FOR MORE GREAT STORIES, VISIT COSMO.INlove & lust
From The Book Of Love Stories comes
this short story about a forlorn man, his
toxic ex, and a stranger he meets at a bar.Ph
otograph
:^ SHUTT
ERST
OCK.COMlike self-punishment. I fell
out of love with her when
she broke my heart years
ago. I desire her, but there
are always others. I’m
not interested in setting
her on the straight and
narrow path—it’s against
her nature. She would be
lost there.
I just don’t want her to
die. She is too young—
twenty-four—and I can
sense that she will die of a
broken heart this year.
I sit at an unknown bar
in Gurgaon, sipping beer
with a woman who does
not interest me. Why
is Maria not with me, I
ask myself? Who is this
strange woman sitting
opposite me? How did she
get here? What does she
want from me?
‘Come home with me,
my husband is not home,’
the strange woman tells
me. I shake my head. I
take out two 500-rupee
notes and leave them on
the table. She takes the
money and walks away.
I look around the bar.
There’s a young girl who
reminds me a little of
Maria, dancing with her
boyfriend, or perhaps a
client. I watch her for a
while. She dances neither
with rhythm nor rhyme.
She dances for the money,
and her present dance
partner seems unwilling
to part with any. She walks
away towards the bar.I finish my drink and
walk up to her. ‘What’s
your name?’ I ask. She
gives me some name.
‘Tonight, your name is
Maria,’ I tell her.
She laughs and winks
at me. ‘Whatever your
fantasy, mister. Do you
want to dance?’
‘No. Let’s go home.’
‘Where do you stay?’
she asks.
‘We will go to your
house. Is that okay?’
‘Sure, mister.’
We get out of the bar
and begin to drive towards
Delhi. The girl begins
making small talk, of
how she had been doing
a polytechnic course
in her hometown but
had run away to Delhi
with her boyfriend, who
deserted her. She stays in
a typical cramped West
Delhi apartment. She
tells me she stays with
three other girls but none
of them would disturb
us. We make our way
to her room. There isn’t
much here, some posters
of filmstars, gods and adouble-bed which takes
up most of the space. She
asks for the money in
advance. I give it to her.
She begins to take
off her clothes. ‘Who is
Maria?’ ‘Tonight, it’s you,’
I tell her. ‘Don’t remove
your clothes.’ She looks
puzzled. She has, I’m sure,
seen enough kinks in her
line and now she smiles
at me uncertainly. ‘Do
you want me to remove
your clothes?’ she asks. I
shake my head. ‘Mister,
I don’t understand. You
said tonight my name
was Maria, so what’s your
fantasy? If you didn’t want
to have sex, why did you
bring me here?’
I smile. ‘To make sure
you got home safe.’” QThe Book Of Love Stories,
amazon.in, ` 188Ekarat has been a travel
magazine editor, film
marketing executive,
communications
lecturer, and salesman.“
MARIA
M
aria is going
to die this
year.
And
I could die too, just to
witness that temper of
hers once more. To see
the rush of blood to her
face and fight that evil
tongue of hers with my
own, to let her determined
little fists crash against
my body in revolt. To see
her wreck my car, kitchen
and heart with measured
recklessness.
She is a bad-tempered,
ill-mannered, violent
woman. And I’m not
getting a taste of her bad
medicine anymore. Except
only seasonally, when she
chases away a lover and
I’m around to pick up the
broken pieces of her heart.
Then she lets me in, lets
me make love to her, take
her to movies and buy her
things. Then her heart
heals and she returns to
being bad-tempered, ill-
mannered and violent.
There are other words
for this pattern, but I don’t96 COSMOPOLITAN AUGUST 2019