The Call

The other day I received a phone call and was asked to report at a swanky address in Banjara Hills. She must be around 38 years old and had dark cycles under the eyes. She told me she was not interested in doing “it” but just wanted to talk. Now why the fuck would someone pay to talk? What are shrinks for? As if I care as long as I am being paid.

She was tall; a little wrinkled from the years and had this very intellectual look about her. She wore glasses, very sweet looking, not the type of woman to use the services of a male escort. She was more like your housewife next-door, rich, but not sophisticated and I mean it in a good way.

She told me to relax and offered me a drink. I settled for a cup of tea. She was dressed in a mauve bathrobe and smelled of lilies, fresh from her bath. She told me her husband was a good man – he owned a business which was profitable, took care of her and the kids, enjoyed a single malt whisky before dinner, and still squeezed in a good bout of sex every night, well, almost every night. He had a healthy appetite as far as sex was concerned.

I relaxed a little more and stretched back on the sofa, the cup of tea untouched. She continued. She told me she was bored, very bored with her life. Though the family went on vacation twice a year, mingled with friends and relatives, attended social functions, and invited friends over, yet her life was boring, predictable.

I smelled the tea. It smelled of cardamom. She crossed her legs; she was naked inside. Something within told me her soul was naked too, devoid of any sense of being - craving for the unknown. I looked at her trying to demystify the moment but gave up. She told me that one afternoon she was feeling so empty that she felt like killing herself. She was sitting on the bed, her mind an absolute blank, when she noticed the laptop on the side table. Although she knew how to use a computer, she never had the inclination to be online. She never thought of it until this moment. On the other hand, her husband was online every night.

She flipped open the laptop, switched on the power button, and watched with soulless eyes as the computer came to life. She did the things she had to do until she was online. A message blinked on the instant messenger. “So how are you today?” asked the message. She realized that her husband must be talking to someone and the person mistook her for her husband. “I am fine”, she replied. “I have uploaded all the pictures you sent last night. Check the site,” blinked the message on the computer. She clicked the blue link to the website that came with the message and waited as the window opened. A jolt shook her from within as if a high voltage naked power line touched her body as the window opened to reveal pictures - her pictures, thumbnails, hundreds of them row after row - in the nude.