Western Europe. Christmas is round the corner, and you’re thankful that global warming hasn’t had any noticeable effect in this corner of the world. You love the snow, and the cold. Its dark outside, as you sit in the balcony of your chateau, looking at your investments. You own acres of land around the old castle, grounds that are eerily quiet today. You’ve given your servants a break, and they have retired to their quarters. The year is (almost) ended, and you think about the future. This has been a stellar year for business, and you’ve come farther than you ever thought you would. Yet, the hunger for power remains as insatiable as always. You indulge, and break out a bottle of 1989 Cabernet Sauvignon.
You think back to February 15th, the best lay of your life. The fair skinned, dark haired, green eyed woman you had fallen head over heels in love with a month before that. You had found it hard to control your emotions over this goddess, this epitome of perfection. Yet, somehow, you steeled yourself and forced her off the pedestal in your mind. As lesser men swooned around her and fapped in the comfort of their homes, you went for the kill. You knew how women worked, you knew their deepest darkest secrets. You no longer needed to think about game consciously, it was instinctive now. A second skin. You showed her the trident tattoo on your shoulder, a tribute to Shiva, the Hindu lord of destruction.
No, you were not very religious. You told her about the time when you were left for dead after the gang war in Mumbai, and how you prayed to the Lord of Destruction when you were dying. You smiled as her eyes widened, and her mouth opened just a bit. She told you about when she burned herself on a bike silencer. You asked to see the burn, you touched it, lightly at first, then a bit firmly. She started breathing a little heavily. It was a very subtle change, but you were a master. More conversations followed, and she as was enchanted by your mercurial nature as you were bewitched by her beauty.
Bit by bit, you had pulled her into your world, and in your tiny bubble, the two of you cared not for the rest of the world. You knew that that the chase was over, that you could have her whenever you wanted (and logistics permitted). When it finally happened, it transcended all your previous experiences. After going through a battery of Russians, Brits, Spanish, Moroccon, Japanese, Persian, Bolivian and American pussy, you had fallen for a fellow Indian. Fallen hard. They said oxytocin bonding capability decreased if you cycled through many women, that was why playas got easily bored of, and distracted by women. That they would possibly never love. You chuckled. You’d give up the world for this chick. Even after sex, you still had the same feelings.
In the post coital glow, she told you she had come shopping and was going back to the country. “What?” you asked. “I’m getting married on the 3rd of March. Do you hate me now?” She said, as her voice broke. You looked up at the ceiling, and smiled bitterly. “Good luck.” You replied. “I’m sure he’ll keep you happy.” She looked at you with her big, moist Bambi eyes and her trembling lips. You smiled back, and drew her closer. Love was ephemeral, you knew. But what cruel irony was this?
You’ve drunk a lot of wine by this time, and you know that you should stop. But as you look wistfully out at the falling snow, you realize that you’ve got the Oneitis. For a married woman. You decide you need a change of place to counter the melancholy. Move to the hall, turn on the TV. As you’re flicking through the channels, you stop at ESPN. Maybe there’s some old soccer highlights you’d on. Instead, turns out that the Cricket World Cup is on, and India is in the finals. As you watch, you find yourself rooting for the team, and in a nailbiting finish, India are the World Champions. You stopped following cricket some 20 years back, but for some reason, you’re pretty pumped right now. Ecstatic, even.
And then it hits you. Cricket. A quintessentially Indian Game.
You think back to February 15th, the best lay of your life. The fair skinned, dark haired, green eyed woman you had fallen head over heels in love with a month before that. You had found it hard to control your emotions over this goddess, this epitome of perfection. Yet, somehow, you steeled yourself and forced her off the pedestal in your mind. As lesser men swooned around her and fapped in the comfort of their homes, you went for the kill. You knew how women worked, you knew their deepest darkest secrets. You no longer needed to think about game consciously, it was instinctive now. A second skin. You showed her the trident tattoo on your shoulder, a tribute to Shiva, the Hindu lord of destruction.
No, you were not very religious. You told her about the time when you were left for dead after the gang war in Mumbai, and how you prayed to the Lord of Destruction when you were dying. You smiled as her eyes widened, and her mouth opened just a bit. She told you about when she burned herself on a bike silencer. You asked to see the burn, you touched it, lightly at first, then a bit firmly. She started breathing a little heavily. It was a very subtle change, but you were a master. More conversations followed, and she as was enchanted by your mercurial nature as you were bewitched by her beauty.
Bit by bit, you had pulled her into your world, and in your tiny bubble, the two of you cared not for the rest of the world. You knew that that the chase was over, that you could have her whenever you wanted (and logistics permitted). When it finally happened, it transcended all your previous experiences. After going through a battery of Russians, Brits, Spanish, Moroccon, Japanese, Persian, Bolivian and American pussy, you had fallen for a fellow Indian. Fallen hard. They said oxytocin bonding capability decreased if you cycled through many women, that was why playas got easily bored of, and distracted by women. That they would possibly never love. You chuckled. You’d give up the world for this chick. Even after sex, you still had the same feelings.
In the post coital glow, she told you she had come shopping and was going back to the country. “What?” you asked. “I’m getting married on the 3rd of March. Do you hate me now?” She said, as her voice broke. You looked up at the ceiling, and smiled bitterly. “Good luck.” You replied. “I’m sure he’ll keep you happy.” She looked at you with her big, moist Bambi eyes and her trembling lips. You smiled back, and drew her closer. Love was ephemeral, you knew. But what cruel irony was this?
You’ve drunk a lot of wine by this time, and you know that you should stop. But as you look wistfully out at the falling snow, you realize that you’ve got the Oneitis. For a married woman. You decide you need a change of place to counter the melancholy. Move to the hall, turn on the TV. As you’re flicking through the channels, you stop at ESPN. Maybe there’s some old soccer highlights you’d on. Instead, turns out that the Cricket World Cup is on, and India is in the finals. As you watch, you find yourself rooting for the team, and in a nailbiting finish, India are the World Champions. You stopped following cricket some 20 years back, but for some reason, you’re pretty pumped right now. Ecstatic, even.
And then it hits you. Cricket. A quintessentially Indian Game.