Tales of Love, Lust and Longing

By Ajit Chaudhuri

This selection of seven novelettes has one commonality – it depicts a man’s view of a man’s world. Otherwise, it is varied – the novelettes are set in rural (‘Parita’) and urban (mostly Delhi) locations in India and abroad (‘The Double Bore’ is set in Canada and also describes Afghanistan); they describe relationships with spouses and lovers (‘The Thunderbolt’, ‘The Obsession’), with one’s children (‘Parita’), with sports (‘Lalaji’), between friends (‘The Friday Evening Get-Together’), and those of a more temporary nature (‘The King of Lust’); and they are written over a period of 25 years (and retain the original writing style, with minor editions for modern day political correctness). The novelettes provide glimpses of an emerging India at and around the turn of the century, with its rising middle class, its changing attitudes, and its conflict between tradition and modernity, as well as the pathways by which young (and not so young) people negotiate these.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Nov 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543708226

Ajit Chaudhuri

The author sits in the rabbit warrens of middle management in the Indian corporate sector, where he thinks up stories as a means of fighting sleep at meetings and pontifications on issues such as global warming, stakeholder capitalism and triple-bottom-line accounting. He had previously written the novel ‘Pax Feminica’, a sociological exploration of a world ruled by women.

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Copyright © 2021 by Ajit Chaudhuri.

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CONTENTS

The King Of Lust

Parita

The Thunderbolt

The Friday Evening Get-Together

Lalaji

The Obsession

The Double Bore

The King Of Lust

By Ajit Chaudhuri

Written in 2011

Why am I obsessed with being on time? I don’t know! But, when combined with my natural in-born pessimism, this trait has led to the occasional embarrassment. My tyre doesn’t puncture, the rest of Delhi chooses not to get into their cars and head in the same direction as I am, that overloaded truck makes it across the uphill section of the flyover without conking out and successfully blocking everyone else, and what happens? I arrive early! Receptionists look at their watches, I have to pass time with some nearby paan-wallah, my hosts are still bathing, or cooking, or cleaning, and so on.

This time, too, the traffic was smooth and my car behaved and, despite leaving home at the time that I was told to arrive for the dinner engagement, I was early. Luckily the hosts were old friends, so I knew the cook well enough to head straight into the kitchen and bully my way into getting a sneak preview of the food. I headed to the dining table with a full plate and a cold beer, confident that I could imbibe this before my hosts made an entry, when I found that a lady had beaten me to it. She glanced up from her plate in a friendly sort of way, saw me, and then gave me the strangest of looks.

I am no stranger to being on the receiving end of strange looks, in fact I’m quite a connoisseur, but this one had me surprised. It wasn’t quite one of those exploratory ‘haven’t we met before’ looks, and it definitely wasn’t an angry ‘how dare you not recognize me considering we had sex last week’ look that I humbly confess I have been an occasional recipient of. There was a combination of recognition and embarrassment in her eyes, the latter more than what would be apposite upon being found by a fellow guest to be quietly tucking into the hors de oeuvres at a party before they were formally served.

Well, well, well, what do we have here? I thought. It can’t be some misdemeanour on my side because, while she was pleasant-looking enough in a plump sort of way, she was also about my age, which made her way too old for me to have behaved inappropriately towards in the recent and not too recent past. I decided that introducing myself would be the best way forward and was about to go into the ‘I’m blah-blah-blah, early fifties, businessman, single but straight and intending to stay that way’ routine when I suddenly realised with remarkable clarity that I knew exactly who she was.

It was at this very house, about twenty years ago, that I had first met Sapna Mehra. There was a birthday party for one of my friends’ children, and she had come with her husband and little daughter. My friends’ group was an insular one, we had all known each other from college, and the Mehras stood out because they were new and were on the standard good behaviour that is apt when one meets a bunch of unfamiliar people. I managed to get a football game going with the children in the garden, in which the little girl participated enthusiastically. Sapna was pretty enough for the young men among us to ask who she was after they left, and we were told that the family were recently acquired neighbours, he was into exports, she was a housewife, the daughter was in a good school, and they seemed like nice and decent people.

Over the next few years, one met them occasionally at my friends’ house. One also heard that the husband, who was always pleasant and mild, also had a gambling addiction and, every once in a while, had to hide out from people he owed money to. He then sold the house to finance some scheme gone wrong, and the family moved away. My friends mentioned them once in a while, talking of a downward spiral that was going out of control, of binge drinking, of not-very-nice people landing up at their home demanding repayment, and of the difficulty that Sapna was having in dealing with all this.

I met the Mehras only once again, again at dinner at my friends’ house. The husband was still pleasant and mild, but Sapna had tension in her smile and that little whiteness around the eyes that signifies that things are not great. We made that casual conversation about non-essentials that people who don’t know each other very well make when they meet. I remember thinking that it was nice in a bland sort of way to see them again, and also that they seemed to be making an effort to project normality.

Mr. Mehra (I forget his first name) died a few weeks later. It was a shock to the extent that someone of about my age, who I vaguely knew and had recently met, had died of natural causes. There were some subsequent stories of financial difficulties, of Sapna taking up a job, and of the daughter growing up. I must confess that I soon forgot them – it was pretty much a case of ‘out of sight and out of mind’.

Until, some years later, I met the daughter!

I was on a business trip to Shamsabad, and I chose to stay at a hotel away from the centre of town. This was for two reasons. The first was that the hotel had good facilities and excellent service for its price, mainly because it had a hotel management institute attached to it that defrayed the costs, and the young trainees who served as staff did not look for tips every time they did something for you. The second was that the manager had a quiet racket going in providing female company for selected guests, which I knew about from past experience. I checked in in the morning, signed on for the latter service, and then freshened up and headed off for work.

The young lady who knocked on my door that night took one look at me, then took a step back with her hand on her mouth, then went rigid trying to steel herself up, and then came forward into the room without meeting my eyes. I remember my first thought upon seeing her as being that she seemed a little, what’s the word, ah yes, well-bred, to be in this business and then reminding myself that I was a customer and not a sociology professor. I welcomed her in, sat her down, got her something to drink, and was about to commence with a bit of preliminary small talk when I realised that this looking away from me business may have a reason other than coyness which, to my knowledge, is not a standard attribute among the ladies of this profession.

Do we know each other or something? I asked tentatively.

She nodded, and that’s when I remembered the face of a little girl nodding her head upon being asked whether she wanted to play football at a children’s birthday party many years ago.

Oh cripes, you are, what …. Miss Mehra, aren’t you?

That nod again!

Oh, blast and bugger it! What do we do now?

Well, you have paid in advance! she said. She was looking at me now, and there was a hint of humour in her eyes.

Very funny! Listen, what’s going on? I mean, I spread my hands out, why?

Her eyes lost the humour and took on a harder hue.

I need the money! she said bluntly. You may not know, but my Dad died and didn’t leave much. This is a good hotel management course, but it’s also expensive, and I don’t want to drop out. It’s my only chance for a future.

Is it just the money, or is there something else? I asked.

There was a flash of anger in those eyes. What do you think? I like sleeping with flabby old perverts who have to pay to get some?

Thanks very much! I said. What I meant was, do you have a drug habit to feed, or a baby to bring up, or something like that that you need money for?

Nothing like that! she said, rolling her eyes. I use the money for fees, food and rent. Not that it’s any of your business.

Well, this is easily settled, then. I can make you a monthly allowance that covers your tuition fees and living expenses.

You don’t have to do this!

Oh, I know that! But so what? I’ve got plenty of money, and it’s only going to go on booze, or women, or else on something wasteful. And I did know your parents. Not very well, I must admit, but I would still like to do this.

No, what I mean is, you don’t have to worry. I won’t tell anyone.

What? I exclaimed, as I now understood what she was saying. Young lady, don’t make me laugh! I’m single, and having my own business means I can’t be kicked out for moral turpitude or whatever it is that paying for sex is called. If anything, it would enhance my non-existent prestige. Now, enough of this nonsense! What’s your name, and what’s your bank account number?

Wait a second, she said, looking straight at me, what’s the deal? What do I have to do for you in return? There are things that I won’t do, no matter what.

"You can damn well focus on your studies,