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!

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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.

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.

Three Burly Men, a Secretary and a Gutless Father

Just when your life is in a bit of a slump and you are hoping something good is just around the corner – bang – you are smacked on your face and told to rest your sweet old ass on the freaking oven in hell.

I have never felt so humiliated in my entire life. This has to be the Mariana Trench of sick stuff that should never happen to any self-respecting human being. What is wrong with some people? Why are people so bad at communicating what they really feel inside?

I have just been accused of harassing a girl and stalking her (OK exaggeration – the word used was ‘irritating’). Me? Of all the people in this world! And that to not by the girl herself, but by three thugs (short, ugly illiterate men with big paunches) and a rather polite secretary (male) of the girl’s father (the gutless character). This is disgraceful. I demand justice and retribution. I am pissed off. I have reached the lowest point of my existence and I don’t think life could show me anything lower. Yeah, so the matter was sorted out within minutes. But the cheek of it, it just infuriates me.

Is it so hard for someone to tell it to your face that they don’t like you? I have done it so many times, to so many people, at so many different occasions. Why is it difficult?

Aaaaarrgggghh! Disgusting! Shameful! Bring me a wall, anyone, please.

My dad seems to think there is a lesson somewhere in this. Yeah dad, there is. I just don’t know it yet. I’ll let all of you know when I find out. For now I need to go and dig my own grave.

***

What’s the best thing to do when you feel like breaking your fist into the wall – read Fight Club for the third time. It is like manna from the heavens. ‘Therapeutic’ that’s the word. Chuck Palahniuk is one of my favourite writers. So let me spread the mirth.

‘Guts’ is a short story by Chuck. People have been known to pass out and puke after reading this story. Read it here and enjoy. The grossest short story ever – a modern masterpiece.

***

On a happier note, Inu Yasha’s new episodes are coming on Animax again. Life is just about bearable. Or is it?

Who's Your Daddy?

From a 1939 Kane and Finger Batman story.

Chicken!

The Advantages of being a Non-Vegetarian
Or
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
Or
What Came First - the Egg or the Chicken?

Hen
Laid golden eggs

Greedy man
Cut it up, found nothing.

Moral of story
Today’s special: Butter Chicken Masala

(c) Anshumani Ruddra, 2005

The Gospel According to Saint Ruddra

* Have you ever been in the presence of a woman, who is so beautiful, it hurts every time you look at her. And when words start pouring out of her mouth, every other sound in this world becomes part of a rich background musical theme which is being composed real-time (by Mozart, Alan Silvestri and John Williams all together) just for the two of you. When she walks into a room, every heart skips a beat and your heart actually stops working. You are dead even before your body hits the ground. But there is a smile on your face – the smile of contentment. You just died a very happy man – having seen the most enchanting creature on the face of this magnificent earth. Instant Nirvana!

Now you are thinking – ‘Next he is going to tell us about this woman. He is going to brag about how he sees her everyday, dies and comes back to life to see her all over again’

Naah! Suckers!

I am going to tell you this – I know two such women and I see both of them almost everyday. And each time I see them I worry about my heart – erratic heart-rate would lead to my death one of these days. There are days when I meet both of them. It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!

Between these two women, I think I have understood the entire gamut of feminine emotions and thinking patterns (at least of the ones who make your jaw drop to the floor and your tongue to roll out like a red carpet). Though both of them have the same effect on me (and when I say me, I mean my heart), they are poles apart and screw with my mind in completely different ways. But before I expound further on this matter here is the greatest pain-in-the-arse bitch-slapping who’s-your-daddy truth about life –

All the really really hot girls are dating complete losers-morons-mean-sons-of-warthogs who should drown themselves in small unassuming puddles of muck. And if they are not, that means they just broke up with one such guy and are waiting for another one of them to come along.

You beg to differ, do you? You know some really amazing woman who is not dating some, for the lack of a more appropriate word, chutiya. Then my dear friend, you have just witnessed a miracle of celestial proportions. Birds have crapped on me more than a dozen times, two coconuts have fallen on my back, a rock the size of a football has missed my face by a few inches on the Himalayas, and yet I have never witnessed this miracle.

Ok! I give up. I lied! I have witnessed it a few times (Hell! Some amazing women have dated me in the past), but it should be happening all the time. These women deserve much better men. Do you know why they never get them – because all us mature-brain-the-size-of-a-football-field-sensitive-caring types never approach them. We are either shy or lack confidence or have bad timing or are just plain old unlucky (like yours truly). And the scum of our kind approaches these women and whisks them away while we sit in front of computer screens and rant about it ceaselessly.

Back to the two women in my life (Ah! How I wish one of them actually was in my life). Though both are equally gorgeous, one knows it and the other doesn’t. The first one, let me call her Aphrodite, has probably dated a lot of losers. She is single now, but hurt and vulnerable. So she puts on a strong front and avoids all advances. She doesn’t want to get hurt again. She knows men look at her and fantasize. So she plays with them, tries to get her back. The foolish child wants to be in love but hates everyone who wants to be in love with her. I can understand what dear old Keats was thinking when he wrote – La belle dame sans merci – a beautiful woman with no mercy. I worry about her – engrossed all the time in work, no personal life. I have tried breaking her defences but failed.

The second one, I’ll call her Venus, does not yet know how beautiful she is. She is a little naïve and is still dating a loser who treats her miserably. She wants to break free but can’t. She can’t face the insecurity of not being in a relationship. As time will go by she’ll keep getting hurt, eventually becoming Aphrodite. I shed a tear each time I think of that.

I am trying to be a good friend to both of them – though Aphrodite keeps me at bay, where as Venus loves spending time with me. And I have a policy (a strange one, but I have adhered by it for a long time) – I never date buddies - too complicated; destroys friendships. My head hurts when I think of the whole situation. Even I don’t have the answers to everything.

Was there a point to all this – I am afraid not.

* In a few days time I’ll turn 23 (a prime number I like a lot; favourite of course is the greatest of all primes – 37). Between these two primes is a life I have yet to discover. This blog turned two (the first prime) a few days back. Around 50 posts, 40,000 words and over 25,000 hits. One of these days I should sit and read all the previous posts – see how my life has changed.