Forever Young

"Why do you exhaust yourself to unconsciousness?" My 11 year old niece asked me, once I reached the swing she was swinging after an all out sprint.
"It's because I want to stay young forever." I boasted, while giving her swing a gentle push. Even at 30, I had managed to look like I was in early 20s, thanks to working out like a horse day in and day out.
"Forever young, huhh..." my niece cogitated on this statement for a while, and then added, "Like me?"
"No, I don't think so." I hesitated a bit, trying to choose my words carefully.
"I think you will grow old and boring like your mother." I said after deliberating for a while.
From her swing, she turned her neck to look me in the eyes. That odd angle ensured that I was not entirely in her line of sight. Still I could see that she was displeased. Her ears had turned fiery red, her smile faltered, and she swallowed a big dollop of saliva, as if trying to digest what I had said. I should have chosen my words even more carefully
"You know Mamu, you are a mean asshole." She commented, knowing that unlike my sister, I hardly tried to inculcate any good manners into her.
"See, you are already whining like an old lady." I spoke authoritatively.
"Being whiny and old are not implicit." She retorted. The child was definitely intellegent for her age. Had I been her age, I would have gone crying to my mother.
"Yes, but they overlap a great deal." If you can't convince them, confuse them.
"You see, when your mother gave birth to you, she in a sense, passed on the baton of youth to you." I waited to see if she was on the brink of tears.
She wasn't, so I continued, "Now that you hold the baton of youth, she will grow old, although she won't realize it until another decade or two. Till then you are going to occupy her mind a great deal, so that thought would hardly cross her mind." She nodded, trying to suppress her grin by biting her tongue. Either the idea of making her mother's life miserable appealed to her, or my words were making no sense to her. I thought it was latter.
"Then?" She asked prodding me to continue.
"Then it will be your turn, you will get married, have kids, pass on the baton and grow old."
"You are just too extrovert not to." I added before she could chip in a defence.

Before we could fight the argument out, my sister entered the playground, coming towards us. It was time for supper, and she was very particular about her daughters' meals. Sensing that my swing time was about to be nipped off. I hurriedly stopped the swing, got her out, occupied it myself and ordered her to push. I only enjoyed swinging when I wasn't using my legs. Using all her might, my niece pushed.
"Push harder, what for does your mother feed you all that fat, when you can't push for a penny's worth?" I egged her on.
She did, not before punching me in the small of my back.
"Girlie punch." I declared.

My sister reached the swing, and niece ran to her, happy to get rid of me. Despite her age, my niece asked my sister to pick her up. We had been in the playground just for an hour, but my niece acted as if she was meeting her mother after several lifetimes. My sister, usually averse to picking heavy things, nevertheless resigned to this demand. Lapping her up, she started walking towards our parent's home, where we siblings gathered every other year. From the slowing swing, I could see that my niece was whispering something in her ears. I didn't need to be very bright to guess what it was. Children draw blood when their parents are around. Or make them do it.

Listening to what my niece had to say, my sister stopped in her tracks, turned around and walked back. When I was within an earshot she shifted her gaze from me to her daughter and declared, " Honey, don't take whatever your uncle says very seriously. He's just jealous that the bloodline will continue long after he dies, and this makes him feel old."

Age, along with traces of grey hair, had conferred on my sister, an ability to see things for what they were. Her words echoed in my ears long after she was gone and I was left sitting on that stationary swing. It took me a while before I could pick up my pieces and go home.

Rollercoaster

Pour in some cola for yourself, preferably in those midget cups that are used to serve the guests. Put three spoonfuls of sugar in it; that makes just about 45g in 100ml, chances are that it is too sweet for your taste (unless you have grown a paunch and developed insulin resistance). In a minute or two, the hormones in your body will press the Red-emergency button. Your heart will beat so fast, you fear it will break open your rib cage. If you are perceptive enough, you will feel the tremors in your limbs. Yet your brain fools you into feeling a sense of well-being. That's a rush of serotonin in your bloodstream.
Let half an hour pass. That's what it takes for stomach to pass on sugary food to liver. Sugar is like a V.I.P., no organ will keep it waiting for too long. Considering the amount of sugar you have chugged, liver is going to secrete a bucketload of insulin. Insulin signals the cells to soak sugar from blood. Stronger the insulin spike, more rapidly the sugar is absorbed. In your case, so fast that sugar level drops precipitously. You feel so sapped out of energy, that the world seems to be a house of card at mercy of a rabid dog. The same feeling when you drive home at 5 p.m. after that 4p.m. coffee. Drowsy, weak, nauseated. Sugar crashed. When the dust of excitement settles, reality shows its face. And it's not pretty.

The Crash.
It was a day off from work-out, and the day I had decided to screw a hooker. Most of my MBA admission results were to be out by 10th may, I thought if I screwed them up, a hooker will help me drown the sorrow, and if I didn't, what a better way to celebrate. Another reason was that I was edging away from my goal of a slut every 6 months, and was desperate to correct this anomaly.

A friend (X), an uninitiated one, tagged along after I went overboard with how great the brothel was, and how good the hookers were. In the office hours, I negotiated with Meenakshi (Pimp) to arrange two girls, preferably chinkis (In my experience even if they take their job for drudgery, they never let it show). By evening, Meenakshi told me that she could arrange only one girl and that too, not a chink. When I enquired whether the girl would be a worthwhile fuck, she told me not to worry. In her words, "All our models are top class." I took her words at face value, since my last visit to her brothel turned out better than expected.

However things had changed since my last visit. Sanjay and Meenakshi (the pimp couple) had relocated to a better locality (but as confusing as earlier), a place that no longer resembled a slum. After an auto dropped us near Malviya Nagar cremation ground (probably this was the reason no one wanted a slum around), Meenakshi guided us through the serpentine streets to a civilized locality. Once we reached her place, she received us in a hall and told us to wait there. She went to the room where the girl was cooped up, probably discussing her wages. The hall was minimalistic. It seemed to be put together in a hurry, as if the occupants were not planning to stay there for long. The only frame that adorned the wall was a photograph of Sanjay, displaying his flabby arm through a sleevelss vest, wearing goggles that were too large for his face. He was either stoned, or incredibly happy when he posed for the picure. In a corner, beside the refrigirator, the occupants had assembled a mini-temple, and strewn it with all possible idols they got their hands on. Morality and religiosity rarely imply one another.

Meenakshi had concluded her discussion with the hooker, and waved us in. We walked into the room, anticipating the looks of her 'Top class model.' Our thought bubble didn't take long to burst. The top class model turned out to be a cross between a cow and human. She was chubby but not in a cute way. She had short culy hair, hair that had forgotten to grow in an orderly way, spreading outwards rather than downwards, splitting at their extremities. Her small nose and small lips gave her pudgy face a look of utter despondency. Her right eye was swollen black. Poor light would have hidden this scar well on her dusky skin, but Meenakshi, in her zeal to display her 'top model' had switched on another light, and this scar stood out. Her double chin did a good job in hiding away her neck. She was wearing a tight colourful top, that made it difficult to comprehend where the breasts ended and where the belly began. Overall, she was someone, I wouldn't have cast a second glance on, let alone fuck.

X and I moved back to the hall. He declared that he would not screw that cow under any circumstances, and stormed towards the door, thinking that I too shared his opinion. I wished I had. But the addict I was, I had gone there with high hopes and a raging boner. I deliberated on the situation for a moment, then went on to haggle with Meenakshi, told her that this screw was in no way worth Rs 2000. I tried to bargain my way to Rs 1600, but she was relentless. I ended up paying the entire amount. X looked at me cursedly and declared that he would wait outside.

The money exchanged hands, and I made my way to the room. From hall, Meenakshi yelled to the hooker, "Achhi service dena (Treat the client well)." That was the last thing I needed, a hooker that needed to be told how to treat client. Anyway, I fucked the cow. There was nothing special to it. With the lights turned off, I didn't have to look at her. That made my job easier (I still fancy that I should have been paid for it, not her). It was only when I came, that the disgust settled in, and this disgust knew no subtlety. I practically pushed the hooker from above me, ran to the bathroom. I washed my hands thoroughly, put my head under running water and gargled thrice with cold water. All the while, the bathroom door was open and the cow was staring at me, mulling why I chose to fuck her in the first place if I were to make such a show out of it. But her face was as impassive as it was during sex, so I think she was used to such kind of humiliation.

I was glad to step outside the brothel. The weather was a bit sultry, but mercifully traffic was sparse, and it wasn't altogether very dusty. A few minutes passed when X asked me the obvious, "How could you?"
I was silent for a while. Then I spat and replied, "I was desperate." All the way, X mocked me for being an asshole. As if I needed someone to remind me of it. Every few metres I would spit some more, perhaps trying to strip away the reality from my experience. As it generally happens when you are disgusted with yourself, you try to pin your mind on a pleasent memory. But your wretched mind flashes ten more memories where you acted even a bigger asshole. Same was happening to me, life was flashing before my eyes like a series of screwups. All failures magnified, all achievements dwarfed.

I justified that this was not the first time I disgusted myself and this won't be the last. Afterall, I liked to be a slave to my addictions. It was not unlikely that I would succumb to an STD someday. But was the hooker I screwed tonight really worth dying for?? This question and the face of the cow haunted me for a while before sleep rescued me. Of all the whores I have been with, I don't remember the face of anyone. They become obscure the moment I am done with them. But not this one. A week has passed and it is still etched on my mind like an obnoxious scar, the one that will take some time to heal. I wish it won't, atleast it will remind me where and where not to put my cock.

P.S. : The crash didn't bother me for long. The next day was Saturday, that meant bouldering session. The generally secluded bouldering spot was occupied by a girl who challenged me to handstand pushups (There's another story to it, but I am not bothering myself with it). Although I had won, but seeing a girl perform 10 clean handstand pushups did a good job in dissipating the memory of last night.