The Woman with a Cigarette - 1
Aisha and Her Predicament
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Before starting a new sex story series, I always go through this decision of whether to talk about something from the past or something recent. Things from the past have the benefit of hindsight. The feelings have crystalized, but it also means that the memory of the woman is muddled. The things that I had felt during the times with her, have most certainly been morphed by my experiences later in life. There’s more fiction than truth in stories from the deep past1.
I had a lot of fun, writing An Evening with the Girls, simply because it was fun reliving recent events, to write about these beautiful young girls whom I met over a weekend. I recently concluded writing Reeti to Rita. Writing fiction erotica drains a lot more energy than an Escapade story. I don’t have it in me to start another story series in Dominoes of Desire right away.
So, here’s a more recent Escapade.
I hope you like this story. Happy Reading!
1
It was an unusually cold January evening in Bombay. It didn’t even feel like Bombay when rolling down the windows, to smoke my cigarette, seemed like an uncomfortable proposition.
Beside me, was Aisha. Quiet and morose, just like I had first met her. I had offered her a cigarette, but she had politely declined, “I have had enough for an evening,” she had said.
Seated beside me, her dress had ridden up a little, showing me more of her thighs than I had seen the entire evening, standing beside her, smoking. She was scrolling through her phone, quietly, her head resting against the window. Her bare brown arms, the smooth lustrous skin — she looked perfect that evening, except, for her sadness.
It all started with a rather simple text message, in a WhatsApp group, of my long-time friends. As we have entered our 30s, Friday evenings have become more about taking stock of what is needed for the house, or the errand that had to wait till the weekend. Considering all my friends have a rather stable relationship (i.e. marriage), it’s rare for more than one of them to show an interest in a Friday evening of drinks.
I had, of course, said yes. It’d been a while since I had visited a bar in a city. Well, maybe a month had passed. But still, that’s a while.
So, on Friday evening, I put on my whitest shirt, and lightest denim jeans, trimmed my beard to look suave, and washed my face harder for the drinks with friends. Now that I write about it, I don’t do all that for my dates. But then again, dates usually last an evening, these friends have been around for years.
It was supposed to be a boys’ night, else, of course, I’d have asked Nidhi to come along. We were to meet at the Irish House in Bandra. I decided not to drive, and after a long time, drink at a bar, more than I usually do. We were to meet at 7 PM. I left around 6 PM, knowing full well that I would be the first to arrive. I like to do that, to choose the table, and study the menu before the chaos of a group unfolds.
Well, as it turned out, there was no chaos. A waiter was showing me to the table when my phone pinged. Two messages, from two of the three guys who were supposed to come. They couldn’t come, for one reason or the other. The guy who hadn’t canceled, pinged me asking if I was still up for it. Four guys are a party, two guys? That’s a sad date. Unless, there’s a matter of celebration, but I digress.
“I guess, some other time,” I texted, as I sat down at the table.
I kept the phone away and looked around the bar. It was lonely. I mean, the bar had people, of course. But it was lonely to sit alone at the table, especially when I was looking forward to an evening of banter and drinks. I resisted the urge to text Nidhi right away. I thought of texting Gurleen or Anvi, but they seemed too into their boyfriends the last time I met them on Christmas Eve.
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I scanned the menu. I decided to order some fish and chips, and Jack Daniels on the rocks. As I waited for the food, I asked the waiter where I could smoke. He pointed me in the direction of the smoking area.
I love smoking areas in a bar. They are the ones with the best art. Yes, the ventilation isn’t the best there, and they refuse to give places to sit. But, there’s an intimacy in smoking rooms and areas that is absent in the rest of the bar. Whenever I am at a bar, I spend more than half the time there. The bars should charge me less because I don’t really use their tables. But, again, I digress.
I picked up my glass of whisky and made my way to the smoking area. It was an open space, with a few tall tables to rest your elbow. Typical.
I fished out my pack of twenty, which I’d intended to smoke with my friends. Well, I can undoubtedly smoke the entire pack on my own, but a pack of 20 is a party pack (or a loner pack, on the extremes it is). As I lit my first cigarette, I fished out my phone. Few inane text messages. I tapped on my Reddit, after looking around. Usually, there’s a big-breasted woman posing with her breasts out on the top of my Reddit feed, so discretion is necessary. I scrolled through the feed and replied to some comments. You know, the basic time pass.
I kept the phone away eventually, bored and deciding to ‘live in the moment’. The bar inside had started filling up. I could see my table, it looked unoccupied, except for the unfinished plate of fish and chips. I was almost done with my first cigarette, and about to go inside, when I saw her.
I wouldn’t have looked twice at her if it were not for the rawness in her appearance. She was looking ahead, at nothing in particular, as she walked quickly to the table next to me. She had a frown on her face, a full glass of a drink, which I guessed was whisky too.
She took a cigarette from her packet, one of those long thin Korean cigarettes. I realized that I had been staring too long, doing nothing there, except resting my elbow on a table and looking at her.
She turned around, and said, almost unceremoniously, “Can I use your lighter?”
She had extended her hand already, reaching for my lighter, hovering over it.
“Of course,” I said, smiling politely.
Her arm was naked. She was wearing a beige dress, that ended a little above her knees. It hugged her tightly. The lighting in the area wasn’t the best to appraise the curves of a woman, but I didn’t need good lighting to imagine how she would look without a dress. The boon and bane of the male gaze.
She was tall. I looked at her feet. Yes, she wore heels, but even without them, her reached by chin (I know because I have seen her without heels too, very obvious foreshadowing here). Her arms were fleshy, but not chubby, her fingers long and delicate, with the long and delicate cigarette between them.
“These lighters are rare,” she said, handing it back to me, after taking the first puff of her cigarette.
“Yeah, it’s a gift,” I said, taking back my flip-top lighter, with my name embossed on it.
She didn’t respond. She bent her head down, scrolling through her phone. I decided to take out another cigarette, and light it.
When I said the rawness of her beauty, what I meant was how simple she looked. Yes, the dress was short, by Indian standards, but not really by a bar in Bombay standards. Her hair had brown highlights. They were straightened, but they hadn’t dried. It was much too obvious that she took a quick shower before leaving for the bar, and it was her hair-wash day.
She leaned forward, putting her weight on the small tall table, pushing her ass out. Her ass was ample. The dress didn’t outline the curves, but it was large enough to make you want to give it a squeeze. Her skin was on the darker side of the brown, but the dress was a nice contrast to her skin tone. All this made me check her out more than I should have. But then again, if I would have done all the things that I should be doing, I wouldn’t have written a word here!
I lit another cigarette, as an excuse to hang around there, to observe more of her. She smoked with determination and looked thirsty when she sipped her glass of whisky. She was not looking around, and after she kept her phone away, she stared at the wall, deep in her thought.
I puffed at my cigarette, thinking of what I should be doing after going back home. I could always go back to sleep, call Nidhi, or maybe even text Nisha. Our text exchanges have been fun lately. More on that later though.
After I finished my cigarette, I went back to my table. I finished the plate of fish and chips and ordered a plate of spaghetti. All the while, I was trying to find the woman I had seen outside. She was not hard to find, but it’s just that I was looking at the wrong place.
By the time I came inside, finished my plate of appetizers, and ordered the mains, she was still outside. Smoking away, one cigarette after another, staring blankly at the wall. I couldn’t make out from the distance how much of her whisky was left.
“How far out are we from your place?” I asked, throwing the butt of my cigarette.
“Five minutes, sir,” the chauffeur answered for her.
By that point, I had known a lot about her. Her name was Aisha. If it’s not obvious till now, she came from money. We were on the way to her place in Lower Parel. One of those high-rise buildings, which you look at when stuck in traffic.
She told me all this when I was out again in the smoking area. Of course, she didn’t just beckon me and told me to come with her in the car.
“Are you okay?” I was behind her.
She had turned her head sharply, the dim warm light, outlining her face. She looked stunning from that angle.
When she realized that I was indeed talking to her, she frowned. She turned her entire body towards me, resting both her elbows on the table. Her breasts looked much bigger that way, almost pushed out in my direction. “What?” she had asked.
I pocketed my hands, “Uhh, I am sorry if I am a bother. But, I saw you from inside. Cigarette after cigarette. And you are probably on your second full glass of whisky,” I said.
I took a small step towards her, and lowered my voice, “I have been like this sometimes. And it’s usually the times when I’d have liked someone asking me if I were okay. So —”
“Please, don’t try to hit on me. I have a boyfriend, and —” she took a long drag of her cigarette, “— and tonight’s not the evening in which I am in a mood to politely decline giving out my number.”
When she took a long drag of her cigarette, its tip glowed, lighting her face. In the warm candescent light of the cigarette, she looked even more beautiful than she did before. My eyes had adjusted to the dark by then. I saw the tiny diamond nose pin she wore, and the way her lips reflected the light from a large lamp that was a little far away.
I smiled, trying to diffuse the situation, and said, “No, I am not trying to hit on you.”
I gestured at the wall art of Oasis in the smoking area, “Have you heard that song, ‘Don’t look back at anger’?”
She looked at the wall as if she was seeing it for the very first time. “Yeah, I know the song,” she said, putting out her cigarette. The waiter had probably arranged for a dedicated ashtray for her. It was overflowing with countless Esses butts. She was caressing her almost finished packet of cigarettes as she said, “I am sorry. It’s a rough evening,” she finally decided to put the cigarette between her lips.
I took out my lighter, stepped one more step closer to her, and flipped the lighter open for her. Her eyes narrowed at the flame, and when it was lit, she looked up. It was the first time, our eyes had met. She had large eyes, almost the shape of almonds. She blinked, before looking away.
“The lyrics of the song always get me. To not dwell in the past. It’s a cliche, but —” I lit a cigarette for myself, “ — it’s still something that I keep telling myself.”
There was a faint smile on her lips. They were thick and lustrous. Wet, even after she had been puffing away at cigarette after cigarette.
“It’s not really the past, that I am dwelling on. It’s the future,” she said, looking pensive again.
In a city of over 20 million people, it’s the strangers that we find comfort in. No strings attached. No fear of judgment, because you will never see the stranger again if you didn’t want to. In anonymity, we find comfort. In the anonymity, we find the courage to speak of things that we would only whisper to ourselves. But for all that, you need a moment. You need a moment of connection, you need a moment of camaraderie.
When I and Aisha stood there, pondering over a cliche of not dwelling in the past, we had that moment. The warm cigarettes on the unusually cold January evening in Bombay were our connection. Tenuous and harmful, our moment of connection was just like cigarette smoke.
I gestured to the waiter who was serving me. When he approached us, I said, “Can you please bring my plate here? And refill my glass and madam’s.”
He nodded, with a practiced smile, and asked Aisha, “Repeat of the same madam?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. I have always liked people who smiled when they ordered.
When the waiter walked away, I asked her, “What are you drinking?”
She chuckled.
“What?” I smiled.
She laughed. She was drunk. But the laughter. Her voice was sweet and had a slight melody to it. But her laughter — carefree and loud, her smile reaching her eyes. She had leaned forward, while she laughed.
“I don’t remember what I ordered,” she said, “I think, I should stop drinking.”
I laughed too, “Maybe you should. But then again, not every night is this rough,” I said.
She nodded, and we were quiet for a moment.
“So, what happened?” I asked between drags.
“I don’t know. It’s a lot. Very personal. And —” she stopped because the waiter had arrived, with our drinks and my plate of spaghetti.
I saw her looking at the food, and said, “Please, share this with me. I cannot have the entire portion on my own, especially after that full plate of fish and chips.”
She took the fork, rolled a bunch of spaghetti, and put it in her mouth. She slurped the dangling last piece of spaghetti, chuckling at the end when she saw me looking at her intently.
“I love it, but I have never mastered the art of taking it all in one go,” she said.
I nodded, took the same fork, and took a bite.
“So, you were saying?” I asked her, sipping from my glass of whisky.
“Yeah,” she shook her head, “I don’t know. It’s —” her phone pinged. She snuffed out her cigarette instantly, picking up the phone. She impatiently tapped on the notification, and read it. She stared at it, almost shocked, a large frown on her face. She kept scrolling up and down, furiously studying the screen.
I politely looked away, sipped my whisky, and ate my spaghetti.
“Can’t believe this,” she said under her breath.
I looked at her. I didn’t find a response to her expression.
She rubbed her forehead, and then pressed on her temples. If I would have been quiet longer, it would’ve been rude. “Is everything okay?” I asked.
She shook her head, still refusing to speak. Her phone pinged. And pinged. It started ringing soon. She furiously rejected the call. It rang again, and she rejected it again. She fumbled to switch off her phone. When she managed to switch it off, I stepped closer to her, put my hand on her bare shoulder, and asked her, “Whatever it is, you can —”
“No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. And then, she started crying.
It’s never a pretty sight to see a woman cry, especially when she’s not crying out of pleasure, or from pain, but a different kind of pain.
I squeezed her shoulder and remained quiet. She muffled her cries, but it was loud enough for people around us to take notice.
I leaned over, and said, “I think you should go home. I can call a cab, if it’s okay, we can share the ride. We —”
“No,” she managed to say, sniffling, “I have a car. I will call the driver.”
“Alright,” I looked around, to find the waiter. I gestured to him for the bill.
She switched on her phone, and before she could make the call, her phone rang again.
She picked it up, and without waiting for a response, said, “Fuck off. Don’t call me again.”
She was breathing heavily after she disconnected the call. She dialed a number, and simply said, “Aa jao.”
The waiter arrived with the check and asked if he should pack the spaghetti. I was hungry, but it didn’t seem appropriate to wait for the food to be packed. I paid the bill.
Aisha gathered her things from the small tall table and looked at me. She had stopped crying till then, but her eyes were shining with tears, her expression grave.
When we started walking, she stumbled. I held her arm. Our eyes met. I loved her eyes at that moment. They were embarrassed. Embarrassed for crying. Embarrassed to be so drunk that she couldn’t walk straight.
When she stumbled, her dress parted a little from her chest. I took a sharp breath, telling myself to not stare for too long at her cleavage. Her breasts looked deliciously brown at that moment. I smiled and looked away.
“So, you have a driver?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
Her steps were slow. We walked arm in arm, across the length of the bar. She invited stares. Drunk and looking sexy usually invite stares. I liked that. I think every man likes it, when people stare at the girl in their arms.
She nodded quietly, her entire focus on stumbling in her heels.
We didn’t have to wait long. A long black car was already waiting at the entrance. As soon as the driver saw us, he got out of the front seat and held the door open.
I refused to let go of her till she was seated in the car. I closed the door. The driver was already seated. She rolled down the window, and said, “Where are you going?”
“Uhh, I will just order an Uber, and wait here,” I said, leaning against the roof of the car.
“Where do you live?” she asked me, frowning.
“I don’t even know your name, and you want to know where I live?” I said.
She didn’t find that funny. “Andheri,” I said.
“Oh,” she looked sad, sadder if that were possible.
“I don’t have to leave right now. Where is this car going? I can Uber from wherever you drop me,” I said, looking back. A queue of cars had formed. We weren’t blocking the way entirely, but we were a nuisance nonetheless.
“Please, get in. We will figure something out,” she said.
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And that’s how, I ended up in a BMW, with a beautiful woman, being driven through 9 PM traffic on a Friday evening.
She told me her name. We shook hands. Aisha told me that she lived in Lower Parel and that she was glad that I decided to be in the car on her way there. I was going in the opposite direction to my place. But, I didn’t really care. I asked her if I could smoke in the car.
“Of course,” she said.
We were quiet as I rolled down the window and lit my cigarette. She was sitting far away from me, one hand was beside her, and the other busy scrolling through the Insta feed.
I reached for her hand, which was beside me, and said, “I really think that you should talk about whatever is going through your mind.”
She chuckled. It was a sad chuckle, “I don’t know if I will regret this, but —” she turned her head towards me, “— well, I feel like doing it anyway.”
Aisha was at the bar, drinking and smoking alone because she was waiting for someone. Someone, who wasn’t around. She was waiting for a call from him. Harsh, her boyfriend of 3 years, was away in the States on a work trip. She was waiting for him to wake up so that she could talk to him and give him the news.
It’s the kind of news, that either makes people ecstatic or makes them question all of their life choices.
Aisha was pregnant.
She was waiting to tell her boyfriend that she was pregnant. She thought that the news was too big to be delivered in text messages. She called him when it was 4 AM his local time. He didn’t pick up. He was at a bar too, she had seen his most Status on Instagram. She figured that he was out late, had drunk too much, and had conked off.
So, here, Aisha was, at a bar, alone, smoking and drinking, the two things that she shouldn’t have been doing. She told me that she wasn’t much of a smoker, and neither did she come to bars alone. But, the news, the uncertainty, and the magnitude of the things made it impossible for her to stay alone at her flat.
While we were talking, she received a text from Harsh.
“I loved how we dance, we should do this again,” he had texted her.
She had re-read the text, trying to convince herself that the text was meant for her. But she knew it wasn’t for her. It was for someone else.
So, the man, whose child she was carrying inside her, was telling someone how well they danced. The conclusions were painfully obvious. She was at the bar, trying to think of what she should be doing with the baby. What they should be doing with the baby. She was trying to think of all the ways Harsh will react. Will he ask her to marry him? Will he tell her that they should get an abortion?
They loved each other. Their families knew each other well. Marriage wasn’t out of question. And they were okay career-wise. She could take a break, they could have a family. But all that required commitment. The kind of commitment that she wasn’t sure she was ready for.
After that message, she felt lost.
“I don’t even know what I should be doing now. Should I even tell him about this?” she asked him, her face full of angst.
“Not tonight. But yes, you should tell him. And about that text, I think, you should give him the benefit of doubt this time. It wasn’t the best of things, but you should hear his side of the story,” I said, squeezing her hand.
Her hand was warm.
“I don’t know what I will do when I am home. I don’t even want to think about it,” she said, shaking her head, and keeping her phone away.
I am not a role model. I keep saying that, but I keep doing these selfish things.
“You know, we can continue this ‘party’ at your place. Do you have enough liquor at home?” I asked.
“Plenty. And I am sure there’s something nice in the fridge. But,” she was suddenly quiet. I could see her calculating things, her face, all too transparent in that moment of vulnerability.
“Hey, if your boyfriend can ‘dance’ with a girl, I am sure you can have a few drinks and some food with someone,” I squeezed her hand again. I didn’t want her to calculate. Because it wasn’t logical to invite a stranger to home. Especially a stranger who would notice your cleavage when you were drunk and stumbling.
The car stopped.
“Alright, I hope you don’t have anyone waiting at home,” she said, getting out of the car.
I followed Aisha. I loved being behind her. In the well-lit lobby of the building, her ass looked delicious. She clutched her wallet and phone together and ran a finger through her hair as we waited for the lift. Without the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol, I could smell her perfume. It was strong and intimidating. Her body too looked intimidating. Sexy, yet vulnerable. I was looking at her unabashedly. She noticed and asked, “What?”
“The bar was quite dark. I didn’t realize right until now, how pretty you are,” I said.
“Okay, now, you are certainly hitting on me,” she smiled.
I shrugged my shoulders and said as the lift’s door opened, “I can safely blame it on the alcohol.”
I have to say, alcohol has very little blame in all this.
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By Deep Past I mean, things that had happened earlier than 2 years. I have maintained some detailed personal journals since 2021 since COVID gave a lot of perspective on the transient nature of the status quo.