Khalnayak: The Short Story
He sledged and swore on hot Indian cricket fields after he send the batman’s stumps reeling on the concrete. He once fell in love with his friend’s mother and felt no remorse at all; only love. He once had an affair with a married woman who was a shippie’s wife. His white ex-girl friend felt he had no ethics. He thought she was frigid and part lesbian and still loved her and missed her smell and her kisses. Justin called him a player. Chris called him a Casanova. Umesh thought he had no morals. He didn’t care.
Khalnayak was the name given to him. A villain; A man without a soul; the devil. She called him ‘Mukheriego’, a womaniser.
He met her in the lift. He asked her if she was from Saudi Arabia. She informed him that she was from Argentina. He smiled. She asked him where the laundry room was. He took her to the basement. She thanked him. He said no worries and left.
She was B. He was A.
B, thought he had evil eyes, unlike her Argentinean half American Indian boyfriend’s divine eyes.
He enjoyed his vile image just like ‘Jamie’ Bond, as the Russian women had called him in the hotel room in Bangkok. Venomous Devil, as his aunts and cousins called him. Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights. Ed Harris of The Rock. They were all Khalnayaks.
He was five, when his father left home for the other woman.
He knew it when despite all love that his mother felt for him; she kept on battering him so that he would not grow up to be his father. He felt she loved his younger brother more.
His father came and went from their lives and one day he died. A did not cremate him. The Hindu philosophy needs the older son to do the final rites so that the father may go to heaven. He did not want to give his father a fair chance.
He met her again in the lift next day. This time the lift was going up. She was trying to speak in English and he was trying to help her complete sentences.
She thanked him. He said it was alright.
Next day, they met at the lounge downstairs. He said niceties, had her coffee, thanked her and left.
Next day, they met in the lift. He was going up. She was going down. He was wearing black. She was wearing red.
She said she needed him. He asked her if it was sex. She did not understand but persisted. She wanted ‘methodology’ to learn English.
He was still thinking of the Samoan girl and her big, beautiful eyes and her kissable, innocent lips. He loved her. But did not want to hurt her ‘Aiga’. He was a part of the Patola family.
B was still talking, trying to make sentences. She ‘needed’ him to study English. He thought, why not!
He went to her room. Looked at the red curtains and clean floor and nice incense smell and the banana. He ate the banana and then ate the grape fruit.
They pretended to study. He really tried to help.
She asked him if he would like to sleep in her room and laughed and said she was joking. She was coy, he thought.
He put on a serious face and said yes.
She said noooooo, her boyfriend loved her. Oh, ok he said. She called him Mukheriago: Antonio Banderas.
He said Muchas Gracias and left.
She invited him to the beach next day. They went to Mission Bay. It was hot. But the sea was cold and green. His penis shrunk in the water.
They ate some strawberries and as their skins were burning in the sun. He covered himself with a towel. Her towel. The talk reverberated to sex.
He sucked her fingers and told her, this is what I want to do to your breast. And he wanted to see her naked. She said her breasts are very small. He wondered how that was possible. She was big.
They both lay in the sun. The white sand was reflecting violently. She asked him if he had SIDA. He informed her that he had no AIDS or Syphilis or ‘Ganorrhea’ .
She asked him about a condom. He felt a reaction in his body. He said he could buy one.
They bought Fish and Chips from the FISH STOP and took the bus back to the hostel.
He ran down to the Korean shop for a packet of condoms. They overcharged him. He ran back and went to her room. She was still in her pink swimming costume. She said she wanted to ‘wash’ first.
He wanted her. It had been a long time. They went to his room. She started screeching and screaming in excitement. She took off her swimming costume to reveal a scar running from one side to another. He wondered what it was. Another scar on her belly button was brown thing on a white tanned tummy. Was this liposuction, he thought.
She was excited ‘exceeet’. And he was too but suddenly he lost his hard on. She played with herself and he thought of India.
He had gone back to Bombay (he didn’t bother with Mumbai) since his mother had TB. She consumed 28 sleeping pills as he sat by her bedside. Helpless, like a fish caught in a hook. Waiting. For her to live or die. Breathless. Hopeless.
He had cried like a baby knowing that all mothers die. Despite knowing that his life had always send him out alone to fight the war of living. Survive – he could: Live – he could not.
But ‘mom’ had improved and he was back. Back to a country, he called home, through the airport that had a bomb scare commotion. 28 custom officers like dogs, along with their canines jumped on the passengers that were travelling alone.
He travelled alone, the cowboy that rode into the sunset.
B had just climaxed on her fingers. She was crying and wailing, guilty that she betrayed her boyfriend. She should have never come to this room.
He told her that technically speaking they had not had it. She cried.
He held her and played with her boobs and she climaxed again. She laughed.
She asked him if he had a problem. He told her this was his first disaster and he had done it nine times in a night. She did not understand. He said Muchas Gracias. She left.
Next day, he went to Palmerston North with his friends. He thought of Alofa, the Samoan girl. He liked Lake Taupo and found ‘Palmy’ empty. He discussed women with his drunk friends; Laughed at his own inadequacy.
He came back late next night. She was waiting for him. He slept in her bed and wondered if she was a guy as she kissed him all over and pierced her tongue inside like someone was fumbling with her keys. He got a tremendous hard on. He was relieved. The cloud had shifted. This time her pussy was too small.
And she rubbed her clitoris that was far from her vagina and climaxed three times. He did not. But felt like a stud. He always thought he was one. This continued for three more days. Nine climaxes later, she started blaming him.
She said he thought she was ugly and old and fat and unattractive. He said No. She asked him if he was gay. He said No. She asked him if he at least Bi. He said No.
He wondered if she was a man. He didn’t ask her.
She rode him for some more nights and took him out to dinner, cleaned his room, did Reiki for her mother, advised him on how to dress. Told her about her Rebel Society in Argentina and how she shuddered to go back. He asked her to seek political asylum.
He was glad he was moving to Henderson. They fought when he told her about his intentions.
She said her life had been a mess and he didn’t love her and he didn’t want her and he thought she was a prostitute. She wanted to be with him all the time.
He needed fresh air and would escape in Justin’s car to midnight Tamaki Drives. He marvelled at the moon on a clear night as it bounced as light on frivolous, fickle, unfaithful waters and the whole blue grey black effect was exotic.
He wondered if a photograph could do justice to that clear sky blue waters big moon night scene. Justin told him that he would require a night film for that and look, look, those cars look like fireflies on the other side.
Rangitoto looked evil and ominous as a bright grey cloud sat on its head. Justin said it was a sign. The cloud did look as if it was smoke bellowing out.
He loved the oxygen. He would escape to Borders Book Store and read books on type faces. He loved fonts and would ogle at them for hours. Caledonia, Freak, Avant Garde, Bayer Type, Alphabet, Benhaus Bayer, Baskerville, Industria Bold, Lucida, Technihold, Optima and Bill. He thought “If I wanted, I could write a book everyday but that be such a boring way to eek out an existence besides I’m too lazy”. He smiled to himself.
He tried to find her a job and an apartment but she wanted to live with him. She cried and said he was trying to wash his ‘culpa’. But he felt no guilt, he thought.
Suddenly, after seven days he climaxed in her mouth. She thought it was a victory and next day he climaxed in her hands and she felt good but was ‘angry’ she had not climaxed. She blamed him again. He gave a warning look. She stopped.
She learned to kiss him not too wet because he told her he did not like it. At least, not from her. He didn’t tell her that.
He found himself singing Woman in love: I can do anything to get you into my world and hold you in it… He felt strangled.
Sympathy is a killer, he thought. It was abnormal to have sex with someone you don’t love, he thought. I hate her, he thought.
She massaged him. She made him food. She cleaned his room and washed his clothes. She wanted to sleep with him but he remembered how he’d not slept those three days and relented in the afternoons.
She hugged him. He felt good, sometimes. She had visions of how his ex-lover had put a curse on him and he felt she may have a point there. Since Sangeeta was a Bengali and not beyond soothsayers and black magicians.
He asked her if she would put a curse on him. She said Noooooooooo.
She had visions of him going to a better life in Australia. He had asked her pendulum if his mother would be all right. The Pendulum was indecisive.
He spent another sleepless night to wake up at 2.00 in the afternoon. She had made some Fried Chicken. He liked it with the Chilli paste.
She made an emotional scene at the airport, next Monday. Her grand daughter was unwell. He said good byes and sat there. Relieved.
Then suddenly, he cried. He’d miss her. The caring and company and cooking and fussing and fighting and warmth besides him. He started missing how she loved him when he just liked her. He forgot about Alofa Patola for those 45 minutes and cried. Now, he was alone in Auckland again. He promised himself, he’d learn from his mistakes, next time. He felt sorry for her and him and all the lonely people in Auckland. As he saw someone at the far end that looked like her. Same disgusting pink blouse and black trouser. It was ‘her’. She did not go? She must have cancelled her reservation the previous evening. He thought.
He swore. “Oh fuck nooooo”.
He missed Alofa, now. How will he ever get Alofa, with this woman haunting and stalking him. He laughed, hugged her and sighed for Alofa Patola.
Now, he’d have to sleep with her again, on that horrible single bed, pretend to like her food, go with her to the Internet Café on Queen Street, run after her in the middle of the night on K Road, pretend not be interested in her friends or any one in the hostel, pretend not to hear her as she tried to put other females off him, change his shirt according to her taste, lie back like a prostitute and pretend to enjoy sex with her, be ready for blame and criticism and nagging and act impotent all over again. At this rate, he would be totally impotent, one day. He would welcome that with open arms.
He had already started planning how to move to another street, suburb, town, country, planet without feeling sorry for her, as they were making their way out of the airport. For now, he was moving to Henderson.
She held his hand and gave him an envelope. It was a letter for him. She told him the flight was delayed due to a crank call and bomb experts will soon clear Air New Zealand.
His heart jumped. Oh so she was going. He wondered if she will get in trouble with her rebel banana republic guys that he’d read about in Tintin’s Broken Ear.
She left.
They called him the Khalnayak. Life gave him no choice. And he seized it with both his hands.
He gave a working title to the story. ‘A Nice Guy’. He typed it in Wicked font in 12 points with double spacing.
She wrote a Spanish story and called it ‘The Villain’.
None of the stories had anything in common.
The envelope, he had thrown in the dustbin, without reading her letter, contained $2000.
It once belonged to the Argentinean government.
The Librarian: The Poetry
Surrounded by books like a princess of old around the comic bookshelf
She stood helping people, in red. She was smiling and love itself.
He saw her. Felt she was his. He could have screamed and cried for help.
He didn’t. It hit him. It touched him. Her smile destroyed him.
He loved her. He knew. Forever he would. If only he could.
If only a whim.
He didn’t want to touch her nor kiss her or make love to her.
He wanted her to like him, love him, hold him for ever after.
Tell him it was fine.
He found no strength but still found strength to talk to her.
‘If she knew how to get the Internet going’ and then… Something stirred.
It was divine.
Within him and her and the world around caused to blur.
On that coldish warm August morning in Auckland. It was her.
Everywhere. Near. Far. Within Without. Despite. Because of.
He loved her.
He had no choice. She had no choice. Telephones numbers exchanged.
Fate’s device.
Point Chev was visited. Kisses ignited. Feelings betrayed.
It was rather nice.
To Workworth and One Tree Hill and Waterview and Pak n Save
As Sea Gulls circled their love and sparrows and squirrels raved
In green forests, on blue volcanic mountains and distant sky and hills
It was love. She was warm but doubts of her past. Her mother’s sexuality
And the dreaded pill.
Something was amiss and distrust she felt still. Tears of confusion.
As the pill killed their passion and brought insecurity. She’d perfected the skill.
He made mistakes of his own. He fell for her sisters renowned
Charm. That did all the harm. Though to her seduction he did not bend
There was no need to pretend. This was the beginning of the end.
The end came when it came and both cried. It was insane.
And both felt strong to move on. Both lied.
And calls turned into fights and fights into foes.
Why this happened no one really knows
But the love was there hidden within hate
And their bodies separated but their hearts were mates
She refused to see him. Talk. Hear of him or think of him
He met her not in reality and resorted to those anticipated dreams.
There tale was written on every tree, every street, every fest
Every hill. He loved her still. And he knew he always will.
Somewhere on the green grass and wind carved mountains was their name
But love was gone and hate was gone and all that remained was their blame.
For the love of all women and good of no man!: The Autobiographical Piece
Now, what kind of a person has an email address that reads hopelessromantic@sexmagnet.com or popcornpoet@netscape.net or intensewords@yahoo.com? I do. No, no, no… I really do! My CV records my interests as beautiful women, poetry, cartooning, writing other stuff, cooking, walking on the beach on a low-lit moon, trekking, photography, creating all kinds of email IDs (my favourite pastime activity) and learning.
We will be tackling only women and poetry in this piece. There is no room for anything else. According to me a poet has a few qualities. I would list them as passion, romance, love for nature and a certain amount of irresponsibility towards practicality. And then there’s the big one. You don’t find poetry. Poetry finds you.
It must have been one of those warm, winter mornings of my early adolescent days in school; under the tree with yellow flowers, besides the yellow, hayish, cricket-football fields. That is where poetry came to me. Nothing dramatic happened; no flashes or angels or even a spark of a match stick. Poetry fell on me through one of the yellow flower petals that gently came to kiss the earth, lost their address and landed on my head like a feather in my cap. I wrote my first nature poem and it is lost in the sands of time. It was nothing spectacular and the emotion has been reported in my latter pieces. So I’m not upset.
Everyday we learn something new, a thought that was later made into a proverb-like greeting by me: Life goes on and we learn to live. I have always believed in true love, nature’s superiority over human beings and the fact that you should not add too much salt to your soup. I have always believed that poetry exists and there is a possibility that people may write poems. That helped.
My second poem was a limerickish extravaganza on our science teacher and how
“When angered;
he was a tiger wounded,
for example, when a fly on him landed,
just when he was on the boil,
the fly made his mood go further spoil.
And this Mr. Raghunathan, who wouldn’t hurt a fly,
hit it so ha-a-a-rd that it had to die” etc.
The poem was lost in the sands of time but like in Maori history, it was repeated so often to so many students and other people as my first poem (officially speaking of course) that I remember it.
Love poems started with Dimple not Natalie. Natalie was my first crush and her brother Murali did not like me Bill-boarding the fact. But, wait! Now that I think of it, I did write poems for my Natalie. But: Lost in Sands of Time! All the early Dimple poems are gone except The Storm. It was about our fist kiss.
The blood red evening skies
still brings memories to my mind
brings voices to my ears
To my eyes it brings tears
And when
your hand I held
Then
my love you felt
How did it start?
The storm!
The Storm stopped outside
The fire grew inside
Closer and closer
still I came
Who would take the blame?
Your hair
blew on my face
as I held you
one hand on
your waist
another on your
face
I held you tight
with all your grace
You lied!
You lied?
You lied.
You said you loved me
And I was a fool to believe
You lied.
As I stroked your hair
In the dream that wasn’t there
I know you don’t
but I care
I care.
I care.
The thunder in the skies
The fear in your eyes
Closer still I came
My passion set aflame
We couldn’t stop!
The Storm
You melted in my arms
Your beauty and my charms
Our lips softly touched
Your cheeks slightly blushed
Our lips fully met
And the wild fire it set
Our senses
on a ignite
On a wild, thoughtless
stormy night
The shock
from the vibrant touch
The breathless heart beat
made you insecure
and nervous
As you turned to retreat
I caught you in your flight
And held you tight
in the still of the night
Your eyes sparkled
and lips trembled
Where did it come from?
The Storm.
I whispered in your ears
before you disappeared
Leaving behind doubts
distrust and fears
The storm
went on and on
The love
was dead and gone
My life torn apart
Crash!
Down went my heart
However, when I met her again after six years on a rebound from a steamy, passionate, emotional affair with an Aries married woman, I wrote poems like:
One Afternoon
The crazy
March afternoon
heat.
The fan’s not
fast enough
The soft breeze
is blowing-
the leaves,
The earth’s
scorched.
A mosquito
bites me on
my leg
and I’m
devastated
I stand
in the balcony
gazing at the
empty road
which leads us
nowhere
I’m thinking
of you (imagining)
you
seated in
that fashion designer
class of yours,
talking to Reema
Sheetal,
Drawing among
the girlie – chatter
awaiting your teacher
thinking of me.
May be.
Reading Cheiro
and then your own palm.
getting out of
the college
awaiting a 84 ltd
Alas its 25 mins late
That’s fate
As Reema
invites you to her house
No you are not in the mood.
You want to go to
a quiet place
and think of me.
Call Dina and talk
about me.
Hope for me.
Pray for me.
Write to me
(You can’t)
You don’t have
the address.
Oh! my God
what a mess.
At last you’re home
and the phone
refuses to ring
You are too tired
to eat the food
that Pinky brings
The evening brings
a soft breeze
as you stand
against the well.
Still hoping
for the telephone bell.
imagining me in
my long strided
walk.
entering your life
your heart
wants to sing.
An illusion.
Bored you return
home to your
empty bed
to spend another
sleepless night
I wish I was there
to hold you tight.
And kiss you gently
In the night
I am missing you.
But I was not writing these poems. Someone else was. I was just feeling the emotions. I was being used; As, I’m being used right now.
I needed time to get over my loves, crushes and infatuations. Often three to four years but that did not dampen my enthusiasm. Neha was the love that struck with greatest force, with the ferocity that a Sagittarius feels for a Leo; like a kick in the groin. I wanted to cry but I wrote poems, hopelessly. Tiger poems and the legendary Savage and the Princess, that was more of a premonition (something I suffer from) than anything else. The first poem was called the
The wound that healed not
The tiger was wounded
his heart was hit
& torn apart
The pain extreme
It felt so real
Though roar he did not
his heart bled
he should have fled
he should’ve at least
fought
A thousand arrows
poisoned
hit him straight through
the heart
She lived in the wild
west
He ranged from eastern
dark
The tiger loved a lioness
a breed apart
a class apart
Travel, nature and women were my first loves as I indiscriminately and promiscuously mixed and matched. Poetry relented especially, on nights. I sat struck by sudden gush of words that filled pages in matter of minutes, even seconds.
The Savage and the Princess was written in the rhythm of Lord Tennyson’s ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’
Sparks rode as hell had no fury’s name
Out aside with sword and shame
Pulled out his silver lancet sharp
Hunting gave his glory fame
And down the woods the Lion came
Sharp the eyes mammoth the frame
And quick before the sound through harp
Savage down from his horses came
And eyes across eyes did meet
And two animals none could tame
As though the silence could much speak
Their grey eyes a single burning flame
Sparks – Savage was not just in name
One strike left the lion lame
One must the other eat
Both animals were on their feet!
A roar the wounded lion gave
Amidst the rising passion – a scratch
The blood: Sparks could not save
And silence then became discreet
The pride and arrogance left insane
A smile reached the wounded Savage eye
His arm bleeding like it rains
His lancet one and a half metres long
Swished across the air like a song
The lion was faster than most
The lion played the jungle host
His claws penetrated Savage guts
And deep, deeper the bloody cuts
While seeing blood – his own
Made Sparks smile
A battle A battle A battle
A mile
Sparks adored the lion’s style
And speed he had to catch up in a while
The golden mane he came close
And as the scarlet blood flows
Swish, went the Savage eyes
The lancet moved faster
Hard and high
The sabre cut the lion’s throat
A smile
The hunter gave a gloat
And Savage killed with poetic rhythm
Killing on slander; the Savage anthem
Night after night, day after day
It was the same, the savage and his bloody games
As evil Sparks gained Savage name
And hoofs thundered
And earth shuddered
As Savage came
And Savage came
And thus my journey of romance and poetry continues; sometimes stuttered, sometimes ignored. Not as passionate as the married Aries women, not as heart-felt as Emma, my Taurean, Pakeha girl, not as eternal as the Leo affair: But small and pleasant. Sometimes in the form of a small note left behind for a Malaysian girl in the library or a Korean girl in the Sushi shop. Sometimes in my mind: a poem that may never be written. Sometimes to a girl in the window in India; a girl who loves me but cannot say it.
