Stories Varied - A Book of Short Stories by BS Murthy (great books of all time txt) 📕

handling the hardware and the software of it. It’s all latent in women but it takes the favour of life to make it more than fantasizing, so it seems.  Sadly my first love met with an untimely death but not before ensuring the flame she lit would forever singe in me. My later mates, few and far between, left me at some stage, opting for a male, in marriage that is. Who knows, they saw lesbianism as safe pre-marital sex, and there is merit in it. If only one of them was a misandrist like me, it would have a different story. But why fate brought me all the way from Mumbai to Kodur, and to its Helen in abstinence, may make a different story.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” she said 

“It’s only a corollary to your story told yesterday,” I said.

Raghu was three years senior to Ramya in the Kodur Medical College, where ragging was traditionally bawdy.  When she stepped into the campus that morning, he was the first to step up to her. As she was at a loss as to how to handle her first encounter, he counseled her how to take it in its stride. He said he abhorred the idea of ragging as he felt it’s a violation of human rights but conceded that there was no way he could help her avoid it. And that set the tone for the love tunes of their long courtship.  Soon after her graduation, they tied the knot, but, owing to her miscarriages, they had to give up the idea of augmenting their union.  With both of them specializing in nephrology and endowed with his family wealth, they set up the Kidney Research and Rehabilitation Center. Though conceived to cater to the ailments of the locals, in a short time, it grew in size as it gained on reputation. And that was owing to his attitude to perfect and her zeal to excel.

While she was sorry she couldn’t make him a father, and even before they could adopt a child, fate made her his widow. The drunk driver who rammed a goods carrier into his Santro was aghast at realizing that he caused the death of the doctor who had given a new lease of life to his wife.  That was two years back. While the repentant driver is serving the sentence, vowing to fight against drunken driving after his release, she had taken his wife as an ayah at the hospital.

Her parents and in-laws alike want her to remarry but she was averse to the idea of a fresh nuptial for the possibility of it bringing into her life a lesser soul than the departed one. But as she wasn’t able to overcome her craving for a companion, she was truly in a dilemma, to be or not to be a bride again. When we met, she felt like I filled the emotional void in her life. But diagnosing the impending threat my heart-excess posed to my life that is besides being the bane of my kidneys, she was wary of losing me to go back to square one. But yet she thanked God, with all her heart, for placing me in her expert care to try and secure me for her sake.

So she flew heart surgeons from Mumbai post-haste to sever that which I held dear to save a pregnant woman. She was glad that my other full (that’s her phrase) saved not one but two lives, besides mine that is. By the way, as the beneficiary was not a male, that didn’t tickle the misandrist in me. As for my scar, she saw it’s akin to a plaque that kings of yore laid to symbolize their exploits, and wanted to have one for her by donating her kidney to me, even as I have another receiving hers.

“Yet you may remarry, why scar your body?” I said to test the waters.

“I told you I’m not inclined,” she said.

“But it’s difficult to resist a right guy, right.”

“Maybe, but …?” she sounded tentative.

“Didn’t Oscar Wilde say the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it?” I said invitingly.

“A tempting proposition from a temptress,” she said laughingly.

“Wordplay apart…” I began tentatively

“Why beat around the bush,” she said meaningfully

“Who’s doing that?” I said looking straight into her yes.

“Both of us I suppose,” she said caressing my head.

“Who’s to break the ice?” I said.

“It’s my turn I think,” she said leading me into her chamber.

She confessed that it’s the intimacy my post-operative care afforded her that came to induce lesbian leanings in her. Though she envisioned our union as her life time solution, given my situation, she hid her enamour, clothing it in camaraderie. So she sought my professional assistance at the hospital and friendly closeness at home as a prelude to our lesbian bonding. When I grabbed both with both hands, she was wondering how to play her hand. Well my full disclosure provided her the trump card.

“What a hearty turn?” I said spreading my arms in invitation.

“Until death us part,” she said sinking in my embrace that I tightened symbolically.

Durjoy Datta’s prompt [*]

 

Story 9

Love Jihad

 

Syed and Gayatri didn’t mean to fall in love.  But love happens when you least expect it. It creeps up suddenly. When someone needs attention, care, conversation, laughter and maybe intimacy. Love doesn’t look at logic or at backgrounds and least of all religion.

Gayatri was from a very conservative South Indian family that went to a temple every Saturday. Syed brought goats to his family every Eid. That said it all. Their paths would never have crossed if it hadn’t been for that fateful day. That day when he walked into the coffee shop. Gayatri wondered if destiny chose our loved ones for us. Did we have any role to play at all?

She looked at her watch. Syed was late. They met every Thursday at five pm to catch up. Their conversation lasted for hours. Sometimes in the café, sometimes in his car, sometimes in places that she could never tell her friends about. They would never understand. And yet Syed made her happy.

Suddenly her phone beeped. He had sent a message. “On my way. Have something important to tell you.”

Gayatri stared at it and realized she had knots in her stomach. Thoughts flooded her mind. What did he want to tell her? [*] Will he propose? Or back out? Didn’t he say his people are highly religious? Wouldn’t they’ve put their foot down? She racked her brains at that, and bogged down by anxiety, her mind became numb. She sank into her seat and closed her eyes as though to crystal gaze. Soon, unable to cool her nerves in any which way she came of the café and waited for Syed at the gates. It’s as if she was trying to cut short her anxiety. When she spotted his car, in time, she waved at him furiously, and jumped into it as he opened the door for her.

“Tell me,” she said settling by his side.

“Let’s first get into the café,” he said.

“Tell me here and now,“ she insisted.

“It’s at half-way,” he said tentatively.

“Why talk in circles!” she said exasperated.

“Do you mind being Ayesha to be my bride?” he said hesitantly.

“Why, what’s wrong with Gayatri?” she said tentatively.

“You know how I love your name but,” he began apologetically.

“What ifs and buts of love?” she said cutting him short. 

“Don’t think its love jihad on the sly.” 

“Don’t I know you’re Syed Sikandar Mirza?” 

“I’m for civil marriage but my father insists upon nikah.”  

“What does that mean?” 

“You’ve to convert into Islam.” 

“What if I assume that pseudonym for nikah?” she said after reflecting for a while.

“I thought about it myself but they say nikah is for the believing couple,” he said helplessly.

“So, I must become a Muslim to be your wife, right.” 

“That’s what they say.” 

“What do you say?” she said looking into his eyes.

“I’m in a dilemma.”

 “I know about you but I don’t know about Islam.”

“You know I’m not a practicing type.”

“But still, a bits and pieces Muslim, as I’m a bits and pieces Hindu.”

“I can’t’ put it any better and I’m sure we’ll remain that way.”

“So I believed, as Syed and Gayatri but not as Syed and Ayesha.”

“Believe me; it won’t make any difference,” he said taking her hand. 

“Let me think about it,” she said withdrawing her hand.

As she sat beside him with eyes closed, he kept riveted his eyes on her in anxiety.

“Take me to the Higginbothams,” she said at last. “I want to know what Islam is all about.”

“That’s my Gayatri,” he said admiringly.

“Not Ayesha, as yet,” she said smilingly.

When they reached the bookshop, she asked him to guide her but as he expressed his ignorance about things religious, she rummaged through the book shelves and picked up Marmaduke Pickthall’s Holy Koran, Martin Ling’s biography of Muhammad, Roland E Miller’s Muslim Friends - Their faith and feeling, An introduction to Islam and Puppets of Faith: Theory of Communal Strife by BS Murthy. As though on cue, Syed followed suit and zeroed in on The Upanisads by Valerie J. Roebuck and Bhagvad-Gita: Treatise of Self-help by BS Murthy.

After a minor scuffle over footing the bill, and having agreed to make presents out of them to each other, they drove back to ‘their’ favourite café. While they sipped their coffee, seeing her leaf through the Quran, he saw the irony of the scripture he himself hadn’t read held the key to his love-life, and that amused him. When the waiter brought the bill, showing an unusual eagerness to move out, she said smilingly that she would allow him to settle it ‘out of turn’. Sensing her intent to pore over the books before all else, Syed said, in half-jest, that he was jealous of her ‘bookish love’.

“Blame faith for poking its nose into love,” she said in repartee.

“Wish we were born into the same faith, whatever it is.”

“Then, instead of my lover’s religious texts, I would be reading his love letters,” she said smilingly.

“You know I’m not much into reading but love seems to have other ideas,” he said picking up his pack of books as the waiter brought the balance amount.

“Don’t they say love is god, let’s see if it’s true,” she said getting up.

Having agreed upon a hiatus till she had a grasp of Islam, he dropped her near her Ladies’ Hostel.

Over the next two months, reading those books she made notes, and having made up her mind in the end, she called up Syed for a meet. When she set out to the coffee shop, even as she was conscious that she may not be as excited at seeing him as before, nevertheless, she was eager to see how he would react upon seeing her. As they met, both found each other in a reflective mood, and as they settled down at a corner table, she thought it fit not to beat around the bush.

“Being a Muslim, you tend to take Islam for granted but it’s natural for me to weigh it on merits,” she said pulling out her notes from her valet. “You may know Hinduism was in existence much before Allah revealed the straight path to Muhammad but nowhere in the Quran is there a reference to Hindus. That is, even as He exhorts Muslims to be wary of the Jews, the Christians (peoples of the Book fallen afoul of Him) and the idolaters; don’t tell me the idolaters Allah meant in the Quran were Hindus for in the context of Muhammad’s life and times, they were Meccans who worshiped idols at Kaba. It’s evident that what Allah had revealed to your prophet was meant for the idolatrous Arabs of that time, more or less on the same lines of the Torah and the Gospel that He earlier gave to the Jews and the Christians. And that too was in the nearby land. If you gaze at Islam through the Hindu prism, it