You laugh your easy laugh, the one which makes everyone around you comfortable. The two of you keep dancing – your bodies getting closer with every passing minute.

You bring her back to your table. Introduce her to your friends. They salute you – their way of accepting defeat. Her friends also join your group. Everyone seems happy, smiles all around. You are the master of your domain. You are the focus of everyone’s attention. She notices it. She has a twinkle in her eyes. She looks at her friends. Nods, smiles, pinches, winks all indicate –

We love him!
He’s a catch.

She takes your hand in hers. You look at the hands and then you look into her eyes. Both of you smile. When no one is looking you steal a kiss. She is shocked, but feels an exhilaration she has never felt before. She clasps your hand tighter.

You look up. A new group of girls is entering the pub. They look familiar. You knew them once, used to hang out with them. It dawns on you. It’s her. The fat one enters first, followed by the talkative one being badgered by the smartass and then her.

Did someone turn the music off? There is silence everywhere. You look around. Everyone’s lips are moving. You can see a flurry of activity around you - the pitcher of beer falling on the neighbouring table, the waiters running towards it, the girl next to you talking to her friend, her hand still wrapped in yours. But you can’t hear a word. The silence around you is deafening. ‘What is wrong with me?’

You snap out of it. All your senses come back. You excuse yourself – make a joke about going to the little boys’ room. They all laugh. Why do they always laugh at that one? You wonder. You walk out. You see her and her friends being escorted to a table on the other side of the room. They haven’t noticed you.

She is smiling. But it looks forced. She hasn’t been out in a while. Her friends are trying to cheer her up. She is still not over you. She is still not over you? You walk out of the pub, head towards the men’s room and splash some water on your face.

You know what has to be done. You walk out, enter the elevator and push the button for the terrace. There are people all around you. They are dancing to some loud music. You walk over to the parapet wall and sit on it with your feet dangling outwards. You feel the wind in your face. You breathe in. You apologize – apologize for every heart you have ever broken. You close your eyes. You are calm. And then it happens.

Actually a number of things happen simultaneously – 37 to be precise. That particular spot on the parapet wall is actually a worm-hole, a gateway (more like a back door entry) to the rest of the universes. Oh yes! And there are 37 of them. You fall into all these 37 universes at the same time. But the outcome is different in all the cases. Here are some of them:

- You decide to jump. You are smashed to a pulp after falling twelve floors.

- You decide not to jump. As you are about to get off the wall some idiot bumps into you and you are smashed to a pulp after falling twelve floors.

- You walk back to the pub and apologize to the first girl. Then you go back to your table and live happily ever after with the second girl who loves holding your hand.

- You finally come out of the closet.

So what happens to you?

Monday, October 10, 2005

55 Fiction

Here are my humble attempts at 55 Fiction. Read this for details on this art form.

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Tom, the Deviant, in Heaven

Voyeur! You are calling me a voyeur. You blinded me for something you have been doing all your life – invading people’s privacy!


Taxes! It wasn’t the taxes.
She likes horses, likes riding them all over the city – naked. Stark naked! She is a freaking nudist. And you punished me. Blighter!

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A 6-year-old girl, Emily Kent, darted into traffic in Fort Myers, Florida, to save a turtle and was killed when she was hit by a car on Sunday, officials said.

I was taking a shortcut. The hare had been winning the race for so many years.

I wanted to win just once. I’m sorry Emily.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Monkey on a Wire

The first girl I ever loved (more like one-sided devotion in the beginning, cherry popping for both in the middle, ‘We’d live happily ever after’ near the end and ‘goodbye and thanks for all the amazing mind-boggling sex’ eventually) is getting married next year to her boyfriend of three years. I didn’t get the news straight from the horse’s mouth (oh and what a heavenly horse she was), but from the horse’s chuddy-buddy (who has finally blossomed in her 20s, Seabiscuit indeed). Melancholy is hiding somewhere in the deep recesses of my heart waiting to ambush the I-don’t-care-I’ll-get-someone-better-than-her bravado which lurks in my mind.

The affair started at a time when the first sign of manhood was sprouting all over my face and slowly morphing into a thick dark stubble. O what a stubble! I never wanted to shave, just wanted to grow really old and have a long flowing white beard in which bread-crumbs would get stuck. I wanted to be like Gandalf the Grey – chasing dragons and working with dwarfs to find a hidden treasure.

This was a time when I had never heard of the word humility. I was arrogant as hell and drunk on my intellectual prowess. I was ambitious and aggressive and a complete orifice in the posterior.

She changed all that – changed me for the better. And I changed her. It was like ‘Taming of the Shrew’ where we each took turns playing Katherine. Two years it lasted and then fizzled away. I finally understood what Eliot meant in The Hollow Men –

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

The news of her getting hitched made me take a long hard look at all my affairs (of the heart and of the skin). And boy there are a lot of them! I realised that she was the only one ever who truly anchored me to reality. With a fertile mind like mine I had always preferred the world of my imagination over reality. But she proved to me that there were things even Chubby (her nickname for my mind - the size of a football field) couldn’t imagine. And she was right, as usual. But she left. And Chubby came back to haunt me.

Since then I have been trying to find other anchors. Maybe I found better anchors, but let them slip away as they didn’t live up to my expectations, which thanks to Chubby are very high. I realised that I was suffering from the Archie complex. The Betty Coopers of the world have been around me, but I have been desperately trying to find my Veronica Lodge.

I realised what true love is all about. It’s about mutual co-dependence. When each other’s presence in our lives is as crucial as the air we breathe, then we are in love. As usual the truth dawns, but a little too late.

Ah! Enough mush for a day. Need to go indulge in some bacchanalian revelry. This is a picture some IITian took. Found it in some old folders so decided to put it up.