Surya, Amma saw me choking while I was trying to write, and she brought me a glass of water. She also started scolding me, saying “Why don’t you concentrate on what you are writing?” How do like that? Where was I… your cheeks. I want to bite your cheeks, your beautiful fingers, your earlobes… mmm… no, I won’t tell you where else. You’d think badly of me. Wait until you see me.
The Thief of Your Heart,
Shanthi
P.S: You’ve described me so beautifully in your letter… Does that mean you’re looking at me all the time instead of listening to the lectures?
P.P.S.: You’ve compared the shape of my back and my front to sand dunes! I’ll never be able to write like you. You are a poet.
P.P.P.S: Please give me a reply to this when you see me.
He gave her his reply, went to the movies with her, twined his fingers with hers in the dark theatre, and kissed her hands. After several such efforts he thought he might even have a chance to screw her. She consented, on the condition that he use a rubber. He agreed but secretly pierced the tip of the rubber with a pin. After the act, however, he saw that the love juice had not been able to get through the tiny hole. From this he came to understand that the love juice was so thick it needed a larger hole, and so the next time, he made a small snip in the tip with a pair of scissors. He checked that through the slit he could see sun, tree, shrub, vine, goat, cow, sand, hill, man, woman, bus, house, direction, air, fire, taste. Once he was sure that the entire universe was visible through the slit, he wrapped it back up in the packet, and used it the next time he screwed her. Seeing that all the love juice had made it through the slit without her knowledge, and feeling pleased, he disposed of the rubber. She missed her next period, and became perplexed, but was too afraid to tell her mother. Nine weeks passed; she became really scared, and told him about it. “It can’t be mine, darling. Have I ever come near you without a rubber? You know I haven’t.” Finally the mother came to know of her daughter’s predicament and took her to the doctor. By then it was too late for an abortion. She came back crying to him, but this time he had another story.
“In a pond in a village, the men’s section and the women’s section were adjacent to each other. A man masturbated underwater and his viscous fluid of life swam across to the women’s division and entered the womb of a chaste woman bathing there. When she realized that she had been robbed of her chastity and virginity and didn’t even know which man had done it, she committed suicide. The village raised a temple in her honor; to build it, the ruler of the village had sack loads of sand from the deserts of Egypt and stones from Afghanistan carried in on the backs of the kings of those countries. For these acts, the ruler was awarded the titles of The Lemurian Who Won the Soil of Egypt and The White Lion Who Won Over Afghanistan, honorifics which were carved into the stone of the temple.
“Apparently, this temple was raised before the continent of Lemuria was eroded by the sea, and oceanographers still believe they will find the remains of it if only they look deep enough in the Indian Ocean. And so, since I used a condom every time I slept with you, it must be that you got pregnant in some other way, like this chaste woman in the pond did.”
He told her this, and left.
At the house of a prostitute, he lay on the floor and asked her to piss on his face. The terrified woman gave a loud scream and ran off. He stayed behind, of course, and demanded his money back; but instead he was beaten black and blue and sent on his way.
Muniyandi gave his friend Yagnavalkyan, who was a writer himself, a copy of the manuscript of his latest novel, a dialogue between fantasy and reality. Yagnavalkyan read through the novel, and that very night, he wrote his own novel, Man Is Born Free. Muniyandi retrieved his
manuscript and gave it to the editor of a literary magazine for publication. “Of course, this deserves to be published,” said the editor, “but the only way it can be done is to find a publishing house that doesn’t have a single female employee.” He went off searching for a publishing house without a single woman, but then Yagnavalkyan came to him and said, “Not to worry. I’ll publish your stuff, with an afterword by George Bataille,” and took the manuscript. In the meantime, the editor located a publishing house with no women employees and asked Muniyandi to hand over the notes for immediate publication. Muniyandi, who as a rule makes eighteen copies of all his manuscripts, gave him the copy he had in hand. When Mullusami a.k.a. Yagnavalkyan heard about this…
[Muniyandi’s notes after this are missing, the paper having been eaten away by bookworms.]
It was after an unfortunate incident at a prostitute’s house that Muniyandi started the habit of making eighteen copies of all his texts. When he was in her room, he asked her, as he usually did, what her name was, and continued on with “Do you like Pichamurthi?” At which she demanded, “We both know what you’re really here for, why would you ask me a question like that?” To which, of course, he said, “Besides all that, I thought if you had read Pichamurthi, we could have a discussion about literature.” The prostitute had immediately asked, suspiciously, “Are you a literary person?” To which Muniyandi smiled shyly and replied, “Yes.” In a blink, the prostitute sat on the bed, raised her sari, and pissed all over the bag Muniyandi had placed there. For a moment Muniyandi just stood stunned. Then he yelled, “You bitch! What have you done? In that bag is my handwritten manuscript for a novel that will someday be translated into French and appreciated by the most intellectual minds of the world! You have destroyed that unique creation by pissing on it! Are you a paid coolie for the Marxists?” (After this, Muniyandi forgot his lines.) She yelled back, “Dey, you literary fellow, take your bag and scram, or I’ll piss on you, too,” and Muniyandi ran off with his piss-soaked handwritten manuscript, and after that he swore on the bag that forever onwards he would always make eighteen copies of everything he wrote.
In the days when Muniyandi was a part of the literati scene, a theatre troupe from Mexico visited Chennai and asked if it was possible to meet him; was he in the nation? To which Surya responded, what do you mean by nation? The Mexican troupe replied, if he were a writer in our country, he would either be living in exile, or he would be an ambassador.
Octavio Paz resigned his post as an ambassador in New Delhi in protest against the shootout during a student demonstration at a Mexican university twenty-seven years ago. Elena Poniatowska wrote about that incident in her novel La noche de Tlatelolco. The dictatorship came to an end.
Our authors have no identity of their own. They are either government clerks or the owners of petty shops, and write in their idle time at work. In a reader’s forum of about 180, there are no women, not even writer’s wives. So, judging by this standard, we figure Muniyandi too must be a clerk at the Mount Road Post Office, said Nano to the Mexican troupe.
It was only after hearing this that Muniyandi quit his job as a clerk and became a wanderer.
NAME: DEEPTHI. Wife of a friend. Works in a prestigious organization. Muniyandi often talks with her on the phone.
That churidhar you wore the other day was gorgeous, Deepthi. It must have been designed exclusively for you by an expert tailor.
No, I never lie. I’m speaking the truth.
Don’t tell me nobody’s ever told you that before.
I dreamt about you, Deepthi.
No, I don’t want to tell you the dream.
Must I?
We’re on an uninhabited island. In a forest. Naked. We’re plucking the fruits right off the trees. Bathing in the moonlight.
What can I do? It’s a dream, Deepthi, a dream. You asked me to tell you.
Have you ever seen a blue film, Deepthi?
What kind of bra do you wear? Traditional style, or modern?
Did you know that Hitler’s Swastika is a symbol of the sex act?
What do you think of lesbians?
How many sexual positions do you know?
What’s your favorite position?
So because you are a woman, I’m not allowed to talk to you about this?
Hey why do you feel shy yaar.
Have you ever tasted semen?
I’m crossing the line? Who decides where the line is, Deepthi?
ººººººººº
You haven’t spoken to me for nine days. I thought you were mad at me for crossing the line.
What? Me? Angry? With you? How can anybody get angry with an angel?
Yes, we should meet. Shall I come over?
Fine, not your place. You tell me where.
How can I say where? Wherever I am with you, that place will be heaven.
Okay. Besant Nagar beach.
At Besant Nagar beach they made love, at the end of which he patiently strangled her.
Muttering “I have avenged George Bataille,” he dragged her into the sea.
19
MUNIYANDI SET OUT to write the greatest erotic novel in the world. For this he gathered telephone directories from every corner of the Earth: America, Britain, Spain, Scandinavia, Algeria, Azerbaijan, Serbia, Israel, New Zealand, Australia, Cambodia, Indonesia, China, Turkey, Egypt, Ghana, Zaire, Uganda, Costa Rica, and more. He has already spoken to 1800 women, and he’s still talking. The expenses, of course, are skyrocketing. The novel is shaping up to be the costliest production in the world. He is still receiving telephone directories from friends spread out across the globe. Every conversation he has with a woman, he records it immediately.
He believes that the telephone directory is the most erotic book in the world.
You can select any name you want from the list. You can tell that person all your fantasies. You can say all sorts of dirty words. There are some very exotic names in the X section. African names are sheer poetry: Xihale, Ngunji, Waringa, Kihahu, Kitutu… poetry, poetry. Through these pages of poetry, you must hunt for the names of women. Ambary in the Rio de Janeiro directory, Thuraya Maqbul from Tel Aviv…
“Maqbul, I am calling from India. I would like to fuck you,” he said.
Can you guess what her answer was?
Never mind that. He called Clinton’s private secretary and told her he would teach her every secret from the Kokogam; would she come? He called tired night-duty nurses and spoke to them for hours. Keeping time with an international clock, he woke up Celestina at dawn with a buenos días, and began to expound eloquently on the beauty of her breasts. He called up a woman named Kannagi and said, “You burned Madurai with your breast; these days they burn towns with bombs.” When she asked who he was, he said, “Do not insult your creator; I am Ilango.” She was confused, but he had her hooked. He went on and on.
At times, he had to listen to long strings of abuse. Sometimes he got very senior citizens on the line, and disconnected the calls. Those who somehow got his number called him back to berate him. Some women kept the connection live, without replying, and just listened to his hot load of words.
He has had many interesting experiences. Some women have fallen deeply in love with him and are dying to meet him. There are some husbands on the lookout for him too, ready to kill him. So he keeps his identity a secret; he is writing the novel in secret. In fact, in a recent letter to Nano, he writes that once the novel is finally published, he will have to go underground in order to escape from all these bloodthirsty husbands. He is also worried about the fatwas that Ninth-Century-A.D.-Dead-Brain, Mullusami a.k.a. Yagnavalkyan, and Ananthasami, the literary critic, are sure to pronounce on him. Muniyandi’s friend Thirumalai told him that the entire Tamil literary world was eagerly waiting to see how Anathasami, with his strict moral code, would pan him.
In spite of all this, Muniyandi has not forgotten to acknowledge several people who helped in the writing of the novel. Friends who are employees of the Telephone Exchange, who cover his costs; friends who are rich enough to gather international telephone directories and mail them to him; there is a whole host of people who help.
Even as I write, Muniyandi is disporting himself with the women in his neighborhood, holding a cell phone in his left hand and a pair of binoculars in the right. He watches their activities through the binoculars, calls them up, and tells them he can see them.
Okay, where are you calling from?
I’m hiding behind the cement bench in front of your house and using my cell phone.
Before he can finish, she cuts the connection, steps out onto the balcony, and checks the cement bench. Nobody’s there. He calls back immediately.
It’s me, darling.
Is it really you?
Yes. Me.
Where are you calling from?
Definitely not from behind the cement bench.
I know that. There was nobody there.
When you cut the call, I guessed that you would come to the balcony. So I’ve moved to a new place now.
At this point, he cuts the connection. The next day he calls at the same time. She picks it up immediately, as if she’s been waiting for the call.
So, you were waiting for me to call, eh?
Who are you? What do you want?
I want you. I want your cunt.
Please, be decent.
Okay, decent. Fine. I need you. How’s that? I need to taste your body. I want to carry you, I want to drink from you.
I thought about you last night.
I didn’t think about you. At all.
Mmm.
Are you angry?
Mm-mm.
You have every right to be angry. You have every right to be anything at all with me, Monica.
Mmm.
What’s got into you today? You’re reminding me of a George Orwell character.
I haven’t read him.
In his book he writes about a government. In that government is a Minister of Newspeak, whose job it is to limit the number of words people use. If there are too many words, people will use them to help them think. Too much thinking is dangerous for the state. So the Minister of Newspeak decides to allow people to use a total of only nine words. I think you should have been awarded that minister’s post.
I like to listen to you talk. You talk beautifully. I’ll stay silent and just listen.
I lied to you just now, when I said I didn’t think about you at all. Take the number of hours in a day and multiply that by the number of seconds in each hour. I thought of you for that many seconds.
That’s not good.
Why not?
You’re a very great writer. I’m feeling guilty—you must have better things to do than to think about me all the time.
Isn’t a writer allowed to have any love, or care, or affection?
ººººººººº
I was telling my friend about you.
What did you tell her?
I told her about what you’ve told me, in our conversations so far. She said I was lying, and you were telling the truth.
What’s the truth, and what’s the lie?
The truth is that you are always thinking about me. The lie is that I rarely think about you.
It’s not enough to say I’m always thinking about you. You’ve become the very air I breathe. The beats of my heart, the blink of my eye, it’s all become you.
You tell me all this, but you won’t tell me your name.
Later.
Yesterday I was in the library going through all the poetry books trying to figure out who you were. But I couldn’t.
I’m yet to publish my poems, Monica. [Pause.] Last night I heard the song I Was Born to Love You. I melted.
Stup
id idiot.
Monica. Your name is as intoxicating as your voice. I want to listen to it forever. Your voice plays like a violin in my ears when I sleep. I try to imagine how beautiful the woman behind that voice must be.
Mm-mm. I’m not that beautiful.
Let’s see.
When? Where?
I’m writing my telephone novel. I should be finished with it soon. We’ll meet after that.
Oh yes, of course! But don’t get a bad impression of me because I asked when and where.
Of course not. I know you, darling.
You are very romantic today.
I feel that way whenever I speak to you, Monica.
Don’t try to pull that ajjal-gujjal with me.
I should tell you about a funny thing that happened a while back.
What?
I called your number expecting you to answer with an “Mmm”. When I heard that, I started talking. But finally the person on the other end tells me she’s your roommate.
Aiyyo! What did you tell her?
That your laughter last night was like scattering diamonds. I forgot to tell you that last night, so I had to say it. I told her about my dream of us on an unexplored mountain, bathing naked in a waterfall.
Aiyyo! Why’d you do that? Now she’ll have endless questions...
ººººººººº
I couldn’t sleep last night.
Why, were you writing?
No, meditating. Horrible girl! The call got disconnected last night. I was unable to sleep without speaking to you.
I disconnected the call on purpose, you idiot! You didn’t figure that out?
You did? My God! How could anyone in the world do such a thing? Don’t you feel you’ve done something terrible?
Zero Degree Page 8
