Enchanted Strands

Quivering fingers touch
an apparition;
Of pure enchantment
and blinding black.

Rustling wind murmurs,
encouragement to
delve, into waves
of tingling delight.

Transient sheet parts
into strands;
at the hesitant behest
of restless waiting.

Chaotic velvet engulfs,
ensemble all,
in an envelope
of teasing compassion.

Intoxicated mass crumbles;
saturated with
spells, molded in caresses
of braided allure.

Exhausted heart yearns
in quiescence,
drowned in the silken quilt,
for an eternal now.

Waiting between words

Another ten minutes before check-in starts. Whoa! Look at those platform heels! How does a girl walk in those? Hmmm... she is not as tall as the other one. Her sister maybe. The heels... an effort to catch up? Thank goodness, she does not want things like that.

And she never gives out
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind...

7 hrs wait at the airport. I hate travelling alone. Will you make it?"

Why doesn't this line move! Thank goodness, I brought the discman.

"Can I have your passport please? Are you travelling together?"

Duh! Lady - Indian passport - US Passport - to Europe - to the States - travelling together? Have a heart! Where ARE you.

"Obrigado, Senhora."

A call!! Why is she calling? Cut the call, cut the call! Again!

On international roaming. Phone balance low. Can't talk.

She sang as if she knew me,
in all my dark despair,
And then she looked right through me
as if I wasn't there...

Passport check. A smiling immigration officer for a change!

"Do I have to take off the belt too?" "No, sir. You may go."

No reply, still! Was it something urgent? No way to call her from here.

"Mama!"

Ooooh, sho cute baby! Mama ... your boy is running away into duty free shopping. Dufry. What are they selling? The Dream Angel's collection from Victoria's Secret. Wonder how that smells! Are they holding hands? When was the last time we held hands? That long ago... I didn't get to see anything of this city. Should I buy some souvenirs?

"Last call for JJ3429 to Santiago."

"Do you want a phone card?"

Cute girl... nice tan. Nice smile too. Smile back.

"Não, obrigado."

Look at that! She just popped the pacifier in the mouth of her wailing baby and went into the smoking chamber to smoke. Figure that! The boy's stopped wailing! Obviously, I am still a far cut away from being a parent. Another hour to boarding.

Try as I may I can never explain,
what I feel when you don't say a thing...

Must not fall asleep. Will she be there, when I get back? Just one more chance... just one more. Where is the drinking water! So thirsty... When is that story due? Monday? Ummmm... yes. Let's set the ringer to full volume. Maybe before boarding... The story... hmmm... let's see that now.

Another ten minutes before check-in starts...

All my fault

Her mood rumbled, in resonance to the dark clouds outside. It had been a long night. She had just returned home, to him and to the brewing storm. The sky was an uncanny gray. The cool breeze of the previous night had slithered to a stop. The enveloping dampness was threatening to break into a million shards of rain any instant.

He lay on her lap, with his face buried in the soft, crumpled folds of her nightgown. Slowly he turned his face to look at her blank eyes. "Don't worry. Why are you so worried? It is my fault. I'll take care of it." He could see she was angry. No. More exasperated than angry perhaps. He always knew when she had... He had stopped keeping count. Counting was a very cumbersome way to love.

Why didn't he arouse her! Give her goosebumps or make her heart skip a beat? Why was the only thing he ever made her feel was an overwhelming sense of calm.

"I am..." He turned and kissed her thighs. Her voice trailed off among whispering leaves of the mango tree near the window. She hated this guilt crawling beneath her skin. She hated it.

Why didn't he ever do anything? He didn't even try! Not even once in all these years! What is he waiting for? An order? A request? Why!

"You are the laziest..."

"... of the lot. I know. The oldest, slowest, laziest... I told you it is all my fault."

Her fingers caressed his wild curls, tracing the boundary of his receding hairline. Rain broke free of misty prison of the clouds with a frenzy. Truant drops dashed on the window sill with a vengeance and orphaned droplets found their way to his cheek.

He had shown the promise of turning out like every other possessive and demanding man. But somewhere along the way, he had lost the will to possess. Maybe he felt left too far behind... at the back of the line.

Her fingers rested on his soft stomach, bubbling on the ripples of his gentle laugh. Rogue streaks of lightning lit the transparent darkness in the room. He lay there, lifeless, hugging her waist with his face hidden from the world outside. She sat there, quiet and quivering with the storm, secure in his unquestioning calm and the knowledge that it was all his fault.

What remains

Once it was so,
Like the silver moonlight
over the supple night earth
Bright yet gentle,
With the calm assurance
of lapping waves on the sand
Eroded yet reborn,
In twirling grains
of wizened woods green with age
Proud yet humble.

Now it is so,
Like frosty moonlight
over the wet night earth
Enchanting yet ephemeral,
Inside the succulent flesh
a core of bitter memories
Distant yet distinct,
A magical quilt of light
shimmering in frigid polar skies
Alien yet natural.

Suspended within then and now,
My love weeps beside my grave.

Off-shoulder

One day... not so far away in the future, when this life will seem to have passed in the bat of an eyelash. When all this time spent waiting will seem so small in comparison to what lay ahead. When the wisdom of bygone years will seem but a frivolous gift. When the small wedge on my fractured nose will cease to stand out. When my fingers will become tender and soft, not out of care but out of habit. When the winds will stop and the music still sail through the sky. When the colour of the balance at the end of the ledger will not matter any more. When quiet nights and empty days will not taunt me with sounds and sights of togetherness. When the weight of tender flesh will fail to outweigh the weight of silent laughter. When impatience will have run its course. When I will not have any complaints left to voice. When I won't even have the voice left to complain. When all that is alive will be a painting, my painting. When all the fervour to posses would have ebbed away. When letting go will not figure in the list of options. When it will not be required. When understanding will not demand any effort. When time will become timeless. When I will find you in my dream forever.

Infallible follies

Isn't it cool? It is cool. So cool. Since yesterday the mind has been ricocheting around wildly like a crazy-ball.

It happens on such days filled with quiet solitude, when the brain conjures up haloed thoughts from every flimsy whim the world cares to fling my way.

Making presentations is very boring. In a way, it's like my singing. Flat. In another way too, it's like my singing. It has to be done. Obviously when one is doing things that have-to-be-done one thinks about completely unrelated stuff.

The potpourri of thoughts can be very comforting. Like this photograph of these singularly beautiful flowers among the random, overpoweringly common blades of grass. Taken while lying on a top of a mountain around 1100m in height. The blur in the distance so comforting, the focus of interest so crisp. None of the clouds in the sky seemed interesting. So I ended up clicking this majestic bird instead. Like pictures from a book, no? A book? Which book?

The one I cannot write. My concentration .. no wait ... my train of thoughts is too fickle to last for a book. Much like Zorba's mood. I take ages to finish reading a book sometimes. For the record, I am still reading Lolita. To make matters more interesting, friends push more delectable fare onto my platter. And pretty above average stuff at that.

Of course, before I have finished reading all books, the world as we know it is going to end because 2^1039 - 1 has been factorized. But that's no excuse for not having seen Ray and Miyazaki! And for losing Friday night football 8-7. I am as bad at film or book appreciation as I am at playing center forward for 90 minutes.

But I know what I like. Which is more than I can say for you if you are still reading this! Did you know that I have a moustache? How can you still be here! What gall! Go take a ride on Economikrisis' galley to Gaul. It will serve you better.

Better than the bar of Snickers I am going to buy after lunch. Do you know french? Porque if you don't, you can't ask pourquoi. You can only get swept away.

Jab mori chaadar ban ghar aayi, rangrej ko dinhi
Aisa rang ranga rangre ne, ke lalo-lal kar dinhi¹

Completely. Totally. In all earnest. After all, "every man has his folly, but the greatest folly of all ... is not to have one."

Make a wish

Bananas from Ecuador. Ginger from Thailand. Gits Sambhar Mix from India. Half way across the world. Classy sounds of whining.

It's rarely that one finds one's writing critiqued. Mostly people are satisfied by saying something politely pleasant. So it pleases me to no end when someone can find the time to say something about the way I write. Let's just state the two recent ones I got.

The lighting is ummm... perfect. The staging needs a bit of work. The silhouettes are not clean enough. See through the camera. Through it. As the camera sees through you.

One was that this and this are pathetic attempts at sensuousness. They are shoddy attempts without much finesse and sound crass .. and and border on pornographic (distastefully). The other was that this and this are just my classy way of whining. It was said that when I am sad, I just .... whine. It's kinda well dressed but it is still whining.

I would love to hear more such critiques. Both of you have my heart felt thanks. Having said that... that's it (story arch commencing). One's life is neatly compartmentalized between a crappy (fictional, but crappy) sex life and suave whining. Men, it seems are not supposed to whine. Especially men who are not built like Adonis and who don't have a suave dress sense. So much for my image!

The character is built quite nicely. A bit shaky, but that is part of the effect I suppose. The secondary storyline is getting a bit overshadowed. He is the author surrogate after all. And the framing device at the beginning is not well structured.

Grey skied, black Manhattan covered in white snow. Simple stories about passion for all that is unworthy for others. Pink coloured guava juice, made in Holland. Chicken biryani. Incessant talking. Beautifully empty waiting rooms of the SBB. Asterix and Obelix.

Duniya kare sawal to hum, kya jawab den. Spirited Away. A bumpy introduction into a new world. Shei tumio aamake bhool bujhle! What is this story about? Does everything have to have some existential justification? Isn't recursion its own cause? Show me the money, honey. But how much (story arch ends)?

An epistolary, eh? Won't work in this day and age. Why, you are ancient! Why don't you put in a few dragons and lost swords? You are a master of syntax, but your rhetoric is misplaced.

That I can't write, can't sing, can't dance, can't draw, can't read, can't dress ... I can dream, can't I? Nightmares? Look at me! See? I am alive.

See? My novel. Mine. Maybe it will never be published. Ta jonne dukhkho neyi. What will I achieve? A life on my own terms.

Look up there! A shooting star. Make a wish quick...

Seduced by silence

On an ordinary, weary day
Coloured a dull tungsten ochre
Waiting patiently to give away
Delicate secrets

'Twas then she sailed in
Unnoticed, and impregnated the air
Spread everywhere buttery thin
Seductive silence

Mesmerising, cajoling, cooing
Sprinkling tingling touches so light
Innocent charms hell-bent on wooing
Temerarious life

Seeping through porous skin
Inside, she let loose the dark
Blood ran black, oozing fluid yin
Echoing surrender

Sinewy fingers choking reason
While the neck nods a rabid assent
Invited, debauched, infatuating treason
Plundered sleep

Vacuum brimming with murderous thought
Helpless again as ever, me
Future bleached as past distraught
Ebbing dreams

Sleepless too

Tonight, when it is already tomorrow
All I can do is write
Mere words of no consequence
Colouring the fringes of this sleepless stupor

Needless to say it makes sense
To stay awake now that you are
Gone from where you were
Here, beside me, in my wish

I believe in fairies, but unfortunately
Every saved fairy is asleep now
So I turned to the cold, which creeps
On me now, in glee.

She has already claimed my toes.

The onion in my breath would have
Made the perfect kiss, with its acrid taste
Smeared over my lips which do not
part now for fear of smiling out of habit

Low pillows and clocks ticking in emptiness
Inside the Mad Hatter's tea kettle
Half eaten, mottled cup-cakes
Never promise for more tomorrow

The knife looked so threatening to
The five day old soup in the cup, and
the empty wastebasket. Oh!
Are you twins?.

Tweedledee, Tweedledum.

Sleepless

Wrapped in my personal
quilt of satin, velvet dark
I listen to the growl of wheels
on the road outside

Time doesn't want to pass
One minute and then ten, eleven
Stretching like chewing gum
Over my booted life

The hard floor serves to calm
Twisted muscles, but the nerves raw
Refuse to temper down the listless
Nightmares swirl around

The bell tolls a dozen clangs
Only twelve. Half divided
And scattered by the trade winds
Over miles and miles of barren land

Once the breeze hath blown past
The many halves rot and root
Warm neon glows in the dark
Wait! Why is despair so fluid?

Walked past and left behind
Shrivelled, like used tissues
Useless except for landfills
To be rolled over and founded on

Two eyes, a while ago refused
To close now. We can see in the dark.
Ha! Such illusions. Lie awake
and wait and wait and wait.

Watercolours

I wrote a poem yesterday and then shut the computer down without saving it. Justice by sleepy hands shall we call it? It was about loss and it was lost. This world is a weird place. Very weird. People come and go like the connection on my bluetooth headset.

But isn't that people are for - to come and to go? Stupid question. I have grown old. I have ... weary of this haunting quiet around me. A quiet in which I paint. Pictures have always attracted me ... drawn me in. I see colours in lives of other people - of those around me. Each one has a special menagerie, a distinct palette. I yearn for the paintings to be completed, to get their last finishing brush strokes, to be displayed for every eye to devour. But then it rains...

Everybody doesn't know the rains like I do. She is supposed to wash the dirt away and leave the colours fresh with life ... instead she washes away the colours themselves if one is not careful with her. Intimate, the rain is, without asking anything from me, other than letting her wet me. Not only on the outside, but through and through.

I saw a painting washed away recently. What a waste of perfectly good colours! And I hear the rain, in my quiet, dissolving me slowly. Me, because she cannot dissolve my colours. They are too fast. Will she wash me away then, before my painting is complete...

Laugh on me

Heated days, heated words
Relentless authority beating down
Hapless nerds
Laugh on my position in the food chain
I do
Though nothing quite beats my hairdo
Receding hairlines in quirky rhyme
Styled with gooey paste, impassioned
Dirty slime
Laugh again at my exquisite tact
And the very fact
That you called out his name
When literally, I was game
Waiting to shoot and got shot instead
Thank goodness, I was in my bed
Laugh on dreamy, idealistic, incessant
Leeching wants
Surviving like diligent bacteria
In the heat of well aimed taunts
Symbiotic with the blessed rain
Laugh, ensemble, at my false penchant for
Wanting pain
Thriving in crevices and cracks
Arcane, engineered hacks
In c'est folie, encouraging the 'it'
In memories writ
Laugh in the calm inside-out
Labelling me profoundly sane
Beyond doubt
Allowing me to live and beyond
With an unlikely prospect
That someone be overtly fond
Of seeing me smile
At the mere possibility of me
Without guile
I laugh, on myself.

Shohojatri (The co-passenger)

Aaj, aekhon, theek ei mohoorte nijer upore khoob hansi pachche. Kano? Ta theek bole bojhate parbo na. Hoyeto kende-kende ei baar hansar pala. Ke jaane. Amake khoma korte parbe? Khoma chaichi bole kichu mone koro na jano. Tomar kache khoma na pele je aar kichoo kora cholbena.

Ki je boli aar ki je na boli ta jodi boohjte partam, tahale aajge eta likhte hoto na. Eta maane ei chithi ta. Tomake shei je prothom tram theke nabte dekhe chilam Lawrence Road'er stop ta te, she din theke je jibone shob chola chol bondho hoi gache. Kada bhora rasta paar kore tumi footpath ta te uthe podle. Ek baar amar dike takiyo dekhle na. Kintu aami dekhlam. Tomar chotir strap ta aar kichu diner mehman. Maane ei galo bole. Somoye thakte palte nebe.

Bodhai thakte dilei bhalo hoe, tobe thakte dile je aar bancha cholbena. Taar maane ta boojhle. Taar maane banchte na holei bhalo hobe hoyeto. Aami kintu amon chilam na. Maane tomar lal chata ta je shob brishti aatke debe, sheta theek bhabte parini. Dekhte besh chotto-khatto chilo je.

Kalboishakhir jonno she din theke shudhu jokhon tokhon load-shedding hochche. Bodhai shob power line gulo jole dube gache. Aar dube gache shob aalo.

Khoma che niyechi ageyi, nahole ei chiti lekhar shahosh jogate partam na. Er theke bhalo bhabe kichoo bojhabar khomota je aamar nei ta na bolleyi noe. Jodi paro to tram e jawar shomoye ta paltiyo na.

iti,
tomar ek shohojatri

-----

Translation in English

Today, now, in this instant I feel like laughing out loud on myself. Why? That is something I will not be able to explain in words. Perhaps after crying again and again, now it's my turn to laugh. Who knows. Can you forgive me? Please do not mind that I ask for forgiveness. But sans this forgiveness I cannot proceed with anything else.

If I could ever understand what to say and what not to say, then I would not have had to write this today. By this, I mean this letter. The first time I had seen you getting down from that tram at the Lawrence Road stop; since that day all the gears in my life have stopped turning. You had deftly crossed over the mud crusted road onto the footpath. You did not even notice me. But I noticed. The strap of your slipper does not have very many days left to live. I mean that it's about to go. Get it changed in time.

Perhaps it would be better if I let it go, but if I let it go then I cannot survive. Do you understand what that means? That perhaps it would be better if I do not survive. I was not always like this. I mean that I had not quite expected your red umbrella to totally blanket out all the rain. It seemed quite ordinary when I saw it.

Since that day there has been rampant load-shedding because of the Kalboshakhi rains. Perhaps all the power lines in the city have been submerged. As has been all light.

I have already asked your forgiveness, otherwise I would not have been able to muster up the courage to write this letter. Let me not make this any worse by admitting that I cannot express myself any better than this, If possible then do not change the time at which you take the tram.

I'll end here for now,
your co-passenger

Orange frescos

Armani. Louis Vuitton. Valentino. Gucci. Getting this apartment on Via dei Condotti had not been easy. It had taken her two years. Two years of no questions. No work timings. No disagreements. No life.

I must not forget the pills.She glanced at the Spanish Stairs. It was as crowded as ever. The Trinità dei Monti towered over the inconsequential mob teeming underneath. She turned right. Oh no! The Blahnik Mary Janes! Must not forget to get the Blahniks tomorrow.

Her flower sequined boat neck dress bloomed in the Roman spring sun. Aphrodite had been kind to her, for she had the goddess' gift for turning heads wherever she went. Born the seventh of eight children had made her grow up being very aware of the economics of being able to control testosterone. The first movie offer came when she was nineteen.

By now, she was a master of the mechanics of moaning, on cue. He should be home by now. She had quickly grown weary of the Adonis like bodies. Even the novelty of her own sex had worn off soon. Of course, many had wanted to continue after the arc-lights went off.

Wonder what he painted today? I must get that set of conté he has been eyeing. If only he would let me.. She had wanted it too, many times. The moans had never come on cue then. Till one day she had turned the corner on Via del Corso and crashed in on him, sketching on the bare, asphalt lined sidewalk.

It was the half bent-down, half sitting down, half amazed group of onlookers who first caught her attention. She had stepped on his ragged Borsalino and the coins had spilled out. He had looked up suddenly and those green eyes had drowned her in their melancholy.

She had found his unkempt stubble adorable. His nose had the indelible marks of a dozen street fights. He refused to wear the Valentino shirts she had bought for him preferring his tattered Greenpeace t-shirt. With no formal training in art, all he painted was born of his obstinate will to make pictures talk. He was always home before her.

A quick shower and then the glass of cool orange juice. He had spread into her life as Carbonara spreads over a plate full of fresh Rigatoni. He had shared her cigarette smoke and wet towels, her lace nightgown and Tuscan wines, her chesterfield leather sofa and her Carrara marble kitchen countertop.

He had not wanted to posses her. He had not given up the Borsalino and the sidewalk. He always knows when I am about to get home. How does he do it? The orange juice is never too warm or cold. He had been the one constant in her celluloid life, for the past five and a half months.

I must spend more time with him. He never complains... but his eyes. That night...The door was ajar. She closed it gently as she walked inside. The dying sunlight streaking in though baroque grill of the west window caught her eye. An undisturbed, thin layer of dust shimmered on the glazed teak wood table top. The glass of orange juice was not there.

Good business

He stood languidly against the lamp post, facing the Colosseo Metropolitana Stazione. Looking at the early morning crowd of tourists that poured out of the station every few minutes. Today will be a good day for business. Dressed in his red Totti jersey and splayed denim slacks, he was just another dweller of the Eternal City.

He was not interested in the motley crowd, which poured out by the hundreds. The smartly dressed Armani suit, the braided hair, the ambling feet, the leftovers from last night, were all mediocre business. C'mon, c'mon. His nimble fingers were anxiously playing on each other. Worn heels of black leather shoes gently tapping the sidewalk to the beat of some lost melody playing in his head. The shoes need mending. Walking this beat daily is taxing. Oh, for a day off!

He was gazing at the drab grey pavement, when the glint of the sun caught his eyes. Ferrari red stilettos. The distinct click of the heels on stone. The skin of her legs was the colour of cappuccino creme. He looked up. A flowing, black, halter dress. It stopped just below her knees, lightly stirring in the wind. A red leather Gucci purse hung lightly on her arm. Did she smile? At me? Definitely good business. He admonished himself soon after for being decidedly naive. Of course, it was the Colosseum behind him. That look of wonder had always tormented him.

What is so wonderful about this ancient ruin of stone blocks? The lush rice fields of his village had looked so much more prettier. Nice hair. It bled the colour of red wine in the morning sun. She was fleshy. He said the word out loud just to taste it on his tongue. Fleshy. She stood about two hands taller than him. Ten years more, at least. She had walked past him, towards the Forum Magnum.

He instinctively followed her, inconspicuously but accurately. He should have been observing the flow of people around her, looking for that perfect moment to strike. Instead he found his gaze caught by the hypnotic pendulum of her hips. She looks like the one from "Midnight Heat." Perhaps better. He shook his head vigourously, as if to shake the thought out into oblivion. Concentrate! She suddenly turned and looked at him. He knew when a woman looked at him. It was always the same look of disgust he got from them.

He turned his gaze away, because he did not want to read that expression again. Not from someone so angelic.

Excuse me? Do you have a light?"

The Temple of Vesta loomed large behind her. Her expression was... neutral. He fumbled in his pockets and held his old Zippo lighter to her Marlboro Silver. A puff of smoke enveloped her lightly said, "grazie." All this while, the crowd had flowed past them like the never ending streaks of light in a long exposure photographs.

He turned around and smiled to himself. A Louis Vuitton Pochette. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Los Besos (The Kisses)

A simple thing of beauty,
gentle lips. So gentle.
Supple and pink, waiting
in parted, charming innocence.

Parting more and calling
in silent want, beckoning in
another dawn for the luscious
night to begin. Anew. Afresh.

Salt to taste, tongues dripping
in salivary haste, teasing
and twisting, in celebration
of the exotic recipe to come.

The sound. Oh! The sound.
Of that breath drawn in.
So near and so far amiss.
Continuous, invited, demanded.

Restless hands writhe
on familiar ground, reactions
uncanny, lost and alone.
Murmurs of incoherent bliss.

Imagination grinds to a halt
by force of senses overwhelmed
to think anymore. Rising breath
surrendering to burning whims.

Exhaustion far, but distance
wins. Inanimate responses tire
magical zest, rising desires burn
silently awaiting, in blessed turn.

Barely so

Liberated
of inhibiting doubts.
Ravenous spirits gush out.

Wildly spurting
from constricted eternity.
Shamelessly abandoning abandon.

Drops of delicious you
scorching my skin.
Pin-pricks of ecstasy.

Pools of sticky lust
tingling with sensuous ripples.
Parting of thirsty lips.

Drunk in a verbal frenzy
of amateurish vulgar charm.
Honey wrapped fingers.

Delightfully sucked beyond
redemption past rapture.
Agonizing wait spills over.

Crashing past raunchy
protests of innocence.
Fervent pleas please.

Oh please do
not.
Stop teasing my hunger.

Mouthful of risqué bitten
off in greedy chunks.
Sweat laden gasps devoured.

Tired of time
and again of moaning whispers.
More, more and endless more.

Familiar sounds

"You coward!" She spit out the words at him with as much vengeance as she could muster. "You joke of a man. And a second rate one at that. All you can do is run away." She looked at him with glazed, red eyes. He did not answer back.

"Speak, damn it! Say something. How can you just keep quiet, you spineless.." She choked and her voice faltered. She clutched onto his arms like one possessed. Her nails had broken his skin and a trickle of crimson blood oozed out.

"I hate you! Do you hear - I hate you! I hate you for having loved me so selfishly. For making me forget the misery that is loneliness. And for reminding me again, so brutally. I hate you"

Her voice had trailed into a whisper now. The antiseptic whiteness of the room sickened her. The only sound other than her enraged, helpless voice were the periodic beeps emanating from the machine. The cruel measurement of the remnants of a beautiful life.

She was so afraid of the quiet that would follow. That threatened to greedily engulf her complete life, without any remorse.

She was feeling raw, like a forsaken piece of meat left out on the butcher's table, waiting to be chopped and diced. Her strength to wage this battle was at its nadir. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her eyes closed.

She stood on an endless plain. Flat, desolate and enveloped by a deafening silence. She screamed but her voice did not come out. She gasped for air, but the air refused to flow into her starving lungs. Then his voice rang out from somewhere, jarring her to the bone. She frantically looked around to locate the source. She had heard him say that before. Many times. Only now it seemed unreal - recorded. Someone clicked the stop button and the voice stopped. She felt nauseated by her relief at the stopping of his voice and defeated by her familiarity with the silence. Her legs, suddenly gave up on trying to hold her upright. She collapsed. The ground was as hard and cold, as a polished sheet of naked steel, and stung her brazen skin like a scorpion.

She lifted her head with a start. The periodic beep was still the only sound around. Suddenly, it did not seem so cruel anymore.

Sleeping with a man

It had to come to this one day. The way this... I mean, my life... is going, it had to come to this. After all the situation gets more and more desperate every day.

Wait, wait!

Did you think men had such low standards! When a woman falls down from the bed at the mere thought of sleeping with me, how did you imagine a man could do that? Huh? Come on... give a man some credit!

Yes, in a beautiful village nestled in the lap of the snow covered mountains, I shared my bed with a kind and honest man for a week. And this says a lot about that man, who is from another world, which is practically alien to me. Who gets as much beating at work as I do, probably more. Who is perhaps simpler in thought than I am and that in a way is saying something. If you have ever tried being honest with yourself for longer than a few weeks, months or years, you will realize how incredibly hard it is to find it in another. And you thought I was going to talk about.... Cheeez!

When one goes through a time of confused crisis in one's head for twenty-four hours a day, an offer to stay one's reckless fall when one is speeding downhill at a reckless pace, is nothing short of an act of incredible courage. Foolish maybe, because I am almost double his weight, but courageous nonetheless. Another addition to the beauty, which surrounds me? I see too much, as someone once said to me.

Intimacy is as much in a wetness of a passionate kiss, as in a gentle smile of understanding. Have you ever stood in front of a mirror and hated your body? I have. Even for a split second, it is not a pleasant way to feel. Yet, somehow I recovered from it, stronger in ways, I don't fully realize. Because I still find myself standing. Because I understand. Do I? And what has this got to do with the subject of this post?


White mountains,
White skin,
Soft snow,
Frozen inside akin,
Grey crowds,
Grey days,
Meandering roads,
Solitary silent ways,
Red seduction,
Red pain,
Bread and cheese,
Self pity in vain,
Black night,
Black fear,
Will to dream,
To hold you near.

The best lie

The cigarette smoke circled up from her lips in perfect rings. She lay looking blankly at the damp ceiling. She was strangely relaxed. Tired, but relaxed. He lay beside her, forbiddingly close, still covered in drying beads of sweat. He was still nauseated by the smell of smoke. He could still feel her all over.

It was good wasn't it?

Yes. It was.

It was the best ever, wasn't it?

She suddenly frowned. As if something had suddenly corrupted the perfect trance of her private blankness. The calm... Why does the calm go away as soon as he speaks.

Why must you do that every time?

Why indeed, he thought. He loved every inch of her five-foot-four frame. He knew it like he had seldom known anything else. He had seldom known anything else. Why should that matter? He knew what he had done.

What did I do! I just said that you were awesome.

She moved her legs over his. The skin on his thighs got goose-bumps. He was waiting. He had been waiting for so long that now he waited out of habit and not out of necessity. Not that it made the waiting any easier or difficult. Finally, as always, he could not wait any more.

Well?

No, it was not. It was not the best I've ever had. I've had better.

She still said it plainly enough. Without any emotion in her voice. Yet he saw the longing in her eyes. Eyes, which hidden behind a veil of smoke, belied her visible calm.

I love you.

I know.

He started humming a song.

What are you doing! Why must you sing when you can't? I can't even understand the song. Whose song is this?

Mine.

Yours!!

She laughed out loud. He smiled. A smile of complete surrender. This is how it must stay. This was the truth. He loved her too much to let this matter. All his pretensions of calm did not matter. His slighted pride did not matter. His attempts at being a man did not matter.

Are you happy with me?

She looked at him. A look of immense kindness. Her lips quivered, but the words did not fall out. She reached out and pressed his hand.

Tell me the truth. Please.

She lifted his hand to her lips. She could smell his sweat. She could smell his fear. She wanted to comfort him. Yet. His love for her was as truthful as he claimed it to be. She knew. She was happy for him. He had found her. His truth.

The truth? The truth is that I am happy. The truth is that you are a good man. The truth is that you are my best lie. My very best.