Married men are trouble

As a rule, I do not involve myself with men who have girlfriends or wives. Both types – with girlfriend, with wife – always have a sob story to tell. They always cry that their wife or girlfriend was making life miserable for them, but they never leave her. That bothers me, I am not used to sharing my men, even if I the man is there for just two weeks. However, all rules, are meant to be broken. Particularly if it involves putting a bitchy woman in her place. And from the look Tall Boy’s girlfriend had given me – the “So you who the hell are you” look – she was a bitch. Only bitches are hostile to people they don’t even know, ya? I had decided, Tall Boy and me were going to have an affair, if it was only just to show Miss Uptight that you should not be rude to strangers.

But as is the case with breaking rules, you break a rule once – even though you say you will never-ever do it – there are always more reasons.. And walking up to me, first thing in the morning at work, was another reason to break my I Don’t Sleep With Attached Men rule. It was Mohini Ghosh, the senior sports correspondent, one of the few women in her times to write on sports. “In her times” is a phrase Mohini Ghosh hates. It constantly reminds her of her close to menopause age and the fact that despite her well-worked-out body, the wrinkles showed and that she was married to one of the hottest men in Indian journalism, who could fly any day. The bright, brilliant, boisterous Sanjoy Singh. He was half Bengali, half Sikh and a complete bastard. The way he could look down the table – and even though you would be wearing a sack for a kurta and a have a nine metre dupatta – his eyes would tell you what his mind (and perhaps his mouth?) were doing to your body. And it does not help your case if you have an expressive face. I have a very expressive face. My teachers called me Drama Queen all my life. And Sanjoy could see on my face what my mind (and perhaps my mouth?) would do in retaliation. So far it had only been that.

Till Mohini Ghosh decided to tell me off for sending her package to the wrong floor. What package? It was a junket she was taking money for, clandestinely. So I was going to screw her husband and ensure she learnt of it.
To be continued…

Meeting Tall Boy, the absolute dish

"He doesn't use detergent. I do. Want to smell my boxers and take a guess?" said another voice from behind us.

I turned, half-certain, half-hoping that it was Model Boy… but it was someone I had not met before. He was clearly above six feet tall and very, very good looking. I could not talk…he was THAT good looking. A clean-shaven face, broad shoulders and very long, long, strong legs. He was wearing a full-sleeve shirt, faded jeans and had a duffel bag carelessly slung across his shoulders. The bag looked puny on his huge form. His hair was all over the place, dark brown and moppy… and constantly kept falling over his eyes. I had the craziest urge to push it back from his face and then hold his face in my hands and kiss him. I looked at him and wondered if he would pick me up, I was small and he was really tall. And I could see his chest hair peeking from his top most shirt button. It was not too much, just a hint of hair. He had the bushiest eyebrows I had seen and the brownest eyes. He just looked so good that I knew I was standing and staring and I really did not care.

"Can I have my underveer back?" asked Call Centre boy meekly, looking from me to Tall Boy. I held the ugly pieces out to him without moving my eyes off Tall Boy, who too, was staring at me. As Call Centre boy took his undergarments and turned to leave, Tall Boy turned to leave with him. I had to do something, find out his name… I had understood that he was one of the NIIT boys… but why hadn't I seen him before?
"Do you live here?" I asked, breaking all rules of First Communication With Subject of Interest. He stopped in his tracks, turned around deliberately to look at me. "I am your neighbour," he said.
"I have not seen you around," I replied.
"You have not looked hard enough," he said, half-smiling, half-smirking.
And I really, really wanted to kiss him. And tear his clothes apart. And throw him there on the terrace and ride him till late night and into the morning…. I wanted to see is his shoulders were really that wide under that shirt…
"Aren't you coming down, I've been waiting," interfered a petulant voice in my fantasy of Tall Boy. It was a woman, looking from me to Tall Boy and back.
"Meet my girlfriend," said Tall Boy, smiling.
To be continued...

All about office affairs

I did not see Sexy Butt after that and since I had no idea who he was or what floor he was on, there was no way of finding out. So while I kept a lookout for him, I concentrated on the people that were around me. Strangely, the Anonymous Caller had started leaving jokes on the voice mail at my extension. The same nice voice and jokes, all delivered in a deadpan tone but with solid punch lines. One day, as I laughed at the latest joke, Anonymous Caller, well, called.
"You look really nice when you throw your head back and laugh…it's worth sending you those jokes, just to see you laugh," said he and hung up, as usual. Though I was really intrigued as to who the Anonymous Caller could be – he had a very sexy voice – I decided to wait it out. If he was taking the trouble to leave jokes but was not bothered about meeting… well, two could play the game.
I had always thought that office environments were very serious. I had seen my Father go for his government job at a particular hour and return home at a specified time. Socialising was with your colony people or family, and definitely not with your colleagues. Coming to Delhi and joining the media house I was working for changed my perspective about the working environment for sure. Most people walked in at whatever time they were supposed to… and left at strange hours. Often, I saw many just lounging in the canteen or the Smoking Area, even after their work was over. I used to wonder earlier why people never seemed in a hurry to go back home. And then I realised… they were having much more fun away from home!
The first week, I made three friends: Moona Microphone, Robby the Player and Uncleji. Moona – I figured within five minutes of her talking – was the office gossip, the one person who had the most boring life and therefore needed to talk about everyone else. I knew she would be important if I had to get a hang of the place before the place got a hang of me. Robby was the guy who hit on every other girl, without success. He had potential and since he had been very sweet to me, I had decided to teach him stuff… in my free time. And of course Uncleji, he was the admin guy who was supposed to help us out with everything. My first mission with him was finding Sexy Butt.

To be continued…Every Tuesday
(Published in Metro Now, New Delhi, May 1, 2007)

Hear Delhi, here I come...

As I looked at Army Man checking out my lacy bra, the train gave a sudden jolt… and I was rudely awakened from my dream. There was Army Man across me, with his legs entwined in mine and fast asleep. I realized that while I had been dreaming about him, I did not like Army Man. There was just something about him that was vaguely disturbing. Usually, that would have excited me. But with the last two experiences I had had, I let this chance pass. After all, I was going to the city with capital opportunities. Both Punjabi and Jat men were known for their aggression and I hoped it was not just on the roads…

With some difficulty, I extricated my legs from between those of Army Man’s and climbed onto my upper berth, deciding not to descend for the rest of the journey. All this while, Army Man did not move a muscle. As he slept with his legs spread and stretched out on the seat, his short rose up tantalizingly. I almost remained sitting, waiting for the garment to give me a peek at what lay beneath… However, I was forced to avert my gaze as Army Man squirmed in his sleep and I was afraid he’d wake up and catch me staring at his crotch; this time for real.

The early morning coach-composure was broken by someone screaming, “Saddi Dilli aa gayi, chalo, chalo,” and whole families of people started lining up at the coach door. It never made sense why people were in a rush to get off when it was supposed to be a train’s last station: it was not going to chug away! As I got off my perch, Army Man was folding his toiletries in his towel, while his bedding lay on the seat, already neatly folded. He was wearing crisply, creased clothes and had even shaved. It was 6 am as the train rolled on to the platform and I wondered what kind of discipline could force a person to shave that early in the morning… that too when on a train. Even women would go around with shaggy eyebrows and a moustache if they had to wax or tweeze everyday, ya?

My first view of Delhi… was a lot of Sardarjis – in various shapes and sizes - on the platform. For a minute I panicked that I had gotten off at Amritsar; and then I saw the board: ‘Welcome to Hazrat Nizamuddin’, with the picture of a smiling old lady in a bun, a white cotton sari and a namaste, greeting everyone.