As part of my blog’s first anniversary I am hosting a ‘blog party’. Today my guest is Vishal Bheeroo. He blogs at Vishal Bheeroo. He is an amazing story teller, book reviewer. He says that he is scripting the story of life. Here he has written a seductive story, Enjoy!!
Red is love. Of backless sleeve and skirts worn in parties. Red tee. Red wine. Curvy bottom, densely narrow and fluting glass is cusped to the lip. He swirled the liquid to satiate the craving for an intimate smack in the wildest thought. One sultry winter, he became obsessed with red to quench his deepest fantasy.
Pinto sat cross-legged on the thick bamboo chair, swirling up and down and oscillating his prodded belly towards the direction of the Arabian Sea. Pride and vanity wore thin on him. The fake babas, the filmi hero whose neck is always adorned with gold, the womanizer, crazy party girl and bimbo heroine wading every time in a short skirt, sloshed and fake diamond. The imagery flitted right in front of Pinto’s eyes at the three-star-hotel in Juhu. He loathed being called the hotel’s co-owner. A dash of snobbishness blurred his view like an incurable illness. ‘Shameful to own a three-star when I could be sitting in a South Bombay five-star hotel. I prefer to be an Oberoi than Pinto,’ the thought haunted him.
Pinto took days off from the new year to hide inside the comfort of the 70 crores plush three bedroom apartment and the sprawling balcony which gave a rare glint to his tiring eyes gaping at the magnificent sea view. A huge house all for himself. Pinto’s mind was raging pretty much like the unopened and towering Scotch bottle. The liquid looked red.
He tweaked his hand, left right as if swiping on Tinder and finally opened the bottle. The long nose gently nudged on the designer bottle. He liked the scent. He tried a second time but his long beak took a hit and he almost yelped like a bird stoned.
The lone man felt like a kid left alone in an empty house. The bell suddenly screeched its might and Pinto scampered towards the door but he stopped brusquely on his track. The eyes bobbed from one point to another and traveled like light in the hall, balcony and the kitchen’s view. He squatted on the floor to peek through the hole. A female frothing red lipstick on the mouth was pouting at the wooden door as if it’s a seducing male UFO.
The tender fingers expertly held a cigarette stick. Pinto was curious and felt he was the luckiest man. New Year eve, bleeding red and imagining sponge bathing together, alcohol and a hot woman with lal lal lipstick for company. ‘God is red,’ he beamed. An electric shock ran through Pinto’s face and he felt a frantic heartbeat. Hubba! Hubba! He pranced on his knee. The wind blew like the ship’s siren at the Arabian Sea. At times, the breeze turned human and wailed like the priest blowing the conch to stir up Goddesses slouched at Kalbadevi.
A force jerked him off the squatting position and the door yanked wide open. The woman sensually lumbered her red stilettos step inside the house. She brandished her finger coated with red fingernail as if mounting a veiled threat, “Shankar Prasad?”
Pinto was clueless and bobbed his eyes towards the roof. She nestled on the red couch and lit a cigarette. The smoke blew on Pinto’s face. He quivered at her red lipstick. The woman spouted venom in Hindi. ‘bc…mc.’ He froze. She suddenly lunged at him and grabbed the collar as if he is an untamed dog. “Pinto! My name,” he stammered.
She broke into a cackle of laughter. Her eyes blinked at the spangle of light that flashed at the dim corner in the hall. She was pulled towards the bottle by an invisible force, pulled off the lid with her mouth and gulped the scotch.
“You are such a bung blessed with money, super duper expensive house and sea facing view. You are not Shankar Prasad! It’s my mistake. You look like a servant who wears Prada to me and who can’t even spell ‘Fuck’. I sell my body but not my principle. Pinto is angry…Pinto is shell-shocked…Pinto will not lose his virginity. Oh yeah, Pinto sees red in the dark.”
He hovered incomprehensively. She thwacked the designer crafted Whisky bottle on Pinto’s head. He saw red everywhere. Lightning struck and it became suddenly dark everywhere. Pinto woke up on the floor by the shriek of thunder outside and as if he looked around, there was nobody inside. The door was latched. He wreathed in pain and walked slowly towards the whiskey bottle. It stood unopened but empty.
The road was packed with people and everyone flitted in red, decked in red tee, red shirt, red trousers and red shoes. Even the yellow and black Mumbaiwalla cabs turned red. The sea wasn’t spared and roiled in red.