Single in the City

Walking down the road. Calcutta’s roads. Riddled with innumerable potholes, a private swimming pool for every crow the city harbours. This is my reality. This, the muddy, pimpled, pockmarked streets, the swarming streams of humanity that jostle me on my way to work, the little sheets of scratch paper I write my assignments on.

The station at last. Ah. Home on wheels, literally. The train. The station. Familiar warmth. Inside. Inside a cadaverous, cavernous station. Chunks of marble. Dwarfed. I feel dwarfed. Stifled. Hot and cold. Cool vents of stale air, drops of humidity everywhere. Hot lunch burning hot knees.

Train comes and goes. Shoes everywhere. Not a single one shines. Buckles gleam, leather frowns. Shuffling feet, striding feet, god, dirrrty feet. Pretty, pretty girls. Am I still a girl? Or have I metamorphosed into a metapod? Always liked Pokemon. I hum ‘gotta catch em’ all in a delicious agony. The beads of sweat, the silent sniffles. Hot and cold.
The train rumbles in. My train.

Out of the cavernous station at last. It rained incessantly last weekend. Ruined my suede shoes. The rain stopped. Umbrellas down, its enough to gouge my eye out. The rain stopped. The earth finally exhales, as the sun sullenly shines on. The earth sweats, hits me on my face. Her sweat evokes a memory. Her dampness reminds. I am suddenly reminded of my own femininity.
Office. A dungeon without irons, no grappling hooks. Invisible chains choke at me. Hello, computer. Hello, phone. Hello, colleagues. Hello, coffee. Hello work. Hello drudgery. Hullo…?

The phone rings. …

Nikkita is at work.

Me. I am Nikkita. Nikkita from Köln Informatics. A German MNC outsourcing to the city. A huge BPO. One of the best paying call centres in the city, or in the country. Tough to get a break in. Entry requirement is an admirable level of proficiency in Deutsch. I sing of the Vaterland. Getting fatter everyday with Indian workers is it. What am I doing here if it is so …German? HR Manager, Staffing Consultant, P.R.O, rolled onto one voluptuous package.

Small town girl who made it big in the big bad city. Single in the city. My city. I rule my world. I am a kingdom of one. Subject and slave to my own desires…yes, sir, I’m on the line…subject and slave to my sole self, and my work. A paid, unwanted, but necessary slavery.

Boss. A sleaze ball of the highest order. General Manager of KI. Greasy, overfed and overstuffed Punjabi. He eyes me. Fancies me. Leers at my chest. And rubs his palm against his cheek in a delicious agony. Remembering the slap he got. When he tried to paw me in an empty hallway. Dares to call me Nikki as if I were his…girl. As if my being Punjabi too gave him an illicit license. Scruffy. From the soles of his Italian lather shoes to his pinkie ring. Crass. Unclean. He makes me feel unclean.

Coffee. Explodes on my tongue, wakens every dead pore. Nerve ends come screaming to life. ‘Coffee that makes the politician wise and see through everything with his half shut eyes’. Coffee that makes a certain woman rise out of her torpor and work like a carthorse. Coffee. Brings back memories. Of early morning smiles, kisses and caresses. A lifetime ago. Pink, I was in pink. A pink bathrobe he bought me when we vacationed in Goa.

The cellphone in my hip pocket chirps. A long distance recruitment call. Oh yes, Nikki is at work.

Hours have passed. Much sweat has poured down my not so skinny back, and pooled in all the glades and vales of my body. The cooling system breaks down every summer, but of course. Linen shirt and black pants. Clammy and slightly nauseating. My phone battery is all but dead already. With no power to charge. All power to the computers. Radiating still more heat.

It’s like a private sauna, every terminal. At least I have a cubicle of my own. The niceties of power. Being the recruitment head. My team members all bunched uncomfortably in the closeness of a tiny room. With more monitors than they know what to do with. And the men all in ties. Inky, stained ties. Shirtsleeves rolled up, sodden kerchiefs spread out. A spreading, sullen, smell of too many bodies cramped together. I need to. I need. To get out.
Sensory overload. Major sensory overload.
Either puke over the ugly lime green walls, or brave a pass in the hallway.
Neither sounds too good.


Chess. Chinese checkers. Corn puffs. Olde Merry England in a basket. A breadbasket. Mirrors on the walls. Who wants to be stared at while eating… so look at yourself Madame. Here’s looking at you, kid. Cold, cold water. I take a sip. Coffee breaks, lunch breaks, tea breaks. An hour of bliss alone. Half and fifteen fifteen. Corn bursts in the mouth. Ah, lunch. Hot packs be damned. A public house is so much better. Like an eccentric artist; calculating dollars and dimes. Human resourcer. Telecaller. Placement consultant. HR Manager. Staffing supervisor. I am or have been all of these. A Jill of all trades- and mistress of none. Pun intended. Score one for Nikki, so there.
A Jill of all trades. A voluptuous bundle of brisk efficiency. My lemon dessert is good and the chocolate sinful. Pure sin. Sexy. It smells like the aftermath of lovemaking. Of kisses in the night. Cloys in the throat. Sticks there. Remembering him.
Forget him. Eat. Comfort food. Patties and pastries. I suddenly feel like throwing my mobile at the mirror. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the biggest cheesecake of them all? I grab my Venetian faux leather handbag and run. The thought of food suddenly makes me sick. Eccentric femme fatale. With zits and an over confident grin.
“Burst Joy’s grape on the palate fine...” I mumble as I climb up the stairs to work. Twelve torturous flights. That’s all that stands between me and the encroaching fat farm. A phone call already. On the seventh floor by now. Huffing and puffing like a piglet in heat.
God, what a momma of a day. Hell, no network. I toss the phone back into the drawer where it reposes from nine to five. Amazingly sexy colleagues. Office romances. Not allowed. He’s still on probation. Long, stolen kisses in the driveway, maybe a stolen caress in the elevator. In my mind. Slimy, sleazy. Suddenly, I do not care.
A message pending. A personal call at work. Momma had called from the township. Oh no. Must send her a plant to pacify her again. My dear sweet mum-umm-my. I drawl out her name. Such a flat, insipid character. Not at all assertive. Sacre bleu. I am reminded of the musky scent I always associate with her. Mum. Suddenly, I feel like regressing into a prenatal stage, warm and snug inside her engorged belly.

A day that goes as it should. And yet I feel an emptiness. A craving for some sweeter delights. Not the boss, certainly. Oh no, that would never do. But maybe that pretty probation man. A pity he is on my team. A good round of sex against the antiseptic walls of the loo. Very enticing thought. Disgusting. Like a barnyard cacophony. Errant thought, to be locked away in the pensieve of m mind. Tucked in, like a stray lock. I feel bad. Wicked. I want my mother.

Maybe a plant would tempt her to visit. It isn’t really her time to call.

Under the station. The nurseryman. He sits with his plants. Lovely rubbery green little things. Sitting on a deserted train home. hic! Lovely little patterns of air rising around all over. Begging to be touched. Teasing and tantalizing me. Suddenly, there he is. Sitting unconcerned, a newspaper separating us. I want to walk over. No. eerie projections. Avi is dead. Gone and buried. In the eyes of the court. The marriage is killed. Throttled by us. Like the child we never got around to having.

Kicked in the womb. Better to trace nothing in eternity. Swirling droplets of moist dust. I trace a pattern on the empty air in front of me. Single in the city. A muddy, lacerated city. Spewing puke green waves of toxicity everywhere. Hum of apprehension. Single in the city. The big lights of the city. Single. Again. Pain. Raw pain. Doubling over, kicked in the gut, tear-jerking pain. Wet pillows in the night. Loss of appetite. No chocolates yet. I renounce ice cream in a world-weary fit. Childish renunciation of comfort food. God. Bless. Us. Everyone.

But the train comes to a stop. And my mum’s plants call. Banshees of nature, can’t be ignored.

Prickly pears. Stinging at my thighs. As I walk flatfooted down the road. The road. Roads of the big city. The city. Ah, the city. Rain. Crystal drops hitting my cheek. It hurts. Drops on the pavement. The beauuuutiful pavements of the city. Pah...the dirty city. Bouillabaisse. I crave French food. Except chocolate? No...godiva. Dalmatian like spots on the pavement. A furred carpet. Travesty of animal rights. Will wear leopard prints to work. Travesty again. Ah. Ah work. Sexy colleagues. It’s a jungle out there. Corporate jungle. Bah...GNR again. I. will. Not. Think. About spaghetti dammit. November rain in June. Steaming sweating city. Pooling in my chest. Bosom actually.... obsolete word. Silly word. Look down at the dampness underneath. See the sway of my...giggle bosom. Hypnotic. is it not so? The plant prickles again. A gift for momma. Momma who lives a thousand miles away. FedEx. I feel like bursting into song. here comes the bride...? me?I’m single in the city.

But the mood passes. As well it might.

An indifferent attempt at pasta. No dinner. Frantic by now, a bird caged inside trembling, beating violently for release.

I want my sanctuary. I want my boudoir.

Slippery satin on smooth silk sheets. Silky skin, encased in virginal white silk and lace. A stark contrast against the midnight colored satin sheets. A room made for sensual indulgences. A girl’s bedroom. A hedonist’s delight. A boudoir full of exotic fragrances. My one indulgence. My personal space in the stark apartment. Orchids bare their deepest secrets in a multifaceted crystal vase. A room for pleasure.

One bare leg slowly writhes against the sheet. Hands trace the silken outlines of my body over the bedclothes. Harem pants. Kenny G pipes on in the background and vanilla candles scent the air. Making full eyelids drop. The aircon circulates the musky odor of the milky orchids. I am lulled. Every digit relaxes and eyelids flutter closed.

Closed eyes.

Blue slits for eyes.

Panther like gaze. Crick in the neck, I have a. So, kill me sweetly, baby blue eyes. Eyes that blazed blue flame across a deserted courtroom.

Talaq, talaq, talaq.

Signed, sealed, delivered.

Unfaithful, erring mortal.

He had eyes like diamonds.

Diamonds.

I am a chip of blue flame. Go back to the time when I was engaged to him. The ice colored diamonds on the ring that had hurt when he pressed my hand too hard.

Months have passed since the divorce. I heal slowly, or not at all.

I…shall…not…cry…again.

Do I love him still? I love him still. No I do not. Yes, I do.

Talaq, talaq, talaq.

Erasure of a relationship. A marriage. A bond. Easy is it not?

Talaq. Mentally scribble a name that no longer is on empty air.

Momma. I suddenly need my mother. I want her back. Her voluminous lap an soft bosom.

Where I could cry forever.

Ah tears.

But never cried in font of him. Never broke down. ‘Don’t bend, don’t break, baby don’t back down’. The last time we met, I too blazed fire.

Blazing fire they come.

Blazing flame. I am a phoenix. I, Nikki. I am a phoenix with flame colored wings. The thought amuses. Flame destroys water. Even salt water. Tears evaporate…

Crimson. Red wings.

I am a phoenix with a nest of aromatic, spicy essences.

My sleep is my rebirth.

And, tomorrow I will arise from this sensual nest. Eyelids flutter.

Hell-eww, sandman. Enter me. Entrez. Enter my soul.

Soul of the bird, cageless and free.

Good. Good. Ah. Good night.