Sunday, October 2, 2011

pickpocket- VI

                चल छोड़ उन बातों को... तू  नहीं समझेगा l .
और वैसे भी, तू भेडिया कम और भेड़ ज्यादा लग रहा है...

खैर, आज की रात तो हम दोनो ही भेड़ हैं...

                ला, वो पन्ने इधर दे ...He segregated the pages with so much care I could picture a pundit arranging the mixed up, torn pages of Bhagvad Gita.

                ये ले तेरा हिस्सा...he split them into two unequal parts and offered me the lesser part.
मुझे कम पेज क्यों दिए, I asked at the unforgivable injustice I was meted out to.
बेटा अभी इतना हजम कर, और वैसे भी जितनी देर में तू एक लाइन पढ़ेगा उतनी देर में मैं एक स्टोरी खतम कर दूंगा....स्कूल में कोई भी भेन्चोद रीडिंग में मेरे से तेज नहीं था , he said with insured confidence.

                यार प्यास लग रही है l...
लो भेन्चोद, मियाँ को अब लौन्डिया भी चाहिए l
...यार पानी की प्यास लग रही है l
...वैसे पानी तो है मेरे पास, पर थोडा सा ही है ...I said while taking out the 500 ml bottle of coke containing approximately ‘chullu bhar paani’ .

                100 ml FREE, said the yellow extended strip of the red label of coke scraped at random places resulting in white patches. It looked like an artist’s rendition of Coke’s new identity for re-useable bottles.

                 मताई इसमे क्यों भर रही है ?, ये बोतल पुरानी  है, I had said while my mother filled the bottle with water from the suraahi using a homemade lota with a long handle. 
ले मताई इसमे भर, I proposed her a new, recently consumed bottle of 500 ml coke.

 दो पैसे की अकल नहीं है तेरे अन्दर ...बिल्कुल बाप पे गया है ...देख ये बोतल तेरी बोतल से बडी है ...इसमे १०० ग्राम ज्यादा पानी आएगा

             ...तो दो लीटर वाली क्यों नही भर देती...पूरे दो दिन चलेगी, I said with irritation induced sarcasm. 
गम खा, मैं अभी लाई, whether she didn’t get the sarcasm or she was acting smart was beyond my comprehension.  
...अरे नहीं-नहीं मताई, रहने दे , मैं इसी से काम चला लूँगा …I had said yielding to her indomitable wit.

                The ‘chullu bhar paani’  left in the bottle was probably the extra 100 ml that my mother boasted of, to win the battle of the bottles. Afterall she was a veteran. And the ‘chullu bhar paani’ proved to be a fitting testimony to it.
As soon as the bottle saw the light of the night- the light of the lockup bulb, to be precise- he reached for my hand with the sudden agility of a leopard and snatched the bottle.

                Before I could understand what had dawned upon him to pull off such an act of bravura, he had it all gulped down his throat.

                ये ले... तेरी बोतल, he said with languid pace clutching the now empty bottle with two fingers poised to release his grip on it.
I was furious at this noble act of benevolence.
भेन्चोद,, पूरा पानी पी गया मेरा ...I blurted out, almost instantly realizing and regretting the the cuss word uttered, and suppressing my angst in the last few words.

              He dropped the bottle in style that would put a host of bollywood actors to shame. The sound of the bottle making random collisions with the floor sounded like the inevitable drumbeats in bollywood films before someone gets hanged.
The next moment I found myself praying, and wishing he doesn’t hit me for calling him a bhenchod.

               रुक,  मैं कुछ इन्तजाम करता हूँ ... said he nonchalantly. It seemed he was immune to cuss words, it didn’t, even remotely, affect him.
He stood up and strolled towards the lockup gate.

               It was probably a full moon night. The moonlight lighting up the meager open space outside the cell. An adolescent guava tree stood right in the middle of the space bathing with the moonlight. It’s stark shadow looked like black ink spilled artistically over a white canvas making it an abstract painting. Add to it the mesmerizing background music of the creatures of the night, going about their busy lives, making the night worth sacrificing your sleep.
I instantly went into a romantic reverie.
               I imagined how my shadow would look in the vicinity of the guava tree sharing the space with my beloved, with me reciting a poem, and she getting closer to me with every line recited.

                ‘Could I, my love, belong to anyone but you.’ says she, slowly casting aside her dupatta, removes her clothing and appear naked as the day she was born. She is as soft and white as milk cream.
Her whole being exude a scent. I take her in my arms probing her curves. My hand rove over her lovely limbs , her slender neck, and through the ripples of her hair.
She responds by eagerly displaying her many gifts. She possesses the sinuous grace of thesine curve and the narrow passage of the theta.
                 Each embrace become a coupling, and each coupling the wildest fornication, until, weary from our passionate writhings, we fall asleep in each other’s arms, inebriated with pleasure. be continued...

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