Mohanaswamy

by Vasudhendra

Well, you are not going to help me, right? Let it be. I know you only enjoy playing your useless flute all the time. I shall find a solution to my pain. Look at this knife, this glistening knife. How it cuts deep into my thumb, a part of my body, which is your very own creation. Look here, Krishna, how the blood is oozing out. My blood is also red like Karthik’s, let there be no doubts about it. You still don’t believe me? Okay, I will anoint you with my blood. Until now, you have bathed only in milk, curd and honey. Today you will taste blood. But even that isn’t new to you. You have bathed in blood before, every time you take birth on this earth, on the pretext of annihilating miscreants. You have lived as ten avatars and I know you are quite proud. Now I believe you are all eager to take your eleventh incarnation. If so, I will give you a curse. Accept it…

  In your eleventh avatar, you will take birth like me. Yes, like me, a faint-hearted creature, a weakling. You have enjoyed sixteen thousand women before. Now, you will know how painful it is to be in a position where no one desires you. In this avatar, when you are too weak to even raise your hand on anyone, I will see how you annihilate wrong-doers. You will be a worm in the eyes of others. Just like me. And you will suffer your pain in silence. Just like me.

  Finally, on the fourth day, Mohanaswamy managed to get some sleep. The main reason for this was a twenty-eight-year-old youth called Raghuraman, whom Mohanaswamy had got acquainted with through the internet. Hailing from Coimbatore, he now lived in Bengaluru and taught in an international school. He had a house in Basavanagudi where he lived alone.

  During the chat, he had asked for Mohanaswamy’s photo. After hesitating for a while, Mohanaswamy shared his photo with him. ‘You look smart, buddy,’ came the reply. Raghuraman had uploaded about eighteen pictures of himself on the blog. He looked nice in a couple of them.

  They decided to meet at 7 p.m. on Friday at the Coffee Day in Sheshadripuram. Mohanaswamy sent him the route map, meticulously marking all landmarks and crosses en route – a cinema hall, a super market and the one-way roads. ‘You are so organized, I like it!’ came the reply. Raghuraman shared his mobile number and asked for Mohanaswamy’s. But Mohanaswamy said he would give it only after meeting him.

  Mohanaswamy was half an hour early to Coffee Day. He had purchased a new sim card for his mobile and had memorized the number. He had inserted two condoms in his pocket, should the necessity arise. I must accept Raghuraman, no matter how he turns out to be. If minds don’t meet, it is impossible for bodies to come together. But I should be on my guard. I must not allow oral sex. After meeting once or twice, when trust is built, I must take him to a hospital to get an HIV test done. But I am not taking him home at any cost. And neither will I go to his room, even if he insists. It will be safer to book a room in a hotel.

  Raghuraman came in at seven, dressed in a pink suit. Looking around, he spotted Mohanaswamy and walked towards his table, smiling. He sat in the chair opposite him and waving his hands, said, ‘Horrible traffic you know!’ Mohanaswamy was utterly disappointed at the way Raghuraman came in, walking and swaying. His dressing sense and gestures were quite effeminate.

  No, I will not get into this relationship, Mohanaswamy decided.

  ‘What have you done to your hand?’ asked Raghuraman tenderly.

  ‘Just a small injury. I cut my hand while chopping vegetables.’

  ‘Oh my god! You should be careful,’ he said, placing his palms on his cheeks. He took Mohanaswamy’s hand, caressed the bandage and asked, ‘Is it paining a lot?’ Mohanaswamy shook his head.

  They ordered cappuccinos. ‘Shall I ask for samosas?’ asked Mohanaswamy.

  ‘No, baba, I am dieting,’ said Raghuraman coquettishly.

  Some incongruous discussions followed. Raghuraman said something about Tamil cinema, but Mohanaswamy did not know anything or anyone except Rajinikanth. Mohanaswamy spoke about cookery, but Raghuraman pointed to the fat content in each of the recipes. He loved Carnatic music, but Mohanaswamy had no taste for music except Hindi film songs. Luckily, both had no interest in cricket. They grew weary and frustrated after spending half an hour at the cafe. Mohanaswamy wanted to pay the bill, but Raghuraman stopped him. He walked straight to the counter and paid the bill. While tipping the waiter, he said, ‘Wonderful interiors.’

  Before they parted, Raghuraman asked him, ‘Can I have your mobile number?’

  Mohanaswamy reluctantly gave him a missed call. Anyway, it is a new sim, so I can throw it away tomorrow if need be, he thought.

  ‘How did you come here? I can drop you home if you want,’ Raghuraman offered.

  ‘No, thanks. My house is quite far. I will take the bus,’ replied Mohanaswamy, desperate to wriggle out.

  ‘We had a wonderful time together. It was nice meeting you,’ Raghuraman took his hand, slowly lifted it to his mouth and planted a kiss on it.

  Every hair on Mohanaswamy’s body stood on its end in disgust. He looked over his shoulders to see whether people were watching. He sighed in relief as no one seemed to be bothered about them.

  Mohanaswamy headed back home, disappointed. The unused condoms in his pocket seemed to be mocking him. After all this waiting and anxiety, I ended up meeting such a sissy. How can I share my body with a person like this? If such a person touches me, my body responds in disgust, forget being aroused. No I can’t have any relationship with him. He can never measure up to my Karthi. No comparison between my Karthi – who makes a woman’s heart curl up like a shy bud with his glance – and this idiot, who walks so coyly! No, not possible. Tomorrow I will message him and say I am not interested.

  Just then, his mobile beeped. A message had landed. It must be from Raghuraman. ‘Don’t feel sad, Mohanaswamy, but I am in search of a man who is as strong as a bull. But the way you sat, the way you spoke – I found too many feminine qualities in you. How can I share my body with you? If my decision has hurt you, please forgive me. You are a very nice person. I’m sure you will find a good man for yourself,’ Raghuraman had texted.

  Mohanaswamy was stumped. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Then, he pulled himself together and shot back a reply: ‘I wish good luck to you too. You are a nice person too. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ pat came the reply.

  Mohanaswamy took out the sim from his mobile, broke it into two pieces and threw them out of the window of the bus. He laughed at the irony of the situation. I’ll surely get some sleep tonight, he thought. Then he gently rested his head against the windowpane and closed his eyes.

  BICYCLE RIDING

  If I learn to ride a bicycle, I will turn from gay to straight.

  When this thought flashed across twenty-one-year-old Mohanaswamy’s mind, dark night had descended on the coastal state of Goa. Huge waves were crashing down on the seashore. As Mohanaswamy tossed and turned on the bed in a hotel room in that unfamiliar city, his friends, tired of cycling and braving the hot sun the whole day, were slipping into deep sleep one by one. Elsewhere in the city, owners of wine and mutton shops were downing their shutters.

  It was just about two years ago that Mohanaswamy had come across the word ‘gay’. He now identified himself with that word, though he wasn’t sure whether it really described him. For him, ‘straight’ meant every other creature on earth except him and the people of his ilk. English dailies and magazines like Debonair often used the word ‘gay’. But he didn’t know what gays were called in the vernacular. So far he had earned several monikers in the local slang – each one filling him with pain, disgust, humiliation and incredulity. But there was no equivalent word for ‘gay’ in Kannada. You wouldn’t even find it in dictionaries and newspapers.

  The first moniker Mohanaswamy got was ‘GanSu’, a short form for ‘Gandu Sule’, which, in Kannada, referred to a male prostitute. Shockingly, it was his sister, Janaki, who gave him the horrendous nickname. He was a schoolboy then, studying in the seventh standard. Even now, Mohanaswamy wondered whether his sister really knew the meaning of the word or she uttered it inadverten
tly. It was a hot summer day. A lunch had been organized for the Brahmin families of his village at the Raghavendraswamy temple. Mohanaswamy’s parents had left for the temple at ten in the morning, asking the children to join them at lunchtime. Janaki’s friends had come home to play. Mohanaswamy loved to play house with those girls. He found it more interesting than playing gilli-danda, top and marbles with boys. Though the girls forced him to go and play with boys, he wouldn’t listen. The boys always bullied him. That day too, he hung around with the girls at their doll’s wedding. They drew rangoli designs on the floor, wrapped towels around their waists as saris and tapped their feet as they sang songs. They did not notice how much time had gone by in fun and frolic until Mohanaswamy alerted that it was past twelve o’ clock and time to leave for the temple.

  If you walk barefoot on a hot summer day on the streets in Ballari district, your soles will develop boils by the time you take ten steps. The children had no other option but to walk barefoot as their lower middle class parents never bought them slippers, fearing that they might lose them while playing outdoors. So Mohanaswamy and the girls started walking barefoot. They chatted along the way, ran when they couldn’t bear the heat and stopped by under the shade of tamarind trees intermittently. As they walked, they came across a small canal, which had to be crossed to reach the temple located on the other side. A little further, a stone slab was put across the drain to facilitate the crossing of it. But to reach the slab, people had to walk a couple of yards ahead. Already exhausted, the children were in no mood to walk any further. They stopped by the canal and some of the girls hesitated to step on the slab in case they spoilt their ghagra-cholis. The canal carried human excreta and filth of the entire town.

  Leaving his sister and her friends behind, Mohanaswamy, bubbling with enthusiasm, ran towards the canal in great speed and jumped over it successfully, like Hanuman vaulting the ocean. The girls watched him aghast. ‘Come on! Jump over, just like me. Can you do it?’ Mohanaswamy screamed, standing at the other end of the drain. A couple of girls in the group tried to imitate him in vain. Others hesitated even to try. ‘Losers! Losers!’ Mohanaswamy screamed, giving them the thumbs down. ‘I am the winner, I am the winner,’ he yelped in joy. The girls were offended. Seeing him jumping around in joy, and in a bid to defend her team, Janaki yelled at him, ‘Stop it! Why are you dancing like this? Are you a prostitute? Yes, you are Gandu Sule, a male prostitute!’

  Shocked, Mohanaswamy held his breath and steadied himself. His sister’s harsh words, followed by the laughter of the girls, pierced his ears. Encouraged further by her friends’ response, Janaki repeated the word even louder. ‘Gandu Sule!’

  The incident left an indelible mark on Mohanaswamy’s psyche. But his new moniker intrigued elders as well as youngsters in the town. They shortened it to ‘GanSu’. From guilt and shame, Mohanaswamy lost confidence in whatever he did. He wondered whether he would ever be able to vault over the canal again. One day, just to reassure himself, he walked alone towards the canal and attempted to jump over it. But he fell into the filthy water. He went home and scrubbed his body with soap over and over again and poured buckets of water over himself. But the stench lingered on for over a week. Thereafter, whenever he recollected the incident, he felt the dirty water still dripping from all over his body and the stink assaulting his nostrils.

  Mohanaswamy abhorred people calling him ‘GanSu’, but he lacked the courage to stop them. Despite his pleas, people continued to tease him. Helpless, he decided to ignore them. But then something worse happened. That day he was back home after writing his mathematics exam in school. Though Mohanaswamy was good in other subjects, he found maths a tough nut to crack. He hated solving those arithmetic sums, algebraic equations and geometry theorems. Knowing his weakness in maths, his mother, who had studied till tenth standard, sat with him in the evenings and helped him with the subject. That day, after he came back from the exam, his mother was waiting for him in the frontyard, doing her chores. Mohanaswamy knew it was going to be a bad day for him as he had not done well in the exam. He sat quietly, lowering his head as his mother began scrutinizing him. She solved all the questions one by one and tallied his answers against the correct answers. When she added up the marks, it came to only 48 out of 100. Incandescent with rage, she thrashed him black and blue with a steel plate lying on the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, Amma, please forgive me,’ Mohanaswamy cried in despair.

  But his mother did not relent. ‘I toiled so hard to teach you, but still you did so badly in the exam,’ she screamed, tears flowing down her cheeks. She beat him till the bangles on her forearms broke. Then, exhausted, she flung the steel plate away and sat weeping. Mohanaswamy too wept loudly.

  After some time, his mother screamed at the top of her voice, ‘You bloody fool, you know how to dance like a prostitute, but you don’t know how to solve these sums? You bloody GanSu!’

  A shocked Mohanaswamy looked at her in total disbelief. Her words pierced through him like a sword. He had not expected it from his mother. In fact, it was she who came to his rescue whenever his sister called him GanSu. ‘He is a boy. Don’t offend him like that. If I hear you using that dirty word again, I won’t spare you,’ she would warn. But that day Mohanaswamy’s whole world came crashing down. He felt as if God himself had deceived him.

  Realizing how harsh she had been, his mother felt sorry for him. ‘Stop crying now,’ she gruffly ordered him, trying to put up a straight face. But he did not stop. She tried to hug him. He brushed her hands off his shoulders. ‘Please stop crying, darling,’ she said in a soft voice, wiping his tears. Her soothing words intensified his grief and he wept louder. ‘Please don’t cry, my boy, I am so sorry, please forgive me. I promise I will never call you that again. I never intended to … the word slipped off my tongue in a fit of rage,’ she cried. They wept in each other’s arms. After a while, his mother said, ‘Come, let’s have lunch. I have prepared your favourite dry methi-daal curry.’ Mohanaswamy followed her. After all, he couldn’t resist the temptation of the methi-daal curry, the aroma of fenugreek leaves, tur daal and grated coconut already filling the room. His mother made him sit in front of him, and instead of serving food in a plate as usual, she lovingly put the morsels in his hand, watching him swallow them one by one.

  ‘You are so good at other subjects, but why are you scared of mathematics?’ she asked him gently, putting a morsel in his hand. Gulping it down, Mohanaswamy looked her in the eye and asked, ‘Tell me, Amma, what’s the meaning of Gandu Sule? Why do people call me so?’

  ‘Forget it, my son. It is nonsense. Why should anybody call you so? You are not a prostitute. You will grow up into a strong, handsome man, who can keep a hundred prostitutes,’ she said, trying to boost his mood.

  ‘But why do people target only me?’ Mohanaswamy asked naively. ‘I haven’t heard them name-calling any of the other boys.’

  His mother did not know what to say. After a while she replied, ‘You must also behave like boys. Then nobody will dare call you so.’

  ‘But how to behave like boys, Amma?’

  ‘The way you speak, the way your voice sounds, the movement of your eyes, your body language, the games you play … everything should be like that of boys.’

  ‘But who taught the other boys all that? Nobody taught me.’

  ‘Why would anybody teach such things? God teaches them everything before sending them to earth.’

  ‘Then, why didn’t God teach me? What was my fault?’

  Silence descended on them for a while. Tears rolled down his mother’s cheeks as she dropped the morsel in the bowl.

  ‘Why are you crying, Amma?’ Mohanaswamy asked in concern.

  ‘It was not your fault, my boy. We are the culprits – myself and your father. It was our fault,’ she said, sobbing.

  ‘What was your fault?’

  ‘They say children born to older parents end up in a garbage bin. We didn’t realize it then,’ she said, staring at the ceiling.


  Mohanaswamy did not understand what she was trying to say.

  ‘Tell me, what is your father’s age now?’ she asked him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mohanaswamy.

  ‘On the second day after this Ugadi, your father will be seventy. Now tell me, how old are you?’ she asked him.

  ‘I am thirteen,’ said Mohanaswamy.

  ‘That means, when you were born, your father was fifty-seven. I was nearing forty. It was his second marriage. I had remained unmarried for long. So I agreed to marry him though he was much older than me. But age never comes in the way of men’s desires. I told him not to go for a second child at that age. But he did not listen. So you were born. What to do? It is all my karma,’ she sighed.

  Mohanaswamy was too young to comprehend what his mother was trying to say. All that he understood was that he was made to suffer because of his father’s desire. But he loved his father. He was such a gentleman, always kind. And he never abused or beat Mohanaswamy. So it was hard for him to think ill of him.

  Yet another ugly scene unfolded at home one night which changed the way Mohanaswamy perceived life. His father was out of town for some work. The three of them had just finished dinner. Janaki usually cleared the plates from the floor and mopped it. She hated doing it but had no choice. That night, she was looking for some excuse to skip the work. She had bought some mehendi to apply on her hands and so, after dinner, she quietly went and sat in a corner mixing the mehendi. The plates were lying on the floor for quite some time.

  ‘Why have you not put away these dirty plates yet? Can’t you see they are drying up? If you leave them to dry, evil may befall us,’ her mother shouted from the kitchen.

  Janaki, who was busy mixing mehendi, told Mohanaswamy, ‘Oye, GanSu, please, you do this task for me today.’

  To this Mohanaswamy firmly said, ‘I won’t do it. It’s not a man’s job.’

  ‘Oh! So you call yourself a man? You are not a man, you are a GanSu, just a GanSu, GanSu…’ she said in a singsong.