The Allure

Prompt from my dear friend on an omniscient POV:

Priya entered the 58-floor building with a sense of ownership. After all, she had worked at the law firm of Richman and Purzucker for several years now—she specialized in mergers and acquisitions, and was somewhat of an expert in it now. Today, senior Rip Schirtsoff had told her he had something really important to discuss—something that, he hoped, would make her happy. Everyone was talking of her promotion to junior partner, and she wondered, in spite of training herself not to speculate, was it true?

As she entered the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor, she saw her colleague Mark Palmer running toward her breathlessly. She kept the doors open and smiled at him. Mark and Priya didn't exactly get along very well. She avoided elevator chit-chat and played with her phone, to look busy. She had on her mind the upcoming merger of two of the city's leading retail chains.

Mark had a merger on his mind too, albeit a completely different one. He'd always had a thing for Priya and today, in her smart grey suit and skirt, she was looking hot, he decided. The top button of her silk blouse was carelessly undone (on purpose, Mark assumed, of course), simply adding to the allure. 

Priya moved away. Mark's reputation preceded him.  Sure, his face seemed chisselled and his muscles sculpted, and he looked like a Greek God, but he was supposed to chase anything in a skirt. Not something she wanted to get tangled with right now. Priya feigned to ignore him. 

Once he got one step closer when others entered the lift, his nose crinkled—what was that smell? Could not be her, could it?  It was like man-repellant spray. What was it called? An Indian friend had told him once. Mark racked his brains until it came to him—yes, sambhar. “Damn you, sambar,” Mark said, as he walked off as soon as the doors opened on their floor.

It takes all kinds

Prompted by my friend Ushasri:
(It's from a WIP novella about a dog who can read and understand words and has someone writing her memoirs)

That day, I went and stood by Maya's table, so that I could get some love. From here, I could clearly see her computer monitor. I was aghast! Her chat window had lots of emoticons. Oblivious of my literary and sight powers, Maya absently stroked my head while she kept typing in “blushing” icons. And at the top of the chat window was the username: sexygod.

The chat was quite inane—what did you have for breakfast? You were always good at cooking. I would die to eat from your hands. Oh, stop it. I’m serious. You know, things you’ve probably read a lot in books. From the conversations, it was unclear where they stood relationship-wise, I guess. And that was part of the elaborate mating dance.  

This was nice. 

I heard a noise in the kitchen, and Maya typed in, “I gotta go.” 
Sexy God says, “Where to? We were just getting started.” 
“My parents-in-law are downstairs. It looks like they need something.” 
“That’s ok. They can figure it out. Tell me, you’re alone, right?” 
“No. I have my friend here with me.” 
"He/She?” 
“It’s a she. Why? Do you want to know all about her now? She’s pretty,for sure.” 
“Really? Who is she?” 
“you’ve seen her too.” 
‘Really? Where? I am looking for pretty girls, you know.” 
“But this one’s a real bitch.” 
“I thought she was your friend?” 
“So what? Arjun’s not your friend? You don’t like him much, do you?” 
“Tell me more about this friend of yours.” 
“Why?” 
“Are you jealous?” 
“What do I care? I think you’ll be perfect for her.” 
“I know who’ll be perfect for me.” 
“Who?” 
“I’ll tell you later. Now, let’s know more about his mystery girl.” 
“She’s no mystery. She’s quite an open book.” 
“What is she wearing?” 
“How about nothing?’ 
“And what is she doing?” 
“She’s actually looking at me lovingly.” 
“You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m coming over right now, to watch.” 
"Hahahaha. Gotcha.” 
You get the drift. Haha. Very funny play on words. Making fun of me in the process. Maya was usually okay. She was behaving quite strangely today, though. 

You might wonder what the purpose of the chat conversation was. It’s funny—the first thing that my publisher said when he looked at my first draft was this: There are no dialogues in this book. Won’t sell this way. And then, the clincher: You know Paris Hilton’s dog’s book—it was full of dialogues. 

Oh well, the pain of being compared time and again, time and again. Why would there be dialogues in my book? I cannot understand what people say. So I had to bring in this chat conversation into the story. Without rhyme or reason. What can I say? Can’t a dog write what she wants? 

Sounds like fun!

The party was on in full swing when Priya arrived. She didn't know where Dev's house was, and was directed by all the noise. The noise from the stadium, punctuated by the irritating bugle"pa-pa-pa-ra pa-ra-paen", which was inevitably followed by a higher intensity general stadium noise was loudest from the direction of his apartment. 

When she reached the fifth floor, she could barely hear herself think. There were more discernible voices here, Adhi's and Manoj's, she could make out from near the lift, but could that shrieking voice be hers? Was it Kim's voice that she heard? "Dev, come hee-yer," she could recognize that voice anywhere: at least an octave higher than everyone else, and taking at least twice as long as anyone else to say anything. And the giggle--like a lizard's chuckle was cut into smaller bits and played back on loop--it was definitely her. It was like her voiceprint--no one else could possibly have that voice. She had half a mind to turn and run. But she stood her ground and entered. She heard Kim was now going out with Dev, but she couldn't be sure. 

The place was a mess, and there were people everywhere. She recognized most of them as her classmates, but some others were Dev's friends from college. Some of the boys turned to look who had come, and when Laxman Sivaramakrishnan shouted, "What a wonn-der-ful shot that was," returned to the large 42 inch screen. From what she could glean within five minutes of being there, looks did matter. And so did size. 

The sofa, faux leather and cherry, occupied nearly the entire length of the hall. And there were couples of all sizes there. Here and there. She thought a few of them had switched their other halves. It was all very confusing for her. She went to the nearest chair and took a bottle of beer for herself. 

A few overs later, the ruckus had died down a bit. CSK was doing badly, and the opponents were scoring above 10 an over. Ashwin was bowling this over, and the stadium was going crazy for Shane Watson--his home ground.

Amidst the general relative noiselessness, there arose a roar, from next door. "What a wicket," one could hear the unmistakable voice of Ravi Shastri, and then here, in Dev's house, all eyes were on the TV. Which ball got the wicket? And then the roar here. And then, once again, like Deja Vu, the sauve Ravi Shastri, "What a wicket." A pause. "This game keeps changing by the minute." 

Deja vu. 

I Heart You

I was waiting by the bus stop. It was hot, sweaty and I was yet to get used to the Chennai weather. The only thing worth all of this was when she came to the bus stop. I spent an equal amount of time looking in both directions--I couldn't really decide whether he wanted the bus to arrive first, or her.

Ah!There she was, looking all anxious, walk-running to the stop. When she was within running-and-catching-the-bus distance, she started walking slowly, as if she had triumphed over Time itself. In a pink salwar kameez, with a long notebook clutched in one hand and a small handbag in the other, he only glimpsed the corner of the book--it said, "Womens' Christian College." Ah, so she was a student there. Wouldn't it be a hoot if I staked out the college, like heroes his, in movies?

The sweet smell of perfume. She was now crossing me to get to the front of the imaginary line. It was really like a breath of spring. So that's what they meant in advertisements!  

Some distance away,  the pregnant bus could be seen. Bogged down by its own weight--what was inside it. I felt a weird kind of companionship with the bus. For one second. When it stopped with a screech, there was a mad rush. I let some of the others board before me (gallantly, I thought)--obviously, the girl was one of them. I wanted to push it, and tried to ride the footboard. But the veterans pushed me in. Jostling for space in this crowded bus, somehow, miraculously, I got a seat.

Scratched on the backrest of the seat in front of me, probably etched with a compass: S Vetrimaran ❤ Ramya Chandra . Love 4Ever.

If something could be right and wrong at the same time, this was it! Always the romantic, I melted at their love and wondered: Was this old? Were they now together? Was their love accepted by their folds? I would love to know. And were both parties in on this etching?

Not unrelatedly, I noticed she was right in front of me now. Perhaps his could be a good love story too. Perhaps it would be with her, the girl in the pink salwar. Staking out her college would not be a bad idea, maybe a good story to tell my grandkids. Or, more likely, my wife, when I was trying to impress upon her my romantic escapades.

"DPI" the conductor shouted. And I was back in the present. She would get down now. She turned towards the door near me, and I thought I saw her blush.

I now caught a glimpse of the long notebook in her hand: Ramya Chandra, the record book said, III BSc Physics. My heart nearly stopped.

And the bus resumed its journey.