The Lecher and his women

He looked at her in a crowded subway, brushing every inch of her with his eyes. The woman became aware of his intense gaze. She thought, “Damned lecher.”

He threw one last look at her, he liked her hands, soft yet firm. He had his fill for the day. He got down at a station and made his journey upwards into the real world. He reached home, all the while thinking about the woman in the subway.

He sat down on his stool and holding a paint brush in his right hand. The colour drenched brush moved on the canvas like raindrops on a eucalyptus leaf. Unbeknownst to the ‘woman in the subway’, the lecher captured her on his canvas.

She was the eleventh woman who had fallen prey to his gaze. He took time to choose his women, after having realised that real women travel on the subway and don’t come in chauffeur driven cars to exhibitions, to have a glass of wine and indulge in a little bit of art. Twenty-years and a broken marriage had made him a good judge of women; he felt that he knew more about them then they could imagine.

The painting was  done, a couple of days and the wetness on the canvas would evaporate.

One month later

He needed just one woman. He was again standing on a subway station. He saw the train approaching. But as it neared he could make out two compartments on the front which had the word ‘Ladies’ painted boldly.

He got on one of the general coaches. There were no women. He got down on the next station, with an uncanny feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt betrayed by the women whom he had possessed for all the 11 months. He owned them. He took a deep breath, and waited for the next train to rightfully claim what was his.

This time he got on a ‘Ladies Coach’. They looked at him with disgust. But he was oblivious to their stern gaze. He began his search for his final muse. He looked around intensely. Suddenly he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“This is a ladies compartment.”

A fierce looking female police constable was staring at him; more vicious was her red bindi between her eyebrows. Somehow he stood transfixed in the face of her fierceness.

She shouted, “Hey what’s in my face. Get going or I will…”

Her next words were drowned by the rush of the wheels, as the train entered a station.

As the story nears its end

“Rage, Love, Indifference…you have elegant names for your works”, said a middle aged woman holding a glass of cheap wine. He smiled; he was tired of ‘connoisseurs’ like her who seemed to know more about a creation, than the creator himself. The evening progressed and at 9PM he was at the subway station again. The train rushed in ruffling his pepper salt hair. He went inside one of the ‘Ladies’ coaches. Some of them  gave him puzzled looks  and some were lost in thought or in sleep.

He looked at them cheerfully and gave a smile to the ones who were staring at him.He gave a gentlemanly bow and said, “Thank You for making it possible.” Hearing this the ‘connoisseurs’ clapped their hands and the curtains fell; as the show got over the lecher let go of his ‘Subway Women’.

  

 Disclaimer: Nothing in this story bears resemblance to anything (including the glass of cheap wine or the fiery red bindi). Only the nameless subway women bear resemblance and can be found on any train between 7-10.30 (Monday –Saturday). 

Image: The Lecher, Oil Miniature by Jindřich (Henry) Ulrich, Prague.

Section 309

Rendezvous , crystal ,solemn blue .

How to write a note with these words…a suicide note. After all these were his favourite words.

His favourite Virginia Woolf had committed suicide, after writing a romantic suicide note to her husband. She had her favourite words. Sky, lilac, thought, party, pond, pebbles, water.

He said to himself,” I am sane, unlike Septimus Warren Smith. I am satisfied. I go to office everyday. People like me. I like them in return. I want to write a suicide note.”

. “I have Premonitions. Yes a film by the same name was made.”

He had listed his premonitions once:

1      . A car crashing into his body, while he would cross a road.

2.          A car ripping his head from his body; just when he wanted to have a breath of air from the confines of a    yellow taxi.

            The gas burner …

4        The CPU exploding due to overuse

5        The elevator crashing

The note had to be written. It was something he had deferred for some time thinking that great things would happen to him. He thought again, about a reason. He knew there would be assumptions.  A failed relationship and a broken heart? (“Preposterous” he thought. Yes, Preposterous another word he liked. It had to find a place in his note.)

He had heard of different kinds of death notes. Some would blame husbands or mother-in-laws or lovers or teachers or failures. Different people, different reasons. But he couldn’t think of a reason. All he knew was that, his death, should not give inconvenience to anyone.”

He took a pen and tore a piece of paper from his notepad. One of his friends, who had hung himself to death, had written “I so and so... Died at 4 am.” When the note was discovered, they called the dead guy, crazy. Alas! The family still bears the stigma.

But if his friend would have failed to kill himself, he would have been arrested under Section 309; attempt to commit suicide. “The law is funny, that Manipuri lady is re-arrested each year under 309, because she refuses to eat. 309 … 3+9= 12; 12 months in a year. It’s June.

“Too much of thoughts. The brain has its ways of deferring a suicide. Nice and clever.”

 He realised that he had finished writing his suicide note. It was 10 AM. He stepped out on the road. . He had the note in his hand.

The light showed green. In the distance he saw a speeding yellow taxi. He always liked yellow taxis; they will make his suicide seem like an accident. No one will be blamed.

He ran, he was in a hurry to cross the road. He felt the crash against his body, there was pain all over. Just a fraction of a second before, the person standing next to him had called out.  “You dropped something.”

That was his suicide note. He smiled wryly.

 It meant all the words he liked. “Septimus Warren Smith.”

“They will never understand”, he thought, as people gathered around him to see the last gram of life flee from his conscious self.

Che Guevara gave Him a lift

A short fiction by  Mayuri Bhattacharjee

Che was living in their house for the past 6 years. He had been very discrete lest his presence be betrayed to them. Though he enjoyed the advantage of being invisible, he couldn’t take his chances.

They were a family of four — son, daughter, mother and father. Che found the father the most interesting. He wanted to speak to him, about many things – revolution, capitalism, America, women, cigars, Bolivia, Africa ,medicines, Coca Cola etc. But for circumstances owing to a failed revolution, Che didn’t have the heart to do so.

Being an expert in guerrilla warfare Che knew how to avoid human contact. He knew how to have his food from the bowls kept in the kitchen without anyone suspecting that something was missing. Che even managed to take a bath and shave his beard, when everyone in the house had left and the mother was watching her favourite cookery show in the afternoon.  At the end of each day Che would eagerly wait for the father to come back; he liked that man a lot.

THE FATHER

The father, Mr. Das couldn’t stop his son from going to the US. He couldn’t stop him when he joined a software company instead of sitting for the civil services. He despised his son, his wife and his daughter. They weren’t fit to be with him.

They didn’t understand him. At the end of the day he would tell them about the need for a revolution. His wife would nod her head, while thinking of what to pack in her son’s lunch box, the next day. The daughter would switch on a Hindi serial.The son would argue with him and call the Naxals murderers.

“Murderers. That’s all we get for wanting a change”, said Mr Das. He truly hated his son. He was the embodiment of everything he hated and had fought against.

At present, nothing was worthy of respect. Even the leftists had failed him and the country.

OCCUPY WALL STREET

It was all around. The people who had created the monster of capitalism were now shouting slogans against it; just like he had done years back. He told his son, “What timing. Just when you are going to realise your American dream… I told you it’s not working. Did you see the news, your company’s stocks are down by 0.59 percent?”

His son ignored him. After so many years he had got used to his father’s banter. But not any longer he was escaping this man at last.

   Che felt sorry for Mr.Das, “I failed him. But the time has come to make it up to him.”

A FEW DAYS LATER

A yellow taxi carrying a tearful mother and sister; a quiet father and a quiet son entered the City’s international airport. Hugs and tears. And the son left.

Che was enjoying this scene from a distance, sitting on top of the taxi. He was observing the movements of the father. “The time has come”, he thought.

THE MOTOR CYCLE

Mr Das was irritated.Two weeping women in the taxi. Suddenly he sensed a feeling of uneasiness creeping inside his body. The feeling was odd; it slowly crawled up and settled down heavily on his heart.

“Call Dr.Lahiri”, he told his wife. “There is a hospital nearby pull over”, he instructed the taxi driver.

He was breathing. He felt a prick in his arm. Minutes later Mr Das closed his eyes.

He didn’t open his eyes for the first few minutes. As his senses were regaining their strength, Mr Das felt the hardness of the surface and the soft touch of sea breeze on his temple. Sea ???

He forced his eyes open. He saw nothing but miles of white landscape all around him.

Suddenly he became aware of another man’s presence.

He turned around. He saw an old motorcycle and  a good looking man against the whiteness. 
He had seen the man before. The man slowly took out a cigar, and lit it deftly; He threw the match-box at Mr.Das.

“I have been waiting for you. We have revolution to start, and a war to win. Come on quick.”

Mr Das was spell bound. He had recognised the man.

“Make it fast comrade”, said Che Guevara, as he kick started his beast.

Mr Das gingerly placed his bottom on the pillion. “This is the famous motorcycle”, he thought.

"Yes it is" , answered Che.

The engine roared;it sped through the whiteness and the void.

And with the cool breeze caressing his face, Mr Das forgot all his bitterness; riding pillion on Che’s motor cycle.
                                
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