SÂGAR AND RÂJES

Sâgar walked toward the chowk. It was a rainy day and there weren't as many crazy shoppers on the street. He reached the intersection and saw the marble plaque proclaiming, in elegant gold lettering, that it was Sanjay Bhaguram Tambe Chowk. He leaned on the rusting red capacitor-box to the plaque's left. It was almost entirely covered in Bollywood film posters and adverts for the latest SSC coaching class in the suburbs. An autorickshaw stood before him. By instinct, he narrowed his eyes and peered inside it to check out the driver.

The driver turned out to be fortyish, with a nice moustache, and tree-trunk thighs. His eyes darted around, looking for potential passengers. He lowered his head below the auto's overhead tarpaulin and darted a glance at Sâgar too. All rickies possess "360 degree vision": like crows, they see everything at once. They look intently at every passer-by, as if willing him or her to sit inside and go somewhere. The intense eye-contact that follows is taken advantage of by some.

Sâgar was wearing a stylish F21 shirt he'd bought from Globus, designer jeans and a black jacket. His glasses were fogging - he'd just stepped out of the air-conditioned 422 bus at Moti Mahal. He slowly took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. He then put them on and gave the rickie an intent stare. Pavlovially, he licked his lips. Languorously. The rickshawala, who was about to break his gaze to look at other would-be passengers, caught the force in Sâgar's gaze and held it. Sâgar's tongue did a dance of its own, caressing his soft lips, and letting his stubble bristle on its tip.

The rickie had Been Around The Block. He slowly massaged his big basket between his spayed tree trunks, promising the onlooker a treat in its tight white cage of frayed trousers. He quickly raised his left hand and turned the meter to half-mast with a click, to ensure that a passenger didn't disrupt this eloquent mating dance being played out in the hectic chowk. Anything could happen in a moment. A BEST bus could come rushing in, honk noisily and force the rickie to move - or face the wrath of the raging BEST driver. A pandu could materialize, swearing and whistling shrilly, telling the rickie to get the hell out of the chowk. Sâgar knew. Sâgar too had Been Around The Block. Slowly, head bent, Sâgar walked to the rick, got in and sat behind. Wordlessly, the rickie bent to the left, revved up the start-rod with a brisk grunt, and drove toward Linking Road.

After a respectable few seconds [during which each caught his breath, exhilarated by the rush of adrenalin his audacity had provoked] they slowly looked at each other in the right rearview mirror. And smiled.

"Kahan jayenge" mumbled the rickie. He didn't mean it as a question. An ice-breaker merely; a statement of fact. A fact of life actually - and a fitting epitaph for gay gravestones if there ever was one.

Sâgar leaned forward. The rusting black iron partition between the driver and the driven was painted in pale white with two instructions. Pay by tariff card. Please don't put your feet up. He put one hand on the metal rails behind the driver's seat. They felt so nice and cool against his fingers. As against the uncomfortable rexine seats, already hotting up under his ass. Darned in ten places. The seat, not his ass. Though given how often he was scoring nowadays.

The other hand he put on the rickie's shoulder. He had massive, strong, bear-like shoulders. On Sâgar's touch, they hunched a bit, tensed. Then settled down, relaxed. Sâgar's fingers applied the finest pressure to them, as if diagnosing a bird's leg for a fracture. He caught the rickie's eye in the inner upper-left mirror this time, and smiled. The rickie smiled too. His eyes were kind. The mirror had a pair of red lurid plastic lips stuck on them, and they planted an unwitting kiss on Sâgar's cheek. "Jahan tum le chalo", Sâgar said simply.

The city whirled around them. They were now on Linking Road. College students poured out of the adjoining campus, shoe-sellers vociferously peddled their wares, appealing passionately to every passing shopper-lady. Like Srinath appealing for LBW - leg before wicket [LBS - leg before shoe, rather, in their case] they passionately raised their hands and asked for a decision. Urchins zipped around singing the latest filmi hits. The rickshaw stopped at a signal. A hijra approached the rickshaw and asked for money. A strong rain-proclaiming gale was whipping up. Instinctively, Sâgar opened the top button of his shirt, revealing a bushy chest full of delicious fur. His chest hairs spread out like the opened feather-fan of a dancing peacock. The hijra leaned into the rickshaw and looked into Sâgar's eyes. Their loneliness touched the hijra who left him alone. Not before stroking the feather fan once, with one delicate finger. It was bursting-overcast.

The lights changed. The rickie bent, pulled the starter-rod, and plunged the auto headlong into traffic. Sâgar's fingers kept a polite presence on his shoulder. Digit by digit, Sâgar slid his fingers, down to his upper arm, then up to his collar. Adjoining cars and ricks snarled and honked, pushing into every inch of roadspace they possibly could, and then some.  To the rickie's credit, he hadn't started the meter - it was still at half mast, like the erection in his promising white basket. Sâgar had a raging hard-on that crooked up in his work trousers. Past the shoe-shopping block, the traffic eased a bit. The rickie turned right and in a few minutes, they were in a quiet, tree lined leafy lane in Khar.

Parking carefully by the high, creeper-covered wall of a bungalow, the rickie took a deep breath and turned around. It started to drizzle. In two minutes, the streets were deserted as everyone ran for cover. Even stray dogs dived under particular shop-tarpaulins they knew they were welcome under, from where they wouldn't be shooed away.

"Tumhârâ nâm?"  Râjes.

"Âpkâ?" Sâgar.

Though he was half the rickie's age, Sâgar was the passenger, the respect-worthy business-bringer. Hence the rickie addressed him in the (respectful) accusative plural (Âp), though he found himself addressed by Sâgar in the accusative singular - "Tum". Râjes' wore a light stubble. His eyebrows met above his long, straight nose. He had beautiful, limpid eyes, and a heart-breakingly cute smile. Sâgar guessed that Râjes was a Bhaiyya - a native of Uttar Pradesh or Bihar. From experience, Sâgar knew that Bhaiyya men were acquiescent to sex with guys, and looked on such encounters with a
fatalistic, compliant attitude.

Râjes looked longingly at Sâgar's chest hair. Sâgar leaned forward and opened the top button of the Râjes' shirt. He hadn't worn a baniyan inside. His janiv arched over his shoulder, and fell gracefully across his chest to his tummy. It tantalizingly grazed his large, erect, walnut-colored nipple. Sâgar curled it around his forefinger ruminatively. Râjes looked down and closed his eyes.

They just sat like that for a long while. The rain now carpet-bombed the tarpaulin insistently. Slowly but surely drops swirled and lashed in through the open sides of the pitifully inadequate three-wheeler. They congealed on the rexine and little rivulets made their way purposefully to the seat of
Sâgar's jeans. Râjes released the rexine flaps flanking the passenger seat and fastened them shut. The rain stopped falling on them - directly at least. They had their privacy now. Their very own Rexine Palace. Nature and rexine conspired to give them a precious moment alone in this teeming, crazy, space-starved city.

Râjesh joined Sâgar in the back. They sat looking at each other for a long moment.  Sâgar stroked Râjes' forearms, strong and hairy, coming out from under grimy, rolled-up white sleeves. They were cold and wet. Sagar's warm, dry, soft touch felt nice to them. Râjesh leaned back and relaxed. His long lashes had tiny trembling drops at their edges.

"Rickshaw! Rickshaw!!" a couple of happy kiddy voices yelled. They were approaching the rick from a distance. Thrilled to be out in the rains, splashing in pothole puddles, the boy and girl bounded toward the rick. Their outlines were two bright smears of colorful clothes seen through the wiper-swept windshield - now hazy, now clear. Their mummy followed at a distance, hopelessly trying to balance her shopping, purse, chunni and umbrella in her hands. She took pride in her children's joy even as she berated them for not watching for any oncoming traffic.

Sâgar smiled at Râjesh. They gazed at each other for a long moment. Wordlessly, Sâgar unknotted the rexine flap and stepped out into the rain. Râjes climbed back into the driver's seat and turned the meter up. "Ting!" it went.

One drop fell down Râjes' cheek. Trembling water or not, we shall never know.

~~~~~

by Sachin J
Email feedback to : zhansinahidoongi@hotmail.com

Is this a page from Sachin's memoirs? We shall never know.
S & M

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