Billboards of Promise

On a dull day that could not be duller, the only thing that promised Mridula a respite of sorts were the series of washed billboards. Faces from the bus next, looked down trying to snatch a precious peek into the insides of the dazzling Audi she was in. Sudhir wanted a BMW, a black one, while she couldn't care less. Her reticence was misread as her disapproval, and instinctively he bought the white A3 instead. This time too, she couldn't care less. The car would be chauffeured around by the uniformed driver and mostly plying Sharbari to and forth. And then struggle in the assigned parking lots of malls and main roads. 

As she left behind an extremely unwilling Sharbari at the montessori today, parading out of, what would appear to passers-by, a rampshow of clothes line, she took out of her Fendi a petite notebook holding her events of the day. Sudhir was in some other city, she lost track of whether it was Mumbai, or Jaipur, or Bangalore as long as it was India. There was a brunch at the Woodstock Club, along with the fine ladies of the Bridge Camp. She would then pick up Sharbari to drop her off at her in-laws' for the weekend. Mridula calculated that she could fit in a quick swim before she dressed for the brunch. As she put back her notebook into the bag and looked out of the window, the pace of the car transferred her attention to the billboards. Sharma-ji had taken the outskirts route back to home, and yet it was thick.

The billboards glistened with last night's rain, some had a cut through the middle -- an evidence of the lightning storm. These billboards did not speak of the various sales offered at the extravagant shopping malls. Instead, these were hastily done billboards, rather plain in their fonts and colour and content. They offered addresses of clean highway rooms and substantial highway lunches and chilled highway beers. Swiftly, she noted down couple of addresses in her notebook. 

As she settled for the summery club skirt and skimpy top, and finally threw a scarf around her neck, she double checked if her duffle bag was properly packed. Couple of trackpants, clean t-shirts, a jeans, a shirt and a very, very sexy backless dress. She also put in her slippers and the heel. Having earlier asked Sharma-ji to join back on Monday, she drove the Duster to Woodstock. Like most times, she was a sensational hit -- in her game, in her appearance. She left the women hungry for more challenges and gossip, but was allowed only because she had a toddler to transfer. 'Sharbari Basu Mullick' said the I-card, as she took up the surprised child and placed her in the front seat. She had never quite liked the heaviness of the name, but like most things in her life, she stopped caring. The Basu Mullick-ness of things was the net of decency that coiled her desires like an underwater beast. She longed for a breath of sky. The billboard gave her one.

Mridula Basu Mullick checked in at one of the clean highway rooms, signed under Rupasree Dutta. She called for a plate of heavy highway meal, rejecting all fine palettes of nutrition as prescribed by her dietician. And a crate of chilled highway beers to be stacked in the fridge of her not so white, not so warm room. As she pulled up the quilt to keep away the cold, she went through the rest of the promises in her mind.

Sudhir was a genuinely nice husband and a terrific father but he failed her longings. Remarkably consistently. She was filled up to the brim with a burn and a thrist, an itch and an ache. Mridula craved for a shot of pure ecstasy. Or dirty. The billboards on the highway had an asterisk explaining a line at the end, visible only to careful, or informed observers -- We take care of all your Desires, ALL. The caps of the 'all' lured her into daring an act which her body could not resist. It offered her a promise. 

As she signed Rupasree Dutta, Mridula smiled nervously. It was rare, paying in cash. They understood. She knew they understood. The manager offered to show her her room and on their way in the lift asked her, 'Are you expecting someone?'

'I am. Can I depend on your discretion?'

'Would you like to select from a range we can offer instead?'

'That would be nice. After lunch please.' Mridula was now in complete control.

The doorbell rang, and she opened it to the manager. He handed her an envelop from which Mridula carefully selected a delicious looking, ample armed, boy-man. The manager confirmed his availability at 8 pm in the local pub. She paid him double of the ask. And tipped him a silencing handful.

Her backless dress opened a line of jaws as she entered the pub. It was not a pub for the mass. She immediately disliked her making a selection for the night already. Tomorrow, she would not. They had a quick dinner of strangely nice silence, an understanding of the others' wants. As they drove back to her room, she opened it to him, and asked him once if he was comfortable. He was, he reassured.

Good, thought Mridula. And entered the bathroom. As she emerged and went straight to him, blindfolding him into a night of impossibly good intimacy, they awakened to a day of novelty. For Mridula, these hours would captivate her taste till a year now, and him, he never knew such finesse existed in women her age.

As she had coffee in her towel, and he had the dripping water off her hair on her shoulders, she felt content. Atleast someone could keep a promise. Something. A billboard.

She laughed thinking how this could be a terrific plot for an author. Her day since yesterday. And willed her to stop at this point. Praying hard that the author would not go onto to make Mridula wake up with a jolt from the lull of the traffic. To find that the billboard only promised locally made pickles found in the highway hotels.

Tonight would be another billboard night.