The Benefit Season Read online

  ‘I…I didn’t mean it that way’. I shift uncomfortably in the annoying little chair whose faux leather sticks to your pants and gives out a farting sound, or the sound of bubble wraps bursting whenever you move.

  In spite of herself she giggles suddenly at the embarrassing noise and my discomfiture. I smile weakly too. Knowing Monal, I think she doesn’t change the chairs deliberately; she must enjoy the mortification caused to her staff.

  ‘What did you mean Arjun?’ she says after composing herself. ‘Whatever do you mean most of the time? You make the craziest love to a woman deep in the wild and expect no after-effects thereafter? You get pangs of guilt and you feel you can simply quit? Are you a quitter Mr. Arjun? What about the other person? Don’t you owe me an explanation? You were man enough to screw me, now you aren’t man enough to face me? I didn’t think you would be so cold and cowardly… and heartless. I’m sure you would have totted up your conquest score and moved on?’

  ‘I feel you. I can only apologize deeply for what has happened’.

  ‘Don’t apologize for a beautiful thing Arjun. I have no regrets; happy moments are too few and far between; savor them when you chance upon them’.

  ‘What can I do…what do you want of me, Monal? You are married; I am about to be. It’s an impossible situation; I can’t see it going anywhere’.

  ‘No one’s taking anything anywhere. I’m sure both of us are okay where we already at. While there are not many expectations, the least we can do is be civil to each other.’

  ‘Yes, I agree to that’.

  ‘And a little more than civil sometimes…’ she winks, back in control, pushing now that I’m softening up. ‘…When the call of the wild is strong and the will is weak’.

  Am I okay with that? There seems to be a tinge of infiniteness to the proposal, a faint sense of the perpetuity of my lease. But I am going to give the wild a wide pass, yessir; the familiar and the beaten path is where you’ll find me from now on, thumbing the rule book and receiving the word!

  I shall not stray, or shall I stray, who knows?

  I shall be strong, or will I be weak; it can only be either.

  I will say yes or I will say no, when temptation comes knocking; let us see.

  ϖ

  I am with my team in my office, giving them a presentation on the targets for the year when my cellphone starts ringing. The ringtone is of a wild Asian woman in the throes of a bloodcurdling orgasm. The phone vibrates hotly and a call video of large quivering boobs comes on the screen. The screen announces it is Monal calling, (again, for the umpteenth time that morning). I forgot to put my phone on silent mode before the meeting began.

  Preeti, my assistant with the chubby cheeks and dimple chin, says innocently, ‘sir, Ms. Monal calling’. The room titters and people exchange looks of amusement and surprise.

  I am shaken, not a little, quite a bit. But I manage to keep a straight face and utter a profound,’ who?’

  ‘Ms. Monal, sir…ma’am…boss?’

  ‘So? You should leave your phone out when we are in a meeting’.

  ‘Sir, it’s not mine, it’s yours’.

  ‘That’s not my phone’, I say, a little hot under the collar. ‘Whose is it?’

  Preeti shrugs and passes on the phone. Monal just won’t give up! Dudes take time to gloat over the vibrating boobs while passing the damn thing on. The house is in splits and I’m just standing there looking on, with my cheeks burning a tomato red.

  ‘Ok snap out of it! That’s quite enough fun for the day fellows- you don’t get to laugh anymore on company time. So, if no one wants to own up to this damnation let’s crunch these numbers again’.

  People are still simpering but I soon manage to grab their attention and we are back on our way to the next couple of charts and graphs, when the blasted thing goes off again. This time it’s the Vishnu Aarti blaring from the useless device- that should only be used in great moderation.

  ‘I thought I asked you to switch it off or keep it out!’ I blast off poor Preeti. She scrambles across the desk and grabs the phone off the hands of the chump who is still hanging on to it hoping for another call from Monal.

  She is about to carry it off when she pauses and says,’ sir it’s mom’.

  I shrug exasperatedly,’ so whose mom is it this time?’

  Bad question. Taking it as an order to trace the caller she dutifully nods and presses the call button before I can lunge for it. ‘ Hello ma’am… yes ma’am … I’m Preeti ma’am… I’m from the office … fine ma’am … thank you ma’am … no I’m not married ma’am… yes, I’m Punjabi ma’am… yes, he’s here… please hold on…’ She offers me the cursed, portable, cancer-causing device sent down especially from hell to make me atone for my sins. ‘Sir, it’s your mom!’ she says.

  The house breaks into loud guffaws as I slam the door behind me, cursing myself for being so careless.

  ϖ

  It has been a week since I dumped the brain fryer. Now every one calls me on the landline at home, or through Preeti in the office, or mostly not at all. Landlines are too much trouble- remembering ISD and STD codes etc. and they have only banal ringtones and no scandalous images or videos to set you up for a rap when you aren’t looking. Monal has to explain to the Assistant why she is calling every five minutes, so she has gradually petered off, resigned to shoving a knee in my crotch whenever she crosses me in the hallway, or to biting off my ear if she catches me on her CC TV taking a coffee break. Now she is seated across me in the Vijay Hazare Hall where motivational speaker Josh Batra has been invited to conduct an open house workshop on “The Mission Statement: Who We Are”. I came last so took the last chair at the end of the long oval table. Monal came even later and took the empty chair opposite me, ignoring the guy who pulled an empty chair for her at the head of the table where she should be. The lights go off and the speaker arrives dot on time and begins to turn out jarring clichés and sad anecdotes from his past.

  ‘Sigh’, I say.

  ‘Sigh’, replies the wrestler with the rump tattoo on my right.

  I take out my PDA, and he pockets his glasses as we slide a couple of inches into our seats, preparing for a long inertia of being at restless rest, at the mercy of a ruthless instigator straining at the leash to throw himself at us on that fateful Annual Inspiration Day. He has rehearsed for weeks, and isn’t in any mood to show mercy to a body of youngsters well-nourished on an elaborate three-course meal in his honor, now lulled into sweet slumber in a dark, air-conditioned, thickly carpeted, sound proof hall with comfortable chairs and the welcome prospect of a long and lazy afternoon with nothing to do except to pretend to be awake.

  Preeti had prepared me for it lasting two hours, I had mentally prepared myself for one, and the ordeal actually lasted for only three. Preeti had also timed her fast on this day and had hence escaped the artery-choking refreshments and the consequent physical urge to sleep sit through it all: she watched me keenly from the front, to check if I stole a wink or not. The company policy obviously was oblivious to the virtues of a well-stocked bar that makes such occasions quite bearable and in fact rather enjoyable. The performer who on the other hand was on a natural high, and being egged on by doting front-benchers, dragged every note, every syllable, every last vowel, impromptu wisecrack, and sermon into the dying throes of our silently groaning patience. Before long the wrestler is snoring softly with his head cradled safely and snugly into the ample bosom of a napping secretary seated next to him.

  Monal keeps tossing random tidbits from the table at me that keep me from slipping into coma myself. There’s a mad glint in her eyes as she aims for my nose with cashews, erasers, and half-sucked lozenges. Then she throws back her head and sips from the pet bottle and empties it in one gulp. Then she swallows it in her mouth till it nearly vanishes and then she slowly pulls it out, looking me in the eyes all the while. She begins to swirl her tongue on its tip, and wraps her wet, slippery lips around it. She licks, blows, and sucks on it, pumpin
g it with her fist, in sync with her mouth, till I can watch no more. She sees my agony and deep throats the bottle even harder, till the sleepyhead on her side begins to show early signs of stirring from that entire racket. Thankfully, she finishes performing fellatio on the poor bottle and that ceases somewhat the tumult in my loins. But she’s not done yet and she smiles roguishly and reaches under the table with her hands, wriggling and twisting on her seat. I watch on in horror expecting another bizarre performance from her. But all she does it to tear off a sheet from her perfumed, ruled notebook and pass it under the table. After a few baited breaths pop comes out a crumpled paper ball hurtling across the table, smacking me square on the nose, and rolling into my lap after doing service. She leers across at me, gesturing that I open the rude package. I warily open the paper, and lo and behold, find a piece of soft, embroidered red silk with lace and satin bows. It has a strong, familiar musky smell; I bring it near my nose and inhale deeply- what the- it’s Monal’s thong! And wet! I look around the dark hall to see if anyone has seen it and then hastily wrap it back in paper and slip it into my pocket, my heart hammering away.

  She chuckles softly, watching me like a sharp-shinned hawk biding time before it bursts out from a hidden perch with a rush of speed to snatch a helpless songbird and disappear with it in a flurry of feathers, to pluck and eat it at leisure later. Monal is not the kind of woman who takes lightly to rejection, that too at the hands of an employee at the bottom of the food chain; I get it, I am the songbird, and it’s a matter of time before I’m laid flat out on a nest of leveled twigs lined with bark somewhere up there in the treetops, as hot meal for a hungry raptor. But how… when? I don’t know, but have a feeling it’ll be just around the bend.

  Luckily the lights come on and the songbird is safe, at least for now. The speaker up there is saying something about people dipping into the neighbor’s pockets and replacing the objects they find on the table. ‘Things we carry show who we are’, his soft voice that barely carries to the back seems to be saying.

  Before I can scurry out of my scary reverie into the safety of reality the wrestler has dipped his hammy fist into my pocket and drawn the paper ball out and dumped it into the basket the speaker is bringing to each of his audience. The speaker has vanished before I can protest and demand my paper ball back. Monal is smiling from ear to ear with the dainty brows raised till the hairline at my predicament. She cups a slim hand around her mouth to hide her mirth.

  Is it time to pluck up that, which is planted? Is the time of the songbird come already?

  The speaker pours the contents of his basket on a large table in the center of the dais, illuminated brilliantly by the lights above; there being no lurking shadows where my paper ball- whose unsolicited ownership has been transferred to me by default, may melt into.

  ‘Let’s begin, what do we have here? The first object- the holy bible! Santa saw your Facebook picture- you got a bible for Christmas. Ha! Next, a diary, indeed! It reads, “ Uday spent 45 minutes at the water dispenser with Rani on so and so date, so and so time.” A logbook! A spy for the boss, an unscrupulous ratter on his friends; a double-edged dagger who will demand a ransom when you serve up the pink slip!’

  I can see a female covering her face with her hands and slipping down her chair; she must be Rani. Uday is obviously the guy waving his fist at a man occupying discreetly one of the chairs lining the wall, out of sight. Thank god, no one can trace the thong back to Monal; it can’t have her autograph. Or can it? I sit up in my chair, a chill running down my spine. I’ve heard of men putting initials on handkerchiefs, but do they put them on panties also? I wished I’d checked for signatures.

  Meanwhile the man has found a scrapbook. ‘This guy is a born artist’, he goes, ‘ a keen doodler. Let’s see what he has drawn lately- a pretty cross between a she-vampire with talons and a skinny bitch wearing a dark business suit with stripes’. There is stunned silence as he looks around the hall for the victim; everyone knows it’s only Monal who wears striped business suits; rest of the description is needless. Monal glares at a spot where the speaker’s solar plexus is most likely to be and where a sock will take his breath away, perhaps for good. ‘Well, it’s obviously a loving rendition of a boss, not very flattering, but he is a fan nevertheless, and observes her minutely!’ Now it’s my turn to let a light smile course my lips. I can see Vishal up in the front row sit up in his sofa and puff out the broad chest and glower at the man. The speaker senses the hostility in the crowd and hastily skips to the last object on the table- my paper ball- crumpled, fat, perfumed, in signature pink, ruled and imported stationery, that- it strikes me suddenly- only Monal uses in this office. He opens the paper and holds up Monal’s red silk thong with the lace and satin bows, still a little wet, still a lot musky, in the bright light for all to see. It’s like the vision of an alien ship descending on the sea in the purple glare of the setting sun. People suck in their breaths and a loud gasp travels the hushed hall.

  ‘Do you guys need any more proof? You need help- my help! Call me. I rest my case!’ There is a loud burst of standing applause as he draws with his forefinger his telephone number in the air triumphantly while being escorted out of the hall by a furious Vishal, who it seems has recognized his wife’s personal paraphernalia.

  ϖ

  Sooner or later Vishal will find out who was carrying his wife’s private property crumpled up in a piece of perfumed paper- again ill-gotten from her personal notebook- provided he has recognized the thong, which I believe he has no reason not to, unless he has never set eyes upon her in a semi-unclothed state, and that would be a crying shame. It shall soon come to pass that the wrestler will own up to having secured the said package from my pocket- unless- he had omitted to un-pocket the spectacles I faintly remember he had pocketed as he had slipped into his seat and, placing his square head upon the buxom lady’s rounded bosom proceeded to snore like a baby well-fed on breast milk and gripe water. In such a case there’s an outside chance that he may not have clearly seen what the revered speaker had held up that afternoon in the glare of the overhead lights. Mostly having had only outside chances in my life, I might yet escape the truth machine.

  Till then, the days must be passed, and more immediate events be attended to, such as the forthcoming passage by sea by the gigayacht, The Dubai, from Port of Mumbai to Diu, a small ex-Portuguese colony on the southern coast of Gujarat in the Saurashtra region. One of the prominent partners of our company: an anonymous royal from the UAE, has lent his luxury boat for ferrying around 30 handpicked guests from all over the world for a grand finale of our annual foundation day convention, and the inevitable bacchanalia that precedes as well as follows it, at the Radhika Beach Resort at Diu.

  Having seen the maniacal behavior of Monal in the last few days, the prospect of being out at sea with her, and in a beachside lair thereafter doesn’t enthuse me much; if she can be so crazy when she’s sober in the office, I don’t care to think much about how she will be when she and I both are high on the lights, the music, the sights and finally the endless rounds of drinks. But with her lady-killer husband around and other society ladies present in droves with their inhibitions as well as clothes shed, the chances of her preying upon me seem slim, and of her keeping instead a sharp lookout on her consenting husband plentiful. There seems no way out except to boldly go right in and then stay out of sight.

  The distance to Diu happens to be around 188 nautical miles (NM), and even if we keep a decent speed of 10 knots we can be there in a couple of hours. We are to board her at 8 PM this Friday, and expect to moor at Diu port the following morning comfortably. After spending a week there the rest fly back to Mumbai while I proceed to Delhi for my engagement with Aarti, scheduled on the 3rd of January as per the propitious hour determined by Khosla’s astrologer. Aarti has already left for Delhi and hasn’t spoken to me ever since she saw me dutifully attending to Monal’s twinkly toes in the office.

  I had been taken totally unawares- you see- for
saking the cell phone had its minuses, the chief being not getting adequate time to run and find cover. The day after the foul motivational speaker- the reason most folks don’t work at office- held up Monal’s panties for all to see, Monal materialized in my office, unsung and unheralded. As I reached out for the buzzer to call for help she said,’ I wouldn’t do that- she isn’t here’.

  ‘Isn’t here… as in… in this room or in this world?’ I said, my wits flown, disappeared in the clouds.

  ‘I sent her out on some important work- she’s at my place getting the plumbing fixed. I told her she had to be an all-rounder if she needed a bonus’.

  ‘She’s my assistant- she should’ve informed me’.

  ‘I told her not to worry; I said I would’.

  She walked over to the sofa and sank in and swung her polished legs up on the table; I could see my face in them. ‘Come sit’, she said, pointing to the empty chair beside her.

  Gingerly I sat down, keeping my knees and eyes away from the wondrously designed propellers that extended the long way from her ass to the edge of my glass top table.

  ‘I brought something for you… something you lost’, she says, handing me a crumpled paper ball full of the sweet scent of promise. Then she plucked the edge of her skirt with her dainty fingertips and slid it up her thighs to let me see that she was well lathered and shaven, and moist and pink, and warm and ready, inside. Her silken slip with the lace bows was in my hand apparently, once again.

  I wanted to nuzzle my nose between her coffee thighs and beg for mercy but my vow cast a long shadow between what the noise in my trouser bid me and what the voice that came from within commanded me.

  But I’m just a man, frail in spirit and strong in flesh; I can only take this much and no more.

  A keen bird of prey, she sensed the mouse ready to make a dash across the open field to the block of cheese left by lazy picnickers in the forest beyond, and gripped the woody perch tightly, prepared to leap and dive from the sky above in a brisk blur of motion.