I was travelling in a bus and in the seat just adjacent to me was seated a middle aged lady and her two daughters. The driver put on a sudden break and all were jolted. One of the daughters banged her head on the frame of the seat and her head became swollen, the size of a gooseberry. Immediately the middle aged lady became all care and concern for her daughter. She started cooing to her daughter, massaging her head, hugging her and fondling her as the girl had started crying. This was my first experience of a kind, and feelings of affection for the kindred welled in my soul. But as time went my thoughts became a dirty psychoanalytic brush. I started reading into their actions as a person filled with pleasure of watching salacious graffiti. From the sacred feminine my thoughts degenerated into that of a voyeuristic satyr. I’m plagued by guilt and torment and yet I can’t help being that way.
Hello folks, Mr. Nobody Nothing is a fictitious self and also a nobody nothing. Mr. Nobody Nothing has been suffering for years from chronic insomnia. To cure this mental plague, Mr. Nobody Nothing takes sleeping pills. The waking time of Mr. Nobody Nothing is queer, some days as early as 7:30 Am and sometimes stretching like elastic up to 8:30 Am and also as late as 9:30 am. Nothing extraordinary goes on in the life of Mr. Nobody Nothing. Everything trivial and ridiculous is cast of to the sublime and the transcendental.
Mr. Nobody Nothing has a peculiar night life! Of course Mr. Nobody Nothing is married and sleeps on the same bed. Mr. Nobody has no sex life and makes sure he sleeps on the opposite side not facing his wife. It’s not that Mr. Nobody Nothing is not passionate or amorous but married life has been like a dead life. After having children and having a wife who was proselytized to Pentecostal faith and who believes that her life is devoted to her husband Christ, she has rejected all salacious gestures of Mr. Nobody Nothing. Of course Mr. Nobody Nothing suffers from satyriasis and dreams of sleeping with whores of all nationalities. Mr. Nobody Nothing’s sexual orientations are many. Mr. Nobody loves oedipal role playing, and also Mr. Nobody Nothing is fascinated by voyeuristic lesbian orgies with which Mr. Nobody Nothing has been gratified by the abundance of internet pornography.
If Mr. Nobody Nothing sees a trail of cobwebs hanging as mystical yarn on an un-swept all, Mr. Nobody Nothing surmises in his mind with great ratiocination, after all these erratic and eccentric patterns yield to some sort of defied spiritual reality. There occurs a Zen of thought in the Koran of Mr. Nobody Nothing’s mind. Ah, I see a V shape there. Would it materialize into a fate of luck? The day passes by with the abundant manna of thoughts. In the evening to Mr. Nobody Nothing’s consternation, nothing has spectacular has happened. The exercise of mental agony has been torn lottery tickets.
Day time after waking up, Mr. Nobody Nothing does his morning ablutions like an oedipal machine farting, pissing and shitting. Shitting has become so frugal with the ejection of tiny bits. May be it is the problem of eating too less.
And after that Mr. Nobody nothing rushes to the tea table and gulps mugs of coffee. And then Mr. Nobody Nothing rides on the scooter with cool winds of monsoon Kerala kissing him lasciviously. He arrives at a town Kozhecherry and alights from his scooter and buys his customary two packets of cigarettes. Mr. Nobody Nothing works in a family run institution and is dominated by the duo matriarchs—Mother and Wife. They give Mr. Nobody Nothing enough money only for petrol and cigarettes. Mr. Nobody Nothing is fond of alcohol and is used to Kerala’s proletarian rum—Hercules. The Matriarchs of Mr. Nobody Nothing have threatened him that he will be sent to the asylum if he indulges in alcohol. Thrice, they have used thugs (goondas) and have forcefully imprisoned him in cruel, obsolete asylums where inmates are treated like Jews during the Nazi regime. I have been tied up, given shock, bad mouthed and physically abused. The psychiatrists of Kerala are schizoid gazers. They are all together ignorant about the inroads of psychoanalysis into literature, philosophy and art.
While coming back Mr. Nobody Nothing experiences cannabis realities. One day Mr. Nobody Nothing saw a cow open her behind and pissing as a stream. Wow…exclaimed Mr. Nobody Nothing. Mr. Nobody Nothing recalls a superstition that pissing cows bring good luck but alas to the woe of Mr. Nobody Nothing, nothing uncanny of that happens. Mr. Nobody immediately presses his pockets and fondles the lottery ticket that he has bought. But to his exasperation nothing of luck falls into the bosom of his purse.
One fine morning Mr. Nobody Nothing was riding on his scooter and observed the underclothes of a woman hanging on string outside the house in the garden. The panties were so odd…they were all stretched out, the elastic. Mr. Nobody Nothing felt a lump in his throat and a pleasant quiver in loins and felt like being pricked by million needles of erotica. The lingerie was fawn in color and Mr. Nobody Nothing wonders how it would have hugged her navel and surrounded her breasts.
Mr. Nobody Nothing looks at all the women passing by him on the road with lust, with lewdness. But to the consternation of Mr. Nobody Nothing, the women hardly look at him and pay their scant attention. When he sees these women, total strangers, Mr. Nobody looks at the way their breasts protrude, the way the clothes hug their hips and even on their thighs which become revealed through the Kurti ( an Indian dress which has a top and pajamas for the legs). Mr. Nobody Nothing loves to gaze at saris which expose the bosom and navel of women when the wind unsettles them…. All these experiences become transcendental gratifications in the imagination of erotica. Mr. Nobody Nothing recalls sadly: ‘Why are these women so hostile, so unresponsive…Is it because Mr. Nobody Nothing is not handsome?
Mr. Nobody Nothing’s reading habits are so peculiar. Mr. Nobody Nothing has seldom read a book completely. Mr. Nobody Nothing has read literature, poetry, philosophy and selected autobiographies. During early years of Mr. Nobody Nothing used to read a lot of sleaze. No doubt Mr. Nobody Nothing is in love with books. But when it comes to reading Mr. Nobody Nothing becomes a Mexican Wave, reading the middle, then if interesting reading the end or the beginning. Sometimes Mr. Nobody Nothing becomes the books he reads. Reading Kazantzakis’s Zorba the Greek upturned the custom made Syrian Christian mentality of purity, virtue and conformity. I became an unsettled Hellenist. After my excursion into circumcision, I profess to be a Gentile Jew and an Atheist Muslim and non believing Christian who nevertheless is fond of apologetics and Christian Hermeneutics. I, Nobody Nothing loves Salvador Dali’s quote in his autobiography: “Every morning I wake up and I rejoice in the fact that I ‘m Salvador Dali’. Yes for Mr. Nobody Nothing: no amount of Ego battering would uproot the quirky farting Ego of Mr. Nobody Nothing.’ Mr. Nobody Nothing is also fond of the Greek Dionysian cult with the sybarite taste for orgies and wine that would tilt the moribund windmill of into a Shangri-La of ecstasy and altered states of consciousness.
Mr. Nobody Nothing is fond of the old Indian legend on the origin of Cannabis. Shiva, the mythical Indian God listened to the woes of the people and became infuriated that they were not pleased with booze. In anger Shiva plucked his hairs and threw them on to the earth and thus the earth became pregnant with ganja. With weed smoke, time becomes a hallucinating deity, dancing the cosmic tunes of a heavenly metaphor. Time shifts hazily into a dried sperm of the past, into an erect present and into an ejaculating future. Weed also awakens sensual pleasures and bombs the loins to debris of lust. Mr. Nobody Nothing’s intellectual fantasy and admiration also hinges on existentialism, deconstruction, feminism and post structuralism. Mr. Nobody Nothing confesses to a being a liberated Philistine who deconstructs all the constructs of self, nation and liberates language into an existential garden of affirmative gratification.
Mr. Nobody Nothing would like to recall about meeting a girl living in Kerala from a dating site. She phoned me and that was the beginning of an ecstasy. Nights when she was free and in her hostel, I used to ring her and we used to have lusty phone sex. She eagerly desired obscenity and loved me talking dirty lust. My language became an erotic poem of slovenly prose. Though it cost a lot of money, I still would love to orgasm her many times. She used to encourage my dirty talk by offering me tons of kisses. I would become aroused all the more like a race car on full throttle. However sad to say, our conversations have come to end, with the interference of my puritan Christian wife who has deleted her number. This happened when I was confined in the asylum.
Mr. Nobody Nothing also encountered other woman who is in her middle fifties from the dating site. She was divorced and had children who were married. We used to exchange lot of affection and mirth. She has also agreed to the fact that I can come and meet her in Hyderabad. But sorry to say Mr. Nobody Nothing lacks the funds. Mr. Nobody Nothing has been trying very hard to make the conversations with her erotic. But apprehension and also not knowing what her response would be is retarding Mr. Nobody Nothing from this amorous advance.
Is Mr. Nobody Nothing a writer-artist-author? Mr. Nobody Nothing would love to feather himself with self praise but again Mr. Nobody Nothing is stoic about being recognized and writes because his phallus flows with
the abundance of words
She was my batch mate while I was doing my Bachelor’s in Education. I am revealing her real name as Latha. We became inseparable friends. We used to talk of everything under the Sun. When the classes were over we used to walk close to each other, talking, laughing and giggling.
She was brown in color…Boy she had remarkable eyes….They were so large, black and her look, her gaze set me into an erotic garden of bliss. I loved the way she used to look… soulful look full of feelings…. In the college it was a strict rule that women should wear saris. I have always admired her body which so buxomly delicious. Her breasts were a round flowing meadow. Her nipples used to strain out of her blouse like swollen grapes. She had a belly that was so melodiously snuggy.
I used to ask her about her married life… I was so eager at that time to know how she shared the pastures of her bed …She used to giggle at me and smile so mischievously…and then sigh ….ohhhh! I could gauge from her tone that it was not so fulfilling…
Being sexually starved, a lot of thoughts swam through my mind…Should I ask her whether I can take her to a distant city and then book a room and cajole her to make love to me….The thought of fucking sensuous Latha would give me Goosebumps on my skin… My tongue, longing for her pleasured garden would salivate to abundance… I would relish and swallow my spit thinking when a chance would arise….How much I longed to squeeze her melon breasts, suckle them like a tender lamb sucking them with the fury of appetite. How, I long to make love to her, experimenting all kinds of styles and positions…But I did not have the courage to ask her, as I was so afraid of being refused. How many times I have wasted all my wet pearls all lying in disarray on the ground.
Days have passed, weeks too, years….now it’s a long span of time. To my surprise, she comes to me in my dreams, waking me from solitude, and fondling me with the petals of Eros. I tried searching for her in Facebook but my search ended in vain….
I always dream of seeing her by luck, accident or coincidence. But I hope to someday meet her and copulate with her and add a new meaning to my existence.