The boy who got married

1

Sitting on those plush sofas, Naveen stared long at the door. Door that would soon open him to a plethora of human experiences. Behind the door sat a virgin holding a tray of six cups that would tightly seal hi libido inside the confines of her dupatta. Naveen could not stop himself from staring at the door. Even after Sheila walked through the door empty handed, wearing a salvar-kameez, flaunting her shiny, new phone. The blip sound shifted her attention from the looking at her new shoes to her phone. Her hair flopped down to her face covering the radiant beauty that Naveen’s parents were estimating. Was really worth seven lakhs and an i10? Couldn’t Naveen gotten himself a much fairer bride?

In fact, his parents were baffled at how quickly he had agreed to this marriage. They had lined a whole range of wives for him from doctors to artists. But, coincidentally, you may call it fate, Naveen’s father had accidentally put the receptionist’s photo on top. Naveen’s eyes shone like a coal in the furnace as he saw her face. “I want her! I just want her’ exclaimed Naveen before shutting the door to his parents face.

Naveen! Naveen!

Beta, be nice. The girl has come.

As if woken up from a deep dream, Naveen shook his majestic curly hair that bounced around like springs and waves. He was now staring at her breasts, as she laid down the cups. He began to blush and she gave him a stern look. That look he was familiar with. He had gotten that several times trying to catch glances at strangers walking by. Sometimes, he would get away but sometimes his eyes wandered for a while; as if he was searching for something—Freud would probably say that he was looking for his mother.

(Reader must note here that any mention of Freud in this context and after this, is a sole creation of the writer’s imagination of the oedipal complex. It has nothing to do with the actual Freud.)

Naveen’s mother felt like there was too much silence in the room.  Pushing words out through her lipstick greased lips, she asked “Beti, how much percentage did you score in grad school?”

This question raised both out eyebrows in a utter disgust for the woman who said it. A unitary motion that to millennials could only mean generation gap. A unitary movement of muscles twitching and accumulated hair above eyes forming an alert cat’s back. Arched like a wedding arch with white roses and shiit., Back in the city, I would say we shared a moment, And a moment meant something in our world. It was destinty, that corny-cheesy movie Serendipity and a whole load of red-roses, valentine bullshit. But, it meant something—a kiss, maybe sex, maybe even a good relationship that lasts for six months.

I was clueless with her, Did those rules apply even here where young and vibrant signals of 3G signals cannot penetrate the thick walls of  arecanut trees?  Was she aware of these city codes? Maybe, women in these parts are aware of it, maybe not. I didn’t want to be called a sexist even in my head, so I decided to concentrate on the crispy banana fritters (Parzham-pori as they call in Malayalam) that now stained that pristine white napkins, Now, don’t argue with me. White is always pristine. Angels, alter boys, cassocks, candle and the whole churchy shebang. Reaching out for the big piece, my hands collided with my father’s hands; that were also trying to grab the same piece. I dropped it immediately and like a rugby player he leaped forward and the caught it before it landed the plate. He savoured it like a warrior and then gave me a taste of it by seductively rubbing the sides of his lips; taking in the last crumb.

Naveen resumed staring at the door. I think Naveen would have stared at the door even if he saw his grandfather take a leak. He wasn’t really in this domain. Not some Dr Stranger level of transcendence just floating through his thoughts. The words ‘What am I doing’ came to his lips.

Naveen was sitting in the comfort of his blue-chequered boxers and watching a random youtube clip when he heard a knock on the door. It was his landlord asking for his rent. Steering through used clothes and alcohol bottles, Naveen picked up a pair of jeans hanging on the chair and put them on, He grabbed the rent money, opened the door, faced his angry landlord and shoved it in his hand. As the landlord left with a grunt, Naveen slammed the door shut.

Now, returning to his solitude as he head his landlord’s foothsteps  recede, Naveen opened an ingonito window, Typed the words ‘gay porn’ into the search bar and waited for the results to load in. He could see a faint reflection of his face in the screen behinds the barrage of pictures that showed men doing quite delightful things to each other. He ran t to the mirror and stared at his receding hair line. He realized at that moment he would also join with his bald-headed/ negligent haired  uncles’s group soon.

He returned to stare at those pictures of the plumber who does not know what he is doing with a spanner in his hand or the tutor who looks blankly at the mathematics textbook. Naveen lost interest and returned to watching youtube clips.

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Fever

He sat outside while it rained. The red asbestos sheet sheltering him and the dog. Mother was making coffee in the newly shiny decoction set. And he could see it from the window.

Rain was getting heavier. Clouds were clashing against each other with vengeance. Sparks from flying off the electricity pole. He pulled another chair and put his feet on top of it. The sound of the rain falling made it impossible for him listen to his mother calling him.

She came and nudged him.

Startled and shocked, he let out a shriek—shriller than a girl—and dropped the coffee on the white tiles. He held the steel cup with the coffee falling all over and kept it on the wooden table. Continue reading “Fever”

Silencing of the city

In a city far away,

and a cottage above the hill,

Where red dust from arecanut flies.

and time spins webs

Into time.

 

Streaks of lights,

Pass through the window

Onto the pot of coffee

Boiling till the brim.

 

The wind rustles and whistles,

In and through.

The spaces and ditches.

where the trees part ways.

 

Where the symphony of birds,

Mingles with the sound of a stream;

Glistening under the yellow sun,

Hiding above

the canopy of blue mountains.

 

Where men and women

Walk with sickles in their hands

Sharper than the tiny stones

Stuck in their nails, along-with dirt.

 

And everyone who sees a black cloud-

Yells or screams

dogs hide under the pile of woods,

moths spiral outwards,

Out of a tiny hole.

 

Among all these you can hear,

shrieks and whispers

of the silencing of a city.