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Wild Imagination - 5 new articles
The Question
“Is there a term for having sex when there is no love involved?” She asked stirring her coffee.
Usually he found her presence in his house unwelcome. He had learned to tolerate her because of his wife. She seemed to enjoy her company and her incessant prying. She was a walking-talking tabloid.
But today her question piqued his curiosity. He pretended to be absorbed in his newspaper, while the women carried on with their conversation. They were used to ignoring his presence anyway.
“Pleasure?” His wife replied. “Or maybe lust is more appropriate. Although there is pleasure in lust.”
“No not that kind.” She looked up from her coffee. She stared into this distance as if gathering her thoughts and then looked back into her cup. “Maybe I am asking the wrong question.” She resumed stirring the coffee. “Is there a term when there is love but… no lust?” She looked up. Her eyes pleading to be understood.
“A relationship with love but no sex?” His wife leaned back in her chair and thought about it. “It exists. Platonic relationships. I do believe opposite sexes can be friends. That two people from different genders can care very deeply about each other and still be friends.”
She sighed heavily as if disappointed by the answer. “No. Not friendship. Marriage.”
“Can two people be married and never make love?” His wife sounded a little shocked but got it rapidly under control. “It happens, I guess.” She shrugged.
“Not make love,” she said so softly that he had to strain his hears to latch on to her next words. “Have sex.”
“Make love. Have sex. Same difference.” His wife waved her hands in the air trying to explain her point. “When two people in love have sex, they are making love.”
“Are they?” She questioned as she resumed her stirring. Her focus once again on the swirling brown-black liquid in her cup. “What if two people are in love and one wants to have sex and the other doesn’t,” He noticed how she refrained from using the work ‘make love’.
“The act of sex has to be consensual.” His wife replied with finality to her voice. This was non-negotiable.
“What if it is not?” She looked up. A faint glimmer of hope danced in her eyes. As if this conversation was finally going where she wanted it to. “What if one person wants to have sex and the other person does not want to, but they still end up having sex every night.”
“Then its rape.” His wife replied in a soft voice.
“Now what if the two of them very much in love, were married?” She challenged.
His wife thought about it. “It is still rape.” She shook her head.
Only the rhythmic clinking of the spoon stirred the silence that followed.
“What if the man in the marriage felt this way,” he asked as he folded his newspaper. “Is it still rape?”     • View comments • Track comments •
Best Friends
Her hand rested on his shoulder. The emerald in her ring trapped the yellow light of the dance floor and changed its colour to a muddy chrome. A disgusting colour which did absolutely nothing to dampen the beauty of the gorgeous ring.
He said something which made her laugh. She threw her head back exposing the length of her slender, fragile neck. She looked back into his eyes, leaned in closer and pressed her lips against his cheek. He broke into a smile.
He had that effect. He could make anybody laugh. And when he smiled; a shooting star zinged through a moonless night, leaving behind a trail of silver dusted dreams.
It had taken him five years to smile like that again.
Five years ago, his wife had been a victim of a hit-and-run. It had crushed him. She suspected he was more shocked by her untimely death than the fact that she was no more. Truth be told, there was no love lost between them.
She had warned him to not get married. She was not the kind of woman he needed or deserved. She tried to talk to him out of making a mess of his life. That is what best friends do. But he hadn’t listened to a word. He seemed keen on making a fool of himself. And eventually, she had just let him.
It was annoying how men, and he in particular, were eager to mistake lust for love. And the world thought women were emotional fools.
Some months ago, he met another woman he believed he was in love with. After five years of grieving, or of coming to terms with the passing of his first wife; he had opened his heart once again. And once again, he had chosen the wrong woman.
She would know.
She was his best friend.
A date that ended up in bed had made him want to spend the rest of his life with her. She wanted to tell him things would not always be this way. He should know better by now. He had been married before.
But maybe death had glorified the marriage. He seemed to remember only the happy moments – the wedding, the parties, how people thought they looked good together etc. etc. Now he was doubly convinced that marriage was a happily-ever-after, magical space.
All of this had led to today. This engagement party, where he had put that beautifully ugly emerald ring on her finger and promised to love her forever. She wanted to tell him there was no such thing as forever. But instead, as good best friends are expected to do, she had given a speech at the dinner party and congratulated the newly engaged couple.
She watched them dance. He with his shooting star smile and she with the beautifully ugly ring. She let out a long sigh. If only he listened to her. She knew him better than most. He was not in love and getting engaged was the second biggest mistake of his life.
She would have to stop him from making a third.
She signaled for the bartender to replenish her drink. She gently swirled the scotch in her glass. She watched the golden liquid hug the ice cubes with every swirl and slid sensuously off the smooth surface. Like history repeating itself.
It was a signal.
She would have to repeat history.
He was just cursed to lose this partner in a hit-and-run as well.   • View comments • Track comments •
Breakfast In Bed
He had stepped into this kitchen a million times. But never to cook. The thought of cooking for the very first time excited him. Doing it all on his own seemed so deliciously tough. His heart skipped a beat at the enormity of this challenge.
So what should he cook?
“I don’t need something fancy!” she tried to explain last night. “Just something. Anything. No matter how simple, how small. Just a little gesture to show that you care. Is that too much to ask?”
Something simple then. He leaned against the door of the fridge and looked around him. What simple thing could he cook? His eyes landed on the jar of her favorite coffee. He remembered how she loved to spend a moment just smelling the coffee before she spooned it into the coffee filter. It always brought a smile to her face. She saved this coffee for special occasions.
He in the kitchen was a special occasion!
Coffee then.
With cookies maybe?
First things first. He dragged a chair toward the cabinet and stepped on it. He understood that it was her favorite coffee. But what was the need to store it in the topmost cabinet? Of all the things available to steal in the house nobody was going after her coffee! Women!
He stretched toward the coffee jar. His fingertips grazed the cool glass. Almost there. He raised himself further on his toes and stretched a little more. With his index finger he pulled the coffee jar toward him. A little more. He watched as a bit of the base of the coffee jar peeped at him from the edge of the shelf. Just one more nudge.
The jar wobbled dangerously and then toppled off the shelf. He was quick to pull it toward him. Dropping the jar of her favorite coffee today would be a complete disaster. He twisted the jar open and spooned some coffee into the filter. Just like he had seen her do it. Add some water. How much water exactly?
He was beginning to think this cooking was not so much fun after all. Especially if you had to do it all alone.
He poured some water in a coffee mug and then proceeded to pour that mug full of water into the coffee machine. He managed to put half the mug of water into the machine and spilled the other half on the countertop. He repeated the process again. He turned the coffee machine on and then stared at all the water spreading across the wide countertop. Mess.
He reached for the dishcloth and threw it on the water. That water ought to clean itself.
While the coffee he brewed, he pulled out the tray. He laid his favorite blue dish on it and then piled on four cookies on it. The ones with big chunky chocolate? They were delicious. This was turning out to be one awesome breakfast!
He waited patiently for the coffee to get done and then poured it into her mug. He picked the mug and then dropped it back. It was hot. He blew gently over his fingers. He fetched a fresh dishcloth from the drawer and picked the mug and placed it in the tray.
Now to wake her up. He balanced the tray gently to the door of the bedroom. He nudged the door open with his butt and walked backward into the room. All his focus was on the tray. If he dropped it, this breakfast was ruined.
He made it to the bed and placed the tray on the small table next to it. She hadn’t woken up yet. He was feeling bad about the fight last night. She has been exhausted. She had spent the day at work, then cleaned the garden, then walked the dogs, then looked into homework and just when she was ready to call it a day, his dad had walked in announcing that he had invited friends for dinner. Especially to taste her special chicken curry. The one which required to be marinated and cooked for four hours. That is when they had fought. His dad and her.
Did he care about her day? Did it cross his mind to help her out? Why was it her responsibility to cook? Every time. He should make the chicken pie this time! Forget the chicken pie, if he could only make dinner. Or even the breakfast for the next morning! When was the last time he had made anything for her? Just for her. So that she could get a break. Never. Why could she not get a break?
And then the fight has escalated. He wanted to intervene but he did not.
He did not stop the fight last night but he could do something about it today.
“Mommy?” he nudged her. She looked at him sleepily and then sat up wide awake.
“What happened love? Are you okay?” She pulled him on the bed and hugged him close to her. She checked his forehead. His temperature seemed normal. “Why are you up so early?”
“I made you breakfast!” he pointed to the table next to her bed. On a tray sat four chocolate chunk cookies in a minion plate and hot cup of black of coffee.
“This is the best breakfast in bed!” she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. She kissed his forehead. “The best ever!”   • View comments • Track comments •
The Haves & The Have Nots
She cursed the chai as it singed her tongue and scorched its way down her throat. She thumped the little glass on the dry mud next to her and looked around for anything that would dull the burn. There was neither sugar nor water in sight. All she could see was some dirty water floating around in the half-burnt aluminum vessel next to the flat tire of the semi-permanent chai shop on wheels.
She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth seeking some comfort. It had not been her day. At all. Or week. Or month. When she had left early this morning, she was sure she would be returning with the first beginnings of a bright future. All discussions with the investors had been positive. Today was supposed to be the day when they finally signed on the dotted line and handed her a dream.
Instead, it had all gone south real fast. The investors were pausing any funding for the moment. Nothing against her business. They still believed in her concept. But it was just bad timing. She might not know a lot, but she could always make out bull shit when she heard it. There was little to do after that. She got back into the rental she had booked for the day and started doing the mental math.
In the plush interior of the CRV she faced facts. The loans she had taken in hope of this investment had doubled her debts. She had to start paying back from the coming month. Without investment, her small business was not going to be able to bear the load of the piling debt. She had invested everything she had into putting up a show for the investors. In encouraging them to see the picture that she was seeing. And now she was left with nothing.
She was broke.
She leaned her against the soft leather of the car seat and finally admitted that she was broke. And beat. That was when the car swerved sharply to the right and the driver drew it to a halt.
“Madam, I think it’s a puncture, “ the driver apologized to her through the rearview mirror. “I have a spare. Just give me ten minutes.”
“Perfect!” She had thought to herself as she stepped out into the heat of an early summer. A mild breeze kept the weather bearable.
Spotting the chai shop she decided to grab a cup while she was waiting. She found a rounded stone by the edge of the deserted road and sat on it. Her mind had started its negative spiral into highlighting her futile situation when she had burnt her tongue. Now she cursed the chai. Her tongue. Her fate. Herself. Just about everything. What she really needed was a distraction.
She spotted two kids playing under the shade of a tree not far from the chai shop. They seemed to be not more than ten years old. Both boys. They were dueling with twigs and laughing about something. She envied them.
“My boys,” the chaiwala smiled. He must have spotted her staring at them. “Its summer vacation. School is closed. It is difficult to keep them home. They come here with me.”
“They go to school!” She exclaimed raising her eyebrows, her voice sounding every bit impressed as she was.
“It is what makes me wake up every morning and come here to make chai for passersby like you.” He nodded toward the boys. “ These two. All I can give them is a small home and some thirty-forty thousand saving. That’s it.”
A home that nobody could drive them out of and money to buy them food. He was doing better than her. She wanted to tell him that. But she kept quiet. She had no idea how she was going to make money for rent next month. Her landlord would definitely drive her out. If she could, she would trade places with her in a heartbeat.
The driver signaled that they were good to go once again. She smiled at the chaiwala and thanked him. She reached into her purse to fish out for some change.
“Let it be madam,” the chaiwala smiled. “You looked like you really needed that chai. Think of it as a small gift.”
She got into the car and rolled down her window. She watched the chaiwala walk to the boys and say something to them which made them laugh harder. She watched them diminish as the car sped away from them.
The haves and the have nots.   • View comments • Track comments •
A song for the road
She gritted her teeth and punched
the horn. Again. She knew it would achieve nothing. The red tail lights of the
car in front of her would continue to wink through the torrents cascading down
her windscreen. The rain washed dark green color of the filthy truck would
continue to obscure her view. The RJ would continue his mad chatter, as if he
were sitting on a different planet, in another galaxy with a satellite feed of
this traffic jam filling up some random monitor in his room. Nothing would
change. Yet, she had to do something. So she punched the horn. Again.
She glared at her iPhone settled
comfortably in the seat next to her. Dead. What a day to forget to carry your
car charger! She had a million calls to make. Why couldn’t the universe
understand that? Why did it have to rain in March? When did it ever rain in
March? She wanted to scream. There was nobody in the car but her. It would be
alright to scream. No one would hear her above the din of the rain and traffic.
But she could not. It was not who she was. So she punched the horn twice.
And then sighed.
She rested her forehead against
the steering wheel. Something on the radio caught her attention. A song. She
frowned and tilted her head to hear it better. She smiled. She turned the knob
and strains of the song filled the car
…Ajeeb dastaan hai yeh...kaha shuru kaha khatm…
The sun was setting against the
balustrade of the small balcony. Raindrops hung like dim fairy lights from the
patterned railing. Soft tendrils of smoke rose from dainty blue cups of chai.
She was too young to have chai. She sat holding her cup of milk, feeling great
about sharing this evening with the adults. They were talking. She did not
remember much of the conversation. But she did remember that every now and then
the conversation was punctuated with laughter.
And sounds of the rain.
She just sat there grinning from
ear to ear. Clueless about the conversation around her. Yet content to be among
people who were so happy. She remembered how her mother’s bangles jingled
softly every time she lifted the cup to her lips. The way her father affectionately
tousled her hair every now and then.
And she remembered the song.
She remembered the soft melody of
the song filtering on to their little balcony. She still remembered how her
father’s face beamed with mischief. He pulled her mother to her feet and just
like that they burst into a dance. It was no choreographed performance. But she
remembered thinking how beautiful they looked together.
She could still see her mother
throwing her head back and laughing as her father tried to sing along. He had
then let go of her mother and stooped to pick her up. He danced along with her.
It was the best dance ever. She had laughed and laughed.
And she had fallen in love with
the rain.
The last strains of the song
faded and the RJ shrieked in the closed confines of the car. She smiled and
turned the volume down. She looked around. Nothing had changed. The truck was
still next to her, the car still in front of her.
But something was different.
She no longer felt like punching
the horn.
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