Joystick

2003

Streaks of sweat trickled down our newly tonsured heads. Despite the riotous chanting of mantra during the last rites of our grandfather, which demanded our presence, we decided that cricket required more attention. Our grandfather died of a heart attack, after which a wave of abominable melancholy struck the entire household, except the two of us. It wasn't that we didn't bother, it did affect us, but only for a while. Like love, sorrow in adolescence doesn't stay for long.

It had been three hours that we had been playing cricket. Tired as well as a little afraid that our mercurial Mama would reprimand us for being so callous, we decided to call it off. I, Shantanu, 14, carried the bat and the wickets while my cousin, Ashwin, 12, brought the remaining equipments viz. gloves, pads and the ball. To prevent ourselves from being caught red-handed returning from the playground despite the lamentable situation, we sneaked inside through the back door. The entire family was meditative to the tune of the plump pundit chanting mantras in his typical nasal tone.

ॐ त्र्यम्बकम् यजामहे सुगन्धिम् पुष्टिवर्धनम् ।

उर्वारुकमिव बन्धनान् मृत्योर्मुक्षीय माम्रतात् ।।

Unconcerned with the process, we entered a room, darkened by the dusky sunlight peeping through the windows. I was sweating profusely due to the sultry atmosphere in the room. I hindered Ashwin from switching on any lights to avoid people outside in the aangan to realize that we had returned from the playground. I closed the door and the two of us lay on the ground, looking up at the dark ceiling.

'My entire pant is wet because of sweat. God, now I can't even change it as my dry boxer lies in the other room.' I uttered helplessly.

'Mine too.' Ashwin muttered, heaving a sigh.

The sun had dipped further down, dusk was giving way to the dark ghastly night. The room was now totally dark. I twisted and turned; made some noise with my clothes as though I was playing tug of war against the ceiling. Except for the very dim flickering light of diya kept outside seeping through the crevices of the door, there was nothing that could bring even a trace of light to brighten the room up.

There was a stark silence in the room, the blatant noise made by the pundit outside was somehow numbed by the closed door and the sudden rhythmic sound that Ashwin heard.

'Shaan bhaiya, why are you shivering? Bhaiya?' Ashwin asked, worried.

'Ah..it's nothing. I'm just playing video game, ah... with joystick,' I replied, slightly panting.

'Why are you breathing heavily, are you okay? Should I call someone?' Ashwin asked, concerned.

'Hell no. Stay here. Join me, do you want to hold the joystick?' I moved my right hand to grab hold of Ashwin's left and pulled it towards myself. Owing to Ashwin's nervousness, it took a lot of effort on my end to pull his hand on me.

'Grab it. Leave it free. Isn't it big?'

'What's it bhaiya? It's hot,' Ashwin muttered, afraid.

'Don't worry, just keep playing with it. This way. Do it faster, then I'll show you how to play with yours.'

Ashwin nervously caught pace, continued stroking for two minutes until his elbow started hurting.

'I can't do it anymore. I'm tired.'

'Don't stop. I will beat you if you stop. I'll complain to Mama that you broke my video game.' I asserted.

Two minutes later, I wiped Ashwin's shivering wet hands with the curtain and made some more noises with my clothes, which stopped after he heard the sound of zipping.

Ashwin felt a sudden encroachment inside his pants. In awkfard fear, he oppugned, 'Shaan bhaiya, what are you doing?'

'I'm just making you feel happy. Be relaxed.'

'Shaan bhaiya, don't touch it. Nobody has ever touched it before.'

'Arey, I'm your elder brother. I have seen you naked at birth, you don't need to feel shy. Just trust me and see how wonderful it would feel.'

The next five minutes Ashwin didn't speak a word. Another five minutes went by and he was panting.

'Even your joystick has got size. But where is the proof of your masculinity? It hasn't arrived yet.'

'Bhaiya, it's hurting me, please stop. Please. Oh god, there's a weird sensation ... oh ....in my lower stomach...oh, oh...sigh.'

'Done. How does it feel? You had plenty of it stored, you never knew it, didn't you?'

'Bhaiya, what was that? I am feeling really frightened.'

'Don't worry Ashu, it's just excess energy inside you. Keep throwing it aside from time to time.'

'I want to go outside, Bhaiya.'

'Don't tell anyone about it otherwise I would tell Mama that you broke my video game.'

'Hmm.'

The next three days, Ashwin's behaviour had completely changed. He was clinging to his mother all the time, being totally disinterested in me. I realized that what had happened was not right. Not at all right. However, being just 14, my conscience wasn't righteous enough to make me feel sorry. Idle, I became involved in the puja-paath, with frequent long breaks to the loo. My joystick missed Ashwin. Five days later, the families dispersed in different corners of the country and the memories of the dark room was buried in the dark corner of both of our minds.

Seven years later.

21st October, 2010

Today, a very distressing memory came crawling into my head. As I am at my grandmother's place, I was asked to sleep in the very same room. Yes, the very same room where once I had physically abused Ashwin. I couldn't sleep the whole night. Though it has been seven years of the event, but ever since my conscience came into being, I had been bitten by the self-hate of doing something so vile in my utter senselessness. The ghastly memory of sexually abusing my younger brother aches my heart every time it flashes by. Sounds of his nervous breaths, worried voice and shivering body haunted me the entire night. I kept staring at the dark ceiling, in hope that the dark speckle of bad memory inside my head could be erased, but alas. 

I wonder what would Ashwin be thinking of me. That I'm homosexual, who assaulted him? Oh no, that shouldn't happen. God, someone tell him that I was just curious. It happens at puberty, doesn't it? He would be carrying hatred against me, he would never ever forgive me for what I did in my utter irresponsibleness. How would he feel when I tell him that I have a girlfriend? That I'm straight. I had just crossed puberty during that phase, that's why I was so sexually charged. Would he believe me at all? Maybe he would consider me a bi. Or maybe, he won't even talk to me for what I had done. Fortunately, they live so far that we haven't met again. Or fortunately, nobody died in the last seven years that could have brought the family together. Oh what shit I am writing. Maybe I should catch some sleep.

'Shaan, wake up.'

'Mom, come on, let me sleep. I couldn't sleep the entire night.'

'Get up. You have to go to the railway station in half an hour to pick someone up.'

'Who is coming now, I'm really tired Mom, please let me sleep.'

'You'll be delighted. Wake up.'

'Oh Mom, please tell me who's coming.'

'Your childhood mate Ashwin, along with your Mausi.'

My sleep disappeared in a second. It was as if someone had poured down a bucket full of steaming hot water on my face. I jumped up from the bed, as though, it had a spring on it. I washed my face, four times and reconfirmed from my mother, 'Ashwin and Mausi, right? Why are they coming? They didn't bother to remain in touch with us or grandma for the last seven years, how come now suddenly, they are coming over.'

'He has just finished his schooling, is done with all the examinations. They are moving out of their town after seven years, as they were busy in his education. It's time to celebrate. They are giving a surprise to your grandma, that's why they didn't inform us beforehand. Don't tell her about it at all. Also, do bring rasgullas, on your way back from the station.'

I was flabbergasted. The faster I wanted to run away from the humiliation, the nearer it appeared. I had no idea at all as to how to go ahead. As I bathed, I decided that the first thing I would do when I find Ashwin alone would be to apologize to him for what I had done in the past, for spoiling his pleasant childhood and make sure that I would convince him about my being straight, this wish was somehow more important than every other one.

With hesitant steps, I went towards the car - old Maruti 800, started it and drove to the station, along with my Mama. The train was exactly fifteen minutes late, which is quite a feat for the Indian railways. As I surreptitiously watched through the moving bogeys, I saw the oval face of my Mausi sitting in the coach that stopped right in front of me. My Mama and I immediately went inside the coach and just when I entered, I was stopped by an extremely handsome young man with long hair smiling at me.

'Hi Shaan bhaiya, how are you? Do you recognise me?' He said, flashing his mild smile.

'Oh my god, Ashu, how are you?' We hugged; the warmth was fake from my side as I was feeling really cumbersome.

The inward awkwardness was suddenly sublimated by the welcoming behaviour by both Ashu and my Mausi. It seemed that my wrongdoings of the past had been obliterated by the sands of time. I felt somewhat relieved, but at the same time, the urge to apologize became stronger as soon as I saw the tall, fair and handsome Ashu. I didn't want him to have any hard feelings against me and at the same time, I wanted to get rid of the remorse that had stayed in me ever since the day that dark room threw its darkness in my life.

We went back to the bungalow, which was an archaic sprawling duplex built by my grandfather who was a very successful doctor. My grandmother tells me that it was the first bungalow to be built in the town of Burla, way back in 1959, when my mother was just born. Amidst cheers, jest and hullabaloo of family get-together, the stark silence of remorse in my heart continued to storm my soul. I wanted to talk to Ashu personally, but we were never left free to talk to.

We didn't even realize how the day got stolen by the bright moonlight and sumptuous dinner, comprising of three subzis, dal and pulao, that were served in front of us, which I swallowed after first swallowing my considerable guilt.

'As we have limited beds, we have decided to put one extra bed in each room. Ashu, you sleep in Shaan's room, we have put an extra cot there. Your Mausi will come in Grandma's room.' My mother said to both of us.

Horrid thoughts about the previous night pervaded my mind. I realized that this was going to be worse than the previous night. But at the same time, I was prepared to apologize and get free of the heap of guilt residing in my gut. Carrying our blankets on our shoulders, we went to the room. I was rehearsing inside my head how I would begin my apology statement. We entered the room, the bed was already set, I dumped my blanket on my side and waited for Ashwin to drop his on his side, but he carried it on his shoulders throughout.

'Bhaiya, please turn off the lights please.' Ashwin said to me in a sleepy tone. I did what I was instructed. The wave of awkwardness embraced me tissue by tissue. Ashwin dropped his blanket on the bed, hearing the sound of which I was mightily relieved.

I lay down on the bed, hid inside my blanket while he was still standing. I waited to sense the right opportunity to start my monologue.

'Ashu, I had to say something.' I began.

'Haan bhai, tell me.' Ashwin said and jumped on the bed, pulling my blanket towards him. I felt bizarre, so much that for a few seconds I lost track of what I was saying.

'Bhai, tell me.' Ashwin asserted as he made himself comfortable within my blanket. Yes, my blanket.

'Ashwin, I am ...' A swift movement near my pubes interrupted my monologue. It was a hand - a fair, big and handsome hand, hidden beneath the darkness of my blanket.

'Even I am gay, bhai.' Ashwin said and caught hold of me. Dumbstruck, I started shivering. I couldn't see. I couldn't feel. I couldn't smell. I couldn't taste. I could just hear.

'Bhai,  you don't know how thankful I am to you. Ten years ago, had you not helped me out, today I would have felt so bad about myself for not being straight. You made me realize that I was homosexual and I don't need to fear anyone. Thank you so much, bhai. All the while, the sheer thought that you were like me, and doing good for yourself, kept me going through the hard times.' Ashwin continued as his grip became stronger.

'Bhai, I had always thought of you and tonight, I want to repay the debt that I had been waiting to repay all the while.' Ashwin said and inched closer to me.

I can't describe how the next twenty minutes went. For all I knew that I had unknowingly physically abused him once, he had the right to unknowingly avenge from me once. Once, for all.

I didn't tell Ashwin anything. Anything about everything. The next day, I left my granny's place without telling anyone. There was a new remorse troubling me now. In a snap, I called my girlfriend and broke up with her. I told her that I had cheated with her and she didn't deserve me. I didn't tell her how, when and where. She cussed at me. She cursed me. I didn't respond back. I cut the phone.

She didn't call back. Just SMSed: asshole. I echoed her SMS loudly and it hurt.

I had been abused, twice, at the cost of remorse. And not surprisingly, I felt better.

P.S. This is just the first draft. Requires more drafts. This is the first time, I have written on such a sensitive topic. Suggestions/critiques welcome.

The Queen of Venice

This story has never been documented in words, recited in verses or shared in speech to any person living or dead whosoever, just because of the sheer sexual nature of the content in it. Readers discretion advised.

Around two years ago, I started writing a novel, just to let my imagination flow, and I used to publish it on my blog, chapter by chapter. Having been a widely unread blogger for over one year, it was my first-and-the-last attempt to tell to the world that it's not that I blog because I'm idle, but because I love writing and can make you engrossed in a story.

After finishing the novel, experiencing over 5000 hits and 250 comments within one month, I was at my life's most enchanting period - the period of utmost creative joy. It was during that time that this girl with the profile-name 'queenofvenice' visited my blog and read my entire work. But unlike others, she had a different take on it - completely different.

'Your work was like-able but I hated you totally. If there was the word slut for a man, you would be that. I wonder how could people give you so much attention.'

I was thoroughly entertained and a little bit confused. I liked being called a 'man-slut'. It was the rarest of compliments that one could have ever received in life. Not that I loved it for the very feel of it but it actually gave me a better opinion of myself, as far as women were concerned. That was so because my experience in this field was painfully limited.

Did she confuse me with any of the characters, or has my presence as a writer been so insipid? I showed it to my friends, one of them got outraged and started typing rubbish, when I stopped and asked him to let me reply.

I began, 'Thank you. It was a pleasure getting attention from you. I didn't know that I could ever be complimented for such a cause. Thanks again.'

Within an hour, she replied, 'I was not giving you attention! I was just letting you know what your status is.'

'I can't understand the reason behind the immense hatred in you. If it's my novel that's the reason, let me remind you that everything there is fictitious.' I immediately replied.

'And I would not like being called a slut in public, so shoot each of your anger-shots at me at the given id - harsh@gmail.com.' I turned flirtatious. Her audacity being the reason for my audacity.

A moment later, queenofvenice@gmail.com sent me an add request. As always, being a god-gifted wimp, I couldn't dare to start the chat. She took the initiative.

queenofvenice: It's 2 o' clock at night. I'm not too fond of talking to guys at night, and more so your kind - tch tch.

me: Neither am I. I never talk to guys, especially at this time.

'Thank God, for giving me a sense of humour.' I thought.

queenofvenice: You asshole! What do you think you're?

I felt insulted. I wanted to block her then and forever. But I was new to attention and I liked it. However, my self-respect asked my timid self to rebel. I could not tolerate the bull-shit.

me: Wait a minute. Who the fuck are you?

I was suspicious that this would be a gag that one of my hostel-friends would be playing with me, at the middle of the night.

queenofvenice: I'm a hardcore feminist. And I'm against every person who considers woman as a sex-object.

The doubt that the Queen of Venice might be residing in my hostel almost faded. My worldly hostel-friends would never have tried to act as feminists in their entire life, not even for a gag's sake, leave alone being a hardcore one. I tried to search her id on social networking websites, and ultimately I could find her on Orkut. Yes, those were the days of Orkut. Her name was Shambhavi and she seemed to be pretty. Another reason to talk. I read the conversation once again.

me: Wait a minute. Where have I talked about women as sex-objects in my novel?

queenofvenice: You've not but your feelings were visible all throughout your piece of shit.

me(sarcastically): Oh really, then what made you lick that piece of shit in its entirety?

queenofvenice: You wrote it well. Engrossing, but full of shit.

me: So, you like shit?

queenofvenice: I hate asses, like you!

Curious!

me: Who're you? I mean where are you from, what do you do?

queenofvenice: I'm Shambhavi, from Stephen's. I kick asses of asses.

me: That's a good way to contribute to the society. BTW, nice name.

I was flirting outrageously for the second time in my life. The first time was when I was seven, when I received a tight slap on my cheek in reciprocation which eventually made me a wimp.

queenofvenice: Indeed. So, how many people have you slept with?

Shocker! Totally unexpected question! I got a little frenzied.

me: Is it a part of your hardcore feminist survey?

queenofvenice: No, it isn't. Answer me.

I thought of playing a gimmick.

me: Ummm...one...two....three...four-five...umm....in total 24.

queenofvenice: Bloody slut! I knew you would be so. When did you lose it?

me(trying to act innocent): What are you talking about?

queenofvenice: Your stupid mind, you sucker.

Pretty brash, I must say. But pretty different. Plus, two pretty eyes were icing on the cake. How could I not take her abuses? A moment of flirtation, a quantum leap of satisfaction.

It took me a while to think of the most imperfect age to lose 'it'.

me: I lost that, when I was...17.

queenofvenice: To whom?

me: To JEE! :P

queenofvenice: Asshole. Would you like to meet me?

Now that was weird. Firstly, she hates me. Secondly, she abuses me. Thirdly, she wants to meet me. I was dead nervous. She seemed to be one of 'those' kinds, if you get 'bonded' to what I mean.

me: Not now. I'm sleepy.

queenofvenice: Tomorrow?

me: But why? I mean why do you want to meet me? You hate me. You are a hardcore feminist and as you've realized, I am a misogynist. And lastly, you think that I'm a slut.

queenofvenice: That's why.

me: You're acting like one.

queenofvenice: I'm not. I'm not acting.

I read the last line twice. My jaws fell down and my eyes were transfixed to the computer screen. I was shivering. I couldn't reply.

queenofvenice: Check out my pictures. [hyperlink]

I clicked on the hyperlink. Her pictures opened. They were equally brash as her talks had been. I was scandalized.

queenofvenice: How do you find them?

I could not type. I was too dumbstruck to read what she was saying.

queenofvenice: Do you like them?

Still, I couldn't type a word.

me(unconsciously): They were good.

When I saw what I wrote, I lost my mind. This was so not me. I couldn't believe I could get swayed away by all that non-sense.

me(back to senses): Who am I kidding? They were complete shit.

queenofvenice: Now don't use my method of seduction.

me: Fuck off!

queenofvenice: Wait a minute. Who the fuck are you to say that to me?

I had no answer. I thought for a moment. Who am I? I got the answer.

me: I'm a hardcore feminist. And I'm against every person who considers woman as a sex-object.

And thus, I used the block feature of google talk for the first and the last time.

P.S. Thanks for reading. Comments would be welcome.