Dabbling in Cliches

The next time someone comes up to me to ask what I do, I won't say I'm an academic, let alone an aspiring one. They don't get it. All I basically do is read, write papers, and teach in a college they may have heard of if they are from my city. Besides, it's not as cool as being a graphic artist, an event consultant, a designer, a musician or even a computer engineer. The city by the sea dabbles in money, and the ability to live it out and live it up. It's a city of numbers.

Maybe the next time I will tell them that I am a writer. What would this sound like? Vague, perhaps vogue-ish. Struggling? But you cant be a serious one in a shirt like this. Oh wait, these ingenius chappal-floaters can betray the un-fashionly artsy-fartsy-ness of me. Haha. Really?

Ok, so what have you published? Uh... Nothing really, yet. So what do you write? I don't write much. I haven't written in quite some time... in fact, I haven't written seriously in years. But I'm still a writer.

And here I am in a haute cafe, sipping cheap bear, and spelling beer wrong. I'm a writer with very little imagination, zero inspiration and no skill of observation. But don't get me wrong, I am not a failed writer. nor a pseudo one. I'm writing this, aren't I?

I could write a story of love, that should be simple enough. But successful love (whatever that is) does not make for a good plot. Failed love, difficult love? I should be inspired, this city manufactures it by the dozen every single day. What more, it is sitting right across from me. This man can be my muse, my testament. But I'm too close to him, I know him too well. I can't write his story. I'd have to fictionalize him, give him a new name, give him motive, give him direction. But will I be able to face him after I pass judgement on him?

I would do better to write about how people meet in cafes. It could be Friends in maximum city. Or vague women in the capital. It could be a love story in any case. Like the guy sitting on the stool there, making eyes at me. I could smile at him and he could come over, and we would connect... and live happily ever after. Alright, alright. It's not about originality anymore, it's about intertextuality, dude. Besides, I'd talk over beer not coffee.

(I may be a little drunk by now.) Since my inventive tap is all but running dry, I may be in need of more powerful intoxicants. Calling all the pains of sleep! And... wait, my pen is slipping... I have to write, before I wake up to a headache, emptying the non-opiates to the drain. I don't want to fly back to answering questions about my academic existence. I still need to tell you what I do...

[2 Feb '11]

The Letter

Dear Bhaiyyaji,

Since you had asked me to write to you in detail about my encounter, here it is:

I picked her up from under the flyover near her hostel. She had been about to cross the street when I managed to catch up with her. Half a minute earlier an autorickshaw had slowed down beside her and I had seen her face scrunched up indecisively as she weighed not taking it. When I whisked her into the back of my car her dupatta waved filmically in the breeze. Her glare pierced me, her voice rising in abuses. I felt scolded like a boyfriend who had arrived late for a date. You remember how I love playing that role, to have a finger on the pulse of a woman? Just like I had mine on hers then. I have to admit that it wasn’t easy for either of us. I had instructed Bhola to look ahead, not to interfere and drive at a good speed to avoid the love-sucking thullas. We kept crashing into each other trying to steady ourselves against the pace of the vehicle and our screaming hearts. I held her, tight, close to me, smothering her with a flurry of kisses. She struggled against my roughness but I knew I would change that. I bound her arms with her dupatta and made for her breasts, which had grown perky against my weight, kneading them, licking them. When I felt Bhola slowing down I looked up to check if all was well and was encouraged by the warm soft glow of the nearly full moon. It lit up the safety of the tree-lined avenues that we were passing through. Then I moved my attention to her long neck, caressed her face while I bit into it. I put my hand over her mouth to stop her from shrieking and left it there, knowing that soon she would not be able to control herself. By then she was feverish in her movements. To make sure she was ready, I did as you had so kindly suggested: took off her green-coloured bottoms and sapped her up in my mouth. I knew that got her really going because she kicked her legs about frantically, gasping for air, arousing in me the desire to end her miserable wait. The strong orange light coming in through the windows told me that Bhola had turned onto the expressway. I quickly pushed back my pants and moved in, slapping rapidly against her body. Although, it didn’t take long to get over, much to my

disappointment, I felt alive. She, however, looked spent as she lay curled up in the foetal position. It was getting very late and I knew she would be missed at home. I asked Bhola to turn around, and carefully put her clothes on. I wiped her sweat and tears, and brushed her hair gently. Just as you had advised, I dropped her ten kilometres away from the place where we had started. I made sure she had money to make it back in an autorickshaw. Even then she looked pretty and enticing in her pink and blue salwar-

kurta. As we drove off, my mind lingered on her taste and smell, and my face broke into a contented smile.

As you see, I am truly your blood, brother. And maybe next time you will be with me, to guide and direct me.

Yours lovingly,

Chhote

[Typed as a memo on my meagre phone as an impulse while travelling one evening on the metro, having read 3 days' newspapers in the hour before]

[PPS. This was exhibited as a creative entry in 'Postfeminist Postmortems?: Gender, Sexuality and Multiple Modernities', Annual Conference (2011) of Department of English, DU]