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Authors: Karan Mahajan
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mature, an unblemished secret worth sharing.
FATNESS HAPPENED
R AKESH NEVER SHARED with anyone what happened on the night of his second marriage.
They had circled the fire, and then Rakesh had led the girl away and almost thrown her into the back of the waiting nuptial car. In the back seat, he stared at her angrily.
“I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake,” she said. “I should get out. I’m sorry, I was forced only. She forced me.”
He interrupted, “Who the hell are you?”
She had a stirupped posture and a moon-shaped face and a muddy complexion and full cheeks and eyebrows that lookedpermanently raised and plucked. She looked like a black cat, in other words. Later, he realized this formulation was all wrong. There was nothing at all sly about her.
“Sorry, ji, I should leave,” she said. “Sorry. Please. Let me leave only. Sorry.” She was weeping now. The driver continued staring straight ahead, but Rakesh could see the muscles at the back of his neck throbbing; his brain was busy stenographing the gossip.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he shushed. “We are now married. You are my good wife. I am your good husband.”
She understood. She smiled fakely and turned her head away and held up both arms and let the giant slinkies of her bangles slide down to her elbows. When they arrived at the hotel, she continued holding her arms up, as if Rakesh were prodding her forward with a gun.
In the hotel room he screamed at her. “Who the fuck are you?”
Her entire moon-face flinched and fluctuated, as if she expected him to slap her. “Ji, I am Asha’s sister only,” she said. “I am very sorry, truly. Please kick me out. I was forced. She forced me. Divorce me. I’ll fall at your feet.”
She fell at Rakesh’s feet in a great din of gold.
“Don’t be hysterical,” he said. “Sit.”
She sat down on the bed, cross-legged. She looked like a pagoda.
“You: What were you doing there?” he snarled. “Did you think—?” Then he started rattling off a long list of disgraceshe would hurl upon her family. He’d divorce her. He’d spread rumors in Delhi high society. He had contacts in the newspaper. He’d sell the scandal to the Times of India . Of course they’d be biased toward him.
He realized that he himself was hysterical. To cover up, he said again, “Don’t be hysterical.”
“Sorry,” she said. She looked bored. She bit her nails. Her eyebrows blessed her with a permanent look of condescension. This irked Rakesh, and she must have read this because she added, “Ji, please forgive. I didn’t think that you—that you would finish the marriage only. I thought you would—”
“Never mind that,” he snapped. “First you tell me. What the fuck were you doing there?”
She was silent.
“Okay fine. Do it your way—” He was pleased at how American he sounded. “Then let’s at least have sex.”
He thought this would get her to tell the story, but instead she complied. What type of trap was this? he wondered. What type of good Indian virgin complied so easily? Or maybe she was desperate to get rid of the heavy decorations of gold that she’d been sweating beneath? Regardless, he couldn’t believe the nerve of the woman. Within seconds she sat naked, cross-legged before him. Only her impressive bangles remained bunched at her elbows.
He admired nothing. There was nothing in her body to admire.
He took off his clothes in a careless choreography: anuninterested, you-leave-me-no-choice sort of way. His pants he kicked aside; the Nehru jacket slipped off with a flex of his shoulders.
But as he sat cross-legged before her, awkwardly, he couldn’t achieve an erection. The girl and he looked like two naked people doing naked yoga; you could see it in the side mirror. The view of his failure made Rakesh doubly mad. If a woman was going to trick him, he thought, she might as well be attractive.
That was when Rakesh slapped her.
She started to cry again: he felt
FATNESS HAPPENED
R AKESH NEVER SHARED with anyone what happened on the night of his second marriage.
They had circled the fire, and then Rakesh had led the girl away and almost thrown her into the back of the waiting nuptial car. In the back seat, he stared at her angrily.
“I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake,” she said. “I should get out. I’m sorry, I was forced only. She forced me.”
He interrupted, “Who the hell are you?”
She had a stirupped posture and a moon-shaped face and a muddy complexion and full cheeks and eyebrows that lookedpermanently raised and plucked. She looked like a black cat, in other words. Later, he realized this formulation was all wrong. There was nothing at all sly about her.
“Sorry, ji, I should leave,” she said. “Sorry. Please. Let me leave only. Sorry.” She was weeping now. The driver continued staring straight ahead, but Rakesh could see the muscles at the back of his neck throbbing; his brain was busy stenographing the gossip.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he shushed. “We are now married. You are my good wife. I am your good husband.”
She understood. She smiled fakely and turned her head away and held up both arms and let the giant slinkies of her bangles slide down to her elbows. When they arrived at the hotel, she continued holding her arms up, as if Rakesh were prodding her forward with a gun.
In the hotel room he screamed at her. “Who the fuck are you?”
Her entire moon-face flinched and fluctuated, as if she expected him to slap her. “Ji, I am Asha’s sister only,” she said. “I am very sorry, truly. Please kick me out. I was forced. She forced me. Divorce me. I’ll fall at your feet.”
She fell at Rakesh’s feet in a great din of gold.
“Don’t be hysterical,” he said. “Sit.”
She sat down on the bed, cross-legged. She looked like a pagoda.
“You: What were you doing there?” he snarled. “Did you think—?” Then he started rattling off a long list of disgraceshe would hurl upon her family. He’d divorce her. He’d spread rumors in Delhi high society. He had contacts in the newspaper. He’d sell the scandal to the Times of India . Of course they’d be biased toward him.
He realized that he himself was hysterical. To cover up, he said again, “Don’t be hysterical.”
“Sorry,” she said. She looked bored. She bit her nails. Her eyebrows blessed her with a permanent look of condescension. This irked Rakesh, and she must have read this because she added, “Ji, please forgive. I didn’t think that you—that you would finish the marriage only. I thought you would—”
“Never mind that,” he snapped. “First you tell me. What the fuck were you doing there?”
She was silent.
“Okay fine. Do it your way—” He was pleased at how American he sounded. “Then let’s at least have sex.”
He thought this would get her to tell the story, but instead she complied. What type of trap was this? he wondered. What type of good Indian virgin complied so easily? Or maybe she was desperate to get rid of the heavy decorations of gold that she’d been sweating beneath? Regardless, he couldn’t believe the nerve of the woman. Within seconds she sat naked, cross-legged before him. Only her impressive bangles remained bunched at her elbows.
He admired nothing. There was nothing in her body to admire.
He took off his clothes in a careless choreography: anuninterested, you-leave-me-no-choice sort of way. His pants he kicked aside; the Nehru jacket slipped off with a flex of his shoulders.
But as he sat cross-legged before her, awkwardly, he couldn’t achieve an erection. The girl and he looked like two naked people doing naked yoga; you could see it in the side mirror. The view of his failure made Rakesh doubly mad. If a woman was going to trick him, he thought, she might as well be attractive.
That was when Rakesh slapped her.
She started to cry again: he felt
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