Their stories were getting bolder, "as if mine weren't," but then they were writing some real risque stuff, erotica and other literature, I thought about it, "this was getting interesting," because the more I thought about it, the more I liked it, I had nothing against erotica and the kind of stuff that Paul and his friends were writing now. I had met them at the writers club and got along nicely with them, there wasn't a stone they left unturned in getting attention, "and damn they were getting all the attention," here I was sitting on my hiney wondering where all my self promotion ability had gone to, "must have been consigned to you know where," I thought to myself, these were my kind of guys. Occasional I would go and sip a cup of tea with them, "and I am sure they preferred a hip flask," tea was all they offered at the club, on one such occasion Paul's friend, Anna had walked up to me and asked me for a light, and "I d be damned," she was as beautiful as the daisy in my backyard and wrote erotica like, "a pro at the game." In any case I had managed to say a quick hi and we had hit it off nicely, "must have been a baseball game then, huh ?"
The writers club was an institution in Delhi, it had evolved over fifty years and included people from all walks of life trying to get attention of the reading public, there were article writers, book writers, short story writers and everybody who was the who's who of the literature scene. The wrote and analysed and then argued a bit, it was a fantastic place to be at, where one met imminent writers including Arundhati Roy, Khushwant Singh, if and when he managed to get his old,"you know what" moving and all the other writers who made up the scene. It was a beautiful place, this club, had all the makings of old British institution, high ceilings and long stalked fans which had given way to the air conditioners. The large windows had been retained and overlooked the secretariat, the windows were decorated with flowers and plants and there was enough ambience in the place to make the British House of Commons look "utterly common". The cafeteria served tea and coffee and samosa's that were finger licking and on and on a special request they also served paranthas for breakfast.
Anna had managed a story today and it was the regular erotica that brought about the ahh's and ooh's from the crowd when she presented summary, "apart from a lot of other adjectives," best left undescribed. There was also disdain amongst some of the lot, they regarded erotica writers as untouchables, "who wasn't these days," it was easy to classify what didn't agree with your morality as untouchable. She had painstakingly written a short story on her favourite topic and it hadn't gone down well with a lot of people. She was answering the questions when the timer rang, "the damn thing was a spoil sport," and she walked off to take her seat. I for one had liked her presentation, the story was crisp ,"most erotica is actually," and clear, wanted to take her further on a few salient points, "you sure are hitting on all the right points," but desisted from approaching her, "timing was important," here she was writing a book and I was trying to get just a word of conversation with her. She was lost in her world I could see, "did I say I watch people,"and she was pretty much watchable," I was understanding erotica and its concept more and more as time progressed and was sure I would make good conversation on it with her soon.
The Fine Line.
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