Free A Cut-Like Wound by Anita Nair Page B

four. See you then,’ Gowda said and walked to his motorbike.
    He stood looking at it with a small smile. When nothing seemed to go right, when everything else failed, when he felt old and wrung out, looking at his bullet brought him succour. God, how he loved this bike!
    The world could keep its Harleys and R1 Yamahas. It was only the Bullet that did it for him. Make him feel as if it were an extension of himself. From the smooth curve of the petrol tank to the unflinching tiger-eye lamp that threw light into nooks and corners of the alleyways to the beast-like growl of the 500cc engine producing 41.3Nm of torque.
    When Gowda prowled his way through the city on the Bullet, its distinct thump, the Bullet sound, resounded through his very being, flooding him with power, strengthand with the unassailable knowledge that this was who he was: rugged, unrestrained and not afraid to go forth.

    H er thighs brushed against his knees as she found her way to her place two seats away from his. His eyes trailed her. Even in the darkness of the movie theatre, she knew. A frisson of excitement. A heartbeat that slipped. All her womanly instincts told her that a pair of eyes was following her, fondling her … Bhuvana smiled her secret smile of knowing.
    She sat in the almost straight-backed theatre seat and placed her hands on the wooden armrests. A musty smell suffused the theatre and the dialogues were muffled as they emerged from the speakers. But no one would complain. The people who patronized Kalinga theatre would continue to come there even if the place smelt like a urinal in a public bus stand. Such was its pull.
    The theatre was only half full. Mostly men, with a few women randomly scattered. She pulled the dupatta around her neck and adjusted it so that it fell over her right shoulder, covering her breasts and revealing a bit of her hair so her profile would be that much more striking. On her face was a half smile. She knew she looked like the singer in the Ravi Varma painting. Not the one in the centre, holding the tanpura, but the woman at the far left: mysterious, alluring, with an enigmatic expression in her eyes.
    Monday had been a disaster. She had been so hopeful when she set out that evening. But it had all gone horribly wrong and Akka’s disapproval had dogged her every step home and as she wiped her face clean of make-up.
    Akka watched as Bhuvana faded out and was replaced by a man in the mirror.
    ‘I suggest you don’t go out for a few weeks,’ she said.
    It was the man who nodded, pretending to agree.
    ‘You really can’t take chances like this,’ Akka added.
    He nodded again. It was best to let Akka believe that Bhuvana wasn’t going to emerge for a few days.
    Akka would be furious if she knew Bhuvana had slipped out again. She bit on the fleshy pad of her thumb to stop the giggle from emerging. Bhuvana had a mind of her own. And Bhuvana did exactly what she wanted.
    She touched her earlobe. It was a new earring with rubies in it. She missed the pearl earrings. But she had lost one of the pair. Perhaps in that scuffle in the alley or somewhere else. Or it may have fallen off on its own. The hook hadn’t been long enough to take the weight of the pearl. She would have that earring replicated. To feel again the cool touch of the pearl against her skin when she moved her head. She held her head pertly, seeing in her mind how it would be when her pearl earring adorned her ears again.
    She gave him fifteen minutes. It was a low-budget flesh flick. The plot seldom changed. The horny sister-in-law. The desperate housewife. The untouched schoolgirl. The film pandered to the average fantasy of the average Indian man. If you wait your turn, everything you want will come to you. The epics taught you this, so did the movie changes at Kalinga theatre.
    In fifteen minutes, the bits would start appearing. Inserts of hard porn. When the first bit came on, she stared at the screen in disgust. How could these louts here be