Amar hated the word metrosexual. Or ubersexual. He just preferred to be known as “sexual”. He found it amusing how men had agreed to be referred to with these terms. Did they know that Wikipedia described the metrosexual as the “man (especially one living in a post-industrial, capitalist culture) who displays attributes stereotypically associated with homosexual men?” Nothing sexual about that, was there? Men who wanted to look like preppy girls who cut their hair too short had to have some issues with themselves. Maybe their parents always wanted a girl and raised them as one, maybe their wives bullied them, maybe they just needed a good whipping – he knew he was being politically incorrect, but damn, it was all in his head right? In fact, he didn’t want to be metrosexual exactly for the reason Wikipedia had underlined. He was afraid of the homosexual man. There, he had said it, not aloud but in his head, he had acknowledged the truth. He didn’t want o ever wear skinny denims or drink a coloured cocktail, because he didn’t want to be mistaken for a homosexual. He didn’t want to speak to one, he didn’t want to shake one’s hand, didn’t even want to stand next to one on the train to work. But how was he going to avoid it? It seemed as if everywhere he looked, these men were seeping out of the woodwork. And if one dared say a word against them, the whole world turned around and called you cruel and insensitive. If they wanted him to believe that they all felt love for the homosexual, they had to know that he wasn’t that stupid.
It was Diwali, and hence, dress ethnic to work day. He was wearing a dark blue kurta with his faded jeans and kohlapuris, and was looking quite natty. Maybe like Richard Gere would if he dressed Indian, he gave himself a compliment. As he dressed, he noticed a purple blotch on his body, right next to his pelvic bone. The doctor yesterday at the annual office check-up had thought it was a bruise. It may have been. He had been quite wild in bed recently, he thought cockily. The new boss would be in today and Amar wanted to make a great impression. He had even bought an expensive yet classy box of Belgian chocolates and as he took the lift upto to his 15th floor office, he knew it was going to be great day at work. He should drop by some chocolates to the cute intern on the 14th floor as well. Maybe today would be the day she let him kiss her in the closet. He smiled. This was what it felt like to be a man – not a metrosexual.
He headed right for the boss’s office and as he peered in through the glass window he could see his arch enemy, Animesh, sitting laughing. Animesh, the rat, the metrosexual who was as sexual as the doorknob he was going to turn now. Animesh, who had often made suggestions of going out with Amar for a post-office drink. Animesh, who had once caressed Amar’s hair and asked him what brand of conditioned did he use. Animesh, who Amar felt watched him all the time. Animesh, who hadn’t yet come out of the closet, but would soon, and that day Amar would laugh and say, “I told you so.” But what was he doing in there?
As he walked in, the new boss looked at him quizzically, his eyebrows arching. “Sir, I am Amar, the senior copywriter.”
“Oh Amar, Animesh was just telling me all about you. And it seems as if you are the dandy he described you as,” grinned the new boss and Amar felt as if the earth would swallow him. Mr Gupta, the new boss, wore a yellow silk kurta that matched perfectly with his gold churidar and gold juttis. His hair was coiffed perfectly and he could still see the gel glistening on them. On his left ear, he wore a small stud, and on his right hand, a flamboyant Rolex ticked calmly. Amar could feel animesh watching him and he knew that the latter sensed his discomfort. After all, he had almost always screamed every time Animesh touched him. He had to control his feelings. And there was nothing to say that Mr Gupta was like Animesh. He would ignore the metrosexual exterior and try and look at the manly interior. He knew he wasn’t even making sense to himself now. Animesh and he walked out of the office shoulder to shoulder. He tried to make friendly conversation. He couldn’t let the new boss think he wasn’t gay friendly, even though he knew Animesh knew it was all a farce.
The office nurse was walking towards him with a file. He didn’t want to stop and talk as he had had a fling with her few years back and avoided like her the plague ever since. He hardly looked at her, but was surprised when as she gave him the file, she smiled a sly, mean smile, “You are HIV positive,” she said loudly enough for passersby to stop and stare. Amar felt as if he was fainting, which he was. As he fell on the floor, with a dead silence around him, he could only hear Animesh’s voice, “Hold on Amar, I am with you. I am with you.” He held Animesh’s hand tightly and as he blacked out, all he could see was Animesh’s pink shirt. It was such a pretty colour.
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