The Seeds of Pleasure

Lilavati's life laid in ruins like the crushed clay pot in the corner of her dingy hut,  sorrow splashed all over the floor. Her husband had been brought at her doorstep with his head missing. Someone heard from the ambulance medics that the head was probably plastered on the tyres of the blueline bus that had chopped him up like a meat grinder. They had tried their best to scrape it off but the remains jelled too well with the hot rubber like melted butter on toast. He, an unskilled labourer, was apparently standing on the busy Shankar Chowk to get some clients who could take him for odd painting jobs when that speeding monstrosity painted his matchstick thin figure instead on its wheels.

A month later, all that Lilavati remembered of that day was the body shrouded in blood splattered whites and a liquid mashed up feeling in her head, her beating of her chests which gave her bruises that lasted for a week, the running noses and the numbing cries of her three little children and a deep sense of loss that her grumbling stomach now constantly reminded her of. The bread dies with the bread-winner and if sheer melancholy could fill her children's stomach then she would have wept herself dry. But hunger's raging fire takes a lot more to douse.

They had gone without food for the last three days. Hunger is a slow poison; before it kills you, it maims you and shatters your spirit before digesting you from inside out. Lilavati shuddered at the idea of having to see her children die, in front of her helplessly desperate eyes, sucking mud from the broken cowdung floor, searching for that elusive juice of nutrition. She had spent nights tying her stomach up with a jute rope, so that the pangs should not pain her and the children could have more to eat. 

Who would take care of Bunty if I go for washing dishes and cleaning floors?, she worried aloud. She tried begging on the traffic signals, her three children in tow, but couldn't induce enough pity on account of her shapely limbs and somewhat pretty face, to earn enough to feed all of her children. Maybe I can cut off an arm, she thought one day and brought the black rusty wood chopper to have a go at her left hand, but as soon as the sharp edge touched her skin, she realized she would probably bleed to death with nobody being there to bandage the stump or to take her to the nearby rat infested government hospital. 

I have to find food.

Lilavati dragged her blistered feet to the locality's famous Raaj Chicken Corner and put her hand inside the garbage drum, placed in front of the eatery swarming with drunkards craving for their fix of cheap fried meat. She took out half chewed pieces of Seekh kebabs which she carefully started placing inside a dirty polythene bag. A pair of eyes keenly watched her every move, relishing her quandary.

"You want food?", a croaky voice called her to attention. Lilavati looked up as she wiped the sweat off her forehead. A middle aged truck driver kind of a man stood before her, chomping away at the paan in his mouth, his lips oozing out red beetle juice. His thick moustache appeared to be protecting his wide bulbous nose from crashing into his lips.

"Err.. yes", said Lilavati, eyeing his palm. Always watch the hands when you beg, they say.

"Well, I will give you 200 rupees. Buy lots of food with it", he said as he walked closer to her, his hand touching hers faintly. Lilavati eyed him with a pained look on her face. No words were forthcoming from her thin dirty lips.

"Let's spend an hour together and you can have the money", he whispered in her tiny ear and then broke into a smile, showing off his rotting tobacco stained teeth as she smelled a waft of cheap desi hooch from his reeking mouth.

His words were a knife through her heart. Her blood curdled as she pulled the corner of her mossy green saree to her lips in a feeble gesture of protecting her modesty. Her mind revolted on the illicit proposal, an on-rushing shame consuming her, as she prepared herself to flee the scene.

"No.." she muttered as she turned to leave, her eyes following the pebbles on the ground. She took a few steps as a war of words engulfed her head.

200 rupees. Six kg of wheat, 2 liters of kerosene, three kilos of potatoes, perhaps some capsicum too. A weeks ration with a little help from the rope. Stop. What are you thinking? 

She stopped and turned around. Her face had turned deathly pale as she watched him twirl his facial hair greedily. The thought of his body over her induced a bout of convulsion and she tasted vomit. She swallowed as sickly scenes danced before her eyes.

Munnu wailing, lying on the floor, his eyes empty. Flies on Bablu's forehead, buzzing, as he lay dead. Little Bunty in his makeshit straw crib, clucking, his tongue out searching for water, his tiny hands reaching out. Maa...

"Okay, one hour", Lilavati's voice barely registered a squeak as she started walking to her hut while the man followed her. She trudged along the dusty road, her stomach tied up in knots, her throat parched dry,  fighting back the tears welling up in her eyes. Don't think about it. She steeled herself up as her knees buckled now and then under the sheer weight of her decision. Each step she took seemed like a painful drag through quicksand. Upon reaching the hut, she opened the latch and pushed the makeshift tin door ajar. Munnu and Bablu were not inside. She ambled in, took the straw mat from the corner and rolled it up on the floor. 

She removed her saree with her quivering hands and sat down on the mat,  as the man removed his soiled checked shirt and muddy brown trousers.

"Keep the money on the side, first", she said, avoiding his stare and hiding her guilt wrenched face.

The man took out two crumpled 100 rupee notes and threw it besides the mat. She closed her eyes. It will be over soon.

His coarse hands explored her body as she squirmed on his violating touch. She shifted her gaze towards Bunty's cot as he removed her blouse and untied her petticot. She imagined his pretty face, serene in his sleep. She gagged herself on happy thoughts as he climbed over her vulnerable body. 

Hot chapattis fresh from the tawa..Bablu burning his tongue and running for water while Munna laughs..the lovely sound of their teeth munching tasty morsels of jeera aloo. Maa I want more...

Her mind warmed up to the faint flicker of hope that this picture gave her. She felt his hand slide between her legs. 

Bunty smiling, showing his two front teeth, the only ones he has and sipping warm milk from a steel tumbler.

He entered her as her body jerked upwards in response. 

Bablu, Munna, Bunty. My sweet children. Come eat from my loving hands. Sit down while I feed my love to you. Let me kiss your angelic faces and soft cheeks..

Her hands went taut and grabbed the notes lying on the floor as her body heaved with his punishing  rhythm. A fleeting smile crossed her lips.

Hunger, you are no more.

She dug her nails in his sweaty back as each thrust now brought her a wave of sweet pleasure. She began to moan.

When we talk

"So Sonu Maharaj, where are you calling from?", the bombshell purrs, as she slithers on the sofa suggestively, like a wild snake in heat, while I shift uneasily on mine, my eyes glued to the TV set. 

"I am calling from Patna and your number 1 fan ji, Will you pleej marry me?". 

What losers!, I chuckle at Sonuji's idiotic desperation, as I ogle at her shimmering yellow tank top and wonder what lies beneath. The thought provokes a delicious feeling inside of me and turns my heater to ON.

"Accha Sonuji, I have my next caller. Cya!." She gazes at me with her lusty inviting looks as I zoom into her eyes and splash land in those two beautiful ponds of love. "Let your thoughts fly, your lust take flight. A bevy of beauties are waiting for you",  she croons, as I open the phone book on my mobile. "Just Dial 554489 or SMS", she rolls her tongue over her full lips. I press Save.

Damn its 1 am, I let out a cold sigh as I prepare to crash into my bed, twirling the ancient Nokia 3310 in my hand, my mind racing.

SMS or Call?

SMS is 12 rupees and Calling is 7. Hmm. 

Though I am the porn maestro, the tharki nawab (nobody knows that in my college) and have dated and 'did' quite a long line of beauties like Cameron Diaz and Katrina Kaif in my head, its the real life's talking to normal girls that just does me in and leaves me tongue-tied. I just can't handle girl talk.

SMS is perfect for me. No risk, high kicks.

I have a MTNL student plan but Rita, my elder sister, pays the bills. I will only do a few, I promise myself righteously. I start to type.

' Hi, ne1 dere? I am Lalit.', 

"Message delivered" makes my heart throb with excitement. The light from the screen paints my leering face with a devilish glow. My mouth waters with anticipation.

' Piya here... from Mumbai.. How you doing '. Oh god, I got a reply!

' nice..... :).... hm...what's your figure piya? '.  I type as I start to sweat a little, my nose a little moist.

' hm..5"6.. 36 28 30... fine?'. 

My head spins.I close my hot eyes. Piya in a yellow tank top, walking down the beach, her lovely brown hair floating in the air, her slim shapely hips swaying to a maddening rhythm. She turns her head and gives me a sly smile. High voltage current passes through my bowels.

' piya, m lyng on my bed thinking bout u.. what r u wearin?'.  Send.

Pleasure burns through my pores. I keep staring at the fone dying to see the screen light up with the reply.

I wait for half an hour and no message comes. I guess they are not allowed lewd talk, I reason. Still a long way to go for India to reach there. Tough luck.

I toss and turn in my bed with an unfulfilled yearning. I hear a vehicle stopping outside on the street and pitter patter of steps and laughter. A knock on the door and I hear my mom open it. Should be Rita, coming back from her graveyard shift in Gurgaon. She joined a big multinational call center as soon as she finished graduation. It's she who supports the family as of now; I, my retired mom and dad and a younger brother who is studying in the tenth standard.

If she knows I am still awake, a sleep away from my final exams, she would get mighty angry. I feel a tinge of guilt thinking how I had squandered her hard earned money on cheap thrills today. The thought depressed me as I forced myself to sleep.

------

A few days passed and it became difficult for me to keep away from the temptation. Piya was plaguing my thoughts and haunting my fone. I had kept re-reading the few sms that we had exchanged.

Finally the dam of my patience couldnt keep my on-rushing deluge of desire at bay.

' hey piya r u dere? remember me I am Lalit'.

'hey hi!!... what r u upto? missing me.. *giggle*.....' This girl's really something. Smooth.

'.. do u like tight jeans? I wuld luv to c u in one and high heels 2 nd do things 2 me'

I kept waiting for the reply which never arrived. For a few more nights, I kept filling in the empty blanks that the replies left vacant.

------

It was a perfect Saturday afternoon. Lazy and sunny. I had my exam results in my hand.  I sat there congratulating myself for having failed majestically in two subjects. Suddenly the door of my room flew open as if somebody had blown it apart.

"Lalit!! What the fuck is this?". Rita was standing at the door, her eyes red with tears. "What is this? I work nights so that you can do this to me?", she screamed as she walked upto me and shoved a piece of paper in my face. 

It was my MTNL bill statement. I felt the hair on my hand rise. Goose bumps. The bill had a warning, "Pay Rs 1100 before the due date".

"Lalit what do you think you are doing? Who will pay Ramesh's school fees this month? Tell me!. I work my ass off so that you can jack off to When we Talk?. Wait I will tell dad", she hollered.

"Oh no Didi please forgive me please.." She stormed off before I could even start pleading.

-------

That night I wrote my apologies in a cowardly letter, for her to read the next morning.

"Dear Didi, Please forgive me. I promise I will be a better person from now on. I know that I failed  my exams too, nothing could be more rotten than that. This will never happen again. I promise I will be a better student too. Just forgive me this time."

I folded the note, tip toed inside her unlocked room and walked upto her computer table. Searching for a place to keep the letter, I saw a spiral binded notebook on the desk.

I opened the notebook. On the first page it said "Minutes of meeting: no sexual talk with callers -assume a 20 yr old girl from mumbai - name assigned: Piya-....."

8:10

My cellphone is chiming loudly. I open my groggy eyes, searching for the buzzing phone, unwittingly trying to shut off the irritating ring tone (I had kept it this way intentionally). I wouldn't say I hate it, cause it always means that I have another 20 minutes of blissful sleep in my  warm and snug bed, until I get up to prepare breakfast for everyone. So I doze off peacefully, floating in a sweet stupor until..

There is something warm on my forehead. "Maya, wake up darling", my husband says as he pecks me on the cheeks. I feel him taking my palm in his hand and curling up the fingers, touching it, his face smiling at me like a bright playful sun beaming down at my face from behind blue clouds. I look at him, with wistful eyes, hiding behind the quilt. "I love you", he says, the big brown eyes on his wide handsome face staring at me intently, serenely, lovingly. I lift my head and kiss him lightly, a whiff of his smell comes to me, a heady mix of warm love,  sea breeze and aftershave cologne. The kind of smell that breathes life into the dead as what happens in glorious tales of mythological love that we hear while we grow. 

"Yeah getting up, Avinash dear. Late ho gaya tu? Aww just take your bag and I will make you something quick to take along to eat". I rush to the kitchen, tying up my robe. I take out loaves of bread from the fridge. "Ok jaan, see you in the evening", he says as he grabs the egg sandwich, which I have wrapped in a tin foil, as he struts off towards the door, swaggering like a cute angry duck in a tearing hurry. I love him and love every moment being with him, near his caring presence, his constant doting and his completely foolish love for me. Avinash is everything I have.

I usually spend the mornings cleaning up all the rooms in our little forest hut of a house. It's located on small lush green hilltop, facing the beautiful Spiti valley. There's a winding stone road from the Manali old market which comes straight to our home. I like the dazzling sunshine here, the sweet aromas, the fresh smell of pollens, the labouring stream of smiling Himachali people who wave at me while I sweep my porch of the fallen chestnut leaves. I like sitting in the verandah upstairs overlooking the street and sipping freshly brewed tea leaves, as I watch the absolute peaceful stillness of the life spread across me. Sometimes I stroll down the road to the market and chat up with my friends, sitting and eating in the numerous Israeli cafes scattered across the streets. I also write, penning up my thoughts on a bright day, letting my head wander like a dove on the peaceful meadows, watching through its eyes, down at the small hillocks with houses which look like illustrations in a child's story book. Tired from my creative pursuits,  I usually take a nap until evening when Avinash comes home and wakes me up. Yes, with a kiss.

Life has been good, with Avinash also settling down nicely in his new job as the Forest Officer in the HP government. I sometimes feel that I am in the heavens, that this is the life, people in the cities and elsewhere, always dream about. A nice house, a nice husband, a nice peaceful town. What else does a lady's heart want? I can add kids later to the list. There's still a couple of years before we decide to have some. Maybe I will have a small darling of a daughter who will flutter, like a butterfly, all over the house, spreading joy or a mischievious son, who when caught stealing cookies from the kitchen jar, will look upto me with his sparkling, daring eyes and make my heart melt. Or both. 

It's been three joyous years since we moved to this place. Why had we moved you may ask? There was some sort of an accident..I dont quite remember. My head starts to split whenever I try thinking about it.

It's late in the evening today and it's not looking good. There are heavy winds and I can see a mass of black omnious looking clouds on the horizon, just beyond the mountains. Signs of an incoming storm. Storms worry me. They are like angry demons, filled with uncontrollable wrath, the destructive sweep of their clawed hands lashing out at everything that is filled with happiness before it, leaving behind washed out garbage soaked in despair and wrung of all hope.

I am worried where Avinash is. I hope he can reach me safely. I hope he can drive around the, soon to be muddied, mountain roads to be with me, cozy and safe in my arms. I hope.. I see headlights in the distance of a Jeep. That's Avinash's car! Oh thank god he's safe. The car is swerving a little but staying on course towards the house. I rush down from the verandah, jumping over stairs until I reach the door, as I hear the Jeep pulling over near. I open the gate and rush out towards the front entrance as I stop dead in my tracks.

The Jeep's door is open and I can see a body covered in mud from head to toe behind the steering wheel. The heart leaps out into my mouth as it starts to thump rapidly. Don't panic, I tell myself as I rush towards the seat. "Avinash? Avinash what happened?". It is him, his hands on the wheels but his head lying back against the seat, mouth open, white teeth shining from inside the muddied mouth, eyes watching the sky, motionless. "Avinash! Are you ok??". I grab his shoulders and start pulling him out of the seat as I slip and fall to the ground. It has started to rain. I can see the end of the street, with the water pelting down hard on the mud tracks. Avinash's body flops over me like a dead chain falling down from a height, lifeless. He's dead?

Is he dead? Avinash! AVINASH!

  ----------------

"Maya, can you hear us?".  Is it a voice inside my head? "Maya, can you hear us?". It's blurry, as if my eyes are filled with tears. There's a throbbing pain in my head. "Maya try to open your eyes." I can feel no sensation in my legs, neither in my arms. My eyelids feel like heavy iron traps. I try to open my eyes, with great effort,  to the ever increasing brightness. As my eyelids part, I am flooded with a blinding deluge of bright light which makes me wince out in pain. "Don't worry Maya, just open your eyes". I open my eyes very slowly. A blank white ceiling greets me. I look down and see a bearded middle aged guy, of medium height, in white overalls. "Maya, Welcome back!", he says with a beaming smile. "You just woke up after a very long sleep. I should call the other doctors too". I have no idea what's happening.

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

Tears are rolling down my cheeks. "Yes Maya, it was terrible, as terrible a thing that can befall anyone out here," the doctor says, with a look of grave concern on his face. "Where's Avinash, what happened to him?" I cry out in agony. "Where is he?". The doctor gets up and walks to the nearby window. "Ive heard your story Maya. Avinash died three years ago".

"What?" A lump is forming in my throat.

"Yes Maya. You and your husband met with an accident near Manali. You were on your honeymoon trip."

"No! How is that possible?? Until recently, I used to wake up everyday, he used to eat breakfast, go to the office, we were living in the hills, it was so nice and..," I am crying, howling and crying.

"You were in a coma Maya. For three years. I have been attending to you in this special ward. You have never ever lived in Manali as far as your relatives tell me. You woke up after three long years and it took you six months, just to stand up from the bed. Now you are sitting here and talking to me."

I can't stand this anymore. "What was the accident? How am I alive?"

"You and Avinash were going in a Jeep towards Manali. It was raining heavily. The Jeep skid on a muddied turning, Avinash lost control and it fell in the gorge below. You were extracted by an army helicopter, while your husband was found dead in the Jeep."

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

I wish I was dead. Really. Broken in heart, broken in mind and broken in soul. Is there any point in living like a walking carcass? I dread mornings. Empty mornings devoid of touch, devoid of love. The emptiness filled with deep sorrow, an aching longing for a caring kiss, a loving stroke of the fingers, a gaze filled with hope. I don't keep any alarms, I hate them. When it's morning, I still wake up at the same time I used to earlier, out of my imaginary habit. When I open my eyes I see my watch.

It's always 8:10. Always 20 minutes more of a blissful sleep.

Warmth

My breath is making the insides of the windshield foggy. "Pull down the window a li'l darling", says Mausam, my wife, as she brakes the car to a halt for the red light at a traffic signal. I roll down the windows of the rickety Maruti 800 as I am immediately greeted by a chilling gust of wind from the outside. Its an early morning of the middle winter season. "Brr.. It's so damn cold this time of the year", I remark with a shudder. "I am quite warm. You are a cold blooded creature", remarks Mausam with a playful nonchalant shrug of the shoulder as she eyes the motionless red bulb of the traffic light listlessly.

I look out from my car window, towards the footpath, at two playing street urchins. Both of them appear to be of the same age, two little 12 years olds. The taller of them is scraggy looking, with dirty hair and is wearing a brown muddy jacket with torn cargos. His shorter playmate is wearing a green sweater with tiny holes on the chest with dark grey dusty pants. The taller one is trying to remove some kind of ticks from the mottled hair of the shorter one with great interest and skill. Both of them are visibly shivering from the utter cold as the cloth they are wearing fail to keep in the warmth.

The mist is swirling around them, as if engaging in their play,  as careless in its freezing touch as their uncaring spirits. The mist laden air rains a shower of icicles up my lungs and stings my eyes. Pity smothers me as I watch the urchins play, unmindful of the fact that they have to beg and tap at the windows of the cars, with their palms and nose flat on the glass and cry for a few rupees. I remember the old jacket lying on the back seat, which I had brought along with good intentions just in case I happen to see such kids, as I do often. I would term it as being "primed up for charity" and also, I could put my old clothes for a good cause. "Ek minute Musu, just wait for me please."

"Arreh, it's a signal! Why don't you.." I leap out of the car, cutting her off in mid-sentence,  the maroon jacket tucked in my hand. "Aye, yeh lo, take this jacket", I call out to them in my chaste ruffian Hindi. They immediately stop fooling around and peer toward me. I extend my hand with the jacket, in their direction, "take this and wear it, yeh lo." As soon as I complete the sentence, the two scamper in my direction, their hands in the air, eager to grab hold of it. The taller one grabs the left sleeve and the shorter one, the collar. And they start to pull. "Mujhe de, give it to me!", the Tall-Boy shrieks,

"Nahinn, it's mine", says the Short-Boy,

"Get lost, you already got a new sweater from Maa today",

"Isme cheddh hai saaale, huge holes, I feel cold",

"My jacket too has no zip, its useless, give it to me"

"Nooo, I want it", cries the Short-Boy

The Tall-Boy lifts his right hand, palm extended, eyes enraged and gives a resounding slap across the Short-Boy's face. Short-Boy bursts into tears, beads running off his dirty cheeks, making two parallel, visible, paths through the soot on the skin, mouth wide open, crying like a baby but still clenching the collar of the jacket, as if his life depended on it. Tall-Boy starts to pull again, this time dragging the weaker Short-Boy towards him, as his knees grate on the concrete pavement, getting bruised by the second.

The lights turn green. Mausam shouts out, "Come back, we gotta go now". I stand there, watching with increasing exasperation as the two urchins continue their violent street-fight. I go to the Tall-Boy, giving him a corporal push. "Band karo yeh sab, stop it!". The sleeve slips out from Tall-Boy's hands as his eyes lock with mine, seething with a queer mix of surprise and anger. Loud honking begins, as a Ford Endevour standing behind my car tries to make my wife move. "Oye come back we have to move!", Mausam cries out. The SUV begins to turn right, with the intention to circumnavigate my car. I turn around towards my car and take a step forward, leaving the two brats upto their whims.

Theres a resounding metallic THUMP.

I turn towards the sound as I see the SUV speeding away. I see some people running towards my own car. I look down on the road and see Tall-Boy bending down over a bloodied mass of a child's body. "Arreh Maara gaya, he's dead", somebody amongst the rushing crowd screams. Suddenly it dawns on me. It's Short-Boy. The maroon jacket lies on his waist, squished in with trampled flesh, his head, lying limp sideways with a bloodied crack on the forehead, the body marked out by a small pool of blood. "Isne dhakka maara, he kicked him and he fell in front of the car, maine dekha", remarks a dark skinned labourer, pointing at the now whimpering Tall-Boy. "It was the big car which hit him, Badi gaadi", says another turbaned old man with a white moustache.

Terror rushes into my head as everything goes into slow motion. I look towards Mausam, sitting in the car, eyes wide with shock, hand on her mouth. I feel the warmth of the rushing adrenaline throbbing in my blood. My eyes sting and burn. My ears go deaf with muted shoutings. Somewhere a wailing mother rushing towards the gathering, a small infant in her arms, her mossy green saree scraping the road, trailing behind her like a robe of a paupered crazy queen. For a second, I begin to wonder if Short-Boy is feeling any warmer with my jacket on top of him. Suddenly realizing the oddity of my thoughts, I put my hands in my pant pockets, as a shiver runs down the whole breadth of my spine. The mist is swirling lightly over the road, wrapping and engulfing each person in the small gathering, like an icy vulture feeding on the warmth of the bodies. 

Wrapped in the warm blanket of Death, the boy sleeps. And I feel cold, very cold.