Sunita, the seductress


If I could recollect that day for you, then, it was an indolent Saturday. I had woken up to a wet and sticky morning. It had just finished raining outside and the AC had tripped. The only thing anyone could do is blame faith or the government. Being pissed with the electricity department or your father for buying that house wouldn’t have solved the problem.

Don’t bother mentioning that last one on the dinner table. Ever.

Here’s what happened.

All bathed and out of the house, driving down to a client’s office – for a meeting – I took one left and two rights at the junction where I wasn’t supposed to. The results of that are thirty minutes wasted. Any how, I finally reach the dilapidated factory, next to my client’s office. It was supposedly the landmark mentioned in his email.

How silly. I should have used the GPS on my iPhone.

I walk in hoping God somehow squeezed in ten minutes, so I’d be on time. Really? I guess I was expecting too much.

At the reception, I’m greeted by the secretary, who directed me towards the hallway on the left and the sixth door on the right.

Sure. Got it. I reach the door. Knock.

No, I wouldn’t barge in like the rest of you. A peon steps out, shows me the way. I walk into an office thats well-done. I mean – wall carpet, wooden flooring, LCD, overlooking the sea, rest assured this was the bosses office. As I took my place in-front of a huge table, the spartan like leather chair slowly revolved to face me.

My client, Mr. Kluter was not in his chair.

Ahem, sigh* Cough. I’m restless all of a sudden. Its my client’s wife in the throne.

**She is a nuclear bomb.

“Hello! I’m Sunita. You must be Peter, from that advertising agency.”

Cough. Ahem. I clear my throat so I can let out a manly voice.

A minor chair shift later and a squeaky, slightly impoverished ‘yes,’ fumbles out.

Sweat begins to trickle down my spine, hands start shaking, all I can think of is Sunita’s Greek Goddess looks.

“Are you OK?”

-”Mm… I don’t see Mr. Kluter around. Will he be coming today?”

“No. He is away to Pune. I will oversee things for today.”

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

-”Yes. I’m fine. Had gotten lost on the way here.”

I can barely breath.

Sunita gets up and walks over to the mini fridge at the corner, next to the 42 inch LCD. She pulls out a can of juice for me.

“Here. This will make you feel better. It has come in from Greece last week.”

She takes her place on the sofa, next to the window.

Sunita is the trophy wife that only men like Mr. Kluter can take home. After all, who can afford the Bentley, diamonds, 5 acre – beach side – home, and the list that never ends.

As Sunita’s perfume circumvolves me, my brain goes on screensaver mode. By now I have completely forgotten the purpose of my visit.

It’s been long since I said anything. Worried. I collect my breath.

– ”Is that the Marine Drive?”

“Yes it is, Peter.”

Thank god, I said something. I’m sure she must get this Men-On-Pause look all the time. She knows what she does to men.

– ”Lovely! You must love this serene office view.”

“It’s OK. I’m more of a mountains type.”

“Why don’t you come and sit here on this sofa. The view is much better from here.”

– “Ok.”

As I walk over towards the sofa where Sunita purrs, all I can think of is one thing. I’m sorry, she is sitting. Her long legs are crossed over one another. You can be sure of one thing. This will not be just a meeting.

I put my rear in the couch next to her. I can see up her skirt.

“You like what you see?”

Oh shit. Damn it. She saw me ogling.

– “No. I mean. Yes. No. Ah. Yes.”

She relaxes the muscles on her face and a smile appears on her soft lips.

I can hardly feel my legs.

“Don’t worry. Relax. My husband is away. He won’t know.”

After those words, all I can remember is the morning.


Break rules. It feels damn good!


Growing up, I was brandished by my peers as the renegade, the square peg in a round hole, the tomato potato. Let me tell you, they made no mistake. I could care less of what they thought. What went off their father’s anyways? Punctuality and I hadn’t been acquainted yet. I deliberately arrived late everywhere, even school, where people would get in trouble for coming on time, kind of school.

It wasn’t that I had a rebellious nature of any sort, like the Guvera’s or Hendrix of the world. Nor were they hiring first graders out of private school.

I just simply refused to follow man-made systems. Why should we follow systems? And man-made systems? Why can’t all the schools of the world start at 10am and not 7am? Who makes all the rules anyways? Some man sitting way before I was born – at an old desk made of wood – decided schools should start at 7am so as to make the lives of children miserable.

He was a lonely man, drinking hooch, naked, by the fireplace, dreaming unicorns and not worried about the parents of children he had in his room that day.

Since I was never on time, I figured, what the heck? While I’m at it, why pay attention in class or even face the teacher? As it is classes are boring and they have you do ‘kiddy’ stuff. Where the adults at bro?

All those repeated lectures, no bathroom breaks, as if I had committed a biological sin. Having to wear a uniform, which would have any rock star from the 60s cringe.

It must have been the naked principal, who made us come at 7am. No pun intended. Why couldn’t we be kids, when we were kids? It’s a system everyone chooses to follow because of a few reasons. One could be because they choose to accept what’s being handed to them. Another being not having the balls or guts to change and question ways.

Who wants to fucking reinvent the wheel, right? Right?

Classrooms were full of boring textbook knowledge (who knew Google would be a thing) and a far cry from “kids-oriented.” I chose to stand at the back of the class and stare at the interesting wall (it was a blank wall painted white) sharpening my pencil.

It was a self-fulfilling prophecy!

Time would fly and my parents were happy. Everyone was happy. Like Coachella back in the day. Shortlived and at bay, were these sweet periods, only in time for report card season. Before the arrival of grading thunderstorms, I had nothing to worry about and went about being a carefree chipmunk.

Turns out I was never paying attention in class, my report cards read like a fairytale with many climaxes. Think little red ridding hood gone slutty, shaving her head, screwing the wolf and selling the video rights to Pornhub. It was a thrill, however, my parents didn’t seem to agree much. They murdered and reincarnated me, every time they saw a report card.

In retrospect, how silly were those fucking report cards.

As school progressed, I chose to put my life on the line for the sake of my career. Did all the leg work! Such as: Never being on time, not having the proper uniform, bunking class, never read or studied for a single exam. It did give my parents sleepless nights. But, I did what I wanted. It sure felt good! Fucking stubborn little prick.

My reckless behaviour continued, I had failed in every class offered by the CBSE syllabus. I had carved out a unique niche for myself, an ‘I could care less’ kind of niche. On several occasions, I was told by my teachers & especially the naked guy that I would one day serve tea at stalls. My ignorance allowed me to live beyond those remarks.

The only people who had any faith in me were my art teachers, they did see something in me. It could have been for the reason that all I actually did in class was draw, draw and draw – during math class, during science class, during biology, during prayer, during detention and any other time that I got. Even in the loo, crouched over the poop station, for that matter.

Let me tell you I am no artist or painter, I couldn’t paint for beans now. How ironic! Isn’t it! Well, it so happens my ‘I-could-care-less’ attitude got the best of me and I stopped drawing. What a waste of talent, you may be thinking? Stop it, right this moment. What goes off your fathers? It’s my life (cue Bon Jovi).

Life continued. I did get into a college eventually. You must be wondering how? After all, he did fail every class. Well, it turns out my daddy knows people everywhere, freaking everywhere. College days went by like a blink of an eye. Almost like this sentence. Made good friends, though!

Friends, I can count on with my life. Ok, maybe not that dramatic but with my pencil and sharpener. I know, I know sharpener, but gotta give those guys some credit. It’s a public blog for crying out loud. Hey Brian! Playing XBOX tonight?

This meaningless life was going nowhere. All the partying, sleeping around – the alone at home, alone type, drinking, going for crazy long drives with friends, had come to a climax.

The movie needed a twist. Here came the director, my dad – finally sick of my disastrous endeavours. He decided to take matters in his hands and have me pack my bags and sent far-far-far, really-really far away from home.

OK. Maybe, it’s not that far. It’s a two-hour flight from home. Here, the place far away from home, called the world of ‘Really-silly insanely-dumb let’s talk jargons’ world of advertising, I discovered lunatics have a place on earth. At that moment, I knew I was home.


Brandishing brands is the name of the game

“Yes dad, that’s right. People are foolish to waste money on big brands, one can buy the same t-shirt at the local shop for Rs. 200”. That’s how an argument ended with my dad on the phone, following my purchase of an expensive branded t-shirt.

The number of international brands flooding Indian markets everyday is mind-boggling. Earlier on, only a few had the privilege to get branded stuff through a relative coming from abroad or if they were lucky and had the opportunity to go abroad themselves.

Now you don’t have to wait in long queues outside embassies to travel abroad or be super rich to see something extraordinary. All you have to do is step in a local mall where lists of international brands are displayed at every possible visible corner.

This phenomenon has brought in a new paradigm, giving birth to fresh mindsets. Largely consisting of the ones who buy only things of known brands as these are now easily available and the ones who could care less of what they wear.

Surely now the question arises why does one splurge on something such as a branded cloth which is five times costlier than the similar stuff available in a store in close vicinity of the mall.

What makes one shell out those extra bucks? Are we getting a premium product? Is it going to change the way we do things? An argument in the mind starts, “What am I really paying for? The material certainly doesn’t feel different; the quality may be better but not out of the sky. We try to reason out with ourselves thinking; it’s such a big store, an international brand & fashionable.

Why all this baloney?

May be the only reason why one purchases a brand is because of the way it makes one feel. As humans we tend to make judgments based on appearances. This holds true for more than large part of the population. Now for instance the ones who don’t care of what brand they wear as long as they are wearing something. They fall in a similar trap. It’s only in their head that they don’t care what people think of what they wear. They think people who spend money on such expensive brands are stupid and illogical. They say that such people only wear such dresses or shoes or glasses merely to show off.

If only both sides were cleared once and for all of what they both are. A person who doesn’t bother wearing branded thinks he is above all and no one can control him, he makes his own choices, but let me tell you that some businesses have been created especially to cater that type of clientele. These businessmen have decided what people of that mindset will want to wear. They are definitely not much different from the ones who splurge. Cause another set of business is thriving on people who want to be seen wearing the latest and trendiest.
At the end of the day there are a few who want to be known for their labels and style & others who care less.

Now surely what you wear won’t change you as a person but will make sure that the way you feel is comfortable and in your own skin. I guess it’s a battle for that only…