FOR SCRIBES
The Writer Who Brought Watermelon
C dreamt of S and unlike most dreams, he could remember large portions of it, enough to make him think about his college days. He had seen S transform from a country mouse to a town mouse. The college provided optional French lessons, three times a week, which S took. Combined with his interest in literature and English language, this created an aura around S that impressed all his batchmates and even some seniors. The much-coveted title of Angrej (from Anglais) was bestowed on S by his over-enthusiastic friends, especially those from the cow belt of India.
What this fame and title did to S’s sexual life is neither known nor important. But C never saw S cashing in on it, during their years together in college. There had been no windfall of girls all around S, as anticipated by his friends. Hushed voices had circulated on the campus that S might be a closet gay.
While S was just an acquaintance, C had a buddy, R, who was coming to visit him after six years of passing out of college.
This might have triggered my dreams, thought C.
He had taken three days off to live in the past for some time with his friend. He had given instructions to his roommate, being the sarpanch he was, for staying in his room and paying attention to his YouTube channel about ghosts which was finally picking up after two years.
The time came and R came with it. The two friends addressed each other with abuses after a long time. Drinks were made and a copious amount of alcohol was consumed, with some joints thrown in. C’s roommate was invited too, primarily because neither of the two friends knew how to roll joints, C not being too enthusiastic about marijuana and R always having someone to do it for him.
They went to bed into the wee hours of the morning and C observed that R still had this habit of sleeping with his elbows projected outside in a fetal position.
‘Bhenchod, no one is coming to rape you in your sleep. Sleep comfortably’, he said to nobody in particular and covered his body with a light blanket.
The heat of Bombay allowed him to make do with normal size blankets, which could either cover his head or his toe at the same time.
‘I am comfortable like this’, murmured R and off he went to the dreamland.
***
While C and R were waking up into the late hours of the next morning, S was looking for someone to tell the story of his debut novel to. He had written it after returning from Thailand in flat six months. S also wanted to celebrate the feat with someone close, with someone who could understand him. His friends and colleagues from the banking firm he worked at were up to no good when it came to literature.
A writer’s reach extends to the darkest corners of the human mind and sometimes even to animals, non- responding creatures, and non-living things. S felt he had touched upon some uncomfortable strings of the human psyche. Knowledge increases through sharing and giving your contribution to the collective human wisdom is every writer’s dream. When a writer dives into the infinite ocean that the human collective wisdom is, she tries to bring something to the surface that nobody has seen yet, for the benefit of those who cannot gather the courage to dive into the seemingly dark abyss.
S was scourging through the contact list in his phone, when he received a call from an unsaved number.
‘How is Mr S doing nowadays’? Said the voice from the other side.
S took his phone off from his ear, looked at the number, placed it on its previous position and said, ‘Who is it’?
‘An old college buddy’.
‘My God! Is that you, R? Long time man. How are you doing’?
‘I am good. I just got your number from C. I am at his flat and he tells me you live nearby’.
‘Yes, it’s just ten minutes walk away from my place. I was going outside anyway. Shall I come’?
‘That’s why we have called you. We have opened a bottle of port wine. Come on over if you don’t mind the cheap stuff’.
‘Give me fifteen minutes. See you’, S said and his thumb reached for the red button.
‘Hey. Hey’, it was C’s voice.
‘Yes’? Said S, placing the phone on his ear again.
‘Can you bring something to eat? We are famished here and don’t feel like going outside’.
‘Sure. What do you want’? ‘Anything seasonal will do’.
By the time S reached C’s flat, the hangover of the two friends inside had given way to amplified drunkenness inside of their minds but serenity on the outside, stupor- induced. The port wine with its low alcohol content was taking them in and out of a blissful state of mild intoxication.
The old friends exchanged pleasantries and upon asking what S brought to eat, he produced a watermelon. S was the same old slim fellow, as was C, and they both sized each other and admired each other with their eyes. R had put on some weight and his hairline matched that of S, a little receded with the place for devil’s horn showing on the foreheads of both.
‘I thought watermelon would be good to rehydrate you two’, S said, placing the heavy fruit on the table in the centre of the living area.
He let out a sigh and slumped on the couch between C and R. After giving each other the customary news of their respective careers and lives, C produced a bottle of Vodka. Russian brand, made in India.
‘So you still write? C, can you get the disposable syringe I saw on the fridge’? R addressed the other two in quick succession.
C got up as S said, ‘I am done with the first draft of my debut novel. It’s really something.’ C stopped in the middle of his tracks, retraced his wobbly steps, and planted a kiss on S’s forehead.
‘I knew you will do it someday’, he said and as if remembering what he was doing, started towards his room again.
R looked into S’s eyes and said, ‘I understand the publishing and marketing of the book won’t be a problem since you are an IIM graduate’.
‘Yes, I work in a big MNC now where my marketing skills are praised. They say I am an asset to the company, so I guess applying those skills to my writing career will be an added advantage’.
‘Apart from writing skill, which we know is top-notch’, declared C, placing the syringe in R’s lap.
‘I propose to you guys that let’s poison this watermelon. It’s too sweet to be consumed without company’, R said peeling the packing of the syringe.
‘How do you know it’s sweet’? asked C.
‘I tapped and checked guys. It’s sweet, don’t worry’, said S, taking the watermelon out of the grocery bag.
R got the syringe out and after unscrewing the lid of the vodka bottle, he poured half of the spirit into a bowl placed on the coffee table in front of them. The mouth of the bowl was broad like their friendship and the girth kept on narrowing towards the base, commensurate with the growing distance from the mouth.
He filled the syringe with Vodka and injected the first dose into the watermelon. C’s roommate came to the living room when R was filling the syringe for the second time. All three looked at his belly, which was at the level of their faces. He returned as he had come, to watch them from his room, the door of which directly faced the couch in the living room. He left the door ajar but the three friends didn’t mind.
‘Hey, it will take me thirty syringes to get half the bottle inside the watermelon. Why don’t you tell us about your girlfriend in the meantime’? said R.
‘We broke up three years back’.
‘You did? Didn’t you two start a French restaurant in Gurgaon, right after passing out from IIM? Remember, you sent something for us when I was living there’, said C.
‘That was long back. We shared each other’s lives for that period and before that in IIM. Differences in our cultures finally caught up and we broke up’.
‘Sorry about it, man’, C said while tapping S’s rapidly moving thighs.
‘You are lucky to have this experience. How many of us got to fuck a French girl? And, here you are who spent your days and nights with one, for a considerable time’. R said.
‘Perspective’, S said. ‘Are you done’.
‘Yes. Almost there. It must have been hard for you to get over the breakup with your first true love’, R said with his full attention on the mixture he was concocting inside the watermelon: succulent and sweet from the inside but hard and tasteless from the outside.
‘I also thought she was my one true love until I met Achara in Thailand’, S said and stood up. ‘I am going to the toilet’.
‘Why do you feel drunk to me? We were the ones partying the whole night’, C said giving room to S.
By the time S returned, the watermelon couldn’t take it anymore. R guessed the threshold has been reached by tapping the watermelon.
He said, ‘I should have counted’. ‘So guys, we are ready for the next session, with Mr S joining in after a torrid love affair. Temporary roommate, are you joining’?
‘I don’t like sweet and bitter mixed together’, said the roommate and got inside his room.
R got a knife and a tray from the kitchen and after slicing the watermelon over the bowl, he placed the poisoned pieces in the tray. He offered the vodka-juice mix that oozed out while slicing, to each of his friends, which they declined. R finished it in a big gulp. S’s hands were the first that reached the slices of the watermelon.
With one of his cheeks bulged, he said, ‘So, I was telling you about Achara’.
‘Yes’, the other two said in unison and each took a piece from the tray.
‘I went to Thailand after a complete year of trying to get over her. I thought sex would help me forget her. I went for just a few days but ended up extending my stay after I met Achara there’, said S.
‘So you are in love with this Thai girl now? Have you heard Thai girls have penises sometimes’? C said guffawing.
‘LOL’, said S. ‘She is a prostitute by the way’. ‘You didn’t tell us about your book yet’, said R.
‘I was waiting for you guys to ask. The book is about a man. After breaking up with his girlfriend, he tries to find solace in sex and realizes that there is no hope for him, even when some other girl tries to restore him to normalcy. It’s the story of him becoming a writer’, S said in a breath and placed his legs on the table.
‘Have you given it a title yet’? R said.
‘It’s tentatively called Bombay to Pattaya’.
‘Like those Hollywood and Bollywood movies, from somewhere to somewhere’? R said.
‘I will think of some other title when I am finished with the editing’, S said, taking a big bite of the watermelon.
‘Accolades are coming your way soon, S. If not for this book then definitely for some other work of yours but come they will, for sure’, said C and went inside to get some glasses for the remaining vodka.
‘Hey, would you like some gutta-curry for lunch? It’s C’s favourite and I am thinking of making it for him’, R said.
‘No! Not gutta-curry, please. It reminds me of diarrhoea’.
C said, returning from the kitchen, ‘Now I remember what you sent for us in Gurgaon. It was Baguette’. He tried to navigate to his seat. ‘You know how I hate taking penis-shaped things in my mouth. Still, I ate it’.
‘All right. All right. I will eat it with closed eyes if I need to. Are you two happy now’?
‘Yes, we are’. R made four pegs of vodka and shouted, ‘Come on temporary roommate, your peg is ready’.