Fiction: The Kiss

She had made fun of me the first time we met.

The acerbic words, the colourful and often (more like always) hurtful diatribes I am now known for were missing in my repertoire back then. It was a time, when once I had found out that the female of the species Canis Familiaris is called a ‘bitch’, had found it exceedingly funny and decided to christen everything I met on my way back from school by the same name, my mom had put a little red chilly powder on my tongue and warned me that if I ever called a woman that she’d disown me.



She had made fun of me and I had remained silent.

I was four years old and she was about three years older and four fingers taller than me. She could have easily taken me.



She had made fun of me and I would have done the same if I were in her position.

You see, I still hadn’t mastered the subtle art of tying my shoelaces. I never really understood the whole ‘one little bunny goes over the bridge, hides below the hedge and is then pulled out by the evil witch’ bit. What the hell was a bunny doing on my shoes anyway?



She had made fun of me and then gone ahead and tied my shoelaces.

We had become friends instantly. And we were inseparable. We were together when I lost my first tooth, when she and I learnt to ride a bicycle, when her parents split, when she had her first period (the oddest day of my life so far), when Jurassic Park came to the theatres, when she was asked out on her first date …

And then my parents decided to move to a different city.

We were sitting on top of the water tank on my terrace (our favourite place). We had not spoken for over an hour. We just sat there looking at the houses around us, the play ground where we had learnt to climb trees together and our old school in the distance. We didn’t look at each other. We didn’t want to cry.

My mom called out from the driveway. They were ready to leave. I said I’ll be down in a few minutes.

I looked at her. And did something I had never expected to do. I kissed her, kissed her for the longest possible time. But something was amiss. She wasn’t responding. Her lips weren’t moving. I kissed her harder, pulled her closer to me. Nothing. I only withdrew when I felt her tears on my cheek. Her face was expressionless. She didn’t say anything.

My mom called again. I stood up in a daze. Said goodbye. She still didn’t say anything. I stood there for a moment and then climbed down the stairs.

On the way to the airport I did not speak to anyone. All I could think about was her. Had I done something wrong? Had I destroyed the only friendship which meant anything to me? Had I …

I was fourteen years old. And that was my first kiss.

****************

I was waiting for her on the airport. We hadn’t met or spoken to each other for almost ten years. She had found me through the internet. She was going to be in the city for a few hours.

I was moving around impatiently in the waiting area, the least bit interested in the cricket match coming on the television. A man walked up to me and inquired about the score and then went ahead and gave me a lecture on the importance of the coach and the captain. I nodded and smiled, appreciating his knowledge and depth of the game, while all the time wishing that he’d find a small unassuming puddle of muck and drown himself in it.

Somebody tugged at my sleeve and turned me around. And before I knew it I was being kissed, kissed passionately. It was her. And we were kissing. She drew me closer and we went on kissing. We stopped when we heard a loud applause. It wasn’t for us. India had won the match and people were celebrating. We laughed. The way we used to. I picked up her luggage and arm-in-arm we left the airport.

“That was how I should have kissed you all those years back” she said as we were getting in my car. “I hope I made up for it”

“More than you’d ever know” I replied and smiled.

We spent the next three hours driving around the city remembering the old days and talking about the present. She works for a top NGO. She is happily married. Plans to have a baby in the next few years.



Just now I left her back at the airport. All the guilt that had built up over the last ten years has been swept away. I have regained a good friend. And I can look back fondly and say - that was my first kiss.

Chubichawa Podcast 01

I finally took some time out of work and decided to record my very first podcast (audio). If all goes well then I’ll probably be able to make it a weekly show. The wonderful people at the Internet Archive are hosting the podcast. Visit my podcast page here. The audio is available in various formats (I recommend the 64 Kbps MP3 recording – 4.4 Mb). I have used this amazing sound editing software called Audacity (open source, hosted by sourceforge.net). This first podcast is a potpourri of some stand-up comedy pieces, old song recordings, a reading of one of my short stories and a review of the new Harry Potter film. It’s just over 9 minutes in length.

I had the sniffles the last few days and had a little trouble breathing so my voice wouldn’t be its usual clear resonant self. I suggest listening to the podcast in the privacy of your room or with headphones on. This stuff is not for the faint of heart or for parents and younger siblings. Comments and feedback regarding the format and suggestions for new material are welcome. I suppose it will only get wackier with time. Prudes offended will by now know where to shove their self-righteousness.

The download link

Time Capsule

Forbes has come up with an excellent idea for an email time capsule. This is the email I wrote to myself. I shall receive it after 3 years.

Dear Anshu

You know how I (you?) find it extremely difficult to write the first line. Whether it’s a short story, a play, a poem (remember you used to write those free-verse poems in under five minutes – they usually involved a raven and a dead poet … I hope those two have now become your most famous and enduring creations), a text message or a letter like this one, I always struggle with the first few words. So much depends on the beginning; it defines everything which comes before and everything which will come after it. The first line is like a first kiss (and even though we know that things only start looking up after the third kiss – once you have figured your way around the shape, structure and style of the woman’s lips, tongue and the inner sanctum of her beautiful mouth – the first kiss usually seals the fate).

Damn! This is difficult.

Let’s be analytical about this thing and break it up into sections.

This is where your life stands on 14th November 2005

My (Your) Belief System

Just cause you're hung like a moose doesn't mean you gotta do porn.
-- Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle

What’s Up with You?

You are working on another novel (which one got published first?)
You are planning to move to UK.
You are single and ready to mingle but not actively mingling.
There are too many mosquitoes in your room.
You only hate one person with all your being (did you ever forgive that evil frigid cow?)

Recent Happenings

You realised you are not always right about others (you can also get emotionally hurt in a gym – oh! And you have recently figured out that you can get emotionally hurt).
Your already weak faith in arranged marriages is completely shaken.
You judged dramatics in IIT.
Babe (also known as Death and in certain quarters Piggy) has published his first research paper. It’s an elegant review of Strain Field Calculations in Embedded Quantum Dots and Wires. You brag about it to anyone who’d lend you their ears willingly (or unwillingly) and you are so proud of your boy that your heart might explode any minute now.
Vintage Suds just duped his prof and packed his MS thesis project and joined a job.
The Hawk is working his arse off (ok he is just working) in Houston.

Your Short/ Long Term Aims

Publish! Publish! Publish!

What Were You Thinking Before Writing This

You were thinking about the word Anonymous. You were remembering how in kindergarten a teacher told you that Anon was a famous poet who wrote a lot of poems. Dad then told you the correct meaning of the word and you had blasted the living intellectual lights out of the teacher’s head. Even today you are an egoistic bastard and you are proud of it (for your sake I hope you are; I warn you I’ll go medieval on your arse if you are not).

Then you were thinking that you had recently come across a blog (by accident) which seemed to belong to the anonymous poetry lover (Anon1) who left beautiful comments on your blog. You are 93.7% certain, but since you want to maintain the veil of mystery that surrounds your interaction with Anon1 you have decided not to revisit her blog.

There is also an Anon2 (who doesn’t like you by the way). You are not entirely certain whether Anon1 and Anon2 are different people. Anon2 likes to leave scathing personal remarks about you. She also brings out the one quality in you that you hate as well as crave the most. Your anger (an outcome of your tickled ego – it cannot really be hurt, your ego that is) results in such an amazing outpour of words (which are very caustic in nature, mind you) that they destroy everything in their way. There is however the stamp of ingenuity on them, the mark of superiority, which you want all your words to carry. It’s a shame that anger is your greatest creative catalyst.

You were also thinking about ZZ. She hasn’t mailed you in a long time and you don’t really expect her to. You don’t really expect anything from her. But you would like an occasional line or a reason for her withdrawal.

You were also extremely hungry and were about to have a midnight snack.

I hope your life is chaotic and you don’t dream too often. That’ll happen only if you fall asleep when you are dead tired or when her (the tall, slim, 34 D hot intellectual’s) embrace is irresistible.

Cheers
Anshu

Life Aquatic with Long Legs Obsessed Man

* Life came full circle when I was invited to judge the inter-hostel dramatics competition in my alma mater IIT. The last time I was on that stage I was taking my clothes off in front of a capacity crowd and the audience was admiring the chequered boxer-shorts I had specially purchased for that play. Needless to say that was the most fun I have ever had performing. This time around a fully-clothed-me was up on stage describing how I used relative grading (the curse of my IIT life) to decide the winners. All the eight plays were extremely entertaining and overall standards were very high. They actually used lights and sound effects!

* Three crazy weeks of writing and reading. Writing output has reached new heights. And reading – ah! Been reading some wonderful stuff –

Anansi Boys – Neil Gaiman
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell – Susanna Clarke
Neverwhere – Neil Gaiman
The 13 ½ Lives of Captain Bluebear – Walter Moers
One Night @ the Call Center – Chetan Bhagat
The Divine Comedy (Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso) – Dante Alighieri
The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency – Alexander McCall Smith
The London Pigeon Wars – Patrick Neate
Marvel 1602 – Neil Gaiman and others
City of Glass (graphic novel version) – Paul Auster
Most of Will Eisner stuff
Most of Sin City by Frank Miller
The Far Side (7 volumes) – Gary Larson
The Dark Knight Returns – Frank Miller and others
Tons of other graphic novels

Finally the backlog of books to read is reducing. Another ten days and I’ll be out of the red (read?!).

Social life – zero, zilch, non-existent!!

* Paid a visit to the newly relocated Odyssey. And then went to Landmark. The Universe was in a mischievous mood today. First I bumped into a young lovey-dovey couple who were busy necking in the Sci-Fi/ Fantasy section. Personally I believe libraries and bookshops are highly romantic places. And I am all for public display of affection. So I gave them a little space and moved away. But why, why did the chap have to go ahead and crack that dialogue to his girl – “Relax... A hickey from Kenickie is like a Hallmark card”?

Grease?! You dolt, you are in a bookshop for crying out loud. You are surrounded by beautiful love inspiring words. And you come up with Grease. I shot a glance at the girl which conveyed both my disappointment and commiseration.

I moved over to the graphic novel and comic book section. I was looking through Bone – Jeff Smith’s hilarious 1300 page collection of the adventures of Fone Bone, Phoney Bone and Smiley Bone. Two girls were standing near me looking at the Indian Writing section. Even though I had my back (they could probably see my profile) towards them I could feel one of them boring through me with her eyes. It felt like ants were crawling down my back. So I turned around and faced them.

A short scrawny 18-something girl was standing with a tall (very) stunning enchantress. Contempt, hatred and loathing for my very being were tightly packed together in an unwavering look from the short one. I have drawn some sharp reactions from people in the past but this was the oddest of them all. And from a stranger who I could have squashed under my foot? Never!

Now I should have been thinking about an appropriate expression for my face. But somewhere the Tall Girl Alert had been activated in my brain and all thought processes had ceased. Instead of looking at the little one I was staring at the tall one. After a few seconds I realised I wasn’t blinking. Luckily she spoke and reactivated my brain.

What book is that?

It’s called Bone. It’s a graphic novel.

What is that?

I told her. For the next 10 minutes I introduced her to Frank Miller, Neil Gaiman and Japanese Manga. She decided to purchase Bone. And then the little one pulled her away and I got a call from a friend. She waved and left. Damn! I didn’t even ask her name or take a number. And she had long slender legs which seemed to go on and on. Cruel, cruel world! Gave me a taste of forbidden ambrosia and then snatched it away. Sniff!

* Read on someone’s blog that they were having a bad hair week. It seems like I have been having a bad hair year. It’s because of the frequent haircuts. I should go back to the 3 cuts a year policy. Life was so simple back then.

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?

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!

--------------

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.

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.

From Across the Room

Ben stood in a corner, drink in hand, leaning against the wall. As he slowly took the room and its occupants in with his eyes they revealed their deepest most intimate secrets.

From across the room Tess was trying to uncover his secrets. His eyes seemed to be hopping around the room like a bird, settling down for a moment and then flitting away. Those eyes – there was something about them. They would light up with the child-like excitement of discovery and then surge with the sadness of a bleeding heart. Guilt from betrayal would creep into them and then get pushed aside by the promise of love. But were they his emotions or simply reflections upon the stories he was gathering with those wandering eyes?

Ben could feel her eyes on him. They were searching for something. They needed an answer. He looked straight into them and replied.

Now they both knew.
They understood.
They felt.
Love.

It was late. The party was coming to an end.

He left alone.
She left with her husband of nine years.

The Truth about Adam and Eve

Any generic statements towards/for a group should be read as a statistical fact (anomalies in the form of exceptions always exist). The truth behind many such statements exists at a subconscious level.

* I am a firm believer in evolution. Civilization has so far failed to extract the animal out of us. Most of our thinking and decision making stems from our primal instincts. Human physiology also has a part to play. Think about it – there are species where the female is larger than the male (the black widow comes to mind) – yet the human female is shorter than the male. Check yourself (if you are a man) the next time you are in close proximity to a woman. You will find yourself taking a whiff from her hair. A very primal reaction (similar to dogs sniffing each other) – you are trying to detect the pheromones being released from the woman’s head. Scientists agree that this is the reason why women are shorter than men. An ancient biochemical mating sign – the pheromone. We have largely lost our ability to detect it, but the next time you find a house pet making its way towards your crotch – remember that’s another place where pheromones are released.

The point I am trying to make is this – most animal behaviour is dictated by survival in the form of procreation – finding the perfect mate. And I believe that all, yes all, human behaviour is also dictated by this very need. So next time you are confused about why your girlfriend/boyfriend acted the way she/he did – it’s the animal instinct.

* Women believe that a man’s ability on the dance floor directly corresponds to his prowess in bed. Dancing lessons are the key – tango, mambo and salsa – the passport to relationships. When you dance well with a woman, you not only make an impression on her, but on every other woman on the dance floor. Take it from me – in a club or a disc – they are all looking out for the one who can dance.

* In a crowded place (like a bar) never approach a woman who is not dressed for the occasion. The only reason she isn’t made up is because she doesn’t want to be asked out (‘What is she doing there then?’ you will ask. Eating a table full of food alone is the answer. Believe me, I have seen it). Forget all the crap about ‘one should wear good clothes to make one feel good inside’. Women dress up so that everyone (men and women) sit up and take notice.

* What about cleavage? Jerry Seinfeld warns us that looking at cleavage is like looking at the sun; you look for a moment and then look away. Stare too long, and you’ll be blinded. There are only two reasons why a woman would wear a revealing dress – she has no sense of fashion (bless the universe for that) or she wants you to assess her assets. Take a good long peek – down the periscope. Don’t be shy. But be discrete. Somewhere subconsciously she either loves it or thinks that you are a complete freak. Another Seinfeld brain nugget – Men like breasts, women like shoes.

* Most surveys say that a good sense of humour in a man is the top quality in every woman’s wish list. More crap! The real list goes something like this – big broad shoulders, firm ass, money/plastic in the wallet. And then comes the sense of humour we all have been trying to cultivate since the day we were born.

* Chivalry is not dead. At least women don’t want it to be dead (well not completely). They might insist on sharing the bill, but they’d still like you to open the door for them and give them a helping hand without their asking for it.

* Most women don’t like metrosexuals. Allah be praised! Kill the bloody metrosexuals!! Any man who can spend 5 hours in front of the mirror doesn’t deserve to live. So yeah, take care of your health, look good, wear clean clothes, but please, for crying out loud – no makeup. Being sensitive is one thing, being able to listen to a woman jabber on and on is one thing, but knowing more brands of cosmetics than your girlfriend – not cool.

* One would think that everyone would like to be in love. Not true.

* Stay away from women who worked for a poorly printed newspaper (you know the one … I’ll give a hint – Indian Express) and changed over to a news channel notorious for cooking up news items (all of them do that – but it’s Aaj Tak). If you ever see her in public make the sign of the cross with your fingers and run for your life shouting ‘The evil bitch is here! The evil bitch is here!’ Then go home and pray that she and her entire family rot in hell after having drowned in a small unassuming puddle of muck.

Passion

This post is the result of a comment someone left on my blog a long time back. Miss your comments Unknown.

As we grow old we tend to lose interest in things which earlier meant a lot to us. Interests change, priorities change and some of us tend to become more focused (others like me continue existing in a chaotic mode, aiming for a gazillion goals at once). This post is a form of therapy for me, a kind of an internal review.

Passions Past:

Programming, Gadgets, the Works – I started programming when I was 8 years old. And I wrote code regularly till the age of 21. One of my most enduring friendships is a result of my shared interest in computers with my friend Rahul. I loved the anticipation just before a program was getting compiled. The ‘error free’ status was almost orgasmic. Though I have written code in most of the popular languages, C and Perl will always have a special place in my heart. I fondly remember the good old high school days, the long nights writing thousands of lines of code. I was a nerd and I am proud of it.

But somewhere down the line I got tired of it all. I haven’t done any coding in almost two years. Miss the smooth motion of my fingertips on the keyboard sometimes. 13 years is long enough. Computers were my first love, my first mistress. Maybe I still am a nerd.

Passions in Hibernation

Women! Women!! Women!!! Women!!!!
Need I say anything else?

Quizzing

Enduring Passions:

Writing
Theatre
Films
Reading
Italians

On the Verge of being Passions:

Cooking
Dance
Travelling
Women (I am incorrigible)

Will keep adding to this list and keep it as a reference.