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.”

Detective Phansy

Continue reading “Detective Phansy and the case of too many women…”

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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.

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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.

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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

The Bride who was late

I was born late. I mean I stuck around mother’s womb a week or two, just to float listlessly in that rapidly constricting sack of amniotic fluid and critically analyze my life choices.

Which pretty much set my life’s precedent for the next thirty-five years. I don’t remember a single day at school when I wasn’t late. And I can’t forget my graduation day where my shame faced dad had to go up there on the stage and collect my certificate. I mean it wasn’t really my fault; I had to stop the traffic outside my college to let a family to turtles cross the road.

Or the fateful day I almost got married. I turned up after the guests had left and found my fiancé, Dan, busy doggy styling the wedding planner. Well, all I have to say is that when celebrating your Bachelorette the night before your wedding, never start a bar brawl with another woman who had come for her own Bachelorette. It is like a gang war between two families of hyenas; too much screaming, manic laughter and too little punches.

My only consolation was that I had messed up her nose as bad as she’d messed up my marriage.

But that’s not what this story is about. Definitely not about my life choices when I was alive. This is a story about what happened when I died, and died late at that.

Continue reading “The Bride who was late”

When I became a therapy dog…

“I thought Labradors are the best therapy animals “, I said as I stirred a cup of tea that I had made for my visitor; one that I did not quite enjoy a visit from. Not because he wasn’t easy on the eye, it was because every single time he walked through the threshold of my door, he carried bad, terrible, unsavoury and in this case, positively damning news.

“Labradors are on the brink of extinction, Thanks to another breed of cannibalistic canines, who deemed Labradors, a delicacy.” He spat out, and if looks could kill, they would’ve; but thanks to my completely oblivious attention span, I was busy trying to throw a badminton racquet at my seven year old, who had suddenly decided it would be fun to slide down the railing and not take the steps.

“Mom, where’s my Loreal ultra soft moisturising tick and flea shampoo?” Screamed my fourteen years old daughter, from her room.

“It is in your bathroom, right next to your fur conditioner, that cost me my monthly salary and the perfume, that made me want to give up my first born.” I shouted back as I sipped my tea.

“Can you come and give it to me, please?” She said.

I swear to God, if I hadn’t turned almost vegan a year ago, I would’ve eaten my own progeny. Forget Labradors, nothing tastes better than chewing your own flesh and blood.

Continue reading “When I became a therapy dog…”

When middle aged men serenade middle aged women…

I apologise if I have misled you by this title; made you think that as you read ahead you will be beguiled by a story of two middle-aged, hopeless romantics finding love and solace in each other.

Please remove all images of Jane Austen style wooing with a dark and brooding, yet occasionally witty, Mr. Darcy.

No, no, no, the following lines are not meant to reaffirm your faith in finding love, no matter the age.

I am going to talk about a real menace that many of us face, day in and day out that is social media and its unsolicited messages.

The ones where 20 something, 40 something, 60 something, men suddenly feel it is okay to tell you, how beautiful they think you are, in the first five minutes of the conversation.

And then follow it up with lame pick up lines like; I want us to be good friends.

This morning I received a notification on Facebook saying that Arpan P. (name changed) wants to connect with you. On further investigation I realised that Arpan happens to be in a senior leadership role in a Global Bank.

Great, I think, perhaps he has heard of me as a Leadership Coach, and wants to connect. Although it did bother me that he’d rather connect on Facebook than Linkedin, but then again, you never know where new business might come in, right?

So, with oodles of hope and an entrepreneurial mindset, I responded to his “Hi” with a “Hello, how may I help you?”

The conversation went something like this.

Arpan: Lakshmi , As now we don’t know each other… has no intention to bother u

Me (thinking so far so good): Sure, tell me…

Arpan: Tell me if I am. No intention of bothering u…

Me (thinking..hmm): How did you come to know about me?

Arpan (completely ignoring my question): I don’t intend to bother u, but I new to Bangalore…so exploring

Me (completely on alert): …

Arpan: So, I am new here and I am only looking for a good friend.

Me: I wonder, why would you choose to connect with only a woman, when all you need is a good friend.

Arpan (again ignoring my question): I think I am bothering u. Tel me if I…

u are very pretty.

Me: …

Arpan: Should I take ur silence as a “Yes”? It hard taking rejection from a girl this beautiful.

Me: … 

Arpan (perhaps realising there are unanswered questions): I…I saw ur author profile on Amazon.com. u really r very beautiful.

Me: (Blocked).

He saw my author profile and all he had to comment on was how I looked. I bet he didn’t buy a single book. Although, with that kind of language, I am not surprised.

It escapes my understanding how anyone can see your name on Linkedin, Amazon or any of those sites and then systematically set about searching you on Facebook, until they find you. And then actually message you with hopes that you will instantly become “good friends” with them, because they asked you to.

Can you even imagine how many “Lakshmi Priya’s” would be on Facebook?

This isn’t the first time I have received messages like this one, and this won’t be the last.

The reason I have chosen to share the conversation here and not within the Whatsapp group of my closest friends, is because I know that most of you are no strangers to attempts like this one.

Normally I would’ve screen-shotted it and shared it with my close friends and we would’ve laughed and laughed until we got bored of it.

But honestly today, I do feel offended.

Offended that just because I am a reasonably (this can be debated upon) successful professional, who is average looking and speaks her mind, doesn’t mean it is okay to text me and ask me to become your friend, by calling me pretty and beautiful, but not actually answering my questions.

I am 37 years old; I will call out on your mansplaining me and disrespecting me without batting an eyelid.

Did you really think I don’t know what I look like, in real life?

Did you really think I would believe you when you say I am beautiful?

Did you really think I am so insecure and craving for validation that I will run into your arms and be your “good friend”?

Did you really think, I haven’t had my share of being serenaded by good boys, bad boys, Mumma’s boys and absolutely fake boys?

I have two things to say to men like Arpan, first of all I have enough friends, second, I am writer, you really need to up your game, if you want me to be even remotely impressed by you.

Or wait, on second thoughts, I just have one thing to say;

I am too old for this shit.

Originally Published @ Women’s Web

Write Club Magazine – Edition 11

The Chronicles of Jim and other stories” marks the eleventh edition of Write Club Bangalore Magazine. You can read it for free under Kindle Unlimited, if not, it is just INR 49.

It starts with a darkly disturbing series of diary entries, by a troubled young man in “The Chronicles of Jim, written by Ashwin Kumar.

Moves on to the riveting Mythological Fiction called “Monster” written by Write Club, Bangalore’s recent enviable talent, Yedu Bose.

The series of stories then takes a dramatic turn and entices us into Romance with Kartik Patiar’s, “The Hot Cup of Cappuccino”.

Of course, now that you have read mythology, psychological horror and romance, you wonder what else does this book have to offer. And we don’t disappoint you with Anjali Torgal‘s fantasy/sci-fi short, “The Tree Whisperer”.

Since, we can’t get enough of sci-fi, we have ensured you get enough of it. Read on to “The Sporulation of Sarpanch Sam”, by, undeniably, our favorite writer Pavan Kumar. If you can’t get enough of Pavan here, follow him on Instagram for his surreal poetry.

Now that we have set the atmosphere of strange, it is time to bring out the big horror guns, with Amel Rahman‘s “No Cats”.

You must be wondering about how twisted we are, with just one romance and everything else is horror and fantasy. No, we are not twisted, at least not much. We do love a good splattering of romance in our imaginary worlds. So, read on to get your mushy on, with Isha Shukla’s “The Stone Bench”.

What did I tell you about our obsession with a good sci-fi. Ankit Jha, our resident writer, editor and compiler, delights us with this fantasy/sci-fi short called “Wrath of Gods”.

Next up is “The Diary of a Womb”, a socially conscious piece about the conversations of an unborn girl with her male twin, general fiction by Nidhi Srivastava.

Finally, to end this embroiling book is a story written by me, “Raja and Mia”, about a young tiger’s love for his keeper. Genre: Drama.

Read an excerpt here.

Continue reading “Write Club Magazine – Edition 11”

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