Something terrible happened...

on 26th December 2014, to be precise.  I normally don’t write about personal tragedies here. It doesn’t help anyone to read somebody’s sob story especially a bloke you’ve hardly met or are ever likely to meet. But I’ll make an exception just once because this incident just devastated me physically, mentally and spiritually. I’m a nervous wreck now popping sleeping tablets to get over the insomnia brought on by this horrible incident.

Actually it’s all my fault. First I build up huge expectations for myself. When I wrote The Vagabond situation that was just to kill time and space and provide a platform for the next blog post, which was the 'real' launch. But what the hell! ‘TVS’ picked up 17 comments and was a runway success. So I was positive that my follow up number would take the blogging world by storm.

But the Passer a la casserole, a culinary delight ,my masterpeice which premiered on 26th December failed to register even a single comment. Not one comment. I knew something was very wrong soon after my conversation with M just after the post hit the web. M is the only reader of this blog who is brave enough to call me once in a while...

“Hey how’s it ? Absolutely mind blowing right? Do you think I’ll get a book contract? I reckon its right up there with Marco Vassi’s best”, I was getting more and more excited with every word...

Silence at the other end.

I thought that there might be a bad connection.

“Hullooo… did you hear…”

“I heard you all right”, the clear calm voice that doctors use when they are about to tell you that you have less than 24 hrs to live.

“Are you out of your f***ing mind? Releasing a so called erotica at Christmas time? Have you forgotten that 99 % of your readers are women?  And 90% of them are Indian? Besides I think the story was disrespectful towards us and the plot was terrible"

I feel my hands start to sweat…

“What’s that got to do with anything? You want me to consult an astrologer before I publish a post? But hold on, do you really  think that no one’s going to comment, that no one’s gonna like it?”

“Well I will comment just to save your blushing ass but this is not your forte , Mr. You should just stick to dark humor. And next time try writing this kind of stuff nearer to Feb 14^th or thereabouts”

I hated how M  made more sense than me every time we had an argument.

“But M, this is just a teaser. In all these vagabonding years, I have put my filthy imagination to use writing over 100 such short slam bang stories. Has it all been in vain?”

All I heard was sarcastic laughter at the other end.

“Maybe I should have just written a Mills and Boons misadventure…”

“I doubt if you can pull off even that one… just stick to the funny bones dude”

M, a lady I’ve known for close to a decade and half doesn't mince words. What the hell was I going to do with the 100 odd idiotic erotic stories in my ‘hard’ drive?

The worst part was that even M wouldn’t believe that the story was 100 % fiction!

“Listen do you really think that I can bed a French chick? And I’m not a good cook by any stretch of the imagination”

“Listen Mr Playboy! I know what sort of 'adventures' you get up to. I’m sure all your readers think likewise at least regarding the bedding part of the story. You would have lost at least 99.9 % of your female admirers after this fiasco. You’ve come across as a hormone imbalanced humper who likes his paneer butter masala on the side.  Bleeahh! Disgusting !!!!”

I was gently weeping now seeing that I was in throat deep shit. I disconnect and decide to call my agent who also happens to be M.

“Is there no way out of this?”

“What?!! Is it you again? Well, you can delete the post and just pretend the whole thing never happened. Maybe you’ll be forgiven one day”

“But wait I know that people are reading it, it’s just that nobody’s commented on it. Now come to think of it what will people comment anyway eh? “Oh that was a F***ing good read Vagabond, thank you!” Or “Oh that was really a ‘very hard’ story to read” or even “That’s difficult to swallow"

“Well I’ve decided to stick by it, no matter what! I put a lot of effort into it you know, at least a month of writing and editing. Even the title is a French expression which is a pun on”

“Is that so? It sure shows!” sniggered M cutting me off again.

So here I am dear women readers, one heartbroken writer, as Russell Peters would say in his Fake Indian accent “one hundred percent heartbroken”.  So I implore you to comment on the erotica(attempted). This would be a more radical step you can take  than the silly kiss of love campaign. Commenting here is what takes real guts, not cheek pecking in Marine Drive! So go for it gals, fire away.  If sufficient numbers of you give a good thrashing I promise not to publish any more attempted erotica. Any comment is ok as long as it is provocative. I believe M has just set the golden standard with the first comment! 

S & M

This incident happened in my vagabonding days when I was in Auroville staying in a farm. We had to work in the farm for 2 hours every day in exchange of accommodation and breakfast. Sometimes other residents would join us for the mooring work.

During my stay, there were mostly guys on the farm and it was good. We could be ourselves, walk around almost naked in the bare minimum and dispense with politeness. So imagine the chaos when a hot blonde 'un turned up. She always used to wear a long red skirt with purple splotches, tucked high up, when she worked. It looked as if she was wearing a micro mini if anything at all. As far as I know none of the guys was complaining .

God must have spent a disproportionate amount of time on her legs .In case that didn't do the trick, she would often wear a black sleeveless top with a low neck. Ah with colleagues like that you don’t mind working the extra hour! She seemed mildly interested in me for some reason. This was the turning point in our relationship:-

Scene: The banana plantation where some major ‘weeding’ is going on... Blonde and me sitting side by side doing some serious weeding. Imagine the smell of earth, mud on your fingers, and sweat on the body...

Vagabond: "Did you see the play yesterday?"

Hot Blonde: "Naw, I missed it"

"I went with the guys. It was quite good"

She bends over, leans ever so closer, breasts too close and beautiful to miss. white limbs covered in red earth…

"There's a movie day after. If you like..."

I smiled, about to reply,

"awwwwwwooaaaa", She's on her feet screaming like an Amazon warrior

Skirt hikes up further, if that's possible, right hand brandishes a scissors.

"I know these bastards." 

Her left hand plucks something out of the hidden recesses of her right thigh.

"Err,ahem, think they are called ticks"

“Fuckers”

She looks at the poor little 'fucker', never thought a woman's face could express cruelty so blatantly.

Scissors get to work on the legs of the mite, done with coldness and immense precision. Satiated bliss on face, too real to miss. CHOP ! CHOP! CHOP!.

"So?"

"Eh?"

"About day after tomorrow?"

"Ugh, ive got something coming up, maybe some other time. Excuse me; think I need to go get some fresh air.."

P.S: Friends, I’ve been blogging for more than a decade now and if you think my writing still stinks , check out my older posts and you will be grateful ! But to be fair there are some nice ones and here's one of my favourites. This is based on a real incident in Auroville, December 2009.

Passer a la casserole, a culinary delight

Content advisory: strong language and sexual content, even if it’s mostly between the lines! You have to be 18+ to see this material.

                                                    

                                                London was where I made my first serious foray into cooking. Eating out in the city was an expensive proposition. So as with most bachelors from the sub continent, I had to bow before the might of the British pound and enter the kitchen. But it was truly love at first smell and sound for me. I loved the scent of spices, the steaming aroma of freshly cooked basmati rice, the crackling of mustard seeds and the sound of hissing oil when chillies and tomatoes were fried. Contrary to what I was told before leaving India, there was a mind boggling variety of vegetables and fruits in the supermarkets. So I experimented a lot, stepping out of the safety of the cook book and thoroughly enjoyed cooking. I would prepare a  huge portion of sabji (vegetable cooked in gravy) and leave it in the fridge with a note for my house-mates asking them to taste and rate it. As the months passed, the ratings improved along with my confidence.

 However, this was a time of great personal crisis for me. I was trying hard, very hard, to get laid. Imagine a 25 year old Indian guy fresh off the boat in one of the most cosmopolitan cities of the world exposed to endless number of beautiful women wherever he goes. Yet all he can do is dribble and watch. My friend Eric came to the rescue. A seasoned hand at all things feminine, the first thing he asked me to do was shave my moustache off.

“What?  Are you out of your senses? This is equivalent to castration for a Malayali guy” I thundered. But no amount of thundering or pleading could move Eric.

 Eric vowed to teach me the secrets of seduction only if I cleaned up my upper lip. He claimed guys in the West who wore a moustache were mostly part of the gay scene, convincing me that just getting rid of the stache was half the job done.

Maybe it was just a coincidence but as soon as I trashed the stache I began to score with the ladies. It was around this time that I met Audrey (pronounced Odd Ray!) at a house party. She had just landed in London from Paris for a 3 months’ work holiday vacation. We hit it off immediately and she confided that the reason behind the trip was that she had just broken up with her boy friend and wanted a change of scenery. Her French accent and bubbly extrovert nature was a huge turn on for me.

I woke up in heaven with a smirk plastered on my face after our first night together. What are the chances of a Mallu guy sleeping with a French chick who had pouting lips and sleepy ‘I’m ready for a fuck now’ eyes? Overflowing with gratitude, I decided to pamper her. So I made breakfast (not idly sambar !) and surprised her in bed. Her reaction caught me unawares. She was genuinely surprised and then started silently crying. Later, she told me that nobody had done that for her. How much it meant to her was revealed shortly when she smashed me in an intense love making session that lasted till late afternoon by which time we were both drained.

Nevertheless I got up and somehow managed to ‘cook a curry’, as the Brits would say. We ravenously ate. I was planning to sleep it off but Audrey had different plans for the rest of the day. I soon learned why the world regards the French as the greatest lovers on the planet.

The sex was always great but soon it became obvious to me that the quality was extra terrestrial on the days I cooked or surprised her in bed (with food you dirty perverts!). She would often come to watch me cook up a storm, much to the amusement of my housemates. Ha, I can still see her standing by the kitchen door wearing just her black over sized T shirt and little else. I never made conversation while I cooked but I would glance at her every now and then. Sometimes she would come and stand just beside me, not making contact yet touching me inside out. The rich smell of Indian spices mingled with the smell of her sweat and sex. Many times I have seriously contemplated fucking her there in the warm kitchen that smelled of India.Tandoori naan with Paneer Butter masala and Audrey on the side, I would fantasize.

Audrey was a man magnet. When we went out to pubs, clubs or even the park she would have guys eating out of her hands. They would stare at her , smile at her, and even sometimes flirt outrageously. Of course she was dazzlingly beautiful, but that was not uncommon in London. She had something else, the oomph factor, that made her irresistible. She was perfectly at ease handling her admirers and that’s what probably never made me jealous or possessive about her. Besides I knew what turned her on, good Indian food made with lots of love ! We cooked and made love with the same intensity. There was a playfulness to the whole affair so even if something got burned in the oven or in the bedroom we would laugh it off.

As the days passed she started imitating me and  eating with her hands. She would be completely lost in it, licking her fingers dry but sometimes she would look up at me and smile seductively. I couldn't wait for dinner to be over...

We cooked, dined and fucked our way through the 3 months. Time had no meaning and it was over before it began.. She took me out on our last night to a very expensive restaurant on top of a skyscraper in the city from where you could see the entire London nights-cape. We ate our full and languished in the cushioned comfort of our chairs. The food was great but I missed seeing her eat with her hands relishing my food. The dinner felt flat that way and I was feeling down. She sensed my mood when she said “It’s low on spice” and winked.As we took the tube back to my place, she discussed her future plans in Paris, on continuing her education and getting together with family again.

It was our last night together and we hugged each other tight. I woke up at the break of dawn. Audrey was all curled up facing the huge bay windows enticing me with her bewitching bottom. Why was I not feeling sad that she was leaving? Years later I would realize that it was because of the intensity and fullness with which we lived our days that left no trace of regret or sadness as its residue. We were happy to let it all end there, not even to stay in touch.

Strange, I thought, yesterday was the only day when we were in bed and not had sex. I stretched and went for a run around the block. By the time I came back and showered, Audrey was up.

She came and kissed me long and full on the mouth.

‘Do you know what was unique about yesterday?’ she whispered almost french kissing my ears.

'What ?', I got hard just thinking about how our last faire des galipettes was going to be.

‘Yesterday was the only day that you didn't cook for me!’