If I could give every man who every lived on the face of the planet a valuable piece of advise, I would tell them to never make a woman angry. This half of our species knows well how to avenge, how to forgive a person and still, carve their memory as a vicious scene played out many times; each second depicted with excruciating detail. How do I know this? You are about to find out.

At the tender age of sixteen, Madhubala Malik was shipped as freight to the man in Brooklyn who purchased exclusive rights to her body. Her family traded in their daughter to safeguard their family business on the verge of bankruptcy. Their first born became a mail order bride to her middle aged Caucasian husband with a pacemaker for a heart and in line for a hip transplant.

She was popularized as the new gold digger in town. "All she does is lay there. She is pretty, that helps", her reputable owner joked to his social circle. She had aspirations and dreams that she did not vocalize. After a month of non-linguistic conversation, Michelle, her husband, established that she had a language barrier. She did not refute his theory. It was best to keep quite until her deep REM sleep broke one day.

Three years and two degrees later, Madhubala was an American citizen granted the right to vote electives to office but not the outfit she would wear. "Stop studying. What do you want, a Ph.D.?", Michelle turned on the TV as he tried to spark conversation with his painfully young wife.

"How was your day?" He had trained Madhu to repeat the same line every day after work for the sake of talking.

"Someone from Bollywood is coming over. A certain Rishabh Kundra, RK. His popular name is RK. Perhaps you have heard of him". Michelle noticed the indifference in her eyes and did not bother waiting for a reply. "Wear the dress on the nightstand, smile and drink wine".

She nodded in a yes  as he haphazardly shifted his body next to her.

"You cheated", she pushed him with all the strength she thought she never had. The volume of the television grew louder as the man screamed in his defence.

Do not raise your voice, she wanted to tell him. But she kept mum yet another day.

"I could have knocked you up easily. I could have stopped you from studying. Your college, your expensive wardrobe, I pay for all of that". Michelle elevated his chair to a height where he could assume the position of power. She had learned all about this in her corporate culture class, the way influential men treat their subordinates.

"The meeting with RK is still on. Wear a red lip", he left without an inch of remorse visible on his worry lines.

________________________________________________________

Sunrise brought in another day of bright lights in New York. Madhubala  did not supress her insomnia with the usual sleeping pills. She had spent her night contemplating the next steps after Michelle's infidelity. A smart screen mounted on the wall read: RK will arrive in ten minutes. Be ready.  She put on a letterbox crimson on her lips like it was a no mirror makeup challenge. Her hair could put a three tiered wedding cake to shame. But, her dress resembled that of a funeral costume. She had imagined many a times what dress she would wear to Michelle's funeral, the day she would resurrect from the dead. 

Without a knock on the door, her husband escorted another gentleman into their residence. Her bare back offered them both a warm welcome.

"Madhu, turn around and greet our guest", Michelle spoke in tone that resembled a parent's.

"Uh", RK mouthed at the sight in front of him. The lipstick colour had crossed the natural boundaries of Madhubala's lips and the mascara had run down to places it had never been before.

"Get your shit together", Michelle left the room leaving RK staring at the numb remains of a woman that once was.

___________________________________________________

"So", RK broke the silence.

Madhu began wiping her face clean with a wet towel.

"No amount of money is worth the humiliation you endured on TV last night". Madhu did not respond verbally, or otherwise. "This does not make a difference to you, does it? You are a money hungry wh**e".

"I can say the same about you". She whispered quietly so as not to be audible. But, he heard her.

"What did you say? Repeat out loud".

"You prey on the physical insecurities of a middle aged billionaire to sign a film production deal. I do not see how you can qualify as self-righteous".

"I am not a trophy wife, that's why". Satisfied with the spite he had thrown her way, RK tapped his heels and walked away.

Index

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CH3: http://www.india-forums.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=3398585&PID=74420694&#74420694

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CH4b: www.india-forums.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=3398585&PID=74610991&#74610991

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Ch12: www.india-forums.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=3398585&PID=76600384&#76600384

Edited by iiDona - 21 February 2013 at 9:33pm

One of my favorite songs of all times. I gave it a listen again and somehow wrote this story on the beat. I don't know why it ended up being so sad. Let me know what you think.

Edited by iiDona - 18 January 2013 at 7:32pm

Awesome :)

superb

Awesome Story

superb start.never make ur wife angry says a lot i think so.do continue and continue soon.thanx for pm.