Peacock

She looked at him across the room, nursing her drink rather disinterestedly. There he was as usual, talking to two PYTs who were fawning on him like adoring puppies . It was always like this: he loved to dangle bait, reel in the almost hypnotised fish, and then throw them away contemptuously, as if dead fish were not really his interest. His chiselled good looks that made women weak-kneed, his far-ranging interests that made him comfortably discuss Formula One with the men and the latest spring collection with the women, his sense of humour that made people giggle senselessly at his almost-there-jokes. A perfect package, one might say. Almost too good to be true.

The truth was he bored her. Nobody seemed to see through his strutting and preening, nobody seemed to see that what he hungered for was admiration. All he wanted was to be toasted and feted and fussed over. Everything he did was focused towards that end. He was the peacock in the garden, and when he danced, he expected people to snap to attention.

That’s how she caught his eye. By not paying attention. He was offended and intrigued. He came over to find out what she didn’t find attractive about him. He couldn’t. He thought he would throw her a bargain with marriage, and so strip her naked. He searched and dug deep, but there were no explanations forthcoming. And that’s how they stayed married all these years. He was still puzzled by her; for her, he was a jigsaw puzzle for beginners, solved several times, and now thrown away with pieces missing, but not missed.

He came across the room.

“Darling, are you having a good time?”

“No, I’d like to go home. I have a headache”.

The power she held over him intoxicated her sometimes. She watched his lithe frame as he walked ahead of her to the car. She could almost see the frown that marred his beauty.

“So, who’s the girl?”

He went pale and turned off the ignition.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be tiresome and deny anything. I know you’re having an affair, aren’t you?”

His lips seemed to weaken and tremble in affirmation.

“I think you know what I’m about to say”.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and she could feel the squeak of his clammy palms against the leather.

“I want a divorce. And it’s final – I don’t want any arguments”.

She felt the sickening surge of triumph as she saw the devastation her decision had wreaked. She would decorate her walls with the peacock feathers.

Sting Like a Bee

She smashed her fist into his face. He passed out.

“Cut!” The director roared, furious.

Yogeshwari stared at the inert form of the hero, Sajan, lying at her feet. Already there was panic on the sets. The obsese producer was surprisingly agile: he jumped up immediately from his comfortable chair and began yelling something quite unintelligible. The assistant director, eager to prove his worth, was already dialling for the doctor on his mobile. Some extras and spot boys had crowded around Sajan. One of them was holding aloft a cup of water, fearfully deliberating if it was worth the risk of losing his job to splash the unconscious hero.

Nobody paid any attention to Yogeshwari, except to dart accusing glances at her. She slipped away from the scene into the tiny common green room, and collapsed into a rickety, torn leather chair. Looking at herself in the panel of stained mirrors that spanned one wall, she almost laughed out loud. She looked ridiculous!

She was clad in a tasteless leather and metal ensemble, the highlights being the Lara Croft breastplates and the tasselled mini-skirt. Her matted, snaky hairpiece was quite askew, and her knee high boots itched at the calves and bit at the toes. Her screen name was, to cap the absurdity, Mona. This was not what she had dreamt of, for sure.

“Director saab is calling you.” A spot boy peeped in nervously, as if afraid of a contagion of rashness.

Mona sighed as she rose. Another lecture awaited her, another you-cannot-do-this sermon.

Sajan glowered at her as she entered the set, nursing his bruised jaw. A little curl of satisfaction unfurled in her, and made her almost want to skip with delight. However, that behavior being highly inappropriate, she suitably lowered her gaze and drooped her posture.

“Yes sir?”

She meekly stood before Vijay Kishore, the director. The producer, Naresh Kumar stood beside him, battle-ready.

“Do you know what you have done, you stupid girl? You have almost ruined our picture!”

The drum-roll of accusations sounded, and Mona prepared herself for the onslaught. How difficult it had been to get Sajan to sign up against a rank newcomer. How costly it was to shoot with these kinds of sets and costumes. How gracious they had been to offer her, a complete unknown, the role. How impossible it would be to continue shooting if she made such foolish mistakes.

About five minutes into the assault, Mona obligingly stuttered an apology. She reproduced with great spontaneity, her well-rehearsed speech on how grateful she was for the opportunity, how stupid she had been, and how it would never happen again. When the trickle of tears threatened to grow into a deluge, the attackers backed off sympathetically. Apologise to Sajan, and we’ll get back on track, they advised her.

Mona made her way to where Sajan was sitting carelessly on his special recliner chair.

“Well?” He was clearly pushing his status as a top B-grade actor.

Mona was at her humblest.

“I am very sorry, Sajan ji. I promise it will…” she mumbled indistinctly, “…happen again”.

It was his turn to play magnanimous.

“What is this sorry-vorry and all? All these things keep happening, you know. All part of the job. I know it well!”

“Thank you, Sajan ji. You are being very kind.”

“No problem, no problem. We are all friends only here.”

He rose and came forward, his arms open in an inviting embrace. Mona gingerly returned the hug, cringing when his hands snaked suggestively around her waist. For once she was glad of the breastplates.

“It is a good thing it was not serious, you know, else…” He gestured a throat-slashing, as he released her from his suffocating clasp. The threat was unmistakeable.

She gave him a sweet smile, all the while seething inwardly.

“Thank you Sajan ji, I will be more careful in future. Now, can you please excuse me, I….I need to …go,” she indicated vaguely in the direction of the restrooms.

“Oh yes,” he winked at her, and as she turned away, gave her a little smack on the bottom. She gritted her teeth as she saw the director and producer watching them.

“Just you wait Sajan, just you wait!” She growled inside.

It was a good thing for her that the movie they were shooting was “Beena: Kshatriyon ki Rajkumari”; a C-grade rip-off of “Xena: the Warrior Princess”.

This was a writing exercise, based on the first line