Kamasutra She Wrote Excerpts

kamasutra
kamasutra

Raka took a coquettish look and said, ‘You loved Tara. Not me. Do you really care for me?’
‘Of course I care. You are one of my closest friends whom I can trust and share my secrets.’
‘Do you have any secret? You don’t look like carrying a secret desire in your mind.’
‘Everyone has some secret that they don’t know.’
‘You just told that you could share your secret with me. Tell me one. I’m listening to it.’
‘Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?’
‘Who wrote this line?’
‘Who can write that? The great Shakespeare.’ He said smilingly.
She thought of Tara and suddenly a surge of sexual desire overwhelmed her. Tara would not mind he begged a kiss before her and she should not be coy but to be smart enough to react properly.
She stood up and came forward. He stood up and they kissed for a long time. Tara came from no where between them and took over her, controlling her tongue to enter into his mouth that smelt of fresh shaving cream and lotion.
He was really coy and she found him beautiful to seduce more. She took his hand and placed them on her breast that were throbbing with anticipation. It started moving around to explore the new geography. It found a suitable location and rested for a while to press it and unbuttoned her shirts. They came out. Big and healthy looking two melons with large brown but not perfectly round nipple on the each side. It stood hard and expected more touch and caress. His hands were controlled by some invisible force caressed them and his tongue stood in line to finish the following procedures.
Tara came and disappeared from the room which had dusk setting into it. And in darkness Raka and Rajat were busy to fill their silences with words that came with no strings attached to them.
Raka kissed on his cheeks and sat down to kiss his navel. He was shivered by the touch of her tongue press her head onto it. She was smothered but not helpless. She felt the outcropping inside his pant and made it come out. The little python made her gush in awe and she murmured something that she did not understand. She sucked it eagerly to get most of it. The wave was bulging out more and aggressively assaulted her soft tongue.
She took him to the bedroom and sat astride his middle with a moan of sigh. Now she had taken revenge against the loneliness thrust upon her by the best friend Tara. She rode it, spread her curvaceous frame on him and directed the phallus into her. It was not an artificial one that she had to insert when the urge she was feeling turned to unbearable. It was alive and kicking her famished soul directly.
She mumbled so that only she could listen to it, ‘Tara doesn’t mind. She would love to hear that we shared our loneliness equally.’
Now sitting in Mumbai flat beside Tara when she recounted their first carnal encounter and bodily pleasure Raka felt she had not done it by her own self. It was done by someone else. Probably it was Tara’s unrequited passion she preserved in her sub conscious that overwhelmed her to act such strange way. Otherwise how could she explain this thing?

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Kamasutra She Wrote: Excerpts

Tara was well aware of the facts that world of modelling was full of debauched people. They would always try to pull your legs and push you to the ground. They would march on you and you would be left cursing others. What Tara really did not know was about the person – Tony, who had offered her to be a part of this glamour world; let alone that what he was actually up to. Was it a new experiment with a fresh face like her? Or was it a momentary ‘hollowness’ he had just mentioned some time back.
At night she told the whole episode to Raka. They had made love and exhausted after got worked up on each other but it was a fulfilment that she had never experienced. Raka listened to every bits and pieces. She thought for a while and then suggested, ‘You may try it. I see no problem in it. After all it was an in-house affair. The worst would be that you would not like the experience and would not venture into that path again. That much. Not more than that. Isn’t it?’
‘But I heard modelling is always tough and it could turn my world upside down. I fear that consequence.’ Tara said in a pensive mood. She was watching Raka in silence, very thoughtful.
Raka said, ‘Take it casually. Why you think that sky will fall? If it clicks then – okay. If not then – just fuck it. You stay what you are.’
Now it was easier for her to decide. She had nothing to lose. Tony would hopefully not pester her with some unkind behaviour. He was suave and he knew that Tara was his colleague; though much junior in comparison to his post but he could not use that position to exploit her.

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Love Jihad Excerpt From CHAPTER NINE : A TRAFFICKER’S DESTINY

Love Jihad
Love Jihad

CHAPTER NINE : A TRAFFICKER’S DESTINY

Next day morning Rajan called up the best four men – Bhutto, Salman, Arbind and Ramalu, from his action squad. He distributed Sabir’s picture to them and said, “I want this man alive. He is currently staying at hotel Midland. Ramalu will arrange him to come out near the marine drive check post. First pick him up, get him blindfolded and take him to the Ismail’s warehouse near Teacher’s colony bus stop. Before leaving just give me a call, I will be there.”
Bhutto asked, “In the evening?”
“Obviously. Let Ramalu talk to him and arrange an appointment first. Beware, he is staying there as Kausar’s guest so every possibility is there that Kausar’s men will be there with him. So, don’t show your face. Cover it before picking him up. Keep four more people for making Kausar’s people busy so that don’t follow you. Clear? Bhutto will lead everyone, act as he instructs.”
On the second day evening Rajan got the call from Bhutto, “We picked him up safely boss. Only one Kausar’s man was there. He was overpowered and flee. We’re going to Ismail bhai’s warehouse. Please come there.”
Rajan reached there with Nilofar. He said with a sigh, “Please identify him. We don’t want to punish any ordinary man. Make sure it is Sabir. If you want you can talk to him because it will be his last talk.”
Nilofar was shocked, “You told me you won’t kill him.”
Rajan smiled, “I am not going to kill him. We’ll just make him invalid enough so that he can’t keep on trafficking innocent little girls. That is it.”
In a room, Sabir was made to seat with his hands and legs tied to the chair. When Nilofar entered into the room, he hissed, “You bitch. You have hired goons to kill me? Osman will not spare you!”
Nilofar asked in low voice, “Are you not repentant for what you had done to me?”
Sabir kept shouting, “Why should I? You bitch. I should have killed you. You had planned to leave with a Hindu boy. You deserved punishment.”
Nilofar stepped forward and slapped him hard. She said, “Who are you to decide whom I should marry or where should I go? Who are you to punish me? Is religion a handcuff? Religion liberates mind. I am free to love, marry, go – anyone, any where.”
Rajan saw her trembling with anger. Nilofar continued, “This is your excuse. You are punishing me for hurting your religion, but tell me why you trapped those innocent girls from other religion? Why you have been punishing them? They have never insulted your religion. These are false excuses.”
Nilofar stormed out of the room. She said to Rajan, “You do what you want to do with that bastard. He is an insult to Islam. Islam never preaches violence. They do it because they are born and bred with this trait in their blood. Basically they are killers who take shelter under religion.”
Rajan said, “This is irrespective of religion. Children traffickers have no religion. They deserve hard punishment.”
He instructed Bhutto what to do with the dead body and left the place with Nilofar.
Two days later he got a phone call. It was Kausar.
Kausar was restless, “Rajan Bhai, this is Kausar.”
“Yes, Kausar, how are you?”
“I don’t feel good bhai, what is happening around? This is not good. This should not go on between us.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“Sabir was my guest and he was killed brutally. He was tortured to death.”
Rajan said, “I don’t know anything about it.”
Kausar said, “His body was fished out from sea around Marine Drive today morning. A fisherman’s net caught it.”
“Who is this Sabir?” Rajan tried to be elusive.
“Bhai, something happened in Mumbai, and you don’t know! It can not happen.”

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The Antic Ant Farmer: Excerpt From Chapter Eight

The Antic Ant Farmer
The Antic Ant Farmer

CHAPTER EIGHT

He had been sitting motionless when the priest came and shoved him gently. He asked, “What is the matter, my boy?”
There was something in his voice, a soft lugubrious expression that made him feel like something was lurking beneath his words, that he had anticipated well before coming here, in this temple, an abode of God Shiva, local people called it ‘SHIVA MANDIR’, near which his father was murdered.
The little ant farmer asked the priest, “Have you seen who killed my father?”
The priest had no home, he resided inside the temple since his birth, people said it had been three hundred years ago; when the temple was first built by the local king. The priest looked at his eyes, small red eyes, swollen; after he cried for the whole day.
“I don’t know. But he knows.” He raised his first finger towards the old banyan tree which was like his age, timeless; this tropical Indian fig tree had many aerial roots that pierced the land forming various designs.
“The tree?” He asked.
“Yes, the tree. He saw it. The murder, the murderer, everything. Ask him.”
“Does he talk?”
“Yes, I talk to him all the time. But I don’t know whether he would answer your question or not. But, my boy, have a try. Go before him and ask your question.” The temple priest closed his eyes.
He went before the tree and asked him, “Do you know who killed my father?”
The tree was silent at first, then it slightly moved and came closer, a few leaves dropped on his head and the shadow became dense and deep, so cool he felt cold, so cold that made him shivery. That cold air passed through and told him in his ears, “Ask your mother my son. She knows everything.”
He ran towards his home and fumbled before his mother, the big beautiful woman was cooking while his uncle stood near her and they smiled, they did not notice him, he was so small then, he waited outside the door and listened to something that he could not have believed had he heard it even now, at this matured stage of life. They were planning to go to a movie, to ‘CHALACHITTRAM’, the name of the cinema hall, where they went together to catch the matinee, the showing of the movie in the afternoon.
The little ant farmer went into the ants’ hole, a long tedious journey with the other female worker ants. He felt rejected and did not talk to any ant whom he felt his closest friends. A black female ant asked him, “What happened? You are so silent. Are you not feeling well?”
He said, “Yes, I am feeling so mournful. For the first time I saw sadness in my life.”
The female ant smiled, “We see it everyday my friend. You look our condition; we only work everyday from morning to night. We have no wings and no mating partner. No one cared to love us. We are sterile from the birth. We have only one identity – we are workers.”

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The Red Light Secret Part One Chapter Two Excerpt

The Red Light Secret
The Red Light Secret

Part One Chapter Two Excerpt:

It was a like a palace. If not anything else. Rana Sen’s seventh floor eerie chamber had a deserted look until you noticed that a single short dapper man sat alone in the corner of a colossal lush space. As directed by his man Buro; I had registered my name to the security in the ground floor gate. It was five to six in the evening. I was instructed to take the lift and reach at the top seventh floor. I expected a nice looking smart receptionist or secretary outside his room but found none. It was empty.
It had a lonely sad feeling in the vastness of the space with an extended view of the outside greyish sky that was taking a look from the top at the dark city below with the moving lights of the cars. A security guard appeared from nowhere and greeted me, ‘Mr. Prakash Gupto?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please come in.’ He opened the door and once I was in, he closed it behind.
Rana Sen looked like a next door neighbour not having any distinction except his branded shirt and trousers. He could disappear into the crowd quite easily, probably it was his strength. He had started with a micro finance company and later diversified into many other: hotel, steel, gas, coal and media.
I searched in the net about him before coming here and his scanty presence in the web world stunned me. I expected, quite naturally, to gather much information and ended at nothing almost. Lastly I telephoned one of my old contacts in the share market and found some interesting information that made me forget to sip my usual drink around noon.
Rana Sen had a daughter. She was no more. The death was not a normal one: she had been found hanging at her upper class flat in the New Town area.

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The Red Light Secret: Part One, Chapter One Excerpt

Part One, Chapter One Excerpt

And there was the bad weather. That black rain was the precursor to the white winter. It was a cold breeze that swept past the empty street and drove the lashing rain against the red Calcutta Tram Company buses that were plying less than normal due to the inclement weather. I saw them from my window which I had to shut after taking a brief look outside which was depressing.
The rain was an uninvited guest before winter. Every year, without fail, a depression happened to brew over the deep south of the Bay of Bengal and rains would come lashing the damp city as if it were due. Calcutta, now changed to Kolkata, had already lost its old glory and charm with the long left regime. Now it had nothing to lose except the ‘Bermuda’ pants that Bengali BABUS wore without any underpants inside and would go to the morning market to bargain for the fish price or stood in the long queue in front of the butcher’s red meat shop.
Bengali gentlemen or as they were called – BHADROLOK IN ANCIENT TIMES, have now been considered as missing tribes. Few of them have stayed on as usual keeping the habits of coming outside wearing ‘GAMCHA’ (a finer version of skin-through bathing towel). But they were now becoming more melancholic and gloomier than the dark clouds that were hovering over their sad profiles.
A darkness with incessant rains loomed over the city. Last night I promised myself not to exceed four pegs each day from now on so I got a small bottle of whiskey in my side bag and went straight to my office in Chandni Chowk in central Calcutta. This six by seven feet small office space was in the heart of the city and it was my father who took it in lease long time ago, probably before my birth. As a child I would come here for how many times I can not remember now. My father had an agency of lottery business and it ran well at least I didn’t face any hardship as I have been facing now. At that time it was not a maze of buildings with dangerously open electrical wirings, beetle stained-dirty walls, dark gloomy staircases; it did not wear such melancholic look. In those days, it had a different story to tell.
I had put up a small sign board that read: PG Detective Agency. In Bengali: GUPTO Detective Agency. In Bengali language, GUPTO means secret, so it served one purpose for sure. People came over here to get all the secret news they wanted including the details about the bride or groom before marriage (these are the most common cases I had to deal with), keep tracking of someone and if necessary took appropriate photographs to press charges, extract some secret information about business partners etc.
Today, in such intermittent and universal gloom I didn’t expect anyone. But the ominous rain came with stroke of luck as I heard a footstep in the stairs and a middle aged tired man appeared. He cleared his throat and asked, ‘May I come in?’
I was almost to open the whiskey bottle that I hurriedly put under the table and said, ‘Please come in.’
He took time, entered, slowly, into the room and cast a cursory glance on me that said he did not like anything here. He detested every inch of this shabby – SECRET – place. I guessed the gentleman had come for someone else. Not for himself. His every slow movement expressed his dissatisfaction for the job he was entitled to do, that was to come here.
‘You are Mr. Prakash Gupto? Private detective?’ he asked casually.

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The Red Light Secret: Excerpt 2

Excerpt 2:

His next door neighbour, Amal, another shop owner; was an innocent person. He went to fetch milk for his little girl who was born after consulting a TANTRIK who HAD FUCKED her wife and told Amal that it would push Amal’s seminal fluid inside her wife’s vagina. Amal had always stayed a good natured man, he believed everyone including fraudulent TANTRIK, but this time when he saw Nikhil lay in ruins with the broken chair on the floor; he did not believe his eyes. He thought Nikhil had a stroke and fell down on the ground. When he only came close to see the streak of blood oozing out from his forehead; he realized Nikhil was killed. He saw a dark hole in place of his right eye through which he saw the marble floor. The other eye was open and tried to say something. Amal was scared to hell and shouted for help.
The morning sun was lazy. During the early part of the day, everything did not seem to be in hurry. Only death was a rather hurriedly arranged affair and did not match with the other designs of the idle morning.
It was a typical north Calcutta GOLI (dingy lane) WHERE PEOPLE USE TO SPIT, URINATE AND SLLEP AT NIGHT (not all at one time). A few people were having their first tea of the day in a tea stall and talked about the weather. It is a morning ritual here; in Calcutta. They heard him shouting and thought that the TANTRIK who had fucked her wife came again and demanded money. They asked in unison, “What happened Amal da?” (In Bengali, people add ‘da’ after a man’s name to show respect and in case of a woman it is ‘di’ like Mr. or Mts.)
Amal only could say – ‘Nikhil Da was murdered’; and fainted immediately.
Now they lay side by side as if they were twin brothers. The blood was oozing out but now the flow was receding. They seemed to be lying on the red carpet expecting felicitation.
Now people started crowding around very fast. Each one cowered to take a look.
The list includes: the local milkman who always pour water of Ganges in milk thinking he has been performing a divine duty, the fat bottomed morning walker women who are sex starved and quarrell with their husbands without knowing the exact reasons, the other shop owners with dreary eyes, passers by with no footprints on the road, the bus conductor and the driver who drank country liquor raucously last night and dreamt of going London driving the bus together.
Everyone stood motionless. As if a GREEK TRAGEDY was enacting and some eternal truth and catharsis would come out so they waited till police came.
The police station was two minutes walking distance from the murder spot. The police officer took two hours to come as he had some problems with his bowel movement today. It all jammed up as the local political leader gave a missed call in his mobile early in the morning waking him up and forcing him to make a call from his account; and threatened him with dire consequences. The leader even warned that he would transfer him in a remote village if he had not released his gang members. The police officer arrested two of them few days back. He did not want to. It was a court order. He was forced to do that. All together the officer was not a happy guy. On one end he was having political pressure and on the other the court order pushed him to do the moral duty. He was sandwiched! Now a most unhappy sight waited for him to watch. His dearest friend lay on the pool of blood with one eye missing! Oh, GOD!

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The Antic Ant Farmer

Excerpt: First Part

Prologue

Behind every pleasure there is sorrow, and ubiquitous sadness.
The ant farmer understood it when he was a sheer child when he sat in the corner of a room, had been watching the movement of the ants – black and white, both – in different directions. He never understood he was being watched by someone else until the hands of injustice got his ear lobes in possession and dragged him to the study table.
He was not a farmer then. He felt himself a king and declared to those flightless little ants, “Behave yourself, don’t dare to move either side and kept your line intact.”
The ants were disciplined insects. They could not fly but they can bite and they could fit into three ASCII bytes – nature gave them this small power. Everyone was enjoying the power at that time until he found that power was meaningless and actually it induced more trouble.
His father, mother and big brother, everyone was enjoying the
power to rule over him and he the little ant farmer, oh no; he felt like a king then; only watched and would think that one day he would rule the world of ants like them. Even his uncle who did not marry to stay with them would show some petulance regarding his study that he did not enjoy!
He was so little then that he did not know what is what in life. He watched the ants moving – this way or that way – some time he punished a white ant by picking him up and threw him inside the black ants’ gang and saw them taking him away to their queen.
His soul left his body companions and marched along with the black ants and entered into the hole where the BLACK COLONY of ants were relocated after a violent volcano burst.
Actually it was the ant king’s mother who sprayed some anti insect chemical to make her room squeaky clean. Many black ants were killed in that attack and he – the king of ants – never forgave her mother for that profanity. Only the queen ant was saved along with some soldiers who went deep inside the hole and almost reached the heart of the earth which were sobbing silently.
The ant king marched along with them and found that the black ants were sad creatures inside their heart as they knew that whites were always treated as privileged ones in the court of GOD. Oh, GOD! You did not see the injustice that the black ants, for centuries, had been going through. You always took side of the whites, who had been getting all the advantages of life – intelligence, power to decipher the abstract algebra until they found that algebra had no connection with the zebra crossing, zebra finch or zebra mussels!
Those black ants! What a pity that they neither could fly nor could bite and moreover they were having been privileged with only three ASCII bytes where the whites were gifted with how many megabytes or gigabytes, only GOD knew!
Much later, when the little ant king grew up and abdicated so that he could start ant farming as a common man; he became confused. What he was thinking – GOD was partial; was it correct? It was true that GOD was full of partiality and not stayed neutral in giving judgment when the causes of white ants were placed before him or her. (No one knows the sexuality of GOD and never inquired about it. Very strange indeed!)
He was confused and became of this partiality of GOD when he first saw the penis of one of his friends while they were taking bath on a sea beach. It was unnecessarily big and the friend – with benefits from GOD no doubt – announced that how girls loved it and showered him with praises. If it was not partiality then what could have been called as bias? His one was not as big as his friend so that he could have flaunted it on the road and passers by women would watch it in awe. In Indian subcontinent it was a custom for the men folk to urinate outside and his friend told him those women passers by took a look and when they were in group they even giggled and appreciated it openly!
He realized it much later when he became adult and tested it himself and found, in truth, most of the women, not everyone; really threw a cursory glance while passing by.
It had never been a question of ‘bad practice’ or ‘bad habit’ when he found a clandestine sexual starving haunt these people of ‘KAMASUTRA’. It was sad that Indian men and women could not express their sexuality openly. They would cut their way, to pleasure zone, short and articulated superfluous proclivity.
As an ant farmer he found that this world had much virtual equality. The air and light were meant free for all. But the power with which people use them is not properly distributed. Some can inhale more oxygen and live longer and some die earlier for not being able to inhale it properly.
“Okay! Then tell me what about the power of using them.” His soliloquy stayed unnoticed. No one heard or answered. No one ever questioned the God’s disposition. But as a child ant farmer he first noticed it: the black colonies of ants were full of such deprivation. No electricity, no fixed water or good sanitation – no modern amenities.
He thought, “By the time I reach heaven or hell, I don’t know where I will have ended up and whether I will have had enough courage to ask these questions to GOD but I will have asked that neuter gender definitely.”
Later when he grew up and understood that nothing was in his hand except his penis which he could press and ejaculate for a small amount of semen and pleasure only; he decided to start ant farming. At least it could give him some more pleasure than penis pressing game or the smallest amount of sorrow that his girl friend once shared with him – the ubiquitously penis envy!

The Antic Ant Farmer

Love Jihad Chapter Nine Excerpts

CHAPTER NINE : A TRAFFICKER’S DESTINY

Next day morning Rajan called up the best four men – Bhutto, Salman, Arbind and Ramalu, from his action squad. He distributed Sabir’s picture to them and said, “I want this man alive. He is currently staying at hotel Midland. Ramalu will arrange him to come out near the marine drive check post. First pick him up, get him blindfolded and take him to the Ismail’s warehouse near Teacher’s colony bus stop. Before leaving just give me a call, I will be there.”

Bhutto asked, “In the evening?”

“Obviously. Let Ramalu talk to him and arrange an appointment first. Beware, he is staying there as Kausar’s guest so every possibility is there that Kausar’s men will be there with him. So, don’t show your face. Cover it before picking him up. keep four more people for making Kausar’s people busy so that don’t follow you. Clear? Bhutto will lead everyone, act as he instructs.”

On the second day evening Rajan got the call from Bhutto, “We picked him up safely boss. Only one Kausar’s man was there. He was overpowered and flee. We’re going to Ismail bhai’s warehouse. Please come there.”

Rajan reached there with Nilofar. He said with a sigh, “Please identify him. We don’t want to punish any ordinary man. Make sure it is Sabir. If you want you can talk to him because it will be his last talk.”
Nilofar was shocked, “You told me you won’t kill him.”

Rajan smiled, “I am not going to kill him. We’ll just make him invalid enough so that he can’t keep on trafficking innocent little girls. That is it.”

In a room, Sabir was made to seat with his hands and legs tied to the chair. When Nilofar entered into the room, he hissed, “You bitch. You have hired goons to kill me? Osman will not spare you!”

Nilofar asked in low voice, “Are you not repentant for what you had done to me?”

Sabir kept shouting, “Why should I? You bitch. I should have killed you. You had planned to leave with a Hindu boy. You deserved punishment.”
Nilofar stepped forward and slapped him hard. She said, “Who are you to decide whom I should marry or where should I go? Who are you to punish me? Is religion a rackle? Religion liberates mind. I am free to love, marry, go – anyone, any where.”

Rajan saw her trembling with anger. Nilofar continued, “This is your excuse. You are punishing me for hurting your religion, but tell me why you trapped those innocent girls from other religion? Why you have been punishing them? They have never insulted your religion. These are false excuses. You male chauvinists.”

Nilofar stormed out of the room. She said to Rajan, “You do, what you want to do with that bastard. He is an insult to Islam. Islam never preaches violence. They do it because they are born and bred with this trait in their blood. Basically they are killers who musk under religion.”

Rajan said, “This is irrespective of religion. Children traffickers have no religion. They deserve hard punishment.”

He instructed Bhutto what to do with the dead body and left the place with Nilofar.

Two days later he got a phone call. It was Kausar.

Kausar was restless, “Rajan Bhai, this is Kausar.”

“Yes, Kausar, how are you?”

“I don’t feel good bhai, what is happening around? This is not good.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“Sabir was my guest and he was killed brutally. He was tortured to death.”

Rajan said, “I don’t know anything about it.”

Kausar said, “His body was fished out from sea around Marine Drive today morning. A fisherman’s net caught it.”

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