Viraj

  The actor, especially; Viraj watched him shamelessly flirt with the air-hostess, or maybe it was the other way around?

Fifty-One 2010

Viraj drifted into the airport lounge, the vibratory buzz of his smart-phone on his thigh announcing a call.

Fifty-One 2010

Viraj felt a sudden exhaustion and turned away to the window ignoring the actor who persisted in his faux chivalrous performance, and had now shifted his tirade to a defense of the stewardess.

Fifty-One 2010

Viraj felt the silliness of all this — the utter lack of dignity — and a shamefulness attached itself tightly to his skin, a realization that for all his successes and failures, he was still a cowardly boy, provoked unnecessarily by stupid envy.

Fifty-One 2010

Viraj felt a slight measure of relief, as if he had expected to be questioned — an unwarranted fear that raised its head every time he passed immigration, even after all these years of travelling.

Fifty-One 2010

A taxi stopped in front of him and the driver took his bag and loaded it into the trunk while Viraj looked back into the building's window for that poster, but he couldn't see it.

Fifty-One 2010

At baggage claim Viraj stood apart from the other passengers waiting around the chute; he found a far reach of the conveyor belt where he would be assured of no conversation or sidelong glances.

Fifty-One 2010

The actor, perhaps mistaking real life for a movie, stood up and confronted Viraj, rounded on him as best he could in the narrow aisle, insulting him with a litany of school-boy phrases.

Fifty-One 2010

Viraj asked for a glass of wine as the plane took off.

Fifty-One 2010

Not even a trace of genuine concern in this, Viraj thought.

Fifty-One 2010