The men were all either bloody pansy intellectuals or street-smart buggers with two-day stubbles. Selvanathan didn't fit into either category. A spoke in the wheel of fucking mediocrity, that's what he was. And the women. With their fruit flavored lip gloss and figure hugging denims. The kind who would take your heart, and tear it into shreds. But, Selvanathan knew that they gave men, no, boys like him enough bang for their existential buck. In fact, he couldn't imagine a world without pouting women who tore hearts into shreds.
Often, he stood in front of the dirty mirror in the hostel bathroom (when no one was looking, of course), and practiced saying the word that the brash, stubble-wearing boys, no, men said with so much élan.
"Behen-chod"
"Buh-hun-chod, saale"
"Bhaanchod"
But, it never quite came out the way he wanted it to. He saw the writing on the wall. The earth had been inherited by men who could call other men sister-fuckers with conviction.
2 comments:
In re last line: Respect. Reveling much? :)
@Shreya: Reveling, yes. Revealing, maybe. Ah, the conundrum: are we writing situations or are we situated writers? Your guess is as good as mine.
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