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Dear Rangu…

Dear Rangu,

I am not even sure if I can call you with this name anymore. How I wish we stayed in childhood. Me being an over protective sister and you being an obedient brother. Where did we lose it? Ah! I think it was when we grew up. I have news. We are moving out of the city. He hasn’t told me where. But I guess it would be somewhere abroad probably somewhere in Middle East. You know I cannot stay without him.

See, I think this is one of the problems. When I started talking to you within two sentences he appears in our conversation. Same with you. You cannot stop talking about Abhi. For some reason, I get irritated when she suddenly appears in our conversations. We have started talking after twelve years for God’s sake. And when we try to fill in the gaps, all you could talk was about your wife. I can see that you love her. She is a very lucky woman. And I know my brother. I don’t think you would have expressed all your love to Abhi yet. Have you ever praised her when she made you a perfect dinner? I know you would have jumped with joy in your mind. But did you tell her? Or did you just lick off everything in your plate and washed your hands without a word like you do with me? She had put up with you for seven years now. I think she understands you well.

He was really afraid when I said I was going to contact you. Even I was very afraid. Lot of things had happened and I had no hope that you will open your door for us. But you did. You have matured so much. Your hairline is receding and you have become a little plump. What happened to all those Hrithik Roshan inspired exercises? Remember once you sprained your ankle when you tried to dance like him. I was hurt just like you, but the chance to tease you was too good to let go. Abhi was shocked when we came into your life. I could see it in her eyes. You must have told a lot of good things about me. She treated me with respect. But she didn’t treat me as a family member. Well! How would she? She hasn’t met me and when we came to your place, we came with empty hands.

May be you didn’t know this Rangu! But I had plans for your wedding. You were just 18 when I left the house. But just like how I had imagined every moment of my wedding, I had constructed scenes for your wedding too. Fate had its say in our lives. But I was happy to see your marriage album. You had stared at the camera like a frightened pigeon, just like I had imagined. I wanted to talk a lot in the four days we spent in your house. But it took me a while to realize things had changed. We are not the kids anymore who whispered gossips about classmates and neighbours when we all slept in the hall fifteen years back. What was more hurting was, you didn’t expect an explanation. I wanted to explain my actions to you. I wanted to cry to you. I wanted to cry with you. But my husband was too scared to leave my side. Sometimes I wonder if he is really innocent as he claims. But I have to trust him. He is my husband.

When I went to the college, I didn’t expect things to be like this. Father and Mother gave me luxuries most girls in my class didn’t have. I was able to go to a different city to pursue my dreams. Even as you starved they made sure that my fees were paid in time. I thought you would hate me for that. When I came home during my first semester holidays, the pride which shone in your eyes while you introduced me to your classmates told me otherwise. That remains the happiest moment of my life. When other girls got married and gave birth to children, I pursued medicine. I was going to be the first doctor in our family. But then I met him. I don’t know whether mom and dad told you this before they set themselves in fire. But I had written to them then, just like how I write to you now.

I met him when we were helping a medical camp organized by one of the NGOs. It was funded by a foundation which had strong religious background. I didn’t mind that. I was helping people who were suffering. He was with me all the time. I fell for his mild manners. He was the brightest in the college. Every girl in the college had a thing for him. To think of such a person longing for my attention, gave me a new high which I hadn’t experienced before. It was nothing like the brats who followed me to bus stand everyday when I went to school. Slowly I wanted to be with him. There were evening prayers and I went along with him. We were told that what I was taught all through my life were lies. They gave examples from our own Vedas. I removed all the pictures of deities from my hostel room and my purse as soon as I was back from the camp. I didn’t tell this to our parents.

When he convinced me to wear a Hijab, it felt like a natural thing to do. Mind you I was studying in a college where 70% of girls wore hijab. I wanted to fit in I guess. But I was shunned by other girls who were my best friends. He told me, that if they didn’t like a piece of cloth I am wearing they really do not matter. I agreed with him. I started to read about his religion. I started to get attracted to his beard and his ankle pants. He was still the brightest student. He had great aspirations. He attached me to his dreams and it felt so good. It felt so right. That is how I became Nafisa. I tried to reason with mom and dad. They wouldn’t listen. But I had to take a stand. He was starving at his house, locked up just because he loved me. His father told me they had no problem accepting me in their house. Only that I have to change my identity. That is what I thought Rangu. I was merely changing my identity. But suddenly I became this killer who killed her mom and dad. It was all too hard to take for a 23 year old. I ran away. I didn’t finish my degree. I was at home all the time. The hijab slowly turned to a niqab but not at my own will. I thought it was just a compromise to be with a man whom I loved more than anything. I remembered you all the time Rangu. When a kid cries for more sherbet during Iftar or when my nephew got a dog bite trying to protect his sister, I was reminded of you. I couldn’t imagine what you were going through. But I had to stay away. I was made to stay indoors. The women were progressive in our household. The men weren’t.

If you were angry on me, that didn’t show in your face when I stepped in to your house. It was the same genuine happiness. How can you be like that? The last few years had been rough. Or I would have bought something for the little Annika. When Abhi said, you always said Annika behaves like me, I didn’t understand if she said it with irritation or as a plain statement. I want to clarify something here. I didn’t ask Annika to try Hijab. Annika came to me with a towel and said she want to look like me. How can I refuse that little angel? But I totally understand what Abhi felt about it. Such is our time.

We almost lost everything. What is more paining is that it was not our fault at all. It all started on a day when his friends from Dubai dropped in our place. They didn’t even stay for so long. Whatever happened after that is so blurry. They said our guests had kidnapped people to Sudan. They talked about Love Jihad. We knew only love. My husband was thrashed in his hospital in full public view. My father-in-law’s bakery was burnt to ashes. Do you believe me if I said I saw mom and dad in the flames that rose so high? We were made refugees in our own city. Nobody was ready to give him job. His passport renewal was denied. He started attending more prayer meetings. The curse of not bearing a child became a boon. Then suddenly people started targeting the prayer halls because there was an attack in some other country. We had to run away. We only had you.

Thank you for all your help. He had arranged passports for us in different name. His cousin went missing five months back. He got back into touch with him last month. He said he was in a holy city and there is divine rule there. My husband wanted to start immediately to whatever place that was. I was not even able to give you a proper good bye. Just like the last time. But I assume Abhi will have a sigh of relief and there will be no more fighting between you two. Annika also promised me that she won’t wear a hijab until she finishes college. I will miss her.

God willing, we will meet again. I promise I will take care of you and do everything I wanted to do to you. You have to know that I am very proud of you. You became a business owner all by yourself. You managed to create a family from the scratch. I always knew you were a winner Rangu. You had made me so proud.

Love,

Sivasankari (Nafisa)

 

Kerala Businessman sets himself ablaze with his family.

Cochin- June 26

The Cochin businessman who was questioned for his ties with terrorist organization set himself ablaze along with his wife and daughter.

Rangarajan, A 30 year old businessman had business ties with Dubai and various other cities in Middle east. He had sheltered a Muslim couple for four days in his house, who escaped out of India with fake passports. He co-operated with the investigation. The Muslim couple were allegedly his sister and brother in law. Apparently the neighbour saw their daughter sporting Hijab and tipped off the police. 

The intelligence agencies say that the couple are now in Syria which is under the occupation of IS. Police suspected that Rangarajan received a letter on his next course of actions. He was found burning a letter when police reached their house last Wednesday. He was immediately taken into custody and interrogated by the state police about his involvement.

He got released on bail yesterday.

Police stated that they are looking into other links such as Love Jihad and Conversion. The Muslim organizations declared that there is rise of Saffron Terrorism in the mask of Love Jihad and this is the proof of it. The chief minister and home ministry refused to comment on this issue.

Basheer and Narayani

The directions were clear. He had to go to the third floor in the apartment next to the sweet shop. They were looking forward for him. He was nervous and sweating. This was not illegal per say. But however most of the time what the society thinks as norms gave a small jitters down the spine when he overstepped it.

It was a week day and it was 11 AM. The sun was up and merciless. He was not sure if he had to cover his face. He waited for fifteen minutes surveying the locality, to see if anyone climbs up the third floor of that particular apartment. He couldn’t see anyone. He had parked his vehicle in the next street, he didn’t want anyone from his circle see his old yezdi bike there. It was easy for people to identify him.

He hesitantly started climbing the stairs. He was not going to buy sex. It was just a massage he told to himself as if that would help. He was never a fan of buying sex. He prided over his intellect and had always thought that made women crawl to him. He was wrong. There was always someone better than him and when he took his profession seriously the failure had hit him hard. It affected him internally and repelled anything that he went after. That included women.

He was a writer. Or so he thought. He had high aspirations when he stepped out of the college. He was going to change the literary scene, he had thought. But nothing happened. To change something was to get out there and work. But he was confined to his room, thinking about obscure topics and trying to beautify it with the limited language proficiency he had. He had rejected a lot of girls who tried to be part of his life. But not before they ended up in his bed. It had been ten years since he had felt an embrace or the feel of legs wrapping around his waist or the tightness around his manhood.

He knew he enjoyed sex. He vented his feeling out through his words. But the readers were able to identify why he wrote it. There was nothing sensual about what he wrote. It was always raw sex scenes which didn’t fit in the story or the characters he wrote. When he was alone at night, with a drink in his hand he would think about it. His descriptions and fantasies in his novels could have mostly helped few adolescents please themselves in dingy restrooms. He was neither ashamed of it nor proud.

He was panting when he reached the third floor. The name board read “Illusions”. He was greeted with grill gate which was locked. He pressed the buzzer and waited for someone to open the door. The front office was very well decorated with all types of deities. The freshly lit agarbathi gave a calming effect on his mind. The leather sofas were unoccupied. A lady who would be in her forties came hurriedly to open the door. He walked in without removing his shoes but immediately felt bad standing midst of pictures of the deities. The lady didn’t mind.

“I had called you”

“Do you want to see the girls first?” the lady didn’t look him the eye. The reception gave way to a room where three girls were sitting in chairs which resembled the ones that were in the high end saloons in the city. He was not able to see the faces. He didn’t know what to ask.

“I would like to know the rates first” he said.

“1500 for normal massage. 2000 for topless. 3000 for body to body massage and 4500 for four hand massage”

“What is a four hand massage?”

“Two girls will service you” the lady was still looking at the register. He had enough money for the body to body massage. He opted for it and paid through his credit card. He had to pay it back only after fifty days. There was no one to him to check the names that appeared in his credit card statement.

“Do you want to choose the girl now?” the lady asked. He nodded hesitantly. Two girls looked at him without any interest as if he didn’t matter. Then he looked at her. She had her hair plaited neatly with flowers adorning it. A thin line of Kajal peeked out of the sides of her eyes. She looked very uncomfortable in the jeans and T-shirt she was wearing. He pointed her out before he was led to a small room.

A small bed was in the side of the room with long tissue paper covering it like a blanket. There was disposable underwear which was instructed to wear before the lady left him alone. She was calling for someone called “Narayani”.

“Oh! The girl is from Kerala!” he thought to himself.

He changed to the disposable underwear and lay on his stomach in the bed. It felt like he went back to his mansion days where he would sleep on newspapers. Her name sounded familiar. He couldn’t place where he had heard that name. He was reading a lot, may be a character he had read. He didn’t usually remember all the character names. When one thinks himself as a writer, they are cursed to follow the technicalities of writing rather than just enjoy the story. It should have been someone special. He heard the door open and a sweet feeble voice asked him if he would like oil massage or powder massage. He knew he had to take bath if he went for oil massage. He chose powder.

He knew who he had selected. He was expecting her to strip her clothes and join him in the bed. But the hair in the nape of his neck slightly stood up when she sprinkled cuticura powder on his back. He hurriedly turned back to see a fully dressed Narayani sprinkling the powder.

“They said it is body to body massage” he said.

“Yes. First I will massage your back, then legs and then your hands. In last twenty minutes I will take off my T-shirt and do a body rub.” She calmly made him go to his previous position and started spreading the powder in his back. He was in no mood to argue or negotiate but words slipped out of his mouth “Only T-shirt?”

“Yes Sir. There is a reason we wear jeans pants even when we don’t like it.” He could sense a smile in her voice.

The massage was relaxing. He started drifting into another world as her soft hands caressed his back. She stood near his head and was spreading the powder in his back. He didn’t have the courage to grab her waist, even though it was inviting. He could feel her breast touch his back as she tried to reach farther of his back and her tummy touching his head. “Small Pleasures” he thought to himself.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Narayani”

“I guess it is not your original name”

“It is my real name. I wouldn’t change my name even when others suggested.”

“Your name is very familiar. But I don’t know anybody with that name”

“My father named me after a character in novel” she said.

She turned him around. He could say that he was excited and an embarrassing tent had formed when he lay on his back. She thought nothing of it. He couldn’t help but ask “Which novel?”

“Do you read Malayalam novels?”

“I read a lot”

“Have you heard of Mathilugal by Basheer?”

He smiled as he had finally placed where he had read her name. It was a wonderful novel. It is about two people who meet in the unlikeliest place of all; A prison. The novel is about how Basheer, the protagonist and Narayani who were separated by a wall, develop feelings for each other without seeing. She was now caressing his chest. Her hand slid back and forth, teased him as she went closer to his disposable underwear. Now he was visibly excited and there was nothing that could hide it.

“Have you read that novel?” he asked her as she started removing her T-shirt. She was doing it with so much ease that he felt invisible. In one swift action she removed her bra and stood with bare chest before him. He couldn’t help but appreciate what he saw. Her breasts were firm. He had expected it to be saggy and was pleasantly surprised. She stood with a straight back. A small gold chain was all she had waist up. Her midriff was flat and her navel looked inviting. Anything that was deep was inviting to him. Be it eyes or navel.

“You can touch if you want” she said as she came close. “Yes. I have read the book. Everybody have the curiosity to know where their name came from. That is how I started reading it. But I could not understand much in a young age. I read it again when I was a teenager.” His hands had made way to her breast and he had taken her nipple between his fingers thinking it would excite her. But her face was devoid of any reaction.

“Have you read it sir?” she asked.

“Yes I have. I liked the character Narayani too. Deep inside my heart, I have thought myself to be Basheer and when he stood at the gates with the rose, I was so excited to meet the Narayani. But we both didn’t have the luck. But I guess, today I get to meet the Narayani”

A smile crossed her lips as she mounted on him. She started massaging his bare chest with her breasts. She looked into his eyes for the first time as she slid up and down. When her face reached his, she whispered in his ear “What is your name sir?”

“For now, I am Basheer. Basheer who had managed to cross the wall and meet Narayani.” She gnawed his earlobes exciting him further. The walls were broken. He started imagining her face to the Narayani of Mathilugal. He could feel that Narayani’s lines in novel spoken by the woman who was sliding down his body. Before he could dwell on the thought, she climbed down. He was disturbed from his thoughts and looked at her. “Is it over? They said a session is for forty five minutes”

“It just started” she said as she stripped down her pants. She was in her full glory. He could see the stretch marks in her belly. But he didn’t want to ask about it and thwart the magic that was happening. She helped him remove his disposable underwear and climbed back again. He couldn’t resist but suck on her nipples. He placed his hands on the small of her back as she guided him into her.

“I never knew this was allowed” he said as she started riding him.

“Exceptions can be made. After all you are my Basheer” she was panting as she gained the speed. It didn’t take long for him to empty himself into her. She laid exhausted on him. He caressed her back as her breath returned to normalcy again. He could feel her tears in his chest. “Do you think they would have happily lived ever after, if they had met?” she asked.

“Who?”

“You and me, inside the novel”

“I think so.” He was not able to think clearly. She climbed down and started to get dressed. He realized it was over. She had serviced him for forty five minutes alright, but left him wanting for more. He didn’t know if it was because of her hotness, her soft hands or supple breasts of the connect they felt in a different platform. He didn’t want such questions intervene in a very satisfactory forty five minutes of his life.

He handed over a 1000 Rs to her as tips. She refused to take it. She corrected her flowers and kajal and left the room. He went into the shower room for a quick shower. She gave a small smile as he crossed the reception and walked down the street to where he had parked his bike.

He came home and wrote with great enthusiasm. A short story was in his desk in no time and he knew it is one of his good works. He put it in an envelope and sent it to one of his publisher friends. Even if it gets published he wouldn’t get much money. But it would cost another 3000 Rs to meet Narayani again.

Three weeks later, he found an envelope from the magazine at his door step. His short story was published and they had sent him money order worth 2000 Rs. It was a Sunday supplement of a daily newspaper which was shunned by serious literary enthusiasts. But he didn’t mind. He could go and meet Narayani again. In no time he was on his bike. He wanted to talk this time. Talk a lot and not just let their body talk. He climbed up three floors in a jiffy and stood panting before the lady in the reception. She still didn’t make eye contact.

“Do you want to see the girls?” she asked.

“Narayani” he said.

“She left to her native. But we have new girls from Kerala. They are really cooperative” she said. He was out of the place before she finished her sentence.

The fate had same plans for Basheer and Narayani.

Korattur

To be or not to be?

Tags

discussion, novels, paulo coelho, raymond chandler, words, writing

As most of you know I am writing a novel. To hone my skills in creative writing I am part of various groups in Facebook as well as in real world. Being hand broken for a while let me spend time in various discussions in online forum. One of such trending topics is stuffing your prose with tough words. Most of the published authors in the forum were all for stuffing tough words. It didn’t bother me. We can hardly see agreement in a forum of artists. So it was a welcome change. 

But mocking people who make such comments are not cool. I went into few threads and gave my piece of mind. While people who don’t know the parts of speech or structure of novels become published authors, there is also this tribe of non-reading reviewers ( you read it right). All they want to do is leave an opinion. Constructive criticism be damned.

When I think about it, such avant grande language never had any fans. But still people want to pose as of their vocabulary is wider than Bay of Bengal. I wonder for what? Think about the literature you really liked. Think what you liked about it. Was it the words or idea? Or the words which expressed the idea? When I did thought about it I couldn’t be sure. It’s a mix of all of it. Paulo Coelho, Raymond Chandler, Sidney Sheldon and yours truly dont bother to say big sized aerotic pumps. We just say big hearts. 

Here is a link of my  favourite short story. This was not by some famous foreign author. This had not been in print. This was written two years back. I was working night shift then. I read this while I was out for a smoke. And when I finished reading the hairs in the nape of my neck stood up. That is why I remember this vividly to this date. Read on and see if you get the same feeling. And when you can give me the same feeling without running for a dictionary when I read your short story, you my friend, have truly arrived. 

Till then shut up, look down and type away. Words should come out of the darkest part of your geart when your fingers dancing on they key board. Not from your recently dusted dictionary.