With bloody hands I waved “Goodbye”..

With bloody hands I waved “Goodbye”..

I had painstakingly plucked out bloody feathers from the turkey. It was time to wring it’s leg, twist and then chop. This needed to be done with finesse, after all it was Thanksgiving tomorrow.

Laura came running from the bedroom, to get her phone that had been ringing incessantly. She picked it and ran inside our room. She had been doing that a lot lately, running to dark corners with her phone, whispering. She thought I was stupid, I did not understand. I also knew what her friends thought about me, that I was slow in the head. Isn’t that why I was a stay at home dad? A 6.5 feet, giant of a man, who couldn’t even get a job. Who spoke slow, in slurs and could not use big words.

I grabbed the turkey leg, twisted hard and yanked it out of the socket. I imagined doing that to the beautiful long legs of my cheating wife. Wasn't that what Laura always says in bed, "Baby, you are so damn strong, you could break me in a snap!"

Laura finished plotting her next rendezvous with whoever that asshole was. She stepped out and started wearing her boots. She was going to leave me here with the kids and a handicapped turkey.
I twisted and yanked out another limb, before using both my hands to slowly crush the turkey’s bones. I then took a slicing knife and started gutting the limp mass in my hands. Somehow, the act gave me great pleasure. Yes! This was the hell unfaithful whores need to go through.

I wondered where she met him, in some cheap trashy motel or at his home. Was he married or some single vagabond?

Laura kissed the kids and walked up to me. I was readying the turkey for it’s final fall from grace. I imagined Laura suffering the same fate, imagined myself as the punisher in black leather overalls. A sliver of guilty pleasure coursed through my big body. She gave me a big kiss and handed me a set of keys while she spoke into my ears, “Tonight, arrange for a babysitter and come to the Waldorf, room 302. I will be waiting for you with nothing on but my stilettoes.” Laura looked up at me and winked in delight. My eyes widened and heart galloped at the thought of Laura naked. 

I twisted the turkey’s neck and instead of neatly chopping it off, I yanked it hard. Blood sprayed into my hands and on the slab.

“And I will be wearing only black leather…baby!” I spoke. Yes, it was my brute strength that excited her so. And tonight I was going to give it to her, with no holds barred. She laughed and walked away swinging her hips.

And with my bloody hands, I waved her goodbye.

A big heart

I knew the story of Mrs. Murphy, the young widow at 33. About her love saga with Mr. Murphy; which spanned across 3 decades. They met in kindergarten, at the tiny age of 3 and they knew then that their heart belonged to other forever and ever. For the past 30 years, they never spent a day apart. Mr. Murphy would always carry Mrs. Murphy’s big heart on his strong shoulders and Mrs. Murphy would carry Mr. Murphy’s sturdy, noble heart in her delicate hands.

But one day, 3 decades after they gave their heart to each other, Mrs. Murphy was running errands around the town. It was a cold winter morning; the roads were filled with atl east a feet of snow. The lake was frozen and trees were barren. A chill wind blew across the town of “Big Heart” and Mrs. Murphy, in all the hurry of finishing her errands, forgot to carry a woolen wrap for Mr. Murphy’s heart.

Mrs. Murphy kept admonishing herself, knowing that Mr. Murphy would never ever have forgotten to carry a woolen wrap for her perpetually big heart.

As she walked the bridge across the frozen lake, which was a shortcut from the market place to Mrs. Murphy’s home, she could feel Mr. Murphy’s heart getting colder, almost ice cold. Mrs. Murphy kept balancing the heart between two hands while carrying at least 4 grocery bags. And as she was shifting the heart from one hand to another, Mr. Murphy’s sturdy yet noble heart slipped from her and landed smack in the middle of the frozen lake creating a web of cracks and eventually slipping through those cracks in the ice cold water beneath.

Mrs. Murphy screamed and shouted, called the cops and crawled the lake to reach out to her husband’s heart. But it slipped into the obscurity of a bottomless lake. That night Mrs. Murphy received the body of Mr. Murphy who, that afternoon instantly died of hypothermia.

Mrs. Murphy cried and mourned non-stop for a year after. Until neighbors, including my mom, started counseling her. They kept telling her that, she is still young and she should start dating now. Who knows she might find another Mr. Murphy, with an even more nobler heart?

So one spring evening, I think it was a Friday, more than 2 years after the death of Mr. Murphy, I saw Mrs. Murphy, lug her big, big heart, on to her station wagon. It was clear that she was going out on a date, she was dressed in her best clothes and I had seen her with make up after a very long time.

With me being home alone for the next few months, and my semester exams right upon my head, I did not have much of a life. So I made it my life to observe Mrs. Murphy. I dearly hoped that if not me, at least Mrs. Murphy, the young widow should get some action.

For the first few weeks of going out on dates, Mrs. Murphy would always return alone, carrying her shriveled up heart in her palm. One day I heard our other neighbor Mrs. Patel asking Mrs. Murphy about her dates, all she said in a tiny voice was, they all want the same thing, sex. Their hearts are not like my noble Murphy, Mrs. Murphy sobbed.

Mrs. Patel holding her narrow, sharp edged almost black heart in hands, then advised Mrs. Murphy, “Oh my dear girl, give them what they want. How else will they come back to you?”

The next Friday evening, as I was chatting with Francis, my best friend, I noticed Mrs. Murphy again lug her big heart into her station wagon off on another date. That night she did not come home with a shriveled heart, neither did she come alone. She came home with a man, carrying his own muscular heart, the color of vermillion. I felt happy for Mrs. Murphy, maybe she did find her Mr. Murphy, part 2, after all.

The next day, I again saw her carry her big beautiful heart for another date. If anything her heart had become bigger and prettier. I was sure it was because of the same guy with a muscular vermillion heart. But that night she came back with another man, carrying a rather tall almost pink heart.

And so on it went, each Friday or Saturday for the next 2 months, Mrs. Murphy brought a different man with a different heart. And her heart in turn grew bigger, glossier, prettier and sexier. I never saw the same man twice, and by now I started getting worried about Mrs. Murphy. The decent, church going Mrs. Murphy had turned into a vixen. During the week I would see her gardening wearing nothing but a tube top and hot pants. From knee length dresses, she now started wearing skirts that looked more like broad belts.

Seeing Mrs. Murphy like that, often did strange things to my stomach, and well generally the lower half of my body. I felt stiff, funny and restless.

If anything, I got more obsessed with Mrs. Murphy. I told myself, it was important that I keep an eye on her. Who knows the next man she brings into her home, might just turn out to be a serial killer. I stayed awake at nights keeping a keen eye and ear to Mrs. Murphy’s nocturnal nefarious activities. All I could make out were intertwined shadows with lots of shouting and moaning.

One morning I woke up from my usual place, the armchair facing the window, facing Mrs. Murphy’s house. It was the day mum and dad, were coming back from their spiritual cleansing in India. I realized it was noon already, time to bring in milk. Hopefully, it hadn’t gone bad.

As I picked up milk from my door, I saw Mrs. Murphy waving out to me, all happily glowing like an angel in her white shift and holding her glossy red, big heart in one hand. I walked up to her, it was time I finally ask her how her dating is going. Maybe getting her opinion would help my obsession.

“Layla, darling how are you? When are your parents back?”

I stared at the contours of her full breasts, molding into a tiny waist, and I swallowed. “All good Mrs. Murphy. They are back this afternoon. I actually came to ask you something.”

She smiled encouragingly.

“Now that you are dating again, how is it going? Met anyone?”

“Oh, I met many my dear girl. But none of have what it takes to be with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“But of course darling, none of them have Mr. Murphy’s sturdy noble heart.”

“Oh, so what are you going to do about that?”

“Don’t worry I have taken care of it.” She smiled in delight.

After chatting for another 15 minutes, I walked back home only to find the newspaper sprawled across the floor. Thanks to Tojo our dog, it was not only sprawled, but also partially eaten. My eyes fell on the local section, which showed the decomposed body of a muscular man, what was strange about that picture was that his heart was missing, and so were other vital parts of his body.

The paper spoke about decomposed bodies being found in the central lake of young men without their hearts and various other organs.

The thin, lanky heart that I held in my hands skipped a beat, when I saw the picture of a young happy man, holding a strong muscular vermillion heart next to the image of the corpse.

Lana Del Rey sang on the radio:

Baby, I'm a sociopath,

Sweet serial killer.

On the warpath,

'Cause I love you

Just a little too much.

Woes of motherhood

I am a mother, and seriously, it is “Not” the greatest job in the world. There are so many things about motherhood that I do not agree with.

For example: You know how every woman says that popping a child out of her womb was the happiest, most joyful moment in her life. It s all bullshit, I tell you….bulllllshittt!

How can labor of anywhere between 10 to 40 hours, where every 30 seconds you bear unimaginable pain, be the most joyful moment of your life?

And guess what, it doesn’t end there, it is followed by 365 days of sleepless nights, sleepless days, and a complete transformation from a young nubile woman to a misshapen ghost. Oh and dark circles are best experienced in motherhood.

So yes, I have been a mom for 7 years now, and guess what, in the last 7 years, there have only been 5-6 such occasions where I have been able to dwell in my bath for more than 15 minutes.

My standard 5 minute time to poop is usually interrupted atleast 5 times with my kids, banging, scratching, pushing or generally whining at the bathroom door.

Toilet paper is the most in demand commodity in my house. Sometimes, I feel my kids don’t use it, they consume it like candy.

And the best part of it all when you say “No”, it just means your kids will start hanging on to you like a sloth and repeating their request with a prefix and postfix of “Pleeeeaaaaasssseee!”

Let’s not forget being judged; especially by these pesky non-parents who seem to believe they have their parenting philosophy down to a “T”.

When my son greets them with a, “Hi”, they make a face and respond with “Good morning Siddharth!”. I should tell them that you are the lucky one, my son actually bothered to raise his head from the ipad, while he is midst of finishing the final level of Shark Attack.

But of course, you pesky non-parents would not get that. You would judge me for using the ipad as a convenient baby sitter and a source of entertainment. Well, judge all you want, you would thank smart phone and tablet manufacturers when you join the motherhood bandwagon.

Oh and let’s talk about those unrealistically perfect mother’s who give no junk food to their kids and limit recreational/TV viewing hours to 30 minutes a day. I want to ask them something, seriously, don’t you have a life. Don’t you want to do really important and meaningful stuff when your child is glued to the TV? For example: Bitch about your mother in law to your best friend, or discuss that annoyingly perfect mom at school, who is always prim, wears Versace and carries Louis Vitton. Hell, even her child’s school bag is a Tommy.

Perhaps, the most annoying part about motherhood are the grandparents. They seem to know exactly what needs to be done when. As if they have raised perfect specimens of mankind. Case in point, yours truly!

If you think motherhood is scary by now, you haven’t experienced the scariest part yet. When finally after 2 years you visit a club with friends or spouse, only because your parents or inlaws have grudgingly agreed to babysit your monsters. You will see a bunch of 17 something girls drunk and falling all over the place, a bunch of 17 something boys, running around carrying 2 of these drunk girls in each arms and there would be whispers of ecstasy and LSD. Your heart would stop, your eyes would be wide, and you will promise yourself that next month you are moving to a convent with your kids and never looking back.

So yes, I am a mother,

My house will never be spot less, it will be rife with toys. So watch your step.

I know you are very affectionate towards my children, but if you wake them, you take them.

I will always be tired, and if I am taking a nap, don’t you dare wake me, lest you want to experience the fire-breathing dragon.

I will whip up a meal in half an hour; it will not be gourmet, it will not be healthy either. But you better not make a face.

And finally, bear in mind, if you say a single unsavory word about my kids, you ex-girlfriend/stalker would be the least of your problems.