SI + S = ?

A few months back, I had resorted to gallivanting across social networking sites so that I might find a small semblance of rationality in the make of these patterns. In my 'travels', I had an online encounter with a rather unique character, who I will call S here (because she decided to call herself that before revealing her true name to me). She is a SI, yes. And from what I gather, she is at least a decade older than me, or even more (who knows?). I'll add here that she is attractive, if one believes the the picture on her profile page is truly of her. What makes her an unique case is the fact that she IS like all these SI farts, in the way she proposes and/or disposes. Not far removed from the way these SIs talk/gesture/pontificate. A classic case of personality upheaval. I may go as far as to say she is as removed from a priori practical knowledge as my grandmother, yet, in her, I find a cynical battery of thoughts. From what I understand, she has a family that is a textbook-sampling of all that is SI and no, there are no Chautauquas to be learnt in that regard. Nondescript mediocrity. I may be wrong, and further away from the truth than I suspect, but this I know - the differences in culture make for a rather huge gap in understanding why these SIs act the way they do. I have never - yes, never - met a SI who distances himself/herself from this extraneous diaspora by contending that he/she will imbibe what's right and discard what is wrong. She is mildly coquettish, but I sense a deep discontent in her, like she is eager to set things right by giving them time, but has lost most of her bearings, borne down by the trappings of emotional virtuosity. I sound like a New Orleans shrink, so I will admit I am a bit frazzled by all this. We began a vigorous tour-de-force of messaging a month back, and it hasn't stopped yet. It bothers me. Like something is drawing me to this culturally-handicapped person. She can never respond to my Indie puns or my sourdough greetings, either because she does not get them or because her frame of cultural relevance collapsed with the company she chose to adorn herself with. Anyway, who am I to find meaning in all the kitsch?

No, no, I am NOT lascivious.

The girl eyes me cattily. She's wearing a leotard that looks like Jane Fonda wore it for Easter. The Four Seasons' swimming-pool is a rather sordid affair, and not many turn up to get their socks off here, because either they are getting drunk at the Esplanade or punching holes in boardroom etiquette. I'm here to represent a firm, and procure internships for them. My work almost done, the HR manager told me I could splash around, unless I wanted to go skinny-dipping in which case I should go to Amsterdam. I had laughed uncomfortably and had changed to a rather tufty pair of trunks and told the concierge I would be taking calls, if there were any, at the poolside.

So, here I was, by the pool, sipping a rather innocent-looking glass of Dom Perignon (my compliments to the firm) and tanning my rather ungainly-looking body. We are the only ones here. I am not averse to uncomfortable silences in uncomfortable places, so I take it all in my stride. After a few minutes of thinking and counter-thinking, the girl decides she wants to talk to me, so she swims towards me. I look at her from the top of my glass, noticing that she isn't a shade above twenty. The water runs off the lycra and I find it hard to look away. She observes my silent appraisal of her body, and she smiles.

Her : Hello. Not seen you around. You new here?

Me : Could say so. Why, are you?

Her : Not really. Have a ballet here in the evening. (okay, so that explains the impossibly-flat belly).

Me : Oh. Not much experience with that. My two left feet already complain of under-use and I coax them every day into feeling better about themselves, like buying them a foot-massage once a month.

Her : (laughs) Oh, I was not so much into it. Was introduced to it by my mother, she was a ballerina who had unfinished dreams, so she thought her daughter should continue the legacy.

Me : Cool. Do you like what they have done with the place?

Her : Yeah. Sort of. The bar's neat, and the maître d' was nice enough to recommend a few good mojitos.

Me : I was a fiend for mojitos too, till I found out they were the easiest drinks in the world to lace. Hard-pressed to grab a few now.

She comes to sit beside me, and she looks at me. I notice that her cleavage is dripping wet, and then she does the most unexpected thing in the world. She hooks her arm around my arm and says,'Fuck all this small-talk. Let's go and make love. Too much of expectation and broken promises'.

Then, I do the strangest thing. I free myself of her grasp, get up and downing the last sip, tell her this -

I am a man-slut. I would never forgive myself if I slept with a textbook-slut. And I walk away, her eyes on mine, or so I think.

Irony has a strong voice. Could have been a soprano were it not tied down by a dimunitive reason.

Avant-garde playwright.

Her skirt flaps around her knees as we stand on the top of the monument, her knuckles white as she grips the hand-railing tightly. It is a beautiful moment. I look past her pale shoulders and see the grey clouds in the distance, and let out an audible sigh. She looks over her shoulder at me, and smiles. The smile is genuine, and so is the emotion behind it. The lights of the night encapsulate her figure completely, like a cocoon, and there is such a frantic urgency with which the breeze moves about her, that it is hard to tell which is which and who is who. The dress she's wearing is so delicate it might remind one of gossamer, yet she does not show the slightest bit of discomfiture. The setting we find ourselves in mimics many of the films we have watched in the past week, but do not find this fact annoying. Yet. It looks like a natural and commonplace sight, but it is not. If I wrote a song about this moment, it would be the most sanctimonious one ever written. She is scared of falling, perhaps she has vertigo - I do not know, but watching her framed in the greyness of the landscape is titillating.

It would be a lascivious one too, if I told her I would be breaking up with her the next day, because she has the intellectual capacity of a needle.

Houses of the Unholy.

My eyes open to find the ceiling above painted a vivid pink. I stare blankly at it for a moment, then glance at the sleeping figure beside me. Her eyes are closed, and she clutches the blanket tightly. Her breath reminds me of lilies and her hair has settled comfortably around her neck. I remember she said that her parents would be home by noon, so that leaves me about two hours to get dressed. I throw the covers off myself, then sit by the side of the bed, catching up with the events of last night. Although much of it is a haze, I can recollect enough about it to get a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I proceed to the bathroom, splash my tired face with cold water. As I dry my face with a towel, I can tell that a hangover is on its way. My head is already throbbing and a vein is pulsating on the side of my head. I remember now.

Four of us sit at a table in a pub at Powai. We are almost done with the hors d'oeuvres and are already in high spirits. The girl beside me is pretty and intelligent enough to be pleasant company for many evenings. My friend and his girlfriend sit across the table from us, and they are motioning to the waiter to refill our drinks. I can hear Eddie Vedder screaming in the background and my arm is around the girls shoulder. She looks at me appraisingly, as if she wants me to up the sexual tension between us. While her hands go limp in mine, I smile haplessly at my friend who is looking at me knowingly. I am irritated at the look he is giving me, but I don't say anything. Better to let the madness wring itself dry. His girlfriend is talking about how Jack Nicholson should not be allowed to sleep with so many women. He signals her to be quiet, because she is already tipsy. So, they excuse themselves and make for the exit. As they pass the next table, I hear her heave. Sigh. I look at the girl beside me, whose hand is now resting on my thigh.

X : Foolish, aren't they?
Me : More than I'd like to acknowledge. But, they are happy with each other. That is what matters,doesn't it?
X : Ah, good. What are your plans, now that they have left us in peace?
Me : Let's take a walk. This is getting stuffy.

I pay for the table. We make a quick exit. I look ahead at the glittering city. Men and women hasten to get out of their sedans, the women balance themselves on their stilettos, the men stare at their exquisitely-cut dresses, and the women giggle. God, I'm trapped in Bukowski's world again. There is a momentary hush as we pass the doorway. The girl must be a familiar face and they ogle at her backside as she runs to keep pace with me.

X : Walk slower, man. You in a hurry?
Me : I'm just not too used to the glitterati. I like to keep a low profile. You know, conscience-keeper and their ilk.
X : Oh. And here I was thinking you were at ease with these people. (smiles)
Me : Yeah, I tend to give that impression. Where are you studying?
X : St. Stanislaus. You?
Me : Singhania.
X : Oh,good. You live in Thane?
Me : Yes.

We are silent. She weaves her arm around mine. I don't object. She looks sullen. Probably, I look sullen too. One can never tell how these nights end.

X : Can you come to my house? I have a stash of weed somewhere.
Me : Haha. Okay, but I'm not sleeping with you. What about your parents?
X : Oh,don't worry. I'm not asking you to. They are not home.

We walk to her house. As she turns the key in the lock, I look around. Either the neighbourhood is sleeping or it's a quiet neighbourhood. I walk through the hallway.

The rest I have forgotten. Fuck. Now, I'm an alcoholic AND a man-slut.

The girl is now one of my best friends. Irony hits me square between the eyes. And I look back at how time murders everything so rapaciously.

Give me that, Leo.

Watched 'Lost in Translation' today with Michellia. Still speechless.

Strained Emotion - Entr'acte.

I stand behind my desk. My shirt is dirty, my head is hung and I stare at my soiled shoes with the irreverent concentration of a lumberjack. There is a woman in the classroom. The sari she has draped around her meaty shoulders threatens her integrity to fall to the floor in a heap of dishonour. I am being visually raped by the sightless eyes of my classmates. For them, it is a commonplace thing - the berating of a high-school student by the Prinicipal. My dignity is being questioned, and all I can do is chuckle. I am taken aback by my own glee. It's unnatural. My fingernails beat a slow, meditative tattoo on the desk. I look up to find the woman wagging a stubby finger at me. Flecks of spit crowd the corners of the teachers downturned lips. She tells me my behaviour is unacceptable. She says she doesn't care that I bring her school wreaths-of-glory or the ceaseless attention of international school journals. I shuffle my feet impatiently. The girl beside me, who I have been fucking for two weeks now, is giggling at my nonchalance. The giggle becomes a cackle and then, silence. The bell rings. The students block the doorway and amused classmates slap my back, and, in the distance, I can hear the tinny sound of the metal clasps of lunchboxes being unfastened. My unseeing eyes roam the length of the classroom, and then they focus on the sympathetic eyes of the girl I'm fucking. I feel no remorse, no guilt, no pain and I feel like Trent Reznor. She hugs me, and leads me outside. I follow effortlessly. We find our bags and sling them around our shoulders, while we head for the Main Gate. She goes on about how the Principal is a snout-faced douchebag and how she plans to spend the evening with her friends at Pop Tates'. We take a rickshaw to my house. My parents are not in sight. There is a note on the fridge. It says they will be back by ten. She wraps her arms around my neck. I don't respond. She starts kissing me. Blur.

I wake up in my room to find her asleep next to me. I raise myself on one elbow, prod her in the shoulder and tell her it's late. She dresses quickly, pecks me on my unshaven cheek and leaves. Something's changing. It's ubiquitous. And I can feel the emotion clogging up my arteries, travelling up to the hypocampus, choking my thalamus till I am out of breath. I do not know why I am doing this. I do not know why I am doing this. I put my face in my hands.