Monday, 23 November 2009

Something of the Woman I was!!

I had an Email yesterday from a reader of the old blog (perhaps THE reader: as apposed to A reader!), but hey! Its about quality not quantity and all that! I was amazed by this person’s observance and attention to writing style (or maybe lack of it, I don’t know!). They didn’t write to complement the blog, but neither did they put it down in any way! instead they just asked “are you Deeya?”, this might seem like a strange random question to some of you, but Deeya was in fact an identity I used to write under shortly after returning to Pakistan. I don’t really know who/what Deeya was: suffice as to say she was a confused, torn, romantic and angry creature who just wanted to express her feelings: good and bad, painful and indifferent. She helped me through some dark days, the darkest of my life in fact, which proceeded my return to the UK in 2005. Deeya kept me sane through those days and provided me release through her existence, but shortly after securing a new job and a house and a new life for myself, Deeya was quickly forgotten! For reasons unknown to me, people seemed to like this disjointed Zany form of writing she produced, and many asked me to continue with it! but I never could quite get back in to that zone, which is for the most part, a good thing! Deeya drifted quickly and quietly in to some storage volt in my past, moreover, the site that supported my writing (the ground Under, …, any one recall it?), shut down too!! It seemed only fitting that the site should disappear along-side Deeya’s departure, but even more bazaar where the Emails I received asking for copies of Deeya’s work!! I don’t know what exactly people wanted to do with them, read them, reflect on them or pass them off as their own, I just don’t know! But I only hope they brought joy to people rather than negativity, as believe me: they weren’t very cheerful!
Back to the present: you can imagine my amazement after all those years, some one remembered Deeya! The Email author (who didn’t give his/her name), also requested me to post some of Deeya’s old wisdom up here! I struggled allot with this: Deeya’s writings were cold, crude and left little to the imagination. They had a certain charm perhaps, but I wasn’t sure I wanted people to see me in that light over here! But then, on further reflection I realised I was being unfair: sure Deeya had her emotional issues, but she is as much a part of me as Ruth/Roshni are, and to deny Deeya ever happened is like trying to deny the rest of my past as well: (much as I wish I could do that, it is impossible to do so: and rightly so!), the good, but more so the bad, is what makes us the people we are today!

So, in honour of my past, my present: what I was and what I aim to be: here is one of my favourite short Stories composed by Deeya back in the darkness! …, make of it what you will!

Holding it down,
By Deeya.

"But I am already late, very late!" protested Afshan screeching wildly in to the receiver poised in her hand. Her words echoed oppressively through the
long since quietened air of the office. "shouldn't you be going too?" my PA's hand on my shoulder:
"Oh, I have a few things to finish." I offered weakly still staring vacantly at the blank computer screen in front of me. I was devoid of inspiration,
the drive, or the inclination to write, to create, even to copy or paste.
"And they have no driver"; I blurted out clutching at straws now.

Its 11 PM, and I am still at my desk, with every thing and nothing to do. Loads I need to say yet my lips remain still, subtly parted, lost in dreams of
last night. Life always seems cold and uninviting the morning after the night before, only, one night on I had anticipated on regaining some degree of
composure to get through my daily tasks, only I remained transfixed by his scent, each atom of his being as he past over me, his words, his essence, treasuring
and savouring every moment like priceless joules and for all the wrong reasons.
"What is the matter?" Afshan stood red faced in front of the control desk, waving a pen franticly in the direction of the studio window to add extra weight
to her every expression.
"Its the third time this week" she complained.
"they know our position, they know my mum is alone, but still the driver does not come, why won't he come!" I looked around the tiny room slowly slipping
back in to my conventional authoritarian pose:
"can't you take her?" I asked Fesil; a senior producer hailing from the UK who was too up his own ass, too European to integrate in to this so obviously
Asian landscape:
"na man, am about to go on air!"

"I can't do it!" I told myself as I swung on my long, black coat. I performed each action with painful accuracy and calculated movements: dragging the brush
seductively through my long hair, pulling it up quickly and sticking a colourful hair clasp sharply and aggressively through it.
"Get the keys" I called to Afshan, "will be down in a minute."
I collected my bag, organiser and work files, while on the way past the library, carefully selected a few good CDs to drive to. Just as I rounded the last
flight of stairs my mobile sounded a message had arrived:
"am recording all night, see you tomorrow; probably in the evening?" so there you had it, Ali would not be coming home to me. I shouldn't be doing this,
but already tiny beads of sweat were forming on my back and the intoxicating kick of adrenaline had begun its slow and exhilarating takeover of my soul.
Sure I felt guilt, but it wasn't all my doing: I would have done the right thing, but he had done me wrong again and again. Here was another example, I
needed an excuse and he had given it to me gold plated!

I swung the van skilfully out of the parking lot and began cruising down familiar routes. I selected my journey map carefully: avoiding check points, police
hangouts and heavily populated domestic sidewalks.
"You are so brave"; marvelled Afshan:
"I would never drive, doesn't your husband mind?" oh why the fuck had she reminded me! But then it wasn't her, it was me who was at fault. She was in the
mood to talk and I would not, could not hear! I slotted in my Indian remix collection and wound down the window letting the crisp and vibrant air of the
night caress my hair. I jerked the vehicle to an abrupt stop a few yards from her front door, she looked at me quizzically as she slowly stepped in to
the road:
"why don't you come in for tea, you can always stay here tonight?"
"no, thank you" I said hurriedly.
"are you sure your husband won't..." Her voice trailed off as I raved the engine and took off again, I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I hurtled through the defence housing authority and the posher ends of town. I past the tower blocks, the elitist meeting points and the exquisite marble
architecture of the newly erected rich mens villas. I didnt have to ring, to make an appointment: it was a casual passing by and it had paid off. He raised
one finger towards me and slipped comfortably in to the seat beside me. I drove on blindly, enjoying the feel of his arm around me stroking my back, the
scent of his freshly showered body, shining hair and gleaming white teeth. I was thinking on and on, light years ahead of any thing he could have anticipated:
as I drove along the beech front he indicated a perfect concealed space for me to store the van.

I surveyed our options, why did he want to stop here? Surely he wasn't expecting a horizontal collaboration here, in the back of the office van? We got
out, and began walking down the cool tiled steps towards the water. We walked along hidden paths and water channels infested with rubbish and hissing mosquitoes,
saying nothing until suddenly we came across a clearing festooned with a few stand-alone beech huts. Right on queue, he produced a rusty key and opened
the door.

Wordlessly we undressed, and began the violent and urgent erotic rituals of consuming and absorbing each others passion. Sex with Ayaz was good, his physique
was an instrument of wonder and he knew how to use each inch of it to pleasure me and take me higher. He was a Grosse departure from the traditional Asian
male who wants it all and recoils at the idea of surrendering himself to a woman's desires. I gave in, gave all that I had unashamedly seduced by his unassuming
demeanour: laying back contented, satisfied as he flowed in to me nuzzling my neck: this, this was all.

He got up suddenly:
"Get dressed" he said sharply. were those the first words he had uttered all evening? I wondered as I, shaken, trembled to my feet and fumbled around in the
darkness for my crumpled clothes.

Outside all was quiet, still, accept for a single tiny search light casting shadows through the huts and in to the clearing. I began walking urgently and
mechanically towards the van. The passion had left now and the melancholy was starting to erode my glittering fleeting fantasy. Ali was recording, he would
be working till dawn while I had purged myself on a tall, dark handsom stranger whom I barely knew! I would go home, raid the fridge and take a bath, scrubbing,
washing, scrubbing till I bleed and removed each and every trace of my sinful interlude. Drowning in bubbles and fresh water till every trace of Ayaz was
gone from my person.
"I guess I'll see you around" I said collapsing exhausted in to the driving seat.
"oh? And how the fuck did you suppose I would get home?" he demanded. This was a side to him I had not witnessed before; he was trying to get me off guard,
just like he had charmed me the first night I gave myself up:
"I can drop you at your office?" I volunteered still shaking in the late night chill. I would not take him home, to the house he shared with his mother,
small son and kid sister, surely even he could see that this was too much to ask. He climbed in to the van and shut the door surveying my dishevelled hair
and fading exterior:
"you think too far ahead jaani" he smiled playfully running his fingers through my loose hair. I turned the key in the ignition, and caught a glimpse of
2 perfectly positioned scratches flanking the knuckles of my right hand. Ali would notice; he was a stickler for detail and regularity. Any thing remotely
out of the norm was scrutinised to the point where he freaked if he did not shit his morning load at exactly 8.35
Ayaz kissed my hand:
"honey, you don't look up to driving, should I get you a cab?"
"Oh no, no!" I said flailing around to regain my grip of the situation. We drove off wordlessly, again, and as he left the van a few minutes later, the
horrid realisation of our unions began to hit home. This was who I was and what I wanted. This was all it meant, and all it would ever be: a senseless
screw, a fucking stab in the dark, hidden deep within the night for fear that day light would reveal its true colours for all to see. The gilt would be
just the beginning and it was up to me to work hard, play good and keep it under wraps.

I sat in the dimly lit flat still revelling in the after glow and munching cake as I contemplated my deception some more.
I said out loud licking the chocolate from my long fingers:
"it really was that good"

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