Mohanaswamy

by Vasudhendra

  Pushing their way across the press of people, Mohanaswamy and Shantanu felt each other’s bodies and flames of desire shot through them. They took no time to find out that both their needs were the same. Mohanaswamy gently caressed the baby’s cheeks and asked, ‘What’s your name, sweetie?’ On the pretext of taking the little boy from the father’s arms, Mohanaswamy’s hand touched Shantanu’s hairy chest. Shantanu did not object. In fact, he responded warmly, leaning in on Mohanaswamy at every pretext while standing in the queue. Mohanaswamy marvelled at the way lust prevails over man with least regard for time and space. Even when you stand in the temple, folding your hands before god, you may, without a pinch of guilt, enjoy sensual pleasure from a body pressing from behind.

  By the time they came out of the temple, they had exchanged their mobile numbers. Shantanu’s Tamil wife, who had gone to get the sacred rice, came back after a while and took the baby from her husband’s arms.

  Earlier, Mohanaswamy would bring boys home boldly, without having to give any explanation to anybody. But now he could not do so as he feared Ramadhar finding out. He considered going to Shantanu’s house. Shantanu worked from home two days a week and his wife three days a week, to look after their child. They both were software engineers. They earned handsome salaries and lived in a luxury apartment on the fourteenth floor. Mohanaswamy liked their spacious house. But he felt somewhat guilty about these secret meetings. He found the couple’s one-year-old son to be a problem. Sometimes, when Mohanaswamy and Shantanu lay in bed, the little boy would come crawling, playing with his Lego toys and trying to stand up holding on to the bed. ‘Honey, please go now,’ Shantanu would plead. Sometimes, the baby would start crying and a naked Shantanu would run around the house looking for the feeding bottle as Mohanaswamy sat watching the entire scene helplessly. By the time Shantanu came back, Mohanaswamy’s zeal would have fizzled out.

  Then there was one more problem. Right in front of the bed, on the wall, there was a photo framing Shantanu with his wife and kid. Mohanaswamy’s eyes would fall on it every time he had sex with Shantanu. The photo reminded him of Shantanu’s happy married life. As did the food kept in the kitchen, the shampoo bottles and soaps lined up in the bathroom, baby diapers lying in the bedroom, the pillow covers with ‘I Love You’ embroidered on them and the doormat outside the house that read ‘Welcome’ – all triggering a sense of guilt in him. He sometimes wondered why Shantanu, who had such a loving family, craved for another body. One day, just before leaving, he asked Shantanu directly.

  Shantanu wasn’t expecting this question. He sat down on the edge of the bed, looking down at his toes, not knowing what to say.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Mohanaswamy said wistfully, stroking his shoulders.

  ‘You like to make love only to men. And so does my wife. You both see the world with the same eyes. But for me it is not so simple. My body craves for both male and female bodies. Unless I have them both, I feel incomplete. My parents washed their hands off after getting me married. But for me, it is only half the meal. What do I do? I haven’t done any injustice to her. I love her a lot. And right from rinsing the baby’s bum to driving the car for the family, I do everything for them. Tell me, what else can I do? Are you trying to tell me that I should deprive my body of its needs? Aren’t you being cruel?’ he asked, tears in his eyes.

  Mohanaswamy felt sorry for him. ‘Take it easy. I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said softly.

  It wasn’t long before that their relationship ran its course. In fact, Mohanaswamy knew from the very beginning that it would not last long. Married men are always obsessed with their families. And if they have kids, it is very difficult to catch them especially on the weekends. But if their wives go to their parents’ place for a holiday, these men will be after their gay friends, pleading them to come home. And they will plunder all they can in that short period. And if their wives call when they are in bed with their gay friends, they will mumble, ‘Yes honey … I am at home … playing with the baby … Miss you … Please come soon … Love you … Hug you.’ When they reeled out lies after lies, Mohanaswamy just hated it.

  Mohanaswamy had observed how a once handsome groom became lazy after marriage. His wife and her family members put him on the pedestal. Since he took his wife for granted to fulfill all his physical and other needs, he did not care to maintain his body and soon ran into fat. Mohanaswamy thought of his former partner Karthik, who, once so handsome, had now become so unattractive that Mohanaswamy could not fancy him even in his dreams. Even Karthik’s wife, he concluded, may not be allowing her plump, middle-aged husband to come near her. Shantanu Biswas too was on the same course. His cheeks were swelling and his tummy was showing. ‘You better start going to the gym, Shantanu, or at least go for brisk walks,’ Mohanaswamy advised him a couple of times to which Shantanu just nodded.

  And then, one day, the unthinkable happened. That evening, after making love, Mohanaswamy and Shantanu fell fast asleep, knowing for sure that Shantanu’s wife would come back from office only after 9 p.m. The child also went off to sleep. Suddenly the door bell rang. ‘Mohana, please go and see who is at the door. It must be the newspaper boy asking for money. Just tell him to come tomorrow…’ Shantanu pleaded lazily. Mohanaswamy got up reluctantly, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to open the door. He was startled to see Ramadhar at the door. Ramadhar with the vibhuti on his forehead, a dab of kumkum between his eyebrows, dressed in white and a helmet in his hand. His eyes glistened with tears. Though not so sad himself, Mohanaswamy felt sorry for Ramadhar. And he did not know how to square it with him. ‘I am sorry,’ he stammered, stepped forward to stroke Ramadhar’s hair.

  ‘Don’t touch me, please,’ Ramadhar said loudly with a sullen face. By then Shantanu came out from the bedroom. He was at a loss.

  ‘Ram guru, please come inside. He is my close friend, Mohanaswamy,’ he said, putting his hands around Mohanaswamy’s bare shoulders. Embarrassed, Mohanaswamy took Shantanu’s hands off his shoulders. ‘Mohana, meet my friend, Ramadhar, a very good yoga teacher. You were insisting that I should lose weight, right? So I have appointed him. He will now be coming to my house twice a week to teach me yoga. You too can join in if you are interested…’ he went on.

  Ramadhar stormed out and ran downstairs. ‘Guruji, why are you going back?’ Shantanu cried, running after Ramadhar.

  The baby woke up to the noise and started crying. ‘Don’t cry, my boy. Your father will come back soon,’ Mohanaswamy tried to console the child.

  Darshan was dark-skinned, just like Lord Krishna, Mohanaswamy’s favourite deity. In the photo on the dating app he looked dashing – a broad chest without hair, dark nipples, deep navel, narrow waist, strong arms, a lovable face, straight nose and shining eyes. The stone stud in his right ear and the copper bracelet on his right forearm suited him well. The low rise jeans revealed his red underwear, taking Mohanaswamy’s breath away.

  The first couple of months after the unedifying experience at Shantanu’s house, Mohanaswamy was quite upset. At the same time, he was relieved to be out of Ramadhar’s grip. But it was not so easy to forget Ramadhar and the good care he had taken of him. He recalled the sufferings he went through after Karthik ditched him. Now he himself had ditched a good companion mercilessly and also had the stone-heart to justify it. As the guilt pierced him, he sent a ‘sorry’ message to Ramadhar. He also tried ringing him up. But Ramadhar did not reply. People who live life on their own terms are adamant. And they can never be happy. Concluding so, Mohanaswamy decided to forget about him.

  At the same time, Shantanu did not get any closer to him. Shantanu’s needs were only physical. His mind always revolved around his family and Mohanaswamy knew that a physical relationship without mental bonding would not last long. He lost interest in going to Shantanu’s place. Once or twice, he invited Shantanu to come over to his house, but Shantanu did not agree as he had to bring his son along, who was growing up, saying a few words by then. Worse, he had learnt to click
photos on his father’s mobile. What if something untoward happened and his wife found them out?

  It was around then that he met Darshan.

  Darshan was in his thirties. Mohanaswamy sent him long messages extolling his physique. Strangely, there was no reply. Not ready to accept rejection, Mohanaswamy sent him another lengthy message after two days. Again, there was no reply.

  ‘Any problem?’ Mohanaswamy asked.

  ‘No English,’ pat came the reply.

  ‘Kannadadavana?’ Mohanaswamy typed in Kannada text, asking if he was a Kannadiga.

  Darshan was very happy. ‘Are you also a Kannadiga? I don’t know English well. Here everybody speaks English,’ he replied in Kannada, using English font.

  Now Mohanaswamy understood his problem. Most dating apps use an English language interface, the users are also expected to communicate in English. People who developed them didn’t seem to have given any thought to making them user-friendly for non- English-language users who are comfortable only in the vernacular. Mohanaswamy wondered how in this modern world, only those who knew English thrived. And that included gays.

  Thereafter Darshan sent messages after messages in Kannada using English font. Once during a chat, he asked, ‘Maga, Neenu hasigenyage keytiya illa keysikoltiya?’ In bed, will you be fucking me or will you get fucked?

  Mohanaswamy blushed coyly as he was not used to gay slang in Kannada. In English, its equivalent was ‘top or bottom?’ but the Kannada phrase sounded funny. He too replied in Kannada. Darshan was very happy. ‘In that case, I am sure we will make a happy pair,’ he texted.

  They decided to go out for dinner. Since Darshan was a non-vegetarian and Mohanaswamy was a vegetarian they decided to go to Nagarjuna, an Andhra-style restaurant. Darshan came in gaudy clothes and cooling glasses. He is perhaps not used to going to hotels, Mohanaswamy thought. Without even going through the menu, Mohanaswamy placed order for a vegetarian thali while Darshan ordered mutton biriyani. It was then that Darshan asked him, ‘Are you a Brahmin?’

  ‘No Darshan, a gay belongs to no caste. People from no caste or community will accept him within their fold,’ he said.

  Darshan readily agreed to come to Mohanaswamy’s house. On the way he asked, ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Mohanaswamy said. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I am not yet married. But my mother insists that I should get married. I don’t know what to do, I don’t fancy women very much. Even though fucking them shouldn’t be a problem…’

  Mohanaswamy laughed heartily at this. ‘Darshan, marriage is not all about sex. It is the union of two persons living together. Can you live with a woman all your life?’

  Pondering over it for a moment, Darshan said, ‘To be honest, I haven’t fucked a single woman so far in life. But if it comes to that, I think I can do it. Look here. See my strength,’ he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and displayed his biceps.

  Mohanaswamy laughed. Consumed with desire, he gently ran his fingers over the Scorpio tattoo on his upper arm and exclaimed, ‘Super!’ Then he added, ‘But Darshan, think twice before you take a decision. After all it’s the question of someone else’s life too.’

  When he unlocked the door, it was dark. Two hungry bodies met on that cold winter night. Mohanaswamy, who had tasted many bodies, found Darshan’s towering aggression somewhat special. His hot breath, his virility, his perfect moves – his vigour seemed to be so natural, not something acquired artificially in a gym. Mohanaswamy considered it was his sheer luck that he ran into Darshan. For him Darshan was like a Gandharva, a heavenly being, descending from the world of Manmatha, the Lord of Love.

  When Darshan loosened his grip, it was past midnight. Bathed in sweat and tired, Mohanaswamy exulted in pain and pleasure. He switched on the fan and its cool air made the hair on his body stand on its end. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered into Darshan’s ears. Darshan smiled. Mohanaswamy kissed him on the chest and got up from the bed. As he walked towards the bathroom, he stepped on his undergarments which lay on the floor. ‘You monster … you big monster,’ he said flirtatiously, throwing them at Darshan. He then switched on the lights and went to the bathroom.

  When he came back, Darshan was sitting on the bed glumly, separating Mohanaswamy’s janivara, the sacred thread, tangled in his vest. His eyes were wet and he looked vexed.

  ‘What happened, Darshan?’ Mohanaswamy asked.

  ‘Why did you lie to me? I asked you whether you are a Brahmin…’ he said, tears in his eyes.

  ‘How does that matter, Darshan? I don’t attach any significance to my caste.’

  ‘Then why do you wear this janivara?’

  ‘That is because my sister often conducts family functions at the Raghavendra Swami temple. Wearing the janivara is a must for men at such religious places. Otherwise they don’t serve us food. And I don’t want to upset my family for something this petty. So I just wear this because I don’t know when I will need it. Except this, the janivara holds no significance for me,’ he asserted.

  ‘But you were born into a house of Brahmins, right?’

  ‘Yes. But how does it matter?’

  ‘It matters. Because if I sleep with Brahmins, I will be incurring their wrath. They will curse me.’

  ‘Who told you all this, Darshan?’

  ‘My mother,’ he sighed.

  Mohanaswamy did not know how to handle the situation. He just sat besides Darshan, caressing his back. ‘Relax, Darshan,’ he said.

  ‘My name is Madesha … not Darshan. I come from a village near Chamarajnagar.’

  Mohanaswamy quietly nodded his head, allowing him to speak.

  ‘I am from a lower caste. My father was working at the house of a Brahmin family. They were good people. They took good care of us. But a young, married woman of the family, who came back as a widow at an early age, was drawn to my father, who was so very good looking. She trapped him despite his resistance. Thereafter a curse befell our family. My sister, who was engaged to get married in a couple of months, died of a mysterious disease. My mother fell ill. Possessed by some ghost, she would wake up in the middle of the night and beat my father black and blue. I don’t know what went wrong, one day my father’s body was found floating in a well. People in the town told us that the Brahmins’ curse made it all happen. I did not feel like living there any longer. I came to the city in search of livelihood as nobody would give me a job in that goddamned village. But before I left, my mother warned me not to sleep with any Brahmin girl as it would only do me harm. I promised her I would not. Now she is also not well, she is counting her days. And then I have this bloody habit of sleeping with men. I think this too is a curse from the Brahmins,’ he said with a heavy sigh.

  Mohanaswamy was clueless as to how to react to abstruse story, full of unfounded beliefs and superstitions. If he dismissed it outright, he knew he would be hurting Darshan.

  ‘Hey, Darsan!’ he said.

  ‘Not Darshan. I am Madesha…’ he corrected him.

  ‘Madesha, don’t be silly. I don’t possess the power either to curse you or to gift you with a boon. Anyway, you had promised your mother that you would not sleep with Brahmin women, right? But I am not a woman, I am a man. So where is the question of a curse?’

  ‘But how does it make any difference, magaa? When I touch someone sexually, whether a boy or a girl, it makes no difference. Tell me, why did you hide the fact that you are a Brahmin?’ he wailed.

  ‘If you are so scared about the curse, do one thing. In the living room outside, there is a photo of Lord Venkataramana hanging on the wall. Go and fold your hands before him. God is bigger than everyone. He will forgive all sins.’

  This seemed to appeal to Madesha. He slowly got up from the bed, wore his clothes and staggered out of the room. Mohanaswamy followed him and switched on the light in the hall. Madesha folded his hands before Lord Venkataramana. He then turned to Mohanaswamy and said, ‘Please don’t send me any more messages. I don’t want to sleep wi
th Brahmins.’

  Then he walked out of the house.

  MT KILIMANJARO

  It was decided to begin the last leg of the trek to Mount Kilimanjaro at the stroke of midnight on the fourth day. On the first three days, the climb began in the mornings but suddenly they were switching to midnight. Mohanaswamy was vexed. ‘This trail is not like the previous ones, my child. It is steeper and narrower. It is best if you don’t see what you are climbing, or you will be too scared to continue. Since visibility is extremely low at night, you will not get as frightened. If you see it in the morning, you will not even dare go near it,’ David explained.

  It was a pitch-dark amavasya night. ‘Light scares you, but night gives you courage.’ David had put forth this weird logic, as they stood at 4,730 metres altitude. What they perceive to be the truth is probably different here in Tanzania, Mohanaswamy thought to himself. ‘Just follow my steps, my child. I will ensure that you reach the summit at the break of dawn,’ David tried to boost him. The huge, tall and dark Maasai guide was in his early fifties and took liberty of calling Mohanaswamy ‘my child’. Mohanaswamy did not object to this display of familial affection as it came from a rough and tough looking man like David. In fact, this paradox of toughness and tenderness surprised him.

  A numbing cold had enveloped the dark, gloomy night. Mohanaswamy’s equally gloomy mind was swimming with intrusive thoughts. It is said that this ice-topped Kilimanjaro Mountain, rising from the desert planes, hides a fire in its womb. While these volcanic cones have not erupted in recent history, they could explode anytime! It suddenly seemed to him that the gigantic mountain was just waiting to spew lava. From its outer appearance nobody could judge its inner turmoil. These days, when outer appearances matter the most, who has the patience to dig inside hearts?