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The Diary

Bombay, February 26:

I decided today that I would maintain a diary. I bought this cute pocketbook at Colaba. Cost just thirty-five bucks.  I vow that I will record my thoughts and the events in my life, faithfully and truthfully.  It is a promise I have made to myself which I know I shall keep.  Let me begin by recording, for posterity, my immediate past.  So bloody painful and humiliating! Yet, a relief in many ways.  We were finally divorced. The bond was snipped off officially on December 22 last year. I was free. Was I?  Christmas was miserable. I spent it all by myself.  I even missed Suresh! Can you beat that horrid, selfish ogre I had unwillingly married three years ago?

       But I was desperate for company. Anyone would do.  Even that bastard of my ex-husband while I was sobbing out my eyes, wallowing in self-pity and a bottle of rum; sozzled out of my mind; he must have had a ball of a time. He was free as well. Suresh always had a glad-eye for other women.  Any woman would do. The horny bastard was not in the least particular! I caught him balling Suzanne, his boss’ fat and ugly wife, at least, twenty-five years older than him, in our bedroom. I had come home unexpectedly. When I opened our bedroom door, they were on my bed screwing away to kingdom come. Come to think of it now, it was such a funny sight!! But at that time. I was shocked – and livid with rage. Otherwise, I ought to have burst out laughing. Suresh, tall; skinny as a rake, completely engulfed in Suzanne’s layers of lard. She was on top; pendulous breasts reaching nearly to her thick waist. It was yuck!  Why use my bedroom? He could have jacked her in some seedy hotel room or her husband’s sprawling mansion.

Suresh swore that he would never see Suzanne again. I believed him because, I suppose, I wanted to.  I also loved him. But soon enough I discovered that not only was Suresh still having it off with Suzanne but with a lot of other women as well. He even spent an afternoon with his horse-faced steno in a sleazy hotel at Madh Island.  The detective agency I hired gave me good value for my money, if you can call such a screwball (literally) report that.  The sleuths even got some snaps of good ol’ Suresh in action.  How they managed to get photos of my best friend Meena Sharma (married to a very nice and successful banker, with two small kids), going down on him I will never know.  It was not trick photography, because, when confronted with them, Suresh admitted to his dalliances. Meena was a bundle of nerves. She was in a worse condition than I. She was pathetic. She begged me not to tell her husband.  It was just a fling.  Nothing serious.  Bloody guts, that whore had!  Balling my husband and telling me to turn the other cheek.  She even agreed to foot the huge bill the detectives piled on me in exchange for the photographs with the negatives only of the snaps of her with Suresh.  There were six sizzling shots. I gave her the photographs – and the bill. What the hell? There were many more snaps also of that bastard of my husband with three other females, including Blubber (Suzanne). She looked positively hideous without her clothes.  Suresh should get some sort of award for rising to the occasion (no pun intended) with that whale!

My marriage was finished. The bastard did not even protest when I demanded a divorce immediately after I got the report and the photographs. Not even feebly.  He must have been relieved that I, the biggest fool on earth, did not even ask for any alternative accommodation, maintenance or alimony. I wanted just out. I am happy I have got rid of that insensitive sex maniac.  Strangely enough, Suresh was not all that hot between the sheets with me, even though I am more attractive and have a much better body than all his conquests.  I was much younger than most of them too.  All I can now say is that he was a pervert.  Wanting to screw Mummy!  Both his parents had been killed in a road accident when Suresh was in his early teens.  He and his sister were brought up by their father’s eldest brother and his wife.  He must have screwed his aunt also. Cousins too! Yeah, I suppose I am being mean now. But, how I hate him. That odious fart ruined my life.

But dear Diary, I learned a bitter lesson. Even before our divorce became final, men began crowding me as if I was a bitch in heat.  Shanti Patel (Uncle Shanti) a respectable, elderly friend of the family; older than my father, tried to seduce me. When I turned down his advances, the animal went to town bad-mouthing me! I hate all men. They truly repulse me. Bastards, the whole lot! I like this flat I had moved into just before the divorce.  Cramped it is.  One tiny bedroom, a hall, kitchen, bath, and toilet. All of about 350 square feet. Maybe, even a bit less.  But the neighbours leave me alone. The rent is affordable. My parents foot it, in any case.  They want me to return to Kanpur and live with them. They pity me. Who wants pity?

 

Bombay, March 2:

        At last, I have a job. Three cheers for me. It is not that I am exactly broke. But the money Dad sends me is barely able to take care of the rent. I have been living so frugally that it isn’t just funny. The forced starvation has done wonders to my figure.  I have a flat stomach; great boobs and ass!  Suresh had sent me a cheque for twenty-five thousand bucks. Dirty dog!  I returned it. I do not want to have anything to do with him.  Especially. I do not want his charity. I heard he is soon getting married to some unfortunate woman his Aunt has chosen for him.  Poor girl. She will be miserable with that wretch.  The grape vine also reports that Suresh is still having regular trysts with Suzanne and that horse-faced steno of his. What a life!  Am I glad that I had gotten away?  How does Suresh manage to entice all these dames? Superman in bed. At least, he wasn’t with me. Just about average. But then I am not really qualified to be a judge chauffeur–driven grapevine twenty-five of in such matters.  Suresh is the only man I have had sex with. Who do I compare him with? I only feel very sorry for the poor girl he is marrying. We are sisters in sorrow!

I start work with New India Advertising from tomorrow. My starting salary is fifteen hundred.  Which is not much. But good enough for a beginning.  Beggars cannot be choosers and all that.  Lunch is heavily subsidized. And Dad insists on keeping sending me his dole.  Thank Heavens! I completed my basic education and that commercial art diploma, before succumbing to that hoax’s whiles.  It will be good to be working. I was getting so depressed and frustrated that I was getting ready to pack my bags and return to Kanpur.

 

Bombay, March 7:

The job is interesting. But the people around are not.  Frankly, they are all a drag.  The men, from the office – peons upwards, think a divorcee wears hot panties!  The women are worse.  They consider me as a competition; the bloody bitches.   I may not be a beauty queen, although I have been told that I am even better looking than one. Conceit and all that, what?  But I know that I stand out in a crowd, especially the motley one like at my new office. I take a lot of care of myself. Regular exercise and diet; tensions, heartbreaks my tiny apartment notwithstanding. I will be 25 on November 9 this year, but I have been told (and I, of course, know) that I look a lot younger how I wish I could assure the women at my office that they are quite safe. I would much rather jump into the Arabian sea, with a rock tied around my neck, than have any of those creepy-crawly creatures  even touch me.  What a morbid thought! I have had enough of men to last me several lifetimes.  Suresh was more than I could cope with.  As for sex. Yech! I do not even masturbate. Our Boss is a charming old fellow.  Yaspal Singh Choudhry. He is debonair, friendly and, he keeps his distance.  The very dignified type, which, certainly, is quite unlike most advertising people, who are simply loud, pretentious unbearable bores.  They are, forever, trying to impress the world at large and ending up making fools of themselves.  Stupid shits. Mr. Choudhry is a Sikh minus the beard, turban, and tresses. He is on the wrong side of fifty.  He has gorgeous, thick silver mane for hair. He is one hell of a dapper chap – in, of course, an elderly sort of way.  Mr. Choudhry is tall, with a good build. He takes care of himself.  Good for him.  He won’t get a heart attack but may die of AIDS – if he succumbs to the hot looks coming his way from all the females in the office, stenos and married women included!  The mad things swoon over Uncle Choudhry. If he so much as speaks to any of them, regardless of age or marital status, they seem to have an orgasm.  Bloody freaks, the whole lot. Mr. Choudhry, I hear, is happily married and has three daughters – the youngest of whom is 26!  His wife is French.  She is said to be a smasher.  So are his kids.  A very good-looking    family Mr. Choudhry, of course, means less than shit to me. I never did go for the debonair types, anyway. He is too old anyway. As old as my Pappa, although he may have kept himself in better shape.  He is a good Boss, I am told. He pays well to hard-working and creative staff.  That is all I am concerned with.

 

Nainital: June 6:

          It is out of the world here.  Just divine. The beauty of the hills takes away my breath.  Our hotel overlooks the lake.  Comfortable would be an understatement. There is even an old fashioned fireplace, which we are, of course, not using since it is summer.

Today is exactly one week since we arrived. I desperately needed this holiday. I feel sad that three days from now we will have to bid goodbye to this restful paradise and return to the salt mines. My nerves were frayed. This holiday has been a great tonic. Bombay is a shit place.  A city without a soul. But I have done well for myself at NIA. I now have a spacious three-bedroom apartment at Cuffe Parade.  Expensive furnishings, liveried servants, a chauffeur–driven car. The works.  I draw an official salary of twenty-five grand per month.  The perks are extra.  We throw a lot of parties.  We also go out a great deal. It is part of the advertising scene. Which is a world of make-belief. On show all the time. Sometimes it is fun. I have no complaints. But, strangely enough, I miss Suresh. Life with him seemed more real; down to earth. We had our misunderstandings and quarrels. Sex with him was enjoyable. He had his faults. His over-active libido apart, he wasn’t such a bad chap. Maybe I was too hasty.  Anyway, why cry over spilled milk?

Yash is a nice guy. Treats me well. Like an expensive filly. He takes good care of his family too.  It isn’t so bad a feeling when one gets used to it. He is stirring awake. I have got to kiss him good morning.  Yash is a generous man. But he is a very possessive lover, and as randy as a stallion. He is built like one too. Yash, usually, wants a lot more than a kiss when he wakes up! Maybe, someday I may even fall in love with him……

 

 

Author: AMIT KUMAR BHOWMIK

Amit Kumar Bhowmik is a lawyer based in Pune. He has his practice including in the Bombay High court as also other High courts as well as he appears as Counsel in the Supreme court. Although essentially having his practise on the criminal side he is an all-rounder having taken up matters in the matrimonial courts as well. He is a prolific writer and an unabashed champion of women rights.

 

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