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women, but this crowd she enjoyed. In turn, they loved having her work out with them because her superior fitness level brought out the competitive spirit in them. She caught one or two of them glancing at her and flashed quick smiles of greeting, guessing that there were some who probably desired to do more with her body than match its fitness level. The fact that She’s Here was LGBT friendly was a major part of the reason for its success – although in the early days it had seemed a negative point. Two of its three floors were women-only and the third was mixed. In fact, Sheila suspected that even the negative buzz about her establishment being a ‘lesbian pickup joint’, as some wags called it, had only helped make it famous. Not to mention the hordes of misguided middle-aged Bengali men who joined up with obscure fantasies and absurd assumptions that lesbian women were nymphomaniacs who slept with women only because they couldn’t find suitable men to satiate their lust! She knew that most people, like the two young women over by the shoulder press machine checking her ass out as she walked across the floor, assumed she was of a same-sex persuasion herself. She did nothing to discourage the notion and, in fact, it made no difference to her at all if people thought of her as a lesbian. Sure, she was completely and unequivocally heterosexual, but so what?
    She finished the round and went into the back office area, breezing past the administrative staff with quick hellos. In her office, she opened the blinds and blinked as the east-facing windows let in the bright early sunshine, buttery warm even through the tinted glass. She watched the traffic on the road for a moment, idly going through her chores for the day. She had an appointment with the KMC ward officer to get formal permission for the renovations and slight expansion she wanted to carry out. Some bank work. Miscellaneous things around the gym. A new batch of trainees to induct before she handed them over to her chief trainer’s capable hands. A meeting with the chartered accountant to go over tax-saving measures before the financial year ended. Some calls to make to the equipment suppliers about irregular servicing and other matters. But before all that, the best part of the day: her workout! She was already dressed in her track and sweatshirt with the gym’s logo, so she was good to go.
    She put her handbag down on the desk and saw the yellow manila envelope addressed to her. It looked thick and important. Documents? She couldn’t recall anything that was supposed to come her way except perhaps … yes, it was probably something related to accounts. She hoped it wasn’t income tax forms from the chartered accountant; she hated those fucking things. Whatever it was, she would look at it later. Right now, workout!
    She was pretty sure that before she finished, the two attractive young executive types who had been checking her out earlier would try to proposition her. She was used to it. She might even flirt with them awhile before turning them down ever so gently and coquettishly.

Two

    2.1
    ATTINGAL HAD CHANGED SO much in thirteen years, she almost began to correct the cab driver before she realized he was going the right way. Not just Attingal, NH-47 had changed. Hell, Kerala had changed. She liked the wider roads, the vaulting flyovers and swooping bridges. She didn’t like the hoardings leering like mendacious highwaymen at every bend in the road. For every man or woman in a setmundu she saw one in tee shirt and jeans. The cars, the same models that had turned Mumbai roads into roaring rivers of steel and chrome, were here. Expensive tourist taxis ferrying foreigners from the airport to five-star resorts. Volvo buses carrying white faces under blonde hair peering out through tinted windows. The bristling profusion of advertisements that formed a welcoming committee at Trivandrum Airport had already informed her of the fact that most of the world’s