Coitus Interruptus – Dual

20 10 2007

Bangabandhu Chattopadhyay was a busy man.  He was always a busy man.  Sometimes he was so busy he ceased to be a man and just remained busy. 

He was the Divisional Operations Superintendent or DOS to whom, quite unfortunately, Rathore reported, a factor of – the latter pacified himself – age and none else.  If you stayed in a government institution long enough to outlast the ancient furniture they use, they’d make sure you are gradually pushed up the pyramid, no matter how dumb you are, no matter how much you goof up, no matter the number of things you do to deserve anything ranging from a kick in the butt to societal ostracisation.  That perhaps explains all the crappy people you find ensconced in the top echelons of the governmental heap. 

Chattopadhyay was in his early fifties, a short skinny little fellow whose hormones never kicked in totally, resulting in a beard whose constituent hair you could count on your fingers and toes.  He was a one-skinny-man documentation machine.  What he lacked in terms of decision making power, he overcompensated by way of writing office notings in files – or at least he believed he did.  If a couple of his juniors were to debate a course of action in his presence, come to blows over it and finally if one of them were to draw out a club and bludgeon the other to death, this Chronicler Extraordinaire would do precious little more than write it all down faithfully, and forward them to his superior in a file marked MOM (Minutes of the Meeting). 

One would take that as an asset in certain roles, but this job put on him the tasks of taking up issues by the horns, playing by the ear, thinking on the feet and taking decisions at the speed of neurons.  The sheer number of body parts in the previous statement overwhelmed Chattopadhyay, and he was clearly less than equal to these tasks. 

Some people are old of body; Chattopadhyay was old of mind, besides being old of body.  His juniors were so up to here with his thought process they proceeded to call him BC, seemingly very innocently.  After all, those were his initials.  So what if ‘Before Christ’ stared at you in the face?!  So what if it was the well-known acronym for one of the most widely used expletives in Hindi?! 

‘Oh yoes!’ he responded to Rathore barging in, looking like Eddo Brandes when he took time out of the Zimbabwean cricket team to tend to his poultry farm.  Rathore had wisely decided to convey the news in person.  After all, he had no intention of revealing his personal cell number to BC, no matter how serious the official matter was.  He seated himself; he needed to.

BC’s exclamation was just a perversion of ‘Ah yes!’ which is how he responded to anything and nothing in particular. 

‘There has been an accident,’ began Rathore. 

‘Oh yoes!’ 

‘It was the Nagpur bound goods train.’

‘Oh yoes?’ 

‘At first sight, the cause appears to be a signals and track glitch.’

‘Oh yoes!’ 

‘The merchandise currently spans a radius of 200 metres, and is spreading rapidly.’ 

‘Oh yoes?!’ 

‘Oh yoes,’ he mimicked him perfectly. 

‘Oh… umm… ahem!  Whot liquid wos there?’ BC managed. 

‘The only liquid is in their droppings and eggs.  It was poultry, live.’ 

‘Oh yoes!’ 

Rathore grimaced.  BC caught the look and half-cringed. 

‘Sobmit a report,’ he chimed.  ‘I wont overything in writton.’ 

‘Of all the things to think about at this point in time…’ thought Rathore and swore under his breath. 

Aloud, he said, ‘In good time, BC, in good time.  Poor KK was hurt; he’s on his way to the hospital.  So is Rama Rao.’ 

‘Who KK?’ 

‘The driver.’ 

BC pondered, ‘KK…’ 

‘Kottayam Kunjachan.  One of our best!  Remember?’ 

‘Oh yoes!  Who wos ossistont?’ 

Rathore sighed, ‘Rama Rao.’ 

‘Oh yoes!  You mean Ore-ore!’ 

Rathore was at his wits end.  ‘No, we do not call him RR.  He’s Rama Rao, period.’ 

He rose, turned and left in one motion.  BC almost returned to the note he was in the middle of, then realised he had to perform other tasks screaming for attention right now.  He picked up the receiver and dialled Apte, his superior, at a most inopportune moment. 

Apte ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, and returned his hand to Julie’s hip.  Julie was bent over Apte’s workdesk, quite naked waist down.  Apte moved back and forth in a slow rhythmic fashion, screwing her royally.  He was just about to pick up his pace when the shrill phone rang.  He almost began to ignore the ringing till his glazed eyes regained their focus in the uncomfortable memory of the last time he did that, when his GM had almost walked in on his philandering afternoon romp. 

Apte stopped in mid-stroke and picked up the blaring phone. 

‘If it is something I can postpone,’ he muttered inwardly, ‘I could still manage to continue fucking the bitch.’ 

‘Rothore loid on ogg!’ 

BC was staring at the egg on the chair Rathore had just vacated.  It took him a while to begin thinking of the possible connection between the accident involving a goods train carrying live poultry and an egg in his cabin. 

Apte’s face was worthy of a video clip.  He swallowed a mouthful of expletives, and gave vent to his frustration by way of a loud slap on poor Julie’s upturned ass, as he quickly lost hardness and pulled out. 

The perfectly audible smack, and Julie’s accompanied whimper, threw BC’s grey cells back on the job. 

‘Sorry, Opte shob!’ he exclaimed.  ‘Occident!  There wos on occident!  Goods train.  Carrying chikon, and oggs!  Rothore brought one ogg to my cobin!  Oi bhill gib you full report – in file 437, Incidont Reporting.’ 

Julie’s meagre attempts to look respectable as she restored acceptability to her looks was totally lost upon Apte, who continued to stand with his now flaccid member hanging out of his suit.  He was quickly losing patience again. 

‘Shove that file up your skinny ass!  Zhala kai?  Atta tu mala he sang-na!  What was the reason?’  His mind worked furiously, ‘who was the driver?’ 

‘Some KK fellow, shob.  Oi bhill write full repo…’  Apte had already slammed the receiver. 

Julie silently left the cabin.  Apte dialled another extension, shrivelled member still exposed.  ‘Anas!’ he called into the receiver. 

Seated low in his cushioned office chair, Nawab Anas Ahmed was beginning to get that tingling feeling.  The combined ministrations of M&M’s soft fingers, and even softer lips, were causing the desired effect in his nether regions.  He looked down through his protuberant lenses at the baby face working diligently on his member and smiled. 

‘Aaahhh…  now you are beginning to deserve your promotion Munni,’ he raptured.  Anas called him Munni only during their sexual trysts. 

Before he could sense any further build-up, Anas was thrown off balance by the extra-loud phone ring.  Without missing a beat, he picked up the receiver and almost sighed, ‘Uunhhh…’ 

‘Anas, look, we’re in trouble.  There’s been an accident!’  Apte was almost shouting in panic. 

Anas straightened up in the seat and, mercifully for M&M, pushed his head away. 

His reaction was quite unexpected, even for Apte.  ‘Already?’ he queried calmly. 

Apte was beginning to get livid.  ‘My ass will get creamed!  I cannot afford to have a mess like this in my division!  What if they track it back all the way…?’ 

‘Calm down boss,’ Anas spoke as soothingly as possible.  ‘Let me manage it.  Do you have any other information I can use?’ 

‘Yes,’ Apte responded.  ‘The driver was KK, that holier-than-thou bastard from God’s Own Country.  I’ll make his life miserable…’ he trailed off. 

Anas was calm, yet firm.  ‘You know what to do.  Leave the rest to me.’ 

He hung up, and rose.  Looking M&M up and down, he said, ‘Tomorrow, my queen.  Tomorrow you shall continue where you stopped today.  Now I have work to do.  Run along and be a good boy…’ 

Apte replaced the dead line and quickly moved to the door and opened it.  He suddenly felt an urgent need to take a leak.  He stepped outside, then hurriedly leaped back into the cabin.  There he carefully zipped up, rearranged his tie, and proceeded outside. 

BC was already back on the file he had been writing, quite unaware of the fact that he was the de jure cause of coitus interruptus twice over in the same evening. 

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One response

11 01 2009
eye-in-sty-in

ha ha ha – porn too! and with explaination of the title! this is a novel ending to the chapter!

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