Ajay

Sipping on his iced tea, Ajay looked up at the sound of tires crunching on gravel. A blue Santro deftly pulled into the front porch of the bungalow opposite his.

Ajay felt his heart rate pick up a notch. Every evening, sitting on the front porch of his own bungalow, sipping iced tea or cold coffee to beat the balmy Mumbai summer heat, he would wait expectantly; a book or his laptop always by his side, waiting for her – his neighbour – to come home from work. So he could, on the sly, catch a glimpse of her; while pretending to read or work on his computer.

A woman stepped out of the Santro and locked the vehicle using the remote keys. She was fairly tall, but plump, and had a dusky complexion. Her jet black hair was till her shoulders and she wore black denims with a blue shirt, paired with plain black sandals. A brown Rhysetta hand bag was placed snugly on her shoulders.

The woman, seemingly oblivious to Ajay’s attention, climbed up the steps of her home, fishing out her phone from her denim pocket and getting busy with it.

Ajay’s heart was thumping against his chest now. Ever since the woman had moved opposite his house, he had found her irresistible. He knew nothing about her, and yet, he felt he had found the woman of his dreams.

She had become his muse and obsession. An accomplished screenwriter in the Hindi film industry, Ajay started writing her in the woman protagonists he created. He was one of those few Bollywood writers who believed in ‘women-centric films’ – and he had found an actual woman who fitted the image, in his mind, of a ‘strong’ woman.

He saw her in the books he read with strong women characters; he felt her in the profound poetry he read; in the English and Hindi songs he would listen to.

Her plain, understated beauty would often remind him of the song ‘Mere Saamne Wali Khidki Mein’ from the iconic movie Padosan – when, on some mornings, he would sneak a glimpse, from his bedroom window, of her coming out of the bathroom and drying her hair vigorously by the window.

So what if she’s dark … she’s still as beautiful as the moon for me. Stupid Bollywood stereotypes, which say that a woman can only be a ‘chaand ka tukda’ if she has a fair complexion, he would think, shaking his head.

By societal standards, which Ajay considered ‘archaic and moronic’, his neighbour was an utterly unremarkable woman. The one whom most people wouldn’t look at twice, especially not men in general; who would be the equivalent of a fly on the wall at social gatherings. because the majority of people had a very narrow definition of what kind of a woman was ‘remarkable’.

But it was this very plainness, this inconspicuous quality of hers, which attracted Ajay like a magnet. Because he was a fairly unremarkable man himself.

Sighing, Ajay bent over the low table in front of him. On a large plate lay fluffy idlis and a bowl of coconut chutney. Picking up the fork resting on one side of the plate, Ajay impaled an idli, dipped it in the chutney and put the morsel in his mouth, biting it off bit by bit.

He loved Shanti Amma’s cooking immensely. Every morning, the ageing South Indian lady, who lived in a basti nearby, would come and prepare his breakfast, lunch and dinner at one go. He liked her matronly nature and the care with which she would prepare his food – tasty and healthy, just what home-cooked food should be. She would even cover his lunch and dinner with an aluminium foil and keep it in the oven, so that when he came home from work in the early evening, his food would still be warm. He would pay her handsomely for her efforts too – he was, after all, single and earned well. His own mother had never cooked so painstakingly for him. Or given him the warmth that mothers around the world inject in the food they prepare for their children, hoping they can always transmit their love and care through it; reminding their children of their unwavering support.

Plus, he liked it that Amma never nagged him for not having a wife at thirty-five years of age.

Ajay always considered himself a modern, free, liberated soul, with a broad horizon of perspective and an outlook which wasn’t bogged down by patriarchy, religion or any other parochial considerations. His rebellious, independent nature had been groomed and enhanced when he did his graduation and post-graduation at the FTII Pune. The intellectual milieu at the prestigious institute, where Ajay studied, and excelled at screenwriting, gave him the chance to spread his wings and fly. To despise the narrow mindedness and regressive nature of his orthodox Hindu family. Ajay refused to cater to the horribly patriarchal arranged marriage market, and was bent on finding a woman who was as liberated as him.

That didn’t stop his parents and siblings from taunting him for being ‘single’, for not being able to ‘find a wife’ for himself. Short, podgy and having a pale peachy complexion, Ajay stood out amongst his brother and two sisters, all of whom were tall and very fair, like both his parents.

‘God knows why this dark pygmy had to be born into our family. We must have committed horrible sins in our past life,’ his father would often comment in his presence. This would encourage his siblings to tease him as ‘dwarf’, ‘nerd’ ‘goof’ and ‘rat’ because he wore bifocals which enlarged his small, dark but intense eyes.

Ajay was always so busy in his writing, studies and books that he never had a chance to mind his family’s antagonism. He was the one who excelled in studies, edited the school magazine, received prizes for writing competitions and even published a few stories in magazines and was a favourite amongst his teachers. Not so among his peers though, who were both jealous of his intellect but still mocked him for his unremarkable looks. The girls fastidiously ignored him and went for the boys who were good-looking and ‘bad’ – as in loud-mouthed bullies. The boys called him the same name his siblings did, even taunting him for apparently not being well endowed sexually.

And yet Ajay, who believed he had skin as thick as that of a hippopotamus, didn’t mind all this. He didn’t give a crap, basically, and was happy in his world of books and knowledge and writing.

And yet, the arrival of his neighbour in his life had given him a respite he hadn’t found in years. A respite which sent a warm, fuzzy feeling through his body whenever she came within his vision. A respite which sent him into moods of rumination during the days and frenzies of erotic fantasizing during the night.

His lips, tongue and fingers everywhere on her. Her mouth and fingers everywhere on him. Kissing, groping, sucking, biting, licking, pleasuring each other till both went mad with desire. Her hips grinding against his, as he rammed his organ inside her like a human jackhammer and took her to heaven. His head buried in between her large, ample breasts, not highlighted, but still visible through her cotton shirt, their bodies drenched in sweat and the sheets in their fluids…

Ajay realized he was getting an erection – the crotch of his pants stiffened visibly. He ditched his tea and the sumptuous snack, and ran inside the house, towards the bathroom.

This is enough. I must go and meet her soon, was his only thought.

                               *********

                                                          Sugita 

Sugita slammed the front door shut, locked it firmly, threw her handbag on the floor and collapsed against the sturdy wooden door.

A prolonged, cold sigh escaped her dry lips as she thought of him.

The man who lived in the bungalow opposite her.

She knew he checked her out when she returned home from work. She knew he stealthily spied on her in the mornings, when she got ready for work.

And yet, she feigned her oblivion to his attentions. Getting busy on the phone was just her way of resisting – resisting the urge to look back at him. And maybe smile, or stare back with an enquiring look. Waiting, with bated breath, for something to happen.

But Sugita was scared to look – part of her fear came from the disbelief that a man, or any man, could find her attractive.

She was the Plain Jane among her family, friends and peers. Nature had endowed her with a tall stature and a confident personality to go with it. But she was considered unremarkable otherwise.

Early on in life, the rebellious, intelligent Sugita had learnt that she would, almost always, be judged by her dusky complexion, her thick eyebrows and her weight issues. Her ungainly, plump figure would always be seen as a liability, a sign of ugliness, of her eating habits – eating junk food, overeating like a greedy pig and so on.

She knew that, in the mindset which pervaded her immediate family and their friends, she was a sum total of her looks and her ability to attract men. And perhaps, produce babies. There was nothing else to her – her dreams, her aspirations, her intellect, her talent, her smart and confident personality and her qualifications and professional success didn’t matter at all.

Because she wasn’t fair and thin and pretty and docile like her sister, her value was zilch.

That’s why her neighbour’s attention had affected her deeper than she would show. It had flummoxed her, frightened her and sent a thrill down her spine at the same time. No man had ever given her a second look – except when the man concerned was a friend or a colleague. She couldn’t care less.

Sugita believed she had enough worth to not require validation from a man.

And yet, no man had ever looked at her like he had. No one had roused the emotions he had managed to rouse within her – emotions she thought she would never experience.

Sugita had always been a misfit, a maverick.

Her female classmates found her too nerdy, too intelligent to be included in their gathering. Whereas they talked about boys and dating and fashion and movies, she talked about books and literature. They wore dresses and skirts, she wore pants and shirts. They hung out at movie theatres and eating joints on weekends, she learnt karate and self defence.

Her male classmates were the ones who found her unremarkable, even ugly. One reason she was always teased by her sister Ankita, who, because she was fair and considered pretty, had a ton of male admirers. Although Sugita had inherited her father’s wide forehead, brown eyes, high cheekbones and a strong jaw in an angular face, and her mother’s height, yet, she wasn’t considered even remotely good looking.

But Sugita couldn’t care less.

She was the only girl in her batch to go to the United States on a scholarship for studies after she finished high school. She returned after nine years, with a doctorate in English Literature and World History from Brown University, and many other laurels, and got a handsomely paying job as a professor at Mumbai University’s Literature and History Department.

And yet, she continued to be judged. And then, she was declared, by her family, to be ‘ineligible’ for marriage.

Because, in their, and almost everybody else’s view, no man would marry a dark, overweight girl who was, on top of that, way more qualified and intelligent than them. Her mother would call her kali chuhiya – a black female rat. Her father would constantly worry about how much dowry he would have to give a prospective groom for an ‘ugly cow’ like her.

First of all, Dad, giving or taking dowry is a crime under the Indian Penal Code. Second, I am not some dumb stereotype of a woman who will pander to this regressive, misogynist arranged marriage market. I will follow my dreams and pursue my career, and find someone who likes me for my brain, and not for my looks. This ‘kali chuhiya’ and ugly cow will do a lot better than her so-called beautiful counterparts, she firmly told her parents, leaving them speechless, after they’d insulted her for the umpteenth time.

She resisted any efforts to push her into the ‘arranged marriage market’ she so despised, and, to her relief, her parents seemed happy with it, because it meant she was essentially invisible to others in their ‘friend circle’. So they were spared the ignominy of being her kin, which also meant her sisters would find good matches for themselves.

Because, by some twisted logic, no one will marry a good-looking girl if she has a plain-looking, plump, highly educated and smart sister.

Sugita failed to understand if men liked to marry the girl, or her whole family. If a girl was only a product, whose whole ‘package’ also had to be as perfect as her.

Sugita soon moved out of her parental home into the beautiful bungalow at Sun City, Bandra. She didn’t bother keeping in touch with her parents or sister, both out of rancour and spite. And they hadn’t, as of yet, bothered to get in touch either.

Sugita sat on the plush velvet sofa, and sighed again.

As soon as she closed her eyes, his face came into view again. Unremarkable, just like hers, but his eyes held great promise, and a torrent of emotions.

She imagined what would happen if she just visited him, that night, on a whimsy, and told him she knows he’s been watching her. Then ask his name, and confess how she felt about his attention.

I like your gaze creeping up my body like a tendril, I will tell him, she thought, licking her lips.

I want to take off my shirt, and my bra, and give you my thirty four-year-old breasts. I want you to kiss them all night. I want to bare my bottom, and then have your mouth in between my legs, pleasuring both of us. I want to arouse your member, and have it going in and out of me till I lose count of how many times you have brought me to climax. I want to slather us both in chocolate sauce and…

Sugita found herself sighing deeply, her fingers inside her pants, pried in between her legs, and she realized she was wet down there.

I must go to his place tonight, she decided, and introduce myself. And express my interest very clearly. I can’t take this fantasizing anymore, I must do it. The time is right – a balmy summer evening, and the heat of our latent passions.

She got off the sofa, zipped her pants, and walked to the bathroom to shower and change.

Then she would go over to his house with a bottle of chilled wine from Paris, lying unopened in her freezer.