Death of a conversation

Act I

People have masks, mostly two, but few have masks counting which you will end up in your dying years still counting and pondering about the time you wasted counting them and still will not be able to see an end to the count, uncountably finite. When she came to my place, drunk as always, for the first time, I was taken aback by the trust she showed in me that I would entertain her pursuits to momentarily get rid of the troublesome time she was having with her boyfriend, still living in a hope of seeing a future together. Or was that my false assumption? There were many men who sought her but she was entwined in an optimistic journey, forced by an attraction towards the financially empowered lifestyle. Or was it again my false assumption? I asked her then

• Why are you here with me?
• Because I want to be.
• Can we play a game? A game of questions.
• Yes. Why don’t you start?
• Why did you learn to speak French?
• Because it is pretentious as fuck, mister. Why did you allow me to be here with you?
• Because you’re hot. And a troubled, hot girl. I like that mix.
• You are objectifying me.
• Aren’t you?
• Yeah, sure, I am. Come here, you piece of one attractive, shitty object.

And we kissed. A long one. It is not during the kiss that you realise the importance or triviality of it but in the moments after your lips part and silence prevails. In those moments, I had just one song playing in my mind – My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me / Tell me where did you sleep last night.

• Are you singing Cobain’s song in your head? Or should I say Lead Belly’s?
• It has to be Cobain. It always has to be Cobain.
• Let others be in the pines where the sun don’t ever shine and let them shiver the whole night through.
• Yes, let them.

And she took off my shirt.

• Let’s wait it out a bit, girl.
• As you say (And she paused taking off her own spaghetti). But why?
• Our game of questions is not over, yet.
• I have a question – Are you in a relationship?
• Yes, I am . You know that.
• Then? Are you cheating on her?
• Aren’t you?

There was a moment of silence after which she spoke again

• Tell me the weirdest place you have made out with a girl in.
• A grave yard.
• A grave yard?
• Yes, a grave yard. On the top of a grave.
• I have never made out in a grave yard. Can we go today?
• We can go right now.
• Let’s go. Don’t put that shirt back on. You look hot.
• Ok.

We drove our way to the nearest grave yard, a large one at that. While I was driving, I asked her

• Do you think your boyfriend is cheating on you?
• Yes, he is. Once I saw a book on his bed-side table by this author called Philip Roth. I know even in his dreams he cannot go beyond Dan Brown. It was definitely a gift. I picked it up and it was about an adulterous, infidel couple.
• That’s a huge, huge unfounded inference. You know that, right?
• Next day I asked him who had gifted him the book and he answered without any fear with her name. I laughed, he laughed. But the moment he turned his back on me, I saw his face in the mirror and mirrors never lie. They show who you truly are, they always show you the truth. And it showed me the truth.

I was silent.

• So why are you with him?
• For everyone, because I love him. For you, because he is rich. But enough about me. Why are you cheating on your girlfriend?
• Because, later in the life, I do not want to regret not having cheated on her if she decided to cheat one me. It’s purely a bank of safe cheat deposits.
• Clever.

—

Act II

We reach the graveyard. And she takes my hand and leads me on to a grave and pushed me on it. She smiles. I laugh. Hysterically. It seems awesome to be in between two women. Wait. Was she a woman?

M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T

Yes. Margaret is usually the name of a girl. She was a woman. So, here I am, sandwiched between two women. And then she, with her fingers, and bloody sharp nails, circles on my chest, diverting my attention from the stone that was behind. Just lie down and try to watch what’s behind your head. It’s difficult. But then I am here doing this. And much more. But then she scratches with her claws.

I scream.

She shouts.

We laugh.

Rain falls.

It’s black. No living soul in the vicinity. Eerie. What’s even more eerie is the fact that below MARGARET is engraved her Date of Birth. People take birth. Pee and Poo in pants. And then they grow. Create familiar enemies, unfamiliar friends. Have Sex. Reproduce. Die. Become MARGARET.

She removes what was covering her upper half of the body. Physically the upper half of the body. We make love on a dead body lying six feet below me. So, literally I am sandwiched between MARGARET and her. And then suddenly she jumps and stands. Claws stretched forward. I rise. And then we dance. Circling around MARGARET. With upper halves of the bodies uncovered. She and Me. Me and She. She watches.

Drenched in cold rain, we hold hands and merrily dance our way through the foreplay. She bites me. Bitch. I wonder what I would answer the next day to her. A band-aid may come to an aid – I slipped off and hurt my neck. Hah. Blue jeans we have on ourselves. And then again we lie on MARGARET. Graveyard is a silent place. No one comes there in the night. At least no one who can respond to the proceedings. The best place to make love. We do something and then something. I hear music. A rock version of ‘We Wish You a Merry ’. I don’t know from where. All I can see is her and the raindrops falling straight on my face and then bouncing back. Someone on top. You know. Woman. We make love. Fall.

And then we circle again and dance around MARGARET. Poor MARGARET. I hope she rises from the grave. And makes love in this graveyard on her grave.

I sing the song

That echoes in the yard

Clutched in the claws

I sing ‘We Wish You a Merry’

—

Act III

• Has your fantasy been met?
• It is. But I have another. Why don’t we bury ourselves right here?
• What do you mean?
• Let’s dig our graves and then I kill and bury you in one of them and then kill myself and drop dead in the other.
• Why do you want to do this?
• Love and adultery, my friend, are bastards of the same father – an unflinching carnal desire. This father rules supreme over the world. Every one you see around you – men, women, animals, birds, bees – every one is ruled by the same instinct. I want to make a dent in this setup and revolt. I want to tell him – Fuck you, I am not giving in to assumed pleasures.
• But do we have to die to drive this point home?

I lit a cigarette and passed another to her. She took a long drag and spoke with the smoke

• Yes, sweetheart.
• Is it one of your masks that you carry around, sounding rebellious and intellectual?
• No, others are the masks. This is the true me. We are anyway, all, MARGARETs. Aren’t we?

I sensed a mirror behind me. I turned back to hear the echo of her words. It always tells you the truth.

• Let me finish this cigarette, then.
• I can wait for a while.

…

References

1. Philip Roth’s Deception
2. Act II has been directly taken from another story writeup – ‘Love on Grave’ from shishirchaudhary.blogspot.com
3. Nirvana’s rendition of Lead Belly’s ‘Where did you sleep last night’