8th May 2011

Blank pages stare at me day and night. Endless number of diaries with ruled sheets, evenly spaced lines waiting to be..fulfilled. I couldn’t stand their emptiness anymore, they mirror my growing vacuum, the nothingness that I breed.

The past month was eventful, in ways I never imagined. I come, he goes, I wake up, he sleeps. There’s this plush bed—extremely soft, the pillows fluffy. We sleep, we fornicate. He begs, I oblige.

Is sex charity?

I am murdering my dreams, they weren’t real. I suffered idealism. He does something, spends hours on his laptop, never leaves his phone behind. Always careful. But, why?

I blink at blurry images—headphones on his ears or around his neck. I jump to Mamoni's shrill voice in the morning. Household chores, eat, sleep, give pleasure. Repeat. Round in a loop I run, never going anywhere.   

I’ll have to enquire. I wonder if everything's as they seem.

I wrote to escape, to vent my anguish. I penned my conflict. They weren’t mere thoughts. Lines after lines—naked, uninhabited suddenly danced with hope. The black ink took shape, haphazard strokes curved into meaningful words, they expressed emotions.

In society I was never me, they never let me be. I stopped, I limited myself. I ceased to give opinions. Opinionated girls aren’t good. They think, they say what they deem right. I tried to fit into the mould, the perfect daughter-in-law status is hard to achieve, almost unattainable. It clashes with the idea of thinking women.

I aim to be good.

                            **********

It was mid-May. The overcast sky projected a shadow, sun shared its gloom with the Earth. They told stories through the rain—calming, peaceful bedtime stories. The ones that lull children to sleep. Tufts of greyish cloud flew by. They were of myriad shapes—a bull and a bird. One rooted in physicality, another wild and free.

I stood on the balcony. A gentle breeze swept past—my face wet, skin moist, wicked tendrils that hung loose grazed my neck. It was cold and peaceful. Liberating and soothing, kind of transported me to a place quite distant— the hustles and bustles of everyday life earning a well-deserved respite. I savoured the feel, the taste, the smell as it carried a distinct scent from the Chatterjee's backyard: of seasonal flowers and sautéed spices.

Mrs Chatterjee was speaking of Siddhartha's father yesterday, rather tried to. Mr Chartterjee shut her up.

“Rita, why are you bringing these up? Let bygones be bygones. She’s a newly-married girl, talk to her about something good. Not dead people!”

As if I’m alive!

She covered the awkwardness with an impromptu smile, nodded with vigorous up and down movements—the nervousness clear. It triggered a doubt.

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing..there were serious complications. Happens when you d—"

“Happens when your body is failing.” Mr Chatterjee lighted a cigarette and took a puff. Shot his wife a serious look.

“Your father-in-law wasn’t old..around fifty-five if I remember correctly. An affable gentleman who fell into adverse circumstances.”

He released a smoke, it coiled upward and clouded my vision, and along with it my thoughts.

Nobody spoke of my father-in-law, neither Mamoni nor Siddhartha. Ever. A large photo framed in the living area lay bare, bereft of a single garland. I couldn’t recollect Mamoni sparing a second in front of him. Siddhartha might have looked once or twice, might have—a passing glance.

The house always wore a veil, as if so many things went on behind closed doors. Hushed sentences and whispers, expressionless faces hid high anxiety. Words were often calculated, seldom free.

                            **********

We were naked. The heavy bed cover lay distressed in a lump around the corner, our intertwined legs rubbing against each other. He was a little careful today, not too harsh—I liked it. There were no whispers, no stolen words. No soft kisses that leave marks. Rough and hard texture he had, all over. I got used to the coarseness, like sandpaper. As minutes progressed, I sank into quicksand—engulfed in a void. It wasn’t of ecstasy. Only love and passion together can create ecstasy, we lacked both. My body beat in tune with his pace, the past algorithm got overwritten, I functioned on the current one with more resolute. Jerking up and down— we went slow at first, hasty later and fierce after that. I climaxed for the first time, he didn’t notice. Still, it bettered the previous encounters.

Until he wanted more.

“Turn around.”

“Wh-what?”

“Turn around.”

He wasted no time. I was lying upside down, chest pressed to the mattress, breath smothered under pressure. My inept handling of the situation was rewarded with a sudden thrust. I screamed, voice cracked. Another one, a moan came out, a grunt accompanied it. Sweat glided down the skin. I could feel him, hard and big inside me but, did he?

Did he feel my slimy folds?

“Harder!”

Was that my voice?

Our bodies crashed against the sheets, a rustling sound, a smell of sex, of perspiration, of lust. No love. The clock doled out time, tick..tick..tick..the air hot, so was our skin—feverish, warm, cold all at the same time. A new sensation, a raw need arose just like before. He squeezed himself inside me, I held on to the bedpost. My hair inside my mouth, breasts bouncing. He gripped my hips, a beast set on fire. Pushing hard, grunting with clenched teeth, not sure whether the act pleasured or pained.

I forgot to protest. I blocked out the thoughts. They opposed my past. My feet curled, insides burnt. Contradiction and contraction—a weird mess.

Fuck! Why does this feel nice?

I arched my head sideways, a vigorous shove, a piercing pain. The torment, the ache warmed into gratification.

Am I turning into an animal?

Siddhartha sweltered with hunger, he panted and roared. No, he didn’t sense my conflict, he was desensitised. A dog.

Eat, sleep, work, mate—the amphibian part of his brain directed, survival instincts at best. Mine too. I could feel something, gross it was, but at least better than nothing.

Yes, I wanted more. He would be lying at my feet, licking my toes. Moist and soft, his tongue would be all over my skin—hills and planes drenched by streams. He would taste my fragrance, he would be bound to. Tiny fireworks would parch and prick his body until it turned into ashes.

Men are lost puppies. You hold them by the collar, put them on a tight leash. Entice them with your curves, titillate their secret desires. You beguile them with body and broth, their tongues are ready to lap up. They are vile but easily enslaved.

Fuck! My dirty mind is playing tricks again.

Who cares?

I turned around, pushed him into the bed. His legs dangling, eyes widened with surprise—little balls of marble they were. Shining with shock, perplexity.

Ah! A surreal feeling.

“Get up!”

“wh-what?” his voice came out choked.

“Get up!”

He leapt, huddling into the corner. I stared straight, my gaze marking his every muscle, the erect manhood—still in demand mode. It would be satiated.

I clasped a tuft of his hair, pulled in close. His face contorted into shock and finally..what was that?

I didn’t bother to understand. Why would I?

Fuck, he could hang himself and I would give a dam. Siddhartha’s dry lips came into contact with mine, flaky and as bland as him. But, I yearned to possess, to rule, to dominate. I bit him, hard. A drop of blood oozed out. Crimson—just like my bleeding heart.

“Agh!” he tried to pull away but his hair was still in my grip. I grasped tightly, cupped his chin and traced his jawline. Nibbled on his earlobes, went down, licked the sweat off his neck. It was a flagrant violation of my tastes.

Yet, I continued.

Descended further till I reached his collar bones. I sank my teeth with all my might. An instant imprint—a clot of red that would darken to a purple within a couple of hours.

A bruise for a bruise.

I knew I wanted the ache, but I yearned to return double of it. I mounted him, slid smooth and rotated my hips. As I continued lashing, I messaged my breasts. He attempted to grope, I gave him a slap. Bit him on the wound. He protested, but I was adamant about unleashing my wrath, the deep troubles that strangled my soul.

The rose isn’t just an element of beauty, it’s a constant reminder that good things come at a price. The thorns are a testament to the pain, the petals of pleasure.

Within minutes he writhed, squirmed just like I used to, just the way I wanted him seen. He convulsed, in the throes of climax. I had already had my share. Discarded items can be reused, but, at the end of the day, they will always be a waste. That’s what he was—a rejected item.

Get lost—I intended to say but couldn’t degrade myself. Good girls are always sweet—honey-coated poison. I smiled, a sweet smile— not so gentle.

“That’s enough for today.”

I pinched his nipples, the skin on his chest dotted with hickies. A final bashing and I was out of him.

Fuck you!

Screw passion, perversion is in.

In the age of Kali, lying is the new truth.

A pond overlooked our veranda, its serene water top a direct contrast to the turmoil that simmered in my mind. Each morning slum children dived in groups—countless ripples. It disturbed the rhythm, turning calm into chaos. Cheers and slang cut through the silence, the harmony of silence. Silence has words—not to be heard but perceived. I often vanished into quietude, perceiving the words, decoding them. They powered my thoughts, rippling them, disarming their energy.

It was quiet now. The arms of the bedroom clock showed sharp two. There were three of us: me, the imperceptible darkness and the still water. Nature sang lullabies, glow-worms provided light, house crickets added to the melody. We drew pictures, random strokes of black and grey. No, I splashed some red too. Cuts and lacerations bleed and blotch. They hinted at specs of colour on my tenebrous frame—a frame where no images formed. The lines collided, hit each other. None refused to back out. Black eclipsed the greys, sobered the red ones—wreaked havoc until nothing remained. Here and there was a lone swab of charcoal or dark maroon, rest pitch black.

How do I find my way in here—I questioned myself.

Become gloom, you do not need to strain your eyes to see through the murk.

Become murk. Drill your way in, bomb your way out.

I got my answer.

Forever, I had stayed silent, closed off, cut by the doldrums of family politics and societal pressures. Buried under biased judgements, I dwarfed to insignificant heights. But, inside the blaze fought to seize power—an inferno. Raging flames fueled to perfection—burning hot with wrath, scorched by hindered expectations and smothered under unrealised dreams.

Beauty and the beast reside together, working in unison. When one sleeps another awakes. Every beauty has a beast, brought alive by a trigger. I was a beauty, but then shit happened.

Still, I smile. I laugh. I cook. I sew. I make love.

I’m a good girl.

But, good girls aren’t necessarily good, it’s just that they aren’t bad in the traditional way.

                             **********

I woke up to the alarm growling in frustration, the third time it was snoozed. The clock roared at five-thirty. I yawned and turned— an old habit. Back at Swarupnagar, Ma's heat spilt on the sheets and I snuggled close—head on her shoulders, arms around her body. In the past thirty days, a thing called absence filled the void. It crawled its way in and left a steady presence—loneliness.

My hands stretched out, the mattress was still warm.

Where did he go?

It wasn’t the first time.

Yesterday, he turned and twisted a lot. Hands above eyes, then on the chest. Often, he crouched. Other times, straight. The glass jug lay half-emptied, my slumber too an irregular companion; transitioning between waking and sleeping.

We stayed like mummies, two people on either side. A line joins two endpoints, in our case it divided, running through the middle of the bed.

I stretched, my body protested with sharp cracks—bone breaking sound. I had dozed for two or two and half hours at most. He, much less. The sun peeked from the corner window, two rays infiltrated the space, reflected on the dressing table mirror and lighted the room—Alibaba’s secret cave. A cave this house was, indeed, minus the treasures.

I had to find out what Siddhartha did. Doubt is a serious ailment, the only medicine being action. I tiptoed out, eyes scanning each corner. As usual his laptop and mobile went missing. The last time I knew, both were on the bedside table. Down the stairs I hopped, feet treading to the ground floor living area. There wasn't a sign of him, soft snores of Mamoni came from the adjoining bedroom. The kitchen was untouched, so were the washrooms—their floors dry.

Plink..plink..plink

A leaky basin faucet dispelled my budding curiosity, also the silence. I turned it off. My vision shifted to the door that led to the guest room—the only one remaining unchecked.

My sole concern was the lack of an alibi.

Were you following me—this question was bound to follow.

What could I answer? That I missed him!

Huh!

Even if the sun rose in the west, he wouldn’t believe. I touched the lock, turned it with extreme caution.

It opened with a minute creak—an inaudible sound. A fraction of an opening, clear insides.

Am I being finicky over nothing?

I peeped through the inch of space, my breath ragged. A small table, his mobile on it, screen alighted. My line of vision fell on the laptop. It blinked, put to sleep.

I held the door ajar, scanned the space. Squeaky clean. A message arrived with a croak—the typical burp of a frog. His phone came awake, again.

My feet hastened towards the table, chipped and small. Too clean for a piece of furniture barely used.

9893405701, five messages all from the same contact. The screen darkened and finally died.

Shit!

I pressed the lock key.

Enter Password

Knew it!

“That will be 1979.”

I jumped to a start, the phone fell upside down; a crack resounded. The back cover scattered away leaving the battery inside. I blinked to regain composure, legs glued to the spot.

Fuck! He’s two steps ahead of me.

“Open it. See it for yourself. Wasn’t it the reason you’re here?”

I whirled around, shoulders firm. Swallowed a lump but looked straight, took an adamant stance. It was the only ticket to a quick exit.

He was in joggers, lips manifesting a distinct cut—the result of our rocky copulation from yesterday. Unlike previous encounters, he didn’t stare at the fan, the ceiling or the walls. If at all, he was relaxed, hands within pockets. A black vest sat crisply on a robust frame, purple spots marring his peachy skin. Sweat glistened in drops.

“1979..thanks, I’ll remember. By the way, did you exercise? Looking too rosy for a lazy Sunday morning, don’t you think?”

I closed the distance, the tension high. Heat dissipated from our bodies, carried a hint of anxiety and from somewhere, raw fear. He didn’t answer, we stood staring at each other for a minute more. No words, no accusations, no excuses.

“Freshen up, you are awfully exhausted. Tea will be served in a couple of minutes.” Ordering a few strands of his dishevelled hair, I left the spot.

Next time, I’ll be more careful and this game you’re playing, won’t be easy, Mister Basu.

                              *********

11th May 2011

I accepted. After more than a month I realise reality better be greeted than abhorred. It makes living so much easier.

I kissed him yesterday. His lips like melting butter satiated my buds. I was warring a losing war. Why I wasted this golden time of our marriage, I wonder.

Why?

He demands more, I’ll give it to him. I’ll try my best. I will quench his thirst.

I had sex, never have made love. I understood what it feels like yesterday. Basking in passion, showering in kisses and cuddles. So warm, so raw. I felt happy and needed..to see my footprints on his skin.

I will long for these days now, more than ever.

I’ll be a good wife, he will understand, right?

                             *********