Social Short Story – Mirror of Karma
Photo credit: czbrat from morguefile.com
In Hinduism there is a concept called Karma, it says the good and evil you do, come back to you in equal measure. There is a play ground on the Govandi Station Road in Deonar, which is never crowded. It has a bean shaped walking track, where I go these days.
Walking over here, you can see lads playing cricket trying all sort of hook shots, the bowlers are stoic, they wait for destiny and expect the batsman to be caught near the boundary. People love walking here, old men with walking sticks, young studs wearing Chinos and Gucci shoes and decent girls like me. In one corner, there’s a stage where group of children are taught Karate and you can see them learn. The master is tough and a capable man, the tall student he uses for demo, looks handsome but spilled by pride and sterness.
Amidst all this violence, Ayahs wait at one corner on the stage, legs stretched in Ayah fashion, to pick the Karate kids. The sight inclines me to laugh, but I don’t. I can’t laugh in public, you will know why later. The gardener is cooking rice for break-fast in his corner shanty, the joyous smell from the steaming pot hits my nose buds and the water from my mouth can fill the bird-bath under the Jack fruit tree. Along the track, some women pick small, white and odorless flowers for worship later at home. One man carefully selects and collects a specific a variety of grass with a pair of scissors, bending down all the time. May be, for some therapeutic purpose. Magazine these days are full of herbal suggestions.
I do about two kilometers each morning, which is four laps. Not merely to reduce my bulk, I think a good work-out makes my masturbation more pleasurable when I lie on my bed and dream of men. It is summer morning, heat raises its’ fangs. As I cross Mithun’s Kitchen, I look at the board which announces her “today’s special”. It’s a dish called ‘Surnali’. I haven’t heard of it and so I decide to try Surnali later in the evening.
Mithun’s Kitchen is the new Dabba in the locality, it dishes out Kannada cuisine and is run by a fair Manglorean girl who wears a Chef’ hat like in Star hotels. You can see her inside the open kitchen, she cooks delicious food and her breast is taut and aptly proportioned and I envy her. On the pavement near the dabba, a small and lovely dog is curled up, his head tucked between legs. Two wafer thin men walk ahead of me, one is wears round-collar T shirt and rolled up pants, the other, a shirt not fitting his size and his trousers are rolled up too.
The attire and the limbs show fair traces of cement and I infer they are masons going for daily bread. They chat about Rowdy Rathore, the latest box-office hit, with lot of excitement. One of them lights his cigarette and after he takes a long introspective drag, aims the match stick on the dog without putting off the fire. The stick falls on the pouch which houses, I think, the dog’s male genitals. I have never seen a dog’s genital out in the open, either they are in the bitch’s pouch when they do or in their own where they don’t. My kid sister told me it is pink in color, you can see them when they woo a bitch. I twisted her ears for saying that. The dog yelps and lifts his head with a jerk. He is confused what hurt him. Stupor in eyes, he looks at me if I am the cause of it. He is a calm dog and moves to another place and sleeps. I want to beckon that rascal and hurl abuses, he sends plumes of blue smoke into the sky like in the photographs they show of Hiroshima after the Ams nuked the Japs.
I don’t react in the end, my chest heaves with anger, and I wish Karma does it’s work. Karma is a hoax played on the gullible mankind. I think so, because if punishment is not meted out in this birth, the scripture says it is carried over to the next. When a good soul in this Janam comes to bad times they say it’s carry-over from the previous. And I am yet to believe! I tell nothing to the ra**al, truly because I am a soft target, big boobed and big buttoxed, I’ve been the butt of many jokes wherever I go.
My bigness is susceptible to admirations in private (believe me dear), to ridicules in public, what a funny deplorable dichotomy! With my wet shirt on, I am indeed visible and talking to proletarian lads is invitation to trouble. May be it’s my Karma. In my past janam I must have made fun of girls with Tennis court breasts, that’s how my sister puts it. She keeps saying that and I am beginning to believe her. Hardly we move fifty feet forward, the ra**al miscues his foot on a broken brick and trips. He squats on the ground holding his right ankle. The pain is not faked, like they do in soccer to win a free kick. His face writhes to difficult contortion.
The other fellow relieves him of the unfinished cigarette and waits for his friend, has a sympathetic puff and Nagasaki follows. I over-take them business-like, amazed at the swift manifestation of Karma. Like the latest computers, the processing is pretty quick! I smile once I cross them. At the Highway where I have to take left for my apartment, I turn to see what has happened to the cock teaser. The cock teaser is squatting on the ground, still in pain. The other fellow leaves him and has started walking towards his work place. In the highway, IT girls are waiting at the Bus station, fanning their faces with the dupatta of their Salwar. IT boys are chatting, braving the warming sun and viewing what the dupatta was meant to conceal.
I observe no abnormality in the objects the IT boys view and I feel sad and vow never wager a comment on flat chests. The clouds are building up and this year the monsoon may be early. When it starts, I can’t go to the play ground. I must remain content, exercising in the tread mills of our Gym looking at my wobbling boobs in the mirror. What for do they keep mirrors in front of the tread mills, I ask. ‘To reflect on my Karma?’
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