He rings the bell. On the dot, always at the same time. One could fix the clock with his evening routine. It was a practiced one now. The lights would be dimmed, an instrumental music of a different kind would play in the background and the curtains to the windows would be open. The city lights sparkling into the night. She would be watching TV, reading a book, or fixing a light supper, or even dabbing some perfume behind her ears when the bell would go off.

She’d skip out to the front pausing ever so slightly to peek into the mirror next to the door. She’d check herself as he’d watch her through the glass panel. The excitement simmering through various reflections. She’d open the door, and he’d step in smiling. He would scoop her in his arms and kick the door shut with his foot. As she’d throw her arms around him, he’d bend down to nuzzle her neck.

He’d half lift her and seat her on the couch and they’d spend the next few moments, talking of their day. Fingers locked, her legs across his thighs; as he’d caress her hair, her waist and her toes. Her excited chatter interrupted by gasps and laughs. She’d share everything with him. He’d pause to listen as his eyes would soak in her warmth and happiness. He was happy seeing her laugh. That’s the least he could give her he had decided a long time ago. The laughter and joy that he spread through scores of people and audiences, he wanted her to be a part of it. She would laugh when he was with her.

Almost always she cried when he left. She would be brave, but he could see through her veil.

The bittersweet decision he had to always make while standing outside her door. The reason that made him turn around and leave. He was no good with emotions. Laughter he thrived on, but tears made a complete wuss of him. He could not bring himself to console her or say a quiet word, lay a hand on her and hold her in silence. Instead he’d let her cry, a captured soul waiting for a lull in her breaths when he could flee the scene.

The sheets would be cool against her warm skin. The kisses through the smiles, the heat in the skin, and the ardor that lay beneath it all. She’d snuggle up to him, touch him, hold him, and pleasure him. Her engrossed serious face as he looked down on her triggered waves of fondness that always took him by surprise. He could not bring himself to sweet-talk, or use endearments much to her consternation. During these moments however, she woke a gentler side of him, one that would add curves around his lips, a narrowing of his eyes and a deep intake of breath, and one that spoke volumes that only his heart heard. He’d slip his fingers through her hair and hold her close, kissing her with a sudden surge in passion, almost as if she’d flicked a switch on.

The moments would melt between lust and love, the pain and the pleasure, the screams and the moans. They’d end it with each glistening in the other , a pair locked in a state of delirium.

That was how they spent their nights. He’d occasionally stay longer, or leave right after dinner. It all depended on his schedule in his blackberry.

This Thursday was different. From the moment he entered there was a visible tenderness and warmth in his touch. She went through the motions until they lay exhausted in each other’s arms. With a peck on her neck, he lifts himself up to get off the bed.

She whispers “You were so good today.“

He smiles, “So were you baby.”

She traces his lips and replies, “No, today was special. There was something..“

Holding her finger between his teeth, he mutters “Something? Like what?“

She smiles,” I donno, I’ve always felt it. There’s this bond between us.. that’s why we are so good together.“

He laughs.

Pushing her away, he sits at the edge of the bed and pulls his pants on. Walking towards the bathroom, he pauses with the light on, leans against the door and says “Have to be home soon, wife’s brother’s family is in town.“he adds with a slight mock in his tone, “You are a woman and I am a man, and that’s the only reason we are good together. Nothing more. “

The door shuts.

The lights for the coming Durga Pujo were being strung outside her apartment, and she could hear the workers beneath. Through her 3rd floor window, a sudden harsh band of light comes through, flooding her sheets and her skin in crimson.

“So this is how a new entrant to the Sonagachi on the other side of the city must feel” she murmured aloud.

Just body, nothing more.

Cross-posted here as my contribution towards 700 posts and charity. 

***

Wanted: 

She had wailed, “I so badly need one” on her face book, twitter status message.

One tweeted back saying “Check Amazon, they have it all.”
One emailed her “O, eBay absolutely!”
Another said, “Have you tried Craigslist? I love that place, you can get it all, and the people are so nice!”

So she took all of their suggestions and searched. Amazon came close, but the vendor wasn’t up for giving. She checked eBay; it was all business and crass. Craigslist was too restrictive.

“Oh, nothing? That’s funny. Why don’t you advertise?” asked one flippantly.

Interestingly, she observed, no one had really asked her for specifics. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, she tied her hair into a pony, crossed her legs, pursed her lips, opened up her laptop and started typing furiously. Ever so slightly pausing to take a sip of some green tea, and occasionally closing her eyes to frame her thoughts, she carefully chose her words.

***

Post Entry:

An understated elegant young lady seeks a friend and companion who would be willing to enter into a relationship, and asks,

“Is there someone who’d like to spend some quality time with me?”

***

Statistics showed that the ad was read at least a hundred times a day. Emails poured in. It was interesting on how the word “relationship” was interpreted differently by each. Most however offered only physical activities of kinds she didn’t know existed. After deleting a few hundred of these, she wondered: If she had wanted sex, she would have used the word and be done with it. The word must have confused the poor things.

Not the one to give up easily, she thought again. In an effort to also elaborate and make clear to the reader and especially not to confuse the average man, she updated her entry:

***

Post Entry: 

An understated elegant young lady seeks a friend and companion

Expectations:

Spend a minimum of 15 and a maximum of 60 minutes with her on three of the five weekdays.

Of lesser importance but would be nice to have:

1. To reply to her emails quick enough to assure her and indulge her vanity.
2. To listen to her talk, laugh, weep and vent with care and fondness.
3. To show affection in small ways, as in holding hands, an endearment, hug, and perhaps treat her to a much needed ice cream to buoy her spirits.
4. To speak gently and not read more into her words than necessary.
5. To show enthusiasm, laugh, act silly and be goofy with her.
6. To treat her mind, thought and body with respect and affection, and acknowledge her as a sexy beautiful smart woman.
7. To be witty, intelligent, smart and spar with her on words, literature, movies and art.
8. To give her the time, priority and attention she deserves.
9. To be a willing open learner and partner with no pretentions and attitudes.
10. To be a creative, artistic and an engaging team player.

In return for:

1. Giggles, laughs, and good-natured humor.
2. Witty repartees, intellectual banter and rational discussions on words, literature, movies and art.
3. Various snacks of different cuisines homemade from scratch.
4. A book and movie partner of the genre chosen by the other.
5. A warm touch, hugs and a perceptive confidant.
6. Sensible, mature, logical, and adult conversations with no melodrama or tantrums.
7. Creative and fun entertainment sure to surprise the other, including be a model for all artwork.
8. Stimulation and encouragement, as a motivator with a never say never attitude.
9. Unwavering attention towards all ideas weird and strange.
10. Respect, thought and consideration for what the other believes in.

Thank you.

***

Time.
Time was a challenge.
Time would always be her Achilles heel.

Her inbox has been empty ever since.

Freedom in an empty locked house. She walked over to the guest room. The full length mirror reflected a bit of the mid-morning sunlight through the window.

The thud of the towel on the hardwood floor was muffled. She eyed the now banded reflection with veiled disinterest, like one would a pack of chicken breasts at the deli. Lowering her eyes and she started from the floor.

Her feet. The pedicure with the bright red toes with white flowers on the big toe was fading. Her second toe longer, the last curved and tucked in for comfort. The thin yellow anklet throbs at her ankle. The mottled imperfect old oval scar from a past escapade. The shin, smooth and shining, a straight line across her curved calves. Strong cafe-au-lait curved bows in perfect symmetry.

Her knees. Ugh. The scars of bike rides and of the scalpels in a rushed disarray of folds and dips, resembling dark coffee mounds.

Her thighs. Light beige and mellow compared to where they took off, they were rounded and lay strong. They’d changed shape she’d noticed. Once thin, hours of fat, muscle, and exercise had now changed their course to tough. Pirouetting on her toes, she watched the the sides move in unison. A woman’s thighs, she decided: not a girl’s, not a man’s, not a child’s.

Her hips. Wincing inwardly, she placed her palms on her wide square, rounded hips. Pinching at a piece of tan flesh, she ruefully thought of how once that was impossible. It was easy now. Flesh-pinching, that is. Baby fat, just like babies never really leave the mother.

Her unique part of the body. She now turned her attention to the kangaroo pouch. Except that there was no more little roo inside, and yet the pouch hung large, scarred and useless. Stretch marks in different hues of ochre, tan, white, taupe and sepia, the oldest mingling with the most recent, signs of borne responsibilities. She grabbed the piece of flesh that lay there. It fit her palm, and more. A crescent-shaped heavy piece of extra fold. One that increased with each child, and had left behind its mark. Breathing in made it look rotten. A vestige. A rotting boat in the brackish waters. It was ugly, even to her, and it was her own. The memory of a flat belly buried within its largely bloated remnants.

Her belly button. Dark, mysterious and half open, she had flaunted with great pride. With the marks creeping to lay alongside of it as if in guard, it resembled a rusty brown keyhole. One that no key would dare come close.

Her waist. Sandy soil beach. It still curved where it should on the sides. Placing her palms on either side, she willed them to meet. A good three inches apart the fingers stood facing off throwing creamy froth between them. A long time ago, they had overlapped and thumb wars raged and tickled her innards. Twisting to her side, she observed: not a six pack, heck not even two dimensional anymore. A robust visible sandy mound that dipped from below her chest onto her belly button. A treat for clear water drops in the shower.

Her arms. Like two dark branches of burnt sienna, they stretched into little pudgy fingers. Once lissome, lean and thin, they still were, except that the elbow was just a shade darker, her muscles with just a bit of flab, and the veins on the back of her palm stood out angry. Nothing delicate anymore.

Her chest. Tired naked limp breasts hung on either side. With her palms, she coerced them into a cleavage. Dark black nipples threatened to take over the small expanse of legal fat she showed off. Push-up bras were a blessing, a necessity.

Her neck. Shielding her eyes away from the joke, she traveled further up. Faint copper wires lined her neck. Stretching it, she willed them to disappear, but as she had found out later, about fat cells and their creeping in, almost always leave behind a wake. This was the visible wake she’d have to live and sleep with.

Her lips. Once supple, light and traceable, they reeked of bitter tales. Stranded bars of dark chocolate in the afternoon sun, the lines merged and melted forming a crater of molten charcoal.

Her hair. Black, shiny and thick of the past now morphed to, coppery auburn, haggard and stringy. A sick lioness’ mane.

Finally, she meets her eyes.

Dispassionate. Flat. Hazel.

Dead.

single.
standing apart.
you could tell by the way she looked.

her eyes
they have a purpose
searing and angled

Tiger eyes.

a prey
quiet and unassuming
soft and loving
to devour

Wide toothy grin

claws sharp
throbbing jaw
shallow breaths
an attack

Target overshot

retrace
recoup
cower beneath a mask

her eyes
they have no purpose
wretched and glassy

single.
standing alone
you could tell by the way she stood.

Lonely eyes.

Er, an opinion is welcome. I didn’t say everyone who reads this HAS to have an alternate ending. Uff, all you doubt pattanis!

I dream of a suitable moment.

Of waking up in the crook of your arm, covered only with the scents of the night. To feel the heat simmered down to a warmth in your breath, my feet playing footsie with yours.

I dream of the strong smell of coffee wafting through the door, of the sip that turns to a kiss intoxicating and addicting. The rustle of the paper as we read, the comics, the editorial and do the crossword. Together. To laugh together, to look into each other’s eyes while we argue and debate. To end it all with a twist of the wrist, with a petulant pout giving birth to a sigh.

I dream of a suitable moment, when we can hand wrestle over the coffee table, over strewn books, coffee mugs and pens. Of looking into your eyes and reading the chapters as you struggle in vain to bring me down. Of succumbing to you just so I could be closer and in your hug again.

I dream of walking barefoot in the sand, of picking up shells broken and complete, of holding onto your hand lest the waves take me away. Of feeling the breeze in my curls across my face, and darting through the ringlets wrapped around your fingers.

I dream of writing to you. To place the notes between your waffles, in your wallet, rolled and stuck into the ignition, between the keys of your keyboard. Of seeing your eyes light up in surprise as you read them, the chuckles that follow, and the ones laced with fondness too. Of reading to you my favorite passages, and feel your intent wash over me. Of laying down alongside of you on a bed of words, full of meaning between and within.

I dream of cooking for you. With you on my side, tasting the hotness around me. The spice that matches the heat, the tongue playing a multitude of tunes. Of you to hold my waist, to nuzzle my neck as I measure the salt and the sugar.

I dream of holding you from behind as you lather your chin in the mornings. To finger scribble my name on your back, to climb onto the counter, and to nibble at that hollow of your neck. For you to remind me of the time and hurry me out, to promise me of more nibbles later in the day.

I dream of butterflies in your touch, of embers in your naked gaze, of love in your smile. Of the strength in your arms as you lift me, of the strong embrace as I cry, of the helplessness as I drag myself away.

For now,

I dream of a suitable moment when you will want to sit next to me. Of your undivided attention, of the depth of your want, of the strength of your desire. Of you breaking free your chains, of you being free to be you.

All I dream of is a suitable moment.

..to be boxed.

Oh, you are brown
let’s place you here
with the browns.

The corner
works great for your long legs
Can stretch yourself
along with daddy long legs.

You sing?
Beautiful.
Just the perfect little level
A fine part of the chorus you’d make.

It’s convenient
Am sure.
To stay the beaten path.
To not make the effort.
To pay attention to me.

A protest
A scream
Invisible and silent
Hidden behind a window
Serving little purpose.

I am me.
I will always be.

What is that you say?

Weird?
I prefer Unique.
Strange?
I still prefer Unique.

I refuse
To be boxed.
I can stay alone
I can’t be made a clone
I could remain unknown
I refuse
To be boxed.

Exhausted and barely able to stand, she leans against the counter. Her teeth minty fresh, she changes into her pajamas and loosens her now long hair out of its clasp. Brushes it down a few times, and shuffles over to the bed. Sinking under the covers, she reaches for the jar of cream. Eyes closing, she changes her mind, and shifts onto her side. Tucking the comforter under her chin, she closes her eyes.

She feels the bed shift under his weight. Making room, she turns over. He places his hand over her waist and snuggles in close. Each slip into the other’s curves, a practiced routine. Sleep forcing way into her mind, she resists as he slips his hand under her shirt.

“No. Am tired. Not tonight.“

“I just want to feel you. Go back to sleep.” He whispers laying small nibbles at her neck.

“No, really. Just let’s sleep.” Pushing his hand back firmly. “It’s been a long day. Am sore all over.“

“Oh? How about a massage?

That was a rare offer. She’d have normally jumped at it, but tonight she wasn’t so sure. All she wanted was to sleep. She was up at 5.30 and had been running since. Through a foggy mind, she saw what would happen next. Without waiting for her murmur, he slips her shirt off.

She flips over, defeated.

His palms start at her shoulders and move down her blades, along her back. She sighs resignedly. His touch was softer than hers. Blessed with delicate and long boned fingers, she always had to push him to press down just a bit harder. She wasn’t made of crystal, she’d remind him. He’d smile and try. She’d smile and give up.

Tonight, it was different. She felt his hands move further. Past the softness of her sides, the curve of her back, the firm bones that widened her hips, his choppy breath following close behind. Rocking her senses into a slumber.

“Your back’s the span of my palm. You’ve lost weight!?”

“hmm..”

A warmth grows in heat matching the breath. A familiar rhythm. Fingers locked in curls. Sweat pooling at her neck. A moan drenched in desire laced with longing.

She murmurs his name.

His fingers pull at her hair. His weight crushes her below with intensity. Arching her neck, she winces. Her eyes fly open.

Through clenched teeth he asks:

“”Who is he?”

Once upon a time in a small community, there lived a nice young girl called Lucky. She laughed and skipped around and had a few friends. She treasured her friendships, took relationships to heart and was honest with everyone. One day she met another girl, Sheila. This new girl was popular and had many friends. Everyone loved her wit and charm and craved some time with her.

Sheila and Lucky hit it off and started spending time together.

For the most part Lucky would talk of her day and Sheila would listen. The littlest of things. Of the foods she liked, the games she played. About how she felt during stressful times, what made her happy, little memories that came rushing to her whenever Sheila was around. Of how she didn’t really like her mom, the times when she felt she let her dad down, the time when a creepy old uncle abused her, the time when a boy had a crush on her, her first love. It was something she had no control of. She’d speak and Sheila would listen. Adding in an occasional comment or two, edging her on, smiling, listening. Lucky basked in the perfect little bond that they shared. It was special and unique.

One day Sheila walked up to Lucky and said that she spoke too much. There was just too much noise. She enjoyed a few of her conversations, but not all. They had too many tiffs, disagreed on many things. She decided she didn’t need this discomfort and that they shouldn’t be friends anymore.

This rattled the usually stable Lucky. Shook her up and threw her off balance. She had no idea Sheila felt this way, especially when everything was going okay. Sheila was being sensitive, throwing things out of proportion, thought Lucky. Friends fought, friends cared, and then friends made up. Lucky never understood what the big deal was. She suspected something else was up. She cried and explained and begged and pleaded and even offered to go make other friends, but Sheila remained steadfast. She said she thought about it but no, she didn’t have time anymore for her, as Lucky was just sapping all her time away. She’d really wanted more friends, not just one friend.

It took all of Lucky’s courage and willpower to step away, but she did. What else could she do? From where she stood, to go any further anywhere, she now saw two options.

One was to feel anger, shame, let-down and create arrogance within her. Become egoistic and selfish, she was told. If Sheila didn’t need her, it could work the other way too. Lucky was way better. Give Sheila the boot. She deserved it for the harsh cruel way she dealt with Lucky. “Keep your head high, you are not at fault” – a voice convinced her.

A few others told her to let go. Move away, step away. Reflect on the good stuff, keep the fun times alive, but importantly stay away. Make other friends. Shelia was not irreplaceable.

Choice 1 was hard. She couldn’t do it. She tried and it only made her miserable. By nature she was a peace-loving and down to earth person, so acting haughty was a lot of hard work.

Choice 2 was a bit better. She didn’t make new friends, she preferred the few she had left. Yet, something kept gnawing at her insides. She couldn’t stay away. That made her miserable as well.

You see, Lucky’d gotten used to Sheila, she missed those times. She had to tell her everything, every little thing that happened with her. Since she couldn’t do it now, she felt miserable. Yet again. So she thought and thought hard. It hit her one fine day. She did what she thought she could do and yet not let Sheila wind of it, bother Sheila, or let herself down.

She wrote.

Small words, long ones, deep and sensitive, flippant and causal, full of mirth and angst, making her laugh and cry, and am sure moving the reader if anyone read it that is. Words poured from within. Like an open tap, they flowed. Filling pages, and pages, and bytes. She wrote and typed, and typed and wrote. She wrote every day. Like a journal, a steady stream of words. From the time she woke up, to the time she slept, what she wore, what she ate, the new skirt that she bought, the fact that she burnt her finger with the iron, how she wore her hair these days, the new shops she visited, songs that she liked, the translations that she made of the songs she knew Sheila liked, the movies that she saw, the fights she had with the rest, the times when people were rough on her, the times when she fought back. Details. Details that would’ve just taken a few seconds for her to say now consumed more time, more words, more white space. Time that Lucky really did not have but she squeezed it in somehow. Between chores, reading books, watching her favorite shows and what’s expected of her at home.

Diligently she kept at it. Days passed and months zipped away. Pages kept getting filled.

Pages neatly saved in her draft folder bulged at the seams. The inbox groaned under the weight of all these drafts. Somewhere in the corner of her heart, she held onto the hope that one day Sheila would want to sit with her while she read all those out. A smidgeon of hope that flickered just a little bit more with each passing day.

All those words bundled together, tightly packed within. Words that would never see the light of the day. Sentiments within never to be expressed. One day, they would all be whisked away, just like she would.

Silent, unread, under-appreciated, yet filled with hope.

Disclaimer: I swear this fable’s of a different genre. Really. You have got to believe me!

***

I escape through the water drops and before I knew it was racing ahead into the night. Flitting between the nascent green arbors, bouncing off the white flat roofs that humans live in, lighting their square dwellings, I chase the stubborn shadows away. Such thrill to make way as I shine through alone. A privilege I could have for a short span of time before I join the rest of the crowd.

Around a corner I go and there was the deep violet sea, and the white homes tiling the slope above. Spectacular was the scene as the tinged hues with the sound of the ocean against the walls sighing whispers, a tune more melodious than from what we hear above. I stood hung in space for a few moments lost, not realizing I had stayed much too long at a single point.

Long enough to hear a barely audible moan. A sigh perhaps.
Pause.
There, I hear it again.

Impulsively breaking rules, I move closer to the white wall ahead. A window was open. I hesitate. Should I move closer? Would that risk me being seen? Did it matter?

Thin curtains stretched across the window sway in the breeze. A mock as a prelude. What I see beyond draws a part of me in. I gaze onto a novel vision.

In the semi-darkness I see white sheets, and two figures, I think. A candle dangerously close to its end flickers on the table next to the bed. A deep sigh and one form that I later understand is a man, shifts to lay flat on his back. The other snuggles in closer and lays her head on his shoulder nestled in the crook of his arm.

The scene was at once calmly comforting. Yet, I smelt a whiff of desire in the air.

Impatient, I wanted more. Stepping closer, I was aware of the thin sliver of light I brought with my gaze into the room. With every step, I shone my way up the bed post, along the sheets till I reached the man’s feet. Up his toned calves I see a bare thigh lay across his knee. A single white sheet lay across them, crumpled and casual. The woman shifts closer and the man moves to let her in. His palm hidden under the sheet, resting on the small of her back. Smooth and curved in the golden rays, the woman’s back lay petite and naked, protected across his chest. Her left arm curled around his neck, while his right rested on her wrist. Long tousled hair lay thick across the pillow. Wayward curls framing her face tremble in the breeze looking for escape.

Unable to take my eyes off of them, I step closer. To peek beyond her back, wishing to see her face. He opens his eyes and I halt dead in my tracks. I needn’t have worried. Lost in a state of thoughtful stupor, he tilts his head and for what seemed an eternity, gazes at her, then resting his face on her head and stares up at the ceiling.

The silence, broken only by the rustle of the curtains and her breath, whispered volumes to me. A background score to what was to happen next.

With a resigned sigh, he tucks an errant curl behind her ear. Eyes as slits, he traces a forefinger along her face. I crane my neck to see his route as he..

Corners a creamy shoulder
Dips into the hollow of the collarbone
Raises onto a stretched neck
Angling the sharp dimpled chin
Mount the soft cheek
Shelling the curved ear
Resting in the hollow behind
Walk along the temples
Tracing her arched dark eyebrow
Drawing onto her closed eyes
Back along her straight nose
Dive down onto the little groove above her upper lip
Along the thickness of the middle
Through the curve of the edges

Teasing

The woman parts her lips, and her eyes flutter open. The look in her eyes I couldn’t fathom, but his changed dramatically.

Was it pain?
Was it remorse?
Was it desire?
Was it an intensity un-named?

A depth turning his eyes a few shades darker, he bends ever so slightly. Tilting her chin up to him, he kisses dewy eyelashes. A small slow touch, barely audible. Gentle.

I shudder. Being a voyeur was exciting, but becoming a trespasser loaded guilt onto my soul. Retracing my steps, I turn one last time.

I see a shimmer on his lip, reflect the one at the corner of her eye.
I step outside.