SUI GENERIS ; A SHORT STORY BASED ON THE LINES PROVIDED BY DURJOY DATTA

“Rhea Bolt!” exclaimed the ecstatic crowd. I burnt the tracks with breath taking pace, bagging the coveted yellow metal. Blame it on the twin hearts, I mused. The coach was nonplussed. In the boxing ring, I mowed down opponents effortlessly, moving like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. I could hear chants of “Rhea Clay, Rhea Clay”, reverberating in the cauldron. It was an honor to be awarded by Mary Kom.

As my friends struggled to grapple with math, I could recollect numbers and complex quadratic equations quite effortlessly and in a facile manner. The examiner was dumb struck and wondered at the speed with which I decoded the math paper and breezed out of the examination hall. I was declared ‘SOTY’ (Student of The Year). My contemporaries were covetous of the achievements, but I remained unaffected.

I walked away with the trophies awarded, be it academics, sports or extra-curricular activities. They were awarded by Dr. Pronoy Roy of NDTV. I could also spot Barkha Dutt sitting in the VIP enclosure, whom I was desirous of emulating, given my proclivity for words and the gift of the gab I was blessed with.

My younger brother Ronny and I had been provided with a liberal education and our characters were built on strong Christian traditions and faith. Ronny was bitten by the movie world, idolizing Satyajit Ray and Naseeruddin Shah while I was smitten by Barkha Dutt and aspired to be a television anchor.

It was heartening that our parents did apply any roadblocks or impediments as we pursued our passions. To this end, I joined a mass communication institute, where I ran into my friend (turned foe, frenemy) Rahim and a demure looking lass, Ragini. The sultry bong, was well sculpted and proportioned at the right places. We exchanged a warm hug, and I was moonstruck with her hot energy. She was both stunning and fetching; I gushed.

Rahim (who had always had a deep crush on me and I found him attractive too), used to live in our colony and manufactured occasions to run errands for the family, much to the disapprobation of my parents.

Though they were catholic in nature and broad minded in approach, they were iffy about someone from outside our community and religion being overtly friendly with their daughter. It may appear clichéd; but that was a fact which was dinned into me. He was treated like a pariah by the elders, especially my grandparents.

However, Rahim by sheer quirk of fate managed to endear himself to my family. One day   grandparents and father were cruising along the Western Ghats and met with a serious accident. My father was the sole survivor and had to be administered blood type O. Rahim, ‘the Merciful’ was the universal donor, and it was his blood that resuscitated my dad. The family, traumatized by the unforeseen events and tragedy, were full of gratitude for Rahim. At the graveyard of my grandparents, my eyes welled with tears and reciprocated the overtures made by Rahim. It was a poignant moment. Slowly our friendship blossomed into love.

We dated, went out to the malls, movies, exchanged notes and flowers and texted messages from the supercilious to sublime. He prayed five times a day, while I prayed before falling to sleep or during Sunday mass. I was not the typical religious or spiritual kind of a person.

Rahim and I disagreed on a variety of issues; read soft porn and intellectual stuff like Huntington’s ‘Clash of Civilizations’ with avid interest. He opposed the hegemony of the western world and the US, the bombing of Iraq and problems confronting Syria and Pakistan .We also squabbled over the immigrant and the ‘Muslim’ issues, as advocated by Donald Trump. However the heated and academic discussions did not alter the discourse or trajectory of our relationship.

 We both avidly followed the US elections. The feminine heart in my body was rooting for Hilary, but the masculine heart was sanguine that it would be the ‘Trumpet’ blowing, come November 2016.

 Biologically, physically and psychologically being endowed with two hearts in one body was quirky enough, and I reckon there was a development of bisexual tendencies in my personality. This was raucous to my faith.

 I realized my testosterone and libido levels were abnormally high. Occasionally, I would brush my hands not quite innocently on our maid’s bottom, and then filled with pangs of guilt, cross my heart and admit to the purported sin committed. But the not so innocent domestic help found these encounters juicy. I would see her blushing and moaning, anticipating more.

But this purported bi-sexuality did not affect my love for Rahim which magnified over a period of time and I was planning to inform my parents about eventually marrying Rahim.

At this juncture he dropped a nasty bombshell. Apparently, he was soon to be engaged to a ‘cousin’. I felt the guy did not have the balls to walk out earlier and had the gall to inform me about these developments. Feeling distraught and tormented, I was staring at a gaping hole in my universe. The squelch used my body and soul and discarded me like a used condom. I became a misanthrope.

 At the communications college, I was primus inter pares. One could attribute it to my vivacious nature, athleticism, my mane, gravitas and of course my felicity with numbers and figures. My power point presentations were splendid. And I was convinced that others in the class were creating pedestrian output.

 There appeared to be no logic or pattern to Rahim’s engagement and disengagement; to me he was shambolic and unsteady. And I needed time before getting involved in any form of entanglement. His misdemeanors were tolerated only for saving my father’s life. Relationship was a strict no.

 At college I began chaperoning the demure and reticent Ragini and found myself getting attracted to the sultry Bengali beauty both physically and emotionally. One night while skimming through something salacious I conjured a steamy scene with her and in a frenzied state imagined a threesome, ending up furiously masturbating.

That night after all the moaning and feverishness had ebbed, I texted ‘miss u’ and ‘gn’ to Ragini. The following morning, the shy girl kissed my forehead and held my hands. I was taken aback. Did she harbor and attach lesbian feelings towards me, I paused and pondered? I did not consider myself to be a charlatan, but  perhaps an intellectual bohemian.

Ronny was donnish, and learnt his craft at NSD and FTII. A role was offered to him, for which he had to drop his pants. Feeling nauseated, he joined a ‘Chandini Bar’ strumming his guitar to earn a livelihood and ogled at the voluptuous females gyrating to salivating men.

As part of our practical training, we had to undertake project work. Ragini, Rahim (to my chagrin and discomfiture) and I were assigned to take up a topical issue confronting women and the feminist movement in India.  

Rahim suggested that we produce a documentary on Nirbhaya. I found this to be jejunic and common place. We mulled the subject over a drink and pot when I screamed “Let’s do a trilogy as to whether menstruating women should enter places of worship”. Ragini endorsed my idea. We planned to cover Ayyapa and Shani temples and the Hazrat Ali Dargah. Menstruating women seek relief from their male Gods, was the title of the film.

  Rahim, much to my relief sought exemption from our group and preferred to do a documentary on issues confronting students at higher learning educational institutions. I suggested a title - Counting Condoms- and chuckled.

I was covertly happy that Ragini agreed to the proposal and Rahim was no longer in the picture frame. We braced the priestly classes and made a captivating short film which captured the angst of women being deprived of worshipping male Gods in this age and time.  

The final product won critical appreciation from the internal and the external faculty. We bagged the coveted prize and celebrated over drinks and pot and ended up in bed. Ragini was the new flame in my life. “You are quiet a catch”, I whispered and she gushed.

The success of the trilogy preceded us and we were picked up by a prestigious news channel, known for their cerebral productions rather than rambunctious and boisterous   ventures.

The producers were dazzled with my boldness and beauty. Soon I was covering the Parliament and interviewing top political and spiritual leaders. The channel was bewildered with my high energy levels as they were not privy to my unique body condition.

At this point in time, the contours and ramifications of the contentious Article 377 were being argued in the highest court of the land. The channel deputed Ragini and me to interview Sri Sri. To our amazement, he came out unequivocally in support of the LGBT community. Years back, I had fled from an Art of Living programme. Upon interviewing Gurudev (as his followers address him), I was engulfed with feeling of completion of the course.

The interview brought us accolades and complements across channels. Our TRP increased significantly. My former boyfriend was working with a rival noisy channel. Rahim’s pet project on Nirbhaya – Braveheart, turned out to be tepid. I was filled with retribution at my success and his failure.

‘Conversations with Rhea and Ragini’ gave our channel the required TRPs and intellectual appreciation. Our programmes on the impending American elections and the  ISIS crisis were highly rated and cherished. But the high point were conversations with a trustee of Ayyapa Temple and a Veda quoting Yogi on Article 377, feminism and homosexuality. This was high octane stuff and the magical Ragini moment in my life.  The twin hearts celebrated my bisexuality.

 The sun in my life was suddenly eclipsed and tragedy struck me and the channel, when Ragini passed out one day. She was hospitalized and a battery of tests was conducted. She had suffered a cardiac arrest. This demure girl never disclosed that she suffered from Atrial Septum Defect (a hole in the septum between the heart’s two upper chambers) and also from Ventricular Septum Defect (a hole in the septum of the two lower chambers).  This was a congenital defect and her condition turned grave.

Ragini was hospitalized where I was born. The authorities of the channel were apprised of my twin heart condition by the obstetrician and cardiologist. The owners of the channel planned to celebrate the moment by airing a programme called ‘Conversations with the twin hearts’. One incapacitated with a troubled heart condition and another who could zoom across the universe like a super woman. This was to be the real TRP triumph for the channel.

The programme pummeled all TRP ratings and the channel was deluged with innumerable callers. Infirm patients demanded my organ.

'Are you sure, Rhea?' asks my mother.

'Of course I'm. Survival of the fittest, mother. I'm not going against Darwin. Also I don't want unnecessary scars on my body.'

It's a known fact that we are all born to die. And frankly, I don't understand why it has to be made into such a big deal. If it were not for my mother I would have said that to the bunch of people outside my house, some of them with young kids, shouting slogans, waving placards, literally wanting me to cut one of my beating hearts out. "Save A Life. Donate!" they shout.

For someone who is one in billions, 7.125 billion to be exact, I expect to be treated better. Scientists are still befuddled regarding my condition that gave me two hearts in my mother's womb. But years of research and sticking needles into me have led them nowhere, and they have labelled me as a freak mutation. It's so rare - literally one in all humankind - that they didn't even name the anomaly (as they call it, I will call it awesomeness). I wanted to name the condition myself, something on the lines of Rhea's Heartsawesome but the doctors aren't thrilled with the suggestion. Instead they want to cut one of them out and save a life. Huh?

An IQ of 180, increased concentration, exceptional athleticism and a phenomenal metabolism rate - are just the few boring benefits of an increased blood circulation. Why would I ever give that up?

After a passage of considerable time, I found myself in the confession box and shared my story with the priest of our parish. He was taken aback at my sexual preferences and an earlier dalliance with a non-Catholic. However to absolve me, he invoked the holy trinity and asked me to sacrifice the heart. My Darwin’s arguments seemed to be falling on deaf ears. To me ex post facto the Priest was lived in the dark ages and he seemed to have never experienced renaissance and reformation. 

My mother’s harangue about resuscitating my hospitalized colleague did not cut any ice. Dad recalled his tryst with destiny and how the O blood group saved his life. Rahim surfaced and tried to rationalize as to how important it was to save an individual’s life.  The channel owners too pitched in, in the name of corporate social responsibility that I ought to sacrifice my heart.

Ragini’s mother implored and beseeched me to part with the organ. After considerable mulling, I agreed on a quid pro quo that Ragini would marry me after recouping and recovering from the surgery. THEY WERE AGHAST BUT AGREED TO MY STIPULATION AND SO DID RAGINI.

The surgery was successful. I parted with my heart and Ragini regained her mojo and rejoined work. TRP ratings of the channel reached the stratosphere and our   noisy competitors grudgingly acknowledged my hecatomb and contribution in a boisterous programme. Strangely my sacrifices were overshadowed by sexual preferences.

Ragini’s and her mother (Rehana) refused to keep their word and Rahim was quietly married to Ragini. This was a twist in our tale.

That night, I was shifted back to the very hospital where I was born, following consumption of a heavy dose of sleeping pills, alcohol and marijuana. I left a suicide note –‘Sir Darwin, the world is the survival of the filthiest.