Who killed Balasubramanium?

LitLatte

Padmalakshmilakshmi sits there in the interrogation room, facing the famous detective Kondaswamy. she adjusts her saree’s pallu strategically enough to let some cleavage slip out. The table fan to Padmalakshmi’s right gorges on anything remotely cool in the room like a bulimic, only to throw it up in hot, stifling blasts that barely touch the sweat streaming down Padmalakshmi’s ample sideburns.

“Madame”, Detective Kondaswamy says, as his eyes stare not into Padmalakshmi’s big black, kohl smeared one, but right at her heaving chest. “So, you say that you were taking a bath when you heard a commotion and came running down to discover his body?”

“Yes Sir.” she sniffles for effect and he hands her a murky handkerchief from his pocket. “Have you found out who did it? Who mercilessly bashed my dear Balasubramaniam’s head like a pulp?”

“Madame Padmalakshmilakshmi” Kondaswamy says, unbuttoning his first two buttons, shaking his collar…

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Cold Case Files – #795666

LitLatte

“Detective Inspector Shane Devouc, you and I are gathered here in this room, on 10th April 2010, to discuss the events of the dispatch call on 13th May 1990, at 3 am, where you were the first responder” I say and then stare at my smart phone recorder.

“Oh shit,” I say again, and look up; embarrassed at my rookie mistake.

The burly man with head full of hair as white as snow stares at me impassive.

“I’m sorry, Detective Inspector.” I say. “We’ll have to go over this again. I forgot to press the record button.”

He grunts, and I start over. I can see that he is trying to brush this off as just another interview. Cool as a cucumber, or at least that is what he wants me to think. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t hide his twitching fingers.

“Detective Inspector”, I start…

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Nina

Nina was found buried in the crook of a Wych elm deep into the forest. or perhaps what would have been deep into the forest before Sobha builders decided to make a home away from the city, in the lap of nature, eco apartments that were only five minutes from fairy falls, only fifteen kilometers away from the nearest school, hospital or office space; and only twenty minutes away from NICE road.

It was barricaded to the public; only Sobha resident joggers eroded it every morning and practically turned it into a freeway to the waterfall.

It was a dog that found her hand dangling like a T-Rex’s arm from the rotted core of the elm; one of those furry golden ones. I saw them often with the joggers, trotting along, burying their nose where it didn’t belong.

Devoid of skin, tissue or even rot, Nina’s arm had been licked clean to the bones. I was surprised that the foxes hadn’t ground the bones into a powdery puff, yet.

I stood among the few joggers, as the police pulled Nina out from the dark hole, one limb after another. Her torso came last and a small man was sent inside to fetch her head.

It was almost thirty minutes later that a head popped out, not Nina’s, but the man who was sent after it. He climbed out, panting and repeating, “Kuch nahee hai, Saab. There is no head.”

The Chief Inspector who looked like mosquitoes had made half a meal out of him, stomped his foot and shouted, “Where the hell is the head, then?”

“Kamraj sir…” said his deputy, smiling like a patient grandmother, “Where will the head go? It will be around somewhere. Mil jayega.”

“Chop the tree down, Rajan”, commanded the inspector, “and all the trees within 100 meter radius, dig everything around it. We’ll find the head and God alone knows what else.”

Just then a tree hugger wearing an organic cotton kurta from Fab India, and Nike neon pink shoes, stepped forward and shouted, “This tree is more than 200 years old. You can’t possibly cut it down and all the trees around. We’ve paid so much to come and live here only to be close to nature.”

“And Madam, who might you be?” deputy Rajan asked.

“I’m the Mrs. Bunty Kumar, the society secretary. I cannot let you cut these trees down,” she said, holding her head high; her eyes levelled with Rajan’s chest, her hands holding her faithful army of joggers back.

“Acha Constable, take everyone’s finger prints and DNA. We can not eliminate anyone from suspect list.” Rajan shouted out to his constables.

There was a sudden commotion within the group, people turning around to each other and whispering.

They couldn’t possibly have been involved with Nina’s murder, now could they? They’d only moved in two years ago. And the body looked much older.

“Sir, why sir?” Mrs. Bunty Kumar said. “How can anyone be a suspect? We only came to the Sobha Fairy Falls in 2017.”

“But Madammm…” Rajan said. “We need to find the head, naa, to ascertain how old is the body. But you won’t let us cut these trees.”

“Madam ji,” Kamraj said, giving Rajan a disgusted look for playing with his prey, “Let us do our job. We could get a warrant but this isn’t Sobha property, now is it? Even though you’ve encroached this space. This is government land.”

That was perhaps when people realized that curiosity could kill the cat. They started dispersing and I fell into step with them. Shuffling my feet on the wet grass, crunching dead leaves.

“Hello…” shouted Rajan. I didn’t turn around, just like everyone else. Reluctant bodies silently shuffling back home; back into the false security of four walls.

“Hello… Sobha residents.” he shouted again.

People slowly turned around. I heard a woman tell her husband, “You only wanted to live within nature. Now see what they found in our backyard.”

“How is this my fault?” he said; his hands in the air and his teeth clenching.

“Not your fault…! Not your fault…!” she almost shouted, incredulous. “You think, now that you’re a suspect, they won’t check your tax returns?”

That shut the husband up.

We all looked at Rajan, questioningly.

“Don’t leave town.” he said. “We will interview everyone.”

There were some groans, a spectacled man said, “Excuse me, but I need to travel on work to Paris tomorrow.”

“Cancel it.” said Kamraj.

“But… but… ” He said. “It is a multi-million dollar deal. You don’t know who I am.”

“Don’t worry, write your name and phone number down here.” He extended a notebook at him. “We will soon know who you are.” Rajan said, dismissing him with his left arm, as he picked up the hand with his right to examine it in detail.

The others hurriedly scribbled their names and numbers and just turned around to hurry back towards the building. I walked with them until the edge of the path, and then turned to the right.

The cottage lay hidden within a thick brush of wild rosemary bushes and wisteria trees. Geraniums and hibiscus grew wild in my tiny garden and the cottage was covered in creepers, such that only the door and one window were visible.

I walked slowly to the door, using my stick to clear the path off the over grown weeds; I nudged the door with my stick; it was unlocked.

I walked straight to the iron chest next to the bed. There was dirty brown crochet cloth barely covering the rusty iron.

I swept my hand and threw the knick knacks off the cloth, pulled the cloth out, made a mental note to reuse it as a cleaning cloth.

I took out the chest key from my tiny purse and opened the creaky lock. I hadn’t opened the chest in almost three years now, and it wasn’t easy. I had to oil the hinges and try again.

On my third try, though, I was able to open it. A cloud of dust blew into my nose and I coughed until my eyes watered. A blob of mucous and blood fell on my lap as I gasped for breath.

When the cloud of dust cleared, I looked inside the chest. It was pristine, just like I remembered. My orange silk saree lined the bottom of the chest, tattered in places, and on top of it, covered in the unstitched blouse cloth of that saree, lay Nina’s skull.

I pulled it out and uncovered the skull. My sister grinned back at me; all teeth and soulless eyes.

“Nina…” I said. “They found you. Those rich joggers and their fluffy dog.”

Nina stared still grinning. “You must be happy, wouldn’t you? You always wanted the world to know you. And now they will.”

I could have sworn that one soul less eye winked at me.

“What should I do with you now?” I said. ” They’ll come knocking. The police. Just like they did, when they couldn’t find you.”

Nina stay still, mocking the cotton balls clouding my mind.

A voice long forgotten whispered in my head. “Srinivas.”

“No”, I shouted. “Never with Srinivas. You’ll never lay with him.”

Silence. Nothing else. Only silence and that leering grin.

An old flame of fury burned my body. After all these years, she still wanted my Srinivas. I held her head tight, my teeth gritting. I wanted to punish her, punish that whore, just like I did ten years ago.

I smiled, “Fine! I’ll throw you into the waterfall. Let’s watch you swim.”

via Nina

23:23

People believe I am mad, a crazy lunatic, obsessed with the time 23:23. But let me tell you something; I did not go searching for 23:23, it found me. It was relentless in its pursuit; it hounded me night and day, until I had no other choice but to acknowledge it. I tried everything, switched off my phone, tried to sleep when it was still a safe 22:22, shut my eyes and refused to look at my bedside clock. But somehow, somewhere I always managed to see 23:23.

I had such confidence in my sanity, my logic, my rationality; that I discussed about 23:23 with people, many people; my husband, friends, colleagues and believers in the paranormal. Some looked at me in awe, some even suggested I was a shaman and some strongly believed that I was ready to fall over the threshold of madness.

Before you throw away this paper, attributing it to the rant of a mad woman, let me tell you about me.

My name used to be Anu, short for Anuradha. I say used to be, because now, it is just patient no. 2323.

I was happy, once. I used to live in the bustling city of Bangalore, with its surprise showers and cool weather. I was married too, to the man of my dreams and I bore him two beautiful little girls, twins at that. In our uninhibited joy, we named them Thea and Rhea. Thea, Goddess of the moon and Rhea, the daughter of Gaia (Earth). Both my daughters orbited around each other from the time they were born. Oh how I had loved them until they were toddlers, their constant need to be with me, their constant demands, their unending cries for ‘Mumma’. That was only until they were old enough to realise that all they ever needed was each other. They had a look that was only meant for the other one, like telepathic Siamese twins.

Such strong was the connection between my daughters; that I became the ostracised mother who wasn’t privy to that bond.

Dave, my husband, adored his little girls, with their curly, brown hair, round chubby faces, pink lips and golden eyes. Adored them to the point of obsession, and the adulation was returned in kind.

The first time I confronted that I had been seeing 23:23 way too often; I did not bother myself much. I wrote it off to the belief that my biological clock was somehow attuned to the time 23:23. I was afraid to give it supernatural credence, because if I did, it would become true.

Just like the Mothman, if you don’t believe in it, you don’t see it.

One night, while I fed my five-year-old daughters, one of them kept spitting her food out. I don’t remember which one, but I think it was Rhea, because she had always been the quintessential troublemaker. I would be doing my chores in the house, only to turn around and find Rhea stare at me with a strange intensity. Soon, Thea would join her, and both my daughters would glower as though they could see something dark, something black, something blasphemous in my soul that I, was not aware of.

As I tried to reign in my quickly dissipating patience, Rhea spat her food out for the fifth time, and that is when I lost any semblance of sanity. I bent her over and spanked her, while my daughter howled in pain. On my left Thea held her hands to butt and howled equally loud.

I think somewhere around my fifth smack, someone held my hair and dragged me away from my girls. After that I don’t remember much except for being thrown on the floor, kicks and punches that landed on my stomach, back and face simultaneously. Within minutes that seemed to me like unending moments of torture, I lay there writhing in pain and agony. My self-esteem shattered, along with my elbow.

It was the first time Dave had raised his hand on me, and it landed me in the hospital. When Dave waited for my reports, wringing his hands next to me; I couldn’t help but notice his shivering and furtive glances.

“Anu, I am sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I saw you hitting the girls, and the way they cried. I couldn’t help myself. I am sorry….so sorry.” He broke into tears and I turned my head the other way. My heart plummeted at the thought of Dave crying, I wanted to reach out to him and cradle his head between my breasts and tell him, “It’s okay. It’s okay, baby. It was the girls, they were getting on my nerves.” But I didn’t. I was afraid if I did that, his guilt at breaking my body would just disappear along with the lesson learned. I just lay there with my back to him, all night long, swallowing my own tears of betrayal.

It took me months to heal. But heal, I did.

One day, around eight months post the ‘accident’, as I was fidgeting to put on my clothes, I remembered I hadn’t seen 23:23 since. So, I decided to write off my obsession with 23:23 as a manifestation of midlife crises.

But then a few months later, one night, the girls had slept and I was waiting for Dave to come home. I turned towards the digital clock and the time was 23:23. My stomach sank in fear, yet my mind rationalized, that it was impossible for me never to see 23:23. Then the next day I saw it again and again, the day after.

Almost after two months of stumbling into 23:23, with increasing frequency and vehement denial, in the afternoon, as I precariously stood on a stepladder, trying hard to clean the cobwebs in our bedroom; my daughters ran amok around our house; playing hide and seek, their favourite. I could hear their giggles and screams of delight as they tried to deftly fool the other one.

Suddenly, it stopped, the pitter-patter of their feet, the screams, and the laughter. My home was shrouded in an ominous silence. I strained hard to hear a sound, any sound from my daughters. All I could make out were whispers, soft whispers spoken between Rhea and Thea. I felt strong sense of foreboding that pushed me into getting off the ladder. As I struggled to step down the ladder, my elbow still delicate from Dave’s onslaught, Rhea and Thea came running inside like a storm and toppled the ladder over.

I fell from three feet, and landed smack on my back, with my head hitting the floor in a jarring impact. While my head and back reeled and the room swam in front of my eyes, the last thing I saw before passing out, was my girls stepping over me and walking out of the room.

Naturally, I was convinced that those girls were not normal, they were demonic.They were never born right. After that incident I became wary of Rhea and Thea. I would lock my room every time I had to go to the washroom or take a nap. I grew eyes in the back of my head and did not entertain the girls in any games or chatter.

I would find excuses to avoid my own children, I would lock them in their room and wait for them to cry to sleep, rather than sing them a lullaby. The only time I could be carefree, was when the girls had gone to school. Initially, I missed it. Especially those cold lonely nights, when Dave was out on work; I missed the warm soft bodies of my girls; their honey voices talking to me about their day at school or their small hands moving around my bare stomach and finding each other. But then with the increasing frequency that I saw 23:23 and the ease with which my daughters decided to alienate me, I came to believe that 23:23 was not my enemy. Instead it came to warn me, it was my friend.

Soon Dave started noticing the change in me and one night he complained, “I have to go and tell them a bedtime story, Anu. And I’m exhausted. Why have you stopped putting them to bed? Why are you avoiding them like that?”

“Because they are monsters. That’s why?” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I knew that Dave, Thea and Rhea were in it together. Instead I walked up to Dave, freed open my long hair, and straddled him.

“I missed you, Babe. Can we talk about the girls later?” And within seconds, his daughters forgotten, Dave’s hard penis was freed of its shackles. And I rode him like it was my last night on earth.

The next day, at breakfast, I saw Rhea and Thea sulking and whispering in a corner. They wouldn’t even speak to Dave. If I had any doubts about them conspiring against their mother, they were erased that morning. I knew my daughters wanted me out of the way. I turned and looked at the kitchen clock, it was broken, stuck at 23:23.

A few months passed, one night when Dave was out of town, again, I sat staring at the TV screen, listlessly. I was aware that in the last few days I’d been seeing 23:23 almost four times a day, which usually meant something was going to happen, soon.

I heard a snap behind me, instantly, I turned to the sound, the living room was silent, still, nothing disturbed.

I turned back to the TV, and five minutes later I heard the snap again. I knew it had to be the girls. Those tiny bitches were at it again, and I wondered what did they plan to break this time, my neck? I decided to go up and check on them. But before I did, I picked up a large kitchen knife. No part of my body was breaking tonight.

I took the spiral staircase, suspended from the ceiling, slowly, one step at a time. The kitchen knife held in front of me. As I reached closer to their room, I heard another snap from below. And I looked down to see Rhea stand there in her white night dress and stare up at me; the hair on my nape stood ramrod straight. My hands shivered enough, that they threatened to lose the grip of the knife. I wondered where was Thea, and just then I heard Thea speak from a few steps above me.

“Mumma, boo!” And with that I lost my balance. But, thanks to the warnings by 23:23, I had been holding on to the railing of the stairs. Those tiny Devil’s whores were not getting away with it this time.

They wanted to kill me, they wanted Dave all to themselves.

With that thought, any last thread that had me tethering with the demons that I’d birthed, broke. I ran up the stairs and grabbed Thea with her thin white night dress.

I pulled her towards me and held her by her small and slender neck. Her barely 20 kilo weight was no match for my 75 kilo frame. I lifted her in the air threw her down the steps where her sister cried and begged me to stop hurting Thea.

I ran down the stairs, I wanted to make sure that both those fucking monsters were in my sight until I reached below. I needn’t have worried. Thea lay in moaning in, with her hand and leg twisted at an odd angle. And next to her Rhea sat holding her leg with one hand and her other hand having limply, howling for help.

But the only help that came for Rhea, was a kick on her back with my foot. She reeled over to the other side of the room and hit the wall before she landed on the ground.

My fury couldn’t be reined in. I lifted both my daughters with both my hands and threw them against the wall.

They banged into the wall like straw dolls and fell down at odd angles.

Not a single sound that came from my girls. But I didn’t want to leave anything to chance; I took the kitchen knife that I had left on the table. Dragged them near their favorite chairs, put them on it, and slowly proceeded to slit their throats.

Warm blood oozed out of the slits, and their bodies shook vehemently in seizures. The blood dripped down their favourite pink chairs and created a beautiful bright puddle. Only after I was completely satisfied that the demons were dead, I got up to get a mop and clean up the mess.

I would bury those tiny whores in the garden, I thought.

And as I was walking back with a bucket of water and a mop, I slipped my foot on their gooey blood and hit my head at the table. The impact was worse then when Dave broke my elbow or when my daughters threw me off the ladder. I could feel the skin break and my head slide down the table. The back of my head felt warm and sticky. But, before I lost consciousness, I turned to look at those dead rag dolls sitting expecting them to smile through the large, red slit on their throat. After all they got what they wanted.

But the last thing I saw was Rhea and Thea, speaking from their slit throats, “Mumma, we love you.”

via 23:23

The Chosen One

The Sun shone… again! Banging those jaundiced rays of light upon my closed eyes. I groaned and twisted, my back craned, perhaps a joint popped, but that wasn’t new now, was it?

With my eyes still closed, I made kissy noises for my cats Cleopatra and Nefertiti, to come over and give me some of those hugs and kisses.

Just then I heard Cleo’s low purr sounding like train huffing somewhere in the distance; somewhere far enough to be close to the bedroom window. It was that damned owl again, I realized, come to deliver my tenth Hogwarts invitation.

“Go away!” my voice took on a high-pitched shrill. “I told you already, I’m not joining any of those floozy wizarding classes.”

My words sounded like whiny gurgles. I opened my eyes, my hands fumbling for my dentures. When I did find them, I could feel the fur of my cats stuck on the sides of the dentures. I rubbed it against the bed sheet, which was a mistake because it added a few more strands of the ginger hair. I grunted and popped it in, moving my jaw up and down, side by side adjusting it to fit into my small mouth. I gargled the fur out with water.

I screamed at the owl again, “Like I said, I am not interested. Don’t you have some twelve year olds to recruit?”

The owl cooed and flew inside my bedroom, driving Cleo and Nefi into a frenzy of screaming and jumping.

My hands then fumbled for my spectacles and when I did find them, I felt Nefi’s regurgitated hairballs. I shrugged and wiped the vomit off the bed sheet.

When I put on my glasses, I saw that there was someone else in the room apart from that wretched owl.

“Mrs. Morpe”, said a tall man whose beard hung like untrimmed hair from a vagina. He bowed in pretend flourish, “Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, at your service.”

I felt like I should bow for this excessively hairy man, but then my hips weren’t what they used to be, so I settled into a barely perceptible nod.

“I have come to take you to Hogwarts. Your classes start today. Our defense against dark arts teacher does not tolerate late comers, even in the geriatrics section.”

I sighed and considered shooting him point blank on his face. At 85, prison was the last of my worries. But then I remembered that the revolver laid in the bottom most drawer of the sideboard in the living room. The walk and the bending weren’t worth the trouble. I apprised the man, he was young, perhaps half my age, and he was dressed like a gentleman. Maybe I could reason with him. I thought. Unless he was completely daft, he would see my point.

“Look Dumbore” I said, “I have told that wretched, screeching owl every single day for the past ten days, and I’m telling you now. I. am. not. interested. What kind of male privilege is this? When you can’t even take a no from a woman as old as your mother, Dumbore?”

“Ma’am, it’s Dumbledore.” he said sighing. Irritation brought creases of focus on his smooth forehead and he put effort in the words he spoke next. “We need you!”

“Why?” I asked.

“You…” he hesitated.

“Get on with it, boy. I don’t have time for your dillydallying.

“You”, he sighed again. “You are the chosen one.” he said, his voice low, deep and meaningful.

I almost barfed last night’s broth, my head swam and I needed to sit down. Chosen by Hogwarts, right when I was about to hang both my legs into the grave and pop into it with a well timed heart attack.

Perhaps he noticed my discomfort, because he said, “It would be better if we moved out of the boudoir.” I groaned at his usage of Boudoir. This wasn’t the 1920s, anymore.

“Young man!” I said. “I’m eighty five years old, the last time a man was in my boudoir, he was painting these walls. So, my boudoir is not the problem, the problem is why the hell would you choose a geriatric as the chosen one?”

“Well”, he said, “we don’t do the choosing, Ma’am? They do.”

“Who is ‘they’?” I asked.

“I don’t know; ‘they’ just call themselves they”. He said, clearly uncomfortable.

“’They’ sound like they need to be bent over and spanked with a thin stick, until they shout out their names loud enough for the neighborhood to hear.” I spat.

“Mrs. Morpe,” Dumbledore’s mouth was wide open and his eyes alight, “How could you? ‘They’ told me you were a sweet old woman, filled to the brim with kindness.”

“Clearly, Dumboaf” I said. “’They’ don’t know everything.”

“It’s Dumbledore. Please Ma’am we need you. You will have all the comforts in Hogwarts and even your cats will be looked after.” He almost begged.

I reached for my cane and hobbled into the living room. I called out to Cleo and Nefi. They gave up on the owl, and came slithering down the bedroom. I poured milk into their bowls and asked Dumbledore.

“What have I been chosen for?”

“Well… umm.” he hesitated. “Why don’t you come to Hogwarts and we can explain it to you?”

“naaaahaaa… no.” I took a step back. “Because if ‘they’ expect the chosen one to trapeze like those circus performers and whip up a time travel spell in a snap, that is not going to happen. So, Dumbone, you better tell me what this is all about?”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, “My name is Dumbledore, Ma’am. And they have chosen you to discipline a student in Hogwarts.”

“What? Don’t you have teachers to do that?” I asked.

“Well we do. And he seems pretty disciplined even now, but they said he’ll turn out to be a very powerful and evil wizard, and he will destroy Hogwarts. That’s why we need you to imbue some good morals into the fella.” he said

He saw my mouth open in protest and quickly continued, “Ma’am if you don’t help now, the next chosen one will arrive 40 years later and by then he would’ve killed many innocent men and women.”

“What kind of people are these they? Who the hell has two chosen ones to kill the same Villain?” I tried to stomp my foot, but my right knee protested in arthritic pain, when I asked, “Why me?”

“Mrs. Morpe your reputation at the British soldier camps exceeds you. There are still stories about you turning the Nazi war prisoners into good men.” he said.

“Oh my!” I said; my cheeks coloring at the memory of those days on the camps. This could be a problem, I thought.

“Look Dumbore Dumboaf Dumb whatever your name is!” I said, “I did not discipline them they way you think I did. I did not spend hours reading verses out of the Bible or tell them moral stories. In fact, I showed no kindness to them, until they bent their heads to my feet and literally begged for days.”

“Huh”, he said, his mouth hung like a spastic cow.

“You know what I mean, right?” I asked.

“No Ma’am.” my suspicions confirmed. He was as daft as a swine in heat.

“How could you teach them kindness without showing them any?” he continued.

I straightened my spine and held my cane tighter.

“What the hell?” I said to myself, “It’s been a while, anyways.”

“Come boy”, I spoke loudly this time. “Open the closet in my bedroom, there hanging in the right corner would be a black leather body suit, along with thigh high boots. Bring that, and along the way grab the horsewhip hanging by the bed poster. I will show you how I turned those Nazis into good men, without showing any kindness.”

I turned around, my head high, fervently hoping that the bodysuit still fit me, while Dumbledore stared at me confounded, his face as dumb as his name.

via The Chosen One

Detective Phansy and the case of too many women…

Detective Phansy knocked thrice on the gargoyle knocker and we waited for the massive oak doors to swing open. In five years with the murder squad, not many things intimidated me, I had seen it all, or I thought I had. But the three-mile drive inside the estate and finally parking my mini wagon among rows of Ferraris, Rolls Royce and Lamborghinis had ensured that I stand smaller than my five feet eight inch, in front of whoever opened that door.

“The Kains are wealthier than I imagined, Sir.” I spoke, tapping my feet.

“Of course they are, McLane. You Irish don’t know the meaning of true wealth now, do you?” Phansy said, roaming his disdainful gaze from my mop of waist long red hair down to my freckled face and a body that worked out, but did not say no to baguettes.

“Sir, we got wealthy people in Ireland, what are you talking about?” my voice took a high-pitched whine, the kind that appeared whenever I felt defensive.

“Not like the English do, McLane, not like the English.”

Just when my voice was about to reach a pitch higher than earlier, the door swung open and a stately woman of about fifty opened the door, and said, “Yes?”

Phansy jumped in to educate the woman of the house, “Oh Mrs. Kain, I am Detective Phansy, with a ‘Ph’. I know this would be terrible inconvenience but we have some questions regarding your husband’s unfortunate demise yesterday. I do hope you can give us ten minutes of your precious time.”

The woman gazed between the two of us confused and it did not take me long to figure out that this wasn’t Mrs. Kain, after all. My guess would be her mother. But by then Phansy had already put his arm around the dignified lady and was leading her into the gorgeous living room, he even tried to gently push her down the plush victorian sofa; that was when the lady finally found her voice and said, “You have me mistaken, Sir. I am Mrs. Kain’s personal maid.”

Bad erotica…

Abhay paces the small one room kitchen apartment, it wasn’t a lot of pacing; four steps back and forth made up for his tiny dwelling. But then again what is a struggling writer, if not living in a space cramped with a chair, a bed, a foldable writing table, a solar powered lamp, a bowl full of cigarette butts and five day old pizza.

Abhay’s predicament wouldn’t be something new for you, but for him it was a dilemma that put him in precarious situation. You see, the next chapter in Abhay’s highly ambitious debut novel about four friends who had just passed out of IIM – B; was that one of those friends was finally getting lucky. And Abhay had to describe him getting lucky.

Now this shouldn’t be a problem to many writers, or maybe it would be. I would never know. But Abhay is still a virgin, which means, he has never gotten lucky. And the poor little peasant has no idea how to, either.

As a preparation for his next chapter he even downloaded Tinder and entertained at least ten different women, all of whom were software engineer, for a span of twenty days. After days of back and forth texting, he realizes that for him to ever get lucky, a helplessly horny woman, who is not a software engineer, needs to turn up on his doorstep.

That made him consider reaching out to an escort, however, his mortal fear of STDs helped him decide against it.

Perhaps Abhay is tired of pacing, or maybe he has finally found inspiration in the Penthouse edition 326 that he had read almost ten years ago; he finally sprawls himself on the bed that also moonlights as Abhay’s wardrobe. He opens his Macbook and types.

“Chapter 26:

She had big breasts, in fact humongous ones. Deb couldn’t take his eyes off them, even though she stood there fully clothed. Her breasts were round like melons and perked up as if an invisible force was holding them.”

Abhay is now chewing his left index finger nail. He doesn’t know what to write next. Clearly he is not able to think beyond the breasts.

After chewing his fingernail to the point where a trickle of blood runs down his index finger, Abhay’s fingers fly on the laptop again.

“Deb’s penis felt hard, it reacted in a violent jerk at the sight of Jenny’s breasts. Looking at Deb stare so shamelessly at her breasts, Jenny felt shy and averted her gaze. Her face became red and a hesitant smile formed at her lips.

She walked slowly to Deb, the bulge at his pants making Jenny’s eyes bulge out of their sockets.”

Abhay smiles, he believes he is close enough to be known as the nation’s foremost erotic author, although most of you would beg to differ. In fact I almost cringe at putting you through this, however, it is important we realize that this moment is one of those defining moments in the Abhay’s journey as a writer.

Abhay adjusts his seating position as we realize that his body is enjoying writing this erotic scene as much as his mind is. He smiles and his hands attack the keypad with renewed vengeance.

“Jenny breathed hard, there was desire dancing in her eyes when she asked, ‘Why are you looking at me like this, Deb? Like you have not seen a woman before this moment.’

Deb, still staring at Jenny’s massive breasts, swallowed his tongue and answered. ‘You are beautiful.’

Jenny was panting like a bitch in heat and Deb’s crotch ached and begged to be released.

‘What about me is beautiful, Deb?’ Jenny asked.

‘Your… your bre… Your eyes, Jenny. You have beautiful eyes.’ Deb replied.

‘Oh… what else, Deb?’ Jenny walked closer to Deb and her breasts are now just an inch away from Deb’s chest.

‘… Your… your body?’ Deb asked, wondering if it the answer is right.

‘Oh… Deb. I know this is the first time we have met. But I feel like I have known you forever.’ Jenny crooned and took Deb’s hand in hers.

Jolts of lightening passed through Deb and his cock jerked like it has been electrocuted.

‘I love you, Deb.’ Jenny said, looking into Deb’s eyes. Forcing him to look away from those ginormous breasts.

‘Touch me, Deb. Touch me.’ Jenny brought Debs hands to the one thing he had been eyeing all evening at the college party, her breasts. Deb groaned in desire.”

Abhay’s hands have now left the keypad. He seems to be touching himself, like his body is those ‘ginormous’ breasts. Yet, in almost thirty seconds some part of sanity prevails and Abhay foregoes touching himself to continue with his badly written sex scene, even though it is not easy, considering that hard weight that rests between his legs.

“Debs hands moved in circular motions, squeezing and massaging his object of desire.

Jenny groaned as well, as she confessed to Deb that she had never been touched before.

‘I am a virgin, Deb’. She said.

‘What?’ Deb responded unbelievably. How could this beautiful, sexy, hot woman with humongous breasts still be virgin? But one look at Jenny’s innocent eyes convinced Deb that she wasn’t lying.

An energy that Deb had never experienced before, encroached his body and he started massaging Jenny’s breasts with renewed vigour.

‘I am giving myself to you, Deb.’ Jenny continued, although Deb wished she would stop. He did not say so. He considered putting his mouth on hers but he was scared. This was his first time after all and he did not know what could offend the woman.

‘You will deflower me, Deb.’ Jenny said. Deb removed the fly of his pants with one hand while his other continued the work on Jenny’s breasts. His cock was out, and he was ready to deflower the innocent virgin with colossal breasts in front of him.”

Abhay can’t write anymore, and I am sure you understand why. While Abhay helps himself in the tiny bathroom that uses a curtain for a door, let me tell you why we need to go through this.

Because when you finally read Abhay’s debut novel called ‘Why point anyone’; and believe me you will; because every other person you meet would be talking about it. In fact Abhay will be hailed as the modern Valmiki, who taught India to read; you need to understand that Abhay was still a virgin when he wrote this.

via Bad erotica…

Shall we eat Dick, instead?

“It is all about reiteration, recognizance and following up relentlessly to ensure that your work gets done. You feel me people, do you feel what I am saying here?” Dick looks around, his voice rising in decimals, his back straight and blood shot eyes wide enough to cover Rita’s generous boobs.

 

We all nod our unenthusiastic ‘hmms’ and scroll down the screen to the next point in the agenda.

 

“It is like my son, you know.” He continues. Rita, almost groans out loud but then saves her ass by pretending to cough. “Every single morning I lift my son’s sorry butt and plant it on that atrocious fluorescent green and yellow, plastic potty. I sit there with him for five, ten, even fifteen minutes, squatting just like he does and grunting loud and clear to make him poop in that potty. And when he does, only then does he get rewarded by his favorite fruit loops.”

 

A strong whiff of chicken steak, tiramisu and the smell of someone’s butt crack invades my nose and almost makes me throw up in my mouth. I realize that Dan, who is sitting next to me, has let out a silent, yet smelly fart.

 

I pick up a glass of water and cover my mouth and nose with it, while giving Dan the evil eye. He shrugs and whispers, “What?”

 

Ah, I think, the fucker ate before the meeting. This goddamned meeting was supposed to be only for half an hour, and already we are at the ninety-minute mark with sixty minutes of the single dad’s potty training anecdotes.

 

“You feel me people? Do you?” Dick increases his voice by a couple of more decimals.

 

“Yes…yes.” We speak in unison and Ana burps loud enough to make sleepy Todd jump on his seat.

 

“I am sorry, it is acid reflux.” Ana apologizes. “Been too long since I ate, you know.” She said.

 

Ah, I could kiss Ana. She said it; she said what we were all thinking. All heads turn to Dick. At least now he will realize and give this snail paced meeting a break.

 

“True, very true, Ana.” He says. “I have observed with my son as well, that whenever he eats in long gaps, he suffers from terrible constipation the next day and oh, don’t even get me started on the stomach pains.”

 

“Please don’t!” Dan whispers under his breath.

 

What the fuck, I think as I notice Ana’s face fall, Todd’s eyes close again and another smellier fart from Dan.

 

Our daft boss continues his rant while staring down Rita’s cleavage and a wave of acid assaults my esophagus. I burp a little and take another sip of water. I wonder if I could excuse myself and run outside to grab a quick bite, but I know my teammates would probably break into my home at night and kill me in my sleep.

 

“Co-relate eating on time with our tasks. Can you? Can anyone give me an example?” He asks.

 

He looks around as all of us scramble to look elsewhere, anywhere but him.

 

His eyes roam over us for a moment and zero in on Todd, who is sitting with his eyes close and mouth open.

 

“Todd?” He asks.

 

“Todd? Todd?” he repeats twice as Ana nudges him with her elbow. Todd wakes up screaming “Potty…potty.”

 

“What Todd?” Dick asks.

 

“What Dick?” Todd says.

 

“Can you give me an example that co-relates eating on time with the tasks we perform at work?” Dick repeats his questions.

 

I am holding the edge of the table in a death grip, Todd’s answer would either make me split in uncontrollable giggles or make us all want to hide under the table in embarrassment.

 

“Well like this meeting, Dick.” Todd says as his wipes the drool off his mouth with a tissue.

 

“What about the meeting, Todd?” Dick’s voice has lowered now and his eyes narrow into slits.

 

“… umm nothing actually. I mean sometimes we can kind of forego eating on time, because… I mean because meetings like this are important.” Todd almost whispers.

 

“And?” Dick asks.

 

“And even though I am not yet married, I am gaining a lot of insight into parenting, especially potty training.”

 

“Good.” Dick smiles and turns to Dan and me. “Anything else?”

 

Dan looks at me, I turn my face the other side, he takes the hint and jumps in, “I agree… I mean completely agree. In spite of my evident homosexuality, who knows when I might have to potty train some… some stranger’s child.”

 

“I understand, Dan.” Dick smiles. “Homosexuality is curse for those who love parenting.”

 

I believe we have already established, that Dick is a dick.

 

“Potty training is a skill, people; one that needs a tremendously disciplined approach. You find saying a ‘No’ difficult to these grown ass, ugly looking colleagues? Imagine having to say ‘No’ to a cute, chubby toddler with drool dripping down their mouth.”

 

We nod out of practice.

 

“If you,” Dick continues “can master the art of disciplining and saying ‘No’ to a toddler, you, my friends have arrived? You have true leadership potential.”

 

There are a few more unenthusiastic ‘hmms’ and ‘yesses’. I look at my watch; we were two and a half hours into a half an hour meeting.

 

And now even my stomach is grumbling, I clench my gut and sit still to ensure the thundering in my tummy goes unnoticed by my colleagues, especially my boss.

 

My phone pings, I lower it under the desk as Dick rants on about the how the quality team in our department can learn from him. It is all in the way he measures the health of his toddler son by examining his poop every day.

 

“You see, folks. You need to get your hands dirty here.” He concludes.

 

I unlock my phone to see that Rita has created a group, with just us, Dan, Todd, Ana and I, minus Dick.

 

The title of the group says – Should we eat him instead?

 

I quickly send five ‘rolling with laughter’ emojis and lock my phone. Almost instantly there’s another vibration. With nothing better to do than listen to my boss rant about handling loosies in toddlers, I unlock the phone again. Todd has written, “But how? I am famished, btw.”

Just then Ana responds, “I have a knife in my bag, a big one.”

I still respond with the same laughing emoji, when Dan writes, “Hell yes… slash the fucker.”

What the fuck? I think and type, “Are you guys serious?”

Rita responds, “Of course, Dick, the prick, calls us over a weekend and then doesn’t let us eat lunch. What else can we do, but eat him?”

“Yeah… why not?” Ana chimes in.

I smile at the evident mockery and decided to partake in the charade.

“I’d like to eat his ample belly.” Todd says.

“His thighs for me, please.” Dan writes.

“I would definitely scoop his eyes out with a ladle, dip them in melted chocolate and make loud crunching noises as I chew on them.” Rita writes, obviously frustrated by his blatant staring.

“It would be his fingers for me, fry them up and crunch on those bones.” Ana types.

“I call dibs on his fat arms.” I type and smile.

 

via Shall we eat Dick, instead?

Mother ate herself…

Are you asking for, Mother?

Well, you won’t find her here. You can search all you want.

Go look into her closet that smells of rotten berries and starch.

Raze her bed; raze it off the sickly sweet whiff that permeates off the sheet.

Take a peek inside the kitchen; you won’t witness her breaking that soft loaf of bread,

Her ample behind busying itself around the kitchen, fretting over the crumbs, a sweet song lilting of her luscious lips while her legs tiptoe in a light tread.

You won’t find her here, just like the cops didn’t.

What happened to Mother, you ask?

Oh that’s easy, she ate herself into a tizzy and then dissolved in a whirlpool of pity.

Do you think I am joking, about my own Mother?

Oh, you didn’t see what I saw?

And you didn’t do what Father did?

At first it was the song that would effortlessly lilt off her lips. It died, died in her tongue because she bit it enough to bleed and burn.

As if the tongue was not enough, she bit her lips. Oh no, ‘bit’ is too light a word.

She chewed her lips, every time a tear fell down. And those days, they fell like rain in a thunderstorm.

Miniscule chunks of pink flesh ran away from her lips every dawn, and there in place they left angry, red marks, like tiny crimes of passion.

What happened after that, you ask?

Well, just like any ravenous creature, Mother moved from her lips to her hands. Big bright red splotches, marking her arms into red polka dotted sleeves.

The house was filled with her droppings; tissue and blood splattered around the place.

I slipped once, twice, thrice and then remained in my room waiting for Mother to finish her bites.

Why didn’t I call Father, you ask?

I did. One night when I found a chunk of Mother’s thigh, roasting at 180 degrees in the oven, I called.

His young bride picked up. In her honey sweet voice she coaxed me to tell her what happened? She asked if Mother had again gone nuts?

I told her that Mother was eating herself.

She laughed, like a hyena that had just devoured a large batch of Cinnamon donuts.

She laughed so hard, she probably choked on her gelatin lips, and I thought maybe I could bite them, just like Mother did.

“I’ll be sure to tell your Father.” She said and hung up.

That night Mother and I sat together, under a full moon in the sky.

So looked lighter, thinner. Maybe she did eat away all her weight, the one that made Father leave.

We sat together, I laughed, Mother coughed and we enjoyed her thigh steak.

That was a week before Mother completely devoured herself. She left her eyes until the end.

She would tell me that even in her dying bite, she wanted to see her son.

Sometimes I sat, and watched my Mother eat herself into just the blob of her head.

I think Mother was happy, her gluttony made her delirious, she giggled as she chewed. I grinned with her too.

In the end all that was left of her, was her mouth, with all thirty-two teeth in a perfect line.

How do I know the exact number of teeth, you ask?

Well, after Mother was gone, I ate her mouth and ground her teeth, to make my own version of a toothy pancake.

Why do you laugh Mister?

Is my story funny to you?

Oh, you can’t believe that Mother ate herself whole?

She did. She ate her body, head to toe.

Why?

Why, you ask again?

Because her body was her shame.

Date with a writer

The other day I went on a date with a writer, you know because I am a writer, and I do have this weird notion that writers are good in bed.

I connected with him on Facebook. He sent me a friend request and I read his poetry where he pushes the books off the desk and his woman shatters the glasses kept on the study table, they throw away the clothes scattered on the clothes line and clean the bed off all pillows.

And then in clutter free room they make passionate love.

Well, if that weren’t an indication of his raging, intense libido, nothing would be.

We chatted; I told him that he writes well.

He replied, “Once written I don’t own it. Your eyes and soul make it beautiful.”

I smiled because even with a writer, you need to wade through a ton of bullshit before you can have an actual conversation.

And then he ‘opined’ the ‘postulate’ that since we were in the same city, we could perhaps meet sometime.

His ‘opining’ and ‘postulation’ wasn’t really necessary because had he not asked, I would’ve suggested a meeting myself.

I had been depraved of a good romp in bed for so long that lately my bidet was my favourite gadget at home. But that didn’t mean I was into one-night stands or friends with benefits. I really needed to get to know the guy well and to be courted, before I even started anything. I am old school like that.

We met at Starbucks, where I walked in a Mango dress carrying my Fendi bag and wearing Aldo shoes.

It did not take much to recognise him there, the only man sitting in a corner furiously typing away.

He was the kind of writer who would buy kurtas from FabIndia and then poke holes in it to fit into the ‘struggling writer’ stereotype; the kind who would carry his Macbook Pro in a jhola and order Pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.

His silhouette profile picture did not do justice to the fact that his beard almost reached his cheekbones like a Neanderthal with zero access to a razor blade. And his hair was long enough to be tied in a bun as thick as a donut. Between his head and his chin, there was a lot of hair and very little face.

Although the one thing his profile image did do justice to, was his muscular physique. If the muscles bulging at the seams of his kurta were any indication, he looked like he lived in the gym.

“Hi Moni” I said.

He took his own time to look up from his laptop and roamed his bespectacled eyes on me.

“Your pictures do not do justice, you know.” He spoke with a smile.

I smiled and sat down. That compliment did not deserve a response.

Even with the beard covering his face, I knew he was much younger than I was. Not that age were a barrier, but I did hope our ideologies met.

“So, what are you writing?” I asked.

“Oh well I am writing Erotica, and my heroine is called, Natasha.” He said with a wide smile.

“Isn’t it a co-incidence?” He continued. “I just started writing about a Natasha while I am meeting one.”

I smiled again. If he did not drop the act, I would probably give up trying to court a decent intellectual and join Tinder.

“You knew you were meeting a Natasha, so no surprises there.” I said. I probably shouldn’t have, because he pushed his spectacles up and went back to typing furiously.

“You write a lot of Erotica, don’t you?” I asked, hoping to have a reasonable conversation.

“Yes, because I am an asshole, and I hate my own phallus.” He responded.

“That’s good to know.” I said and wondered who the fuck calls their dick, a phallus?

I did want to ask him about why he hated his phallus, and if the answer would have been because it was too small, I guess I would’ve ended the date then and there.

But I didn’t. Unlike Moni, I was polite and did not want to start off a conversation with a practical stranger on topics of assholes and phalluses.

“So Natasha, I also did read some of your striking pieces. It is beautiful that you would lay yourself bare for the world to see.” He said.

“Oh… I thought I only write fiction. How, pray tell, do I lay myself bare to the world?” I said.

“Well you know in that story, where this widowed mother is attacked by the police man. The beauty with which you describe him defiling her body was captivating.” He said.

“Umm… that was a rape scene.” I said.

“A beautiful one at that.” He responded, his eyes glinting.

Right there, I could feel my bidet calling out to me, telling me to get out because dating a writer was so not worth the effort. But you know me, and even if you don’t, I am an eternal optimist. I prefer giving people second, third, fourth and umpteen chances, just like I did with my cheating ex husband.

“I really like your prose, it is fluid and seamless.” I said in hopes of moving the topic away from how I lay myself bare when writing a rape scene.

He smiled, placed his hand on mine and said, “Just like your fluid body.”

Well, I had asked for it. I had asked for a writer with a raging libido. So if there was anyone to be blamed for this disappointing date, it was I.

“Thank you, Moni.” I said and snatched my hand away. His palms, callused, from lifting all those weights felt clammy on mine.

“So, how do you want to take this forward?” He asked sitting up straight.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Well, would you be the Natasha in my story?” He asked, again smiling from ear to ear.

Oh my God, this guy moved fast. I wondered. Was it something to do with the glaring age gap? Did I miss a few policy changes on romance, while I was busy giving my ex a dozen second chances?

It did not take Einstein, to understand what he was suggesting, but I still persisted in hopes that I might’ve misunderstood the blatant proposal.

“I don’t understand what you are saying.” I said.

He sighed and spoke, “Your place or mine.”

“Ohh…” I said. Faced with a choice, to stick to my romantic ideologies that were clearly a couple of decades archaic or to replace the bidet with this bearded, muscular hunk.

“Mine.” I said.

via Date with a writer