Pretty Vile Girl

by Rickie Khosla

  Neither had she forgotten that other time, about a month ago, when it had been hard to miss the tell-tale bulge in his jeans. They had been standing too close to each other discussing some of Arty’s bank paperwork, when Karan had suddenly decided to seat himself down on a sofa and cross his legs!

  Lust. A primal emotion that knew no propriety. Like a virile, handsome man having an erection in the presence of a sexy, buxom woman, no matter how shredded on the inside she might be. It was such acts, bereft of suitableness and decorum, that had helped Jazmeen rebound from the profound loss of Arty. Signs that life around her had continued to coast along unaware or uncaring of her anguish. Of the film shootings that kept her so busy that she didn’t have a moment to remember how sad she was. Or a blazing Twitter war with a bitchy co-star who needed to be put in her place with messages so fiery they could set water ablaze. Or even a steamy photoshoot for a film publication that couldn’t wait until ‘next month’ because the PR folks had timed it with the release of her latest film.

  Yes, life wasn’t going to wait for anyone, not even the mighty Jazmeen. That old question ‘Why me?’ that had swirled in her head when she had touched Arty’s cold, lifeless body had long perished in the travails of todays and the to-dos of tomorrows. Where was the time to even think about yesterday?

  ‘How long are you going to sit there with that bloody stained thing on?’ Jazmeen demanded. The stain of the wine that Karan had spilled on himself fifteen minutes ago was beginning to bother her. ‘That kurta is ruined, by the way. Such lovely fabric too.’

  Karan looked down at the reddish flare on his chest. ‘I have plenty more of these,’ he said.

  ‘I know. You bloody politicians and your uniform. But, you do look nice in a kurta.’

  ‘Ah, a compliment!’ Karan mocked.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a shirt—have I?’ Jazmeen said.

  Karan laughed. ‘You make it sound like you have always seen me shirtless like Salman Khan,’ he said making her smile.

  ‘Actually, our Sallu Bhai I have seen without pants too!’ she replied, and then narrated an episode when she had inadvertently walked into the mega star’s make-up room once while he was changing.

  ‘Is he better looking than I am?’ Karan teased once the story was over.

  ‘With or without a shirt?’ Jazmeen played along. ‘Remember, I haven’t seen you in either look.’

  ‘Well, coming to think of it, you haven’t seen me without pants either. So how would you judge anyway?’

  Jazmeen broke into her characteristic tinkling laughter. She was enjoying this impromptu flirtation by her handsome company. ‘Is it strange,’ she wondered, ‘that I find being with him so—easy?’ She had often been feeling like that lately. The first time she had caught herself looking forward to Karan’s visits, she had felt a hot rush of guilt, a sense of being deceitful to the memory of Arty. After all, the love of her life hadn’t even been gone that long. But that was not the case any longer. The joy of sharing a teasing remark with another man now felt unbridled from any sense of guilt or shame. There was no point in denying the obvious anymore.

  Jazmeen was attracted to Karan.

  She suddenly felt an extraordinary desire to touch his face. To move her fingers over the laugh lines around the corners of his eyes.

  Karan was saying something. She shook herself from her distracting thoughts to concentrate.

  ‘I really don’t look good in a shirt,’ he was confessing sheepishly.

  Jazmeen made a decision.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that!’ she said, and sprang up from her chair.

  Karan looked at her quizzically.

  ‘There are a thousand beautiful shirts in the bedroom. Why don’t we see you try some of them? There is a light blue one in which I think you will look really handsome.’ She started to walk away from the dining table. ‘Get up!’

  ‘You’re serious!’ Karan smiled, as he followed after a minute, shaking his head.

  Neither considered for a moment whose shirts were being talked about. The dead man’s possessions didn’t need to be held as untouchable relics of worship any longer.

  Karan hadn’t stepped into Jazmeen’s bedroom since that fatal night some five months ago. And in all his previous visits to Mumbai since then, he had either stayed at The Leela, or in the guest bedroom of the penthouse, safely away and in control of his lustful desires for the woman sleeping just a few feet away, but on the other side of a six-inch thick concrete wall. Each of those nights, he had imagined what she might be wearing to bed, and, each time he had wished that the only thing she wore was her naked skin. Once he had been so tempted to find out for himself that he had had to jerk off his craving into submission.

  And now, here he was, with his kurta off, facing the mirror of a large walk-in closet, with Jazmeen beside him, both staring at each other’s reflection. The wardrobe was lined with a million silks, chiffons, cottons, shoes and other female thingys on the left. And row upon row of shirts, jackets, jeans and pants on the right—neatly arrayed on hangers as if they were on display at a high-end men’s retail store. Beckoning, but sterile. Impersonal. Bereft of even the tiniest traces of the man who once wore them.

  She was staring at his chest in the mirror. It was breathtaking. The hair began three inches below his Adam’s apple and spread out on both flanks, a modest sprinkle which seemed to get dense only around the nipples and in a dark trail that began circling the navel and then ran along a straight line right into his 501 Original Levi’s. There was not an extra ounce of flab at his waist. Circling the jeans was a thick belt—leather, brown, with a large buckle that said D&G.

  Jazmeen wasn’t going to hazard into the territory below that belt-line. She brought her eyes back to catch Karan’s. He had been staring at her too, as if waiting for her to make a move. She made one, carelessly pulling a shirt off one of the hangers on the right, and handed it to him. It wasn’t blue, like the one she had alluded to at the dining table—just some random one that her trembling hands had found.

  ‘Here, try this one,’ she said, her words betraying no emotion, but the tone husky, weighted with anticipation.

  He took the garment silently. His big arms, muscled at the right places with just the right amount of sinew, slid into the sleeves one at a time. The shirt sat comfortably on the shoulders. The parted plackets were six inches away, still revealing the magnificent chest. There was no move to fasten the buttons. In fact, Karan started to slowly unfasten the belt clasp and let the belt hang loosely on the two sides of his groin, then unclasp the top button of the jeans, followed by each of the three buttons that covered his modesty. The partly open pants were ready to tuck in the lower hem of the shirt.

  Then he stopped. There was no sound in the confined space which suddenly, felt warm and small. A fine sheen of wetness broke out on Jazmeen’s forehead. Her eyes held his gaze, not once dropping down to the white boxer briefs that were partly exposed, pushed out by an organ that had already lost patience.

  Several silent moments elapsed. The closet was getting fiery now. Jazmeen, finally, peeled her eyes away from Karan’s face and to the shirt. She raised her hands to his shoulders and gently turned his body to face hers. He was still staring at her, at her damp skin and her eyes that were trying to focus elsewhere. Jazmeen moved her hands on the fabric, as if smoothing it of imaginary creases, the warmth of her palms meeting that of his skin through the thin layer of cotton. She pulled the sides of the shirt together, covering the exposed chest. She started with the second-from-top button, the one after the collar and inserted it into the loop meant for it. Then the next. And the fourth. As her hands fluttered purposively over his body, Karan raised his right hand to the second-from-top button and opened it. Then the next. And the fourth, quietly unraveling all her hard work. Jazmeen didn’t protest. She had already clasped the final button at the bottom and was now starting to tuck in the front of the shirt bottom into the parted jeans. Her hands held the hems and gin
gerly snuck them around the crotch, first from the left and then from the right, both times avoiding the giant swell in the middle. As she stepped in even closer to him, to take her hands behind his back and around his buttocks, he could feel the hot air exiting her nostrils on to his chest. It was an awkward symphony of hands—hers dabbing the shirt tails on his ass, his unclasping the final button and pulling the shirt out from the front.

  Jazmeen straightened again and stepped back just an inch, observing the ruination of her handiwork, as Karan ejected the hem from the back and slowly took off the shirt. She stood silently as his hands then unmoored his pants from where they had been resting and let them fall to his ankles. He slowly lifted his legs, one at a time, freeing his body from the jeans altogether.

  Jazmeen closed her eyes when Karan stepped forward. She first felt a hand clasp her left breast, then another as it parted her hair and held the back of her head. Next she felt something large and unyielding next to her crotch. And finally a mouth that came upon hers—full, firm, slightly alcohol-y, ticklish with a day-old stubble. Her lips parted slightly, allowing his warm tongue to slither into her mouth. Involuntarily, she sucked at its juices. Within the next second, Karan’s entire uncovered body was pressing against hers, engulfing it with the raging blaze of the unsatiated hunger that he had carried within for months. Jazmeen’s arms rose from her sides on to his back. She drew him closer, very mindful now of the hard object knocking at her pyjama’s door. Her hands traversed his damp back, quickly moving up to his shoulders, and then slowly dropping down along both sides of the spine until they reached the top of his underwear. She held his buttocks. They felt muscular, too large for her small hands.

  Karan’s hand was now inside her loose T-shirt. There was no bra to be dealt with. The fingers were playing with the left breast, almost kneading it, while the thumb nudged the firm nipple. Momentarily, his mouth pulled away from hers. His eyes stared directly into hers, as if he was suddenly desirous to know if they were doing the right thing. The response on her face was clear and instant. She looked quizzical. ‘Why have you stopped?’ her tattered breaths appeared to ask. It was all he needed to see. In one swoop, he pulled her T-shirt over her head and off her body. Next he pulled down her linen pyjamas. His face registered surprise for a second. She wore no panties. He had a smile when his lips found hers again and his hand plunged into the wet heat between her legs. He felt her convulse once. He knew why. She hadn’t had sex in almost five months.

  She was a sight to behold in bed. Her hair was sprawled around her face like a halo. The lips shone with the constant smattering of saliva from her tongue. Some inches below were her magnificent breasts, each just a trifle off-kilter because of their largeness and weight, perky and brown. The ribcage seemed to rise and fall, rhythmically marking its lined impressions on the soft skin with each breath. The naval buttoned inwards on a pancake flat stomach. The only other presence of body hair was in the two narrow folds between her legs, neatly manicured. The legs were long, ending with toenails pointing downwards, trying to control an orgasm that seemed imminent.

  He lowered himself slowly atop her. His face moved down to her right breast and then just under it, at the fold of skin where the mound rises from the chest, where even the tidiest of women still taste salty. His tongue extracted the sweaty flavour that he loved, before moving to take her brown cookies into his mouth. There was a soft moan as he sucked her breasts, which caused his cock to harden beyond the hardest it had ever been.

  There was no condom. Neither had time to fret about that, especially when she took him in her hand and guided him inside her. His face was by hers now, observing her intently as she orgasmed within seconds of receiving him. Her lower jaw quivered as she hurriedly gulped air. When he tried to slow down a bit—allowing her a breather so she could relish the rapture—she thrust her hips against his body urging him not to stop. She brought up her head from the pillow and kissed him.

  The slow dance on the bed lasted fifteen minutes. Jazmeen came three times. By the time Karan shuddered and collapsed on her shoulder, a mass of muscle and sweat, the two had realised that each had just had the best fuck of their lives.

  Ever.

  Sleep was out of the question for a few hours. So the new lovers stayed up and talked. They talked about life, about Bollywood, Mumbai, Delhi, orphanages, Arty, Right-dot-Comm, and Lakhani. When fatigue did take over, it was deep and serene.

  They woke up at noon the next day and made love again.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready to leave? Otherwise Saran will realise that you intend to fuck him,’ she said as they lay in bed after.

  ‘He will know soon enough anyway.’

  Jazmeen laughed.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Talking about fucking, what will your mother say if she finds out that I’m sleeping with you now?’

  ‘Forget her,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘No, really. She probably already thinks that somehow her younger son died because of me. “God knows what this whore has in store for my older one now!” The thought must be keeping her up nights!’

  Karan laughed casually at her remark. It had a mild undercurrent of nervousness that Jazmeen did not catch.

  16

  The Endgame – Part I

  Present Day

  The stainless steel frame of the Smith and Wesson M&P pistol felt clammy and warm in her shaky hand. Her head was beginning to spin, making her doubt her ability to take a clean shot at his heart. She felt as if she was about to lose consciousness. The man facing her was still talking, his face botched with anguish—but she had stopped listening several minutes ago. She had heard enough. The only thing she wanted now was for this drama to end.

  But her finger wouldn’t move!

  She felt a trickle of sweat cascade down the side of her head and run along her left ear. Its ticklish itch almost made her want to giggle, as if she was mocking her own failing, laughing at her sudden inability to take ‘matters’ in her own hands, so to speak. She had felt the same thing only once before, many years ago. Then, her hands had held a dagger, and it had been inches away from Jasmine Bhatia’s heart. But right at that crucial moment, she had felt foolishly hesitant. Laughably indecisive. Weak.

  All those years since that night, and yet it was as if nothing much had changed. Her finger still wouldn’t move. Whoever said ‘Murder is Easy’ was lying!

  She shifted her eyes momentarily to the floor. Karan lay there, gasping for air. The blotch of blood on his white kurta looked like a giant bouquet of red roses now—in pristine arrangement, moist, as if dampened by a squirt from a spray bottle. Next to him sat Sareen, his hand on Karan’s chest, pressing hard on the large hole in the skin. She wasn’t sure if that action was helping in stemming the flow of blood at all. The piercing intensity of red was making her nauseous, distracting her from the job she had to do.

  A slight movement from the gunman facing her snapped her back to attention. He appeared to take a small step forward. She decided she needed to do the same. Take a small step forward. A giant leap towards closure. This was it.

  The Endgame.

  Her hand was still unsteady but her mind was suddenly, surprisingly—at peace. She closed her eyes. Her mind immediately conjured up slow-moving pictures; Arty, their home, his death. The past. But that was not what she wanted to see. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, forcing the images to change. The future was what she wanted to see. After all, the future was all that mattered! And in it, were visions of what lay ahead. Of what she wanted. Of what she could have. Of what she could… be. She only had to let go of the past.

  She just needed to calm herself down.

  She randomly remembered that the Hindi word for the state of mind she was seeking was—sheetal.

  ‘Kill him!’ someone yelled.

  Jazmeen pulled the trigger.

  The 9mm bullet whizzed out of the barrel at light-speed and caught Manjrekar in the heart. The first thing that fell to
the floor was the standard-issue police service pistol he had held in his right hand. Followed by the rest of him. He took four large gasps from his shattered lungs, until his breath stopped.

  The tiny spycam, its size no bigger than a 5-Star chhota pack, was relaying the drama live from the small 10-by-15 square feet make-up room inside Siri Fort to the hundreds of millions tuned in to IndiAction! TV channel. The entire nation had come to a standstill since the hostage drama began almost an hour ago. The images from the small camera appeared smoky, possibly because they were ablaze with drama. Sound from the room came only in spurts, so it wasn’t very clear what was being discussed. Yet, each time anyone in the hostage room had as much as even trembled, the national audience had let out a collective gasp. Now, finally seeing the gunman collapse to the ground—and Jazmeen drop next to Karan in a heap of relief—the country knew that their national ordeal was over.

  The Endgame had ended.

  But a Superstardom had begun.

  The nation’s favourite new star had just become a National Heroine.

  Two hours ago, the evening had started propitiously enough with the notes of ‘Mere desh ki dharti’ playing in the background. As per protocol, all senior members associated with the National Film Awards were assembled in a line to receive Prime Minister Satyendra Saran as he stepped out of the limo. The first person to shake his hand was his Information and Broadcasting minister. Karan smiled affably and Saran acknowledged him in kind. Next came Chandrachur Singh, Convenor, National Film Awards, who stepped forward and clasped the PM’s right hand and held it tightly—like a parent holding his child at the Maha Kumbh Mela.

  ‘Good evening, Sir! How was your journey? Hope it was comfortable!’ the excited host said.

  ‘Very much so, thank you, Singh Saahab,’ Saran responded. The ‘journey’ from the Prime Minister’s Residence to Siri Fort had taken exactly twelve minutes in the Mercedes S-class bulletproof limousine. What else could it have been but comfortable?