Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Stories from the other side.

[Before I get to the piece. This is just to say how good it feels to be writing again. After so long.]

I wake up to the sun streaming in through sheer curtains. The early morning light, not quite yellow and not quite orange. A strange aching in my throat, a strange fear in my heart as I turn to look towards you.

You've gone. Left for work, probably. Leaving a dented pillow, undone sheets, and a horribly mangled blanket in your wake. The path of destruction goes further, as I will find out when I get out of bed and follow your morning routine, after you.

I reach out for your pillow, and smell. A long, deep inhale. A combination of sweat and oil and something that is completely and essentially you. I hug the pillow tight, wishing it was you instead. 

I don't know what distances us. Our dislike of conflict, our hate for apology, our dislike of each other. I can't pin it down to the one thing. But it's there, a white elephant that rests comfortably between us, every night as we turn away from each other, willing ourselves to sleep.

Can we bridge the distance, bring our pillows closer and sleep head-to-head again? I don't know if we can. It seems as if that elephant sits not only on our mattress, but also on the many pieces of our hearts broken and left to die, miserable and alone. 

Tuesday, October 11, 2011


I walk away knowing you look at me. I walk away my heart barely containing my joy at having found you. I walk away wishing for a second longer, a kiss more, a touch more. I walk away, smiling, waiting for us to meet again. I walk away knowing that I will walk towards you soon enough.

I walk away with this wetness between my thighs like a weight I can barely bear. You are the only one I know who will ease the ache. I want my hair laid out, like a carpet, and caressed, lovingly. I want my skin mulled over, inhaled, scarred, bruised. I want us to love each other like the end is nearing.

I walk away, barely escaping grave injury, as my mind plays out the many ways in which you and I can be together. The many darkenesses we will traverse. The many times we will surrender, supplicate, dominate. I want you to be master, slave, lover and friend. I want you to lead me, to be led. I want you to love me and be loved.

I walk away, thinking. Of the future, of forever. I know that there is great joy and great sadness. I want us to love like we will never love again. I want to throw everything away – the responsibilities and burdens – and walk away with you. I want to live, for once, without a care.

I watch the sky turn a silvery blue, bathed in a moonlight that seems brighter than the usual. My eyes carry in them a deep sorrow for what could have been if we were born in circumstances that let us be free.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

The kiss

He was dead. Splattered across the concrete drive-in of the apartment building. He had fallen from the terrace head first, and to say that it was a gory end was being socially appropriate. No one heard a thing. Not his screaming, not his pain, as he made contact with the concrete. The death was silent. I had numbed his tongue with an anesthetic and drugged him before he fell.

I watched him fall, almost too slowly, to a thudding death that I had imagined for him all too often in my dreams. I turned away when his blood slowly oozed out of his cracked head onto the driveway. My clothes were missing. And I looked up to see him standing there, clothes in hand, head tilted at that angle that was so him, and smile at my naked body.

I had to smile back. Who wouldn’t? Tonight, we had come together in a way that was past sex. That was past understanding. It bound us in ways I don’t understand, but there was a shift in our connection. A little breeze passed by, telling me in its own quiet way that someone’s soul had been taken away. I felt it gently move over the nape of my neck, igniting that strange arousal again that I felt when I saw him bleed.

He keeps watching me, and he doesn’t say a word. There has to be something appropriate that can be considered conversational fillers after one has committed murder. I just need to find it. Until then, I will watch him back. With my head tilted.

This was conversation we had always intended to have. Steeped in the silences of our joint triumphs.

I walk towards him. As calmly as I possibly can. I don’t look down to see if I have stepped on anything. I just walk. He stands there, never changing his stance, never wavering. He stands, with my clothes in his hands, waiting for me to come to him.

The warmth between my legs becomes more pronounced the closer I get. Somewhere in the distance, Neem leaves rustle. We keep looking at each other.

I think I may have to make the first move.

In all the time that we’ve known each other, we haven’t once touched, except for the obligatory hand-holding and hugging. But tonight, tonight is going to be different. Tonight, I need to be touched.

I reach out to touch his face, to come closer to him and feel his breath fall gently on my breasts. I notice the monsoon moonlight make a halo around him and I wonder what kind of silhouette we’re making. This moment is too big for anything but a quiet conversation with each other that no one else can hear.

I stand on my feet and kiss him. A slow tester. We’re absorbed into the moonlight as his arms wrap themselves around me, my clothes long abandoned on the terrace floor.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011


They stood on the roof of the building, wrapped in each other’s arms, in the cloudy moonlight that is available only in the monsoon.


(Planning to make this a regular feature on this here blog. Short word pictures.) 

He was dead. Splattered across the concrete drive-in of the apartment building. He had fallen from the terrace head first and to say that it was a gory end was being socially appropriate. 

Friday, June 17, 2011


You linger,
Like an aftertaste

A combination of saliva, morning breath and yesterday’s whiskey.

There are days when I know the smell of you on my lips
Slowly undoes the composure I fight for.

There are days when it reminds me of nights and encounters I’d rather forget.

For now, I want to remember.

Who knows what the next hangover shall bring...

Friday, December 3, 2010


They meet in the dark
In the rooftops of a middle-class neighbourhood
They meet in agreement of secret, clandestine relationships.

As they come together, in the full moonlight,
Words unspoken spill out of their tongues and hands and mouths.
Words unspoken remain in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

He walks away without looking back
Into the dark, it’s almost poetic, his leaving.

Days pass, the moon wanes and waxes back and they meet again.