A change of heart

No, my sweet, love cannot be so.
Why oh why, I want to know?
Destiny; to karma I must bow.
Why can't we change, why go with the flow?
The stream is cruel, tough will be the row.
Stand with me, stand blow for blow.
Love isn't easy, as 'twas a long time ago.
Leave the past behind, for a better morrow.
Where there is stardust and moonshine, I'll follow.
Their sparkle will pale in the shadow of our glow.
For me, will you fight life's every foe?
My love, to you, everyday I shall show.
Take me where the rainbows are. Let's go.
In endless green fields, where fragrant flowers grow.
Till the end of time; through springs and snow. 

(Co-written with Pranav K @pranavvk)

Saviours

(Image source: http://artfan24.blogspot.in/)

   She thought he'd be older and wiser. He turned out to be younger and handsomer. 'Win-win!' she thought. Blind dates weren't really her thing, but deep bass voices were. She couldn't believe she had been talking to the same man over the phone over the last month. He was so unlike what she had imagined. She was told he was perfect for her. 'Perfect, indeed', she said to herself. Tall, intelligent and with a zest for travel... That first call through the dating service had turned into a flirtatious friendship, and he had finally asked her out.
   "Hello," he said in a booming voice. She felt weak in her knees already. "Hiya!" she returned. He smiled. She panicked, and said, 'Say something, stupid' to herself. "So..., we finally meet!" she quipped. He looked at her with smiling eyes, soaking in her nervousness. "Why don't we head to the bar and get comfortable?" he suggested.
   He then led the way, and she followed obediently. She sure needed a drink to break his spell. "I'd like a whiskey; neat," she said when they reached. He looked at her, pleasantly surprised. "Single malt?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "On the rocks, please" she answered back. He placed the order with the barman in his impossibly suave manner. She admired his broad back, slim waist and a firm behind. She could almost see those muscular lines under his clothes. Her reverie snapped as the drinks arrived. She took a deep breath, and summoned the courage to ask him the question that was burning inside her...
   "Do you want me?" she posed.
   Taken aback by her forthcoming blurt, he set his drink down. He thought he'd have to play the games eventually, but perhaps life was too short.
   "I do," he said, smiling. "How can I not want the woman, who I have grown to admire, respect and trust over the last month?"
   She smiled with relief, but her heart pounded with excitement, thinking of the end she wanted for herself. "I need you," she confessed. "I need you to love me," she continued. "I notice love hasn't found place in that list of things you have for me," she said swigging the cold-burning fluid in her mouth.
   He shuffled about and chugged down his tonic water. She was making this difficult. He wanted her, yes, but love? He couldn't love her, he thought, as he subconsciously played with a gold band in his pocket. The band was his constant companion now; once worn by the woman he called his life, his love. His wounds were still raw, but his soul was begging to be healed. He closed his eyes.
   She reached across, and touched his face. Suddenly, her eyes lit up. "Let's get out of here," she said and turned to the door. He followed, hurriedly stuffing some notes into the doorman's hand. He needed to do this. He needed to free himself of his past. He needed to take this pleasure plunge. Pain had won too long.
   As the valet drew up with his sedan, taking charge, she settled into the driver's seat. She turned and looked at him. "Come on!" she half begged, half ordered. "Are you sure?" he asked, "You're a few whiskeys down." "Ahan," she said, and he submitted to her easy confidence. Woman on top.
   She fished a scarf out of her handbag, and tied it around his eyes. "Let's go for a spin!" she laughed and rolled down the windows. It was his turn to go weak in the knees. He felt her soft hands on his face, a whiff of her heady perfume and wind in his hair. The miles began to run away under him.
   As she shifted gears during the silent drive to his one salvation, she brushed her fingers upon his thigh, ever so lightly. He grew stiff with anticipation. "Would this be the right time for you to need me; need me to love you?" he asked. Her laughter resonated within the confines of the car. "Not yet," she said, pulling the car over and shutting off the engine. He could smell salt.
   The sea. 'Oh God, not the sea.' He could not bear the sea since after that fateful drowning accident. "Let's leave," he said silently, his blindfold still in place.

   "No," she firmly denied him, reached down to slide off his leather shoes and led him down. With every sinking step into the sand, his heart sank deeper into the quicksand of images from the past. He stopped and took off the scarf. Holding her by her shoulders, he said, "You don't understand."
   "I do," she said, and kissed him. As she kissed him, she felt the turmoil within him and held on to him, as he fought his demons. He looked at her, and saw this woman holding the key to his future. "Love me now," she said softly. They went down on the sand, and made passionate, desperate and honest love; saving each other.

(Co-authored with Shweta Kaushik @ShwetaKaushik)

Green love

 

   She lit her cigar and let out an impatient puff, as she looked out of the french window of her swanky hotel room. The room behind her was a mess. A trail of cigar stubs, spilt coffee, an unfinished bottle of wine, a laptop and a dirty linen. Patience was never her virtue. She'd fidget when she got nervous. The room showed. 'He should have been here', she muttered. Puff,  puff, puff... He always inspired the choicest expletives in her. 'Bastard, that fuckin' sonofabitch, always late,' she spat the stub out. She paced the room a couple of times, then sat, stretching her slender legs out on the velvet beige couch, her skirt sliding up lazily. Just then, a faint knock ...
   "Come in," she yelled, "not if you're the housekeeping guy." "Actually, don't bother. You're fucking late!" She yelled louder. He pushed the door open. 
   "Not a bit of that fire lost, eh?" he chuckled, as he sauntered in casually in his tweed jacket and disheveled hair. She glared at him. The truth was, it was this casual style of his she had fallen for. He walked up to the couch and smiled at what he saw. 'Hot as ever,' he thought. She ignored him for a while, acting nonchalant. She knew he knew she was acting, and he continued to flash his disarming smile. All those years hadn't taken away her curves, her slender shoulders. He could imagine her pert breasts from that cleavage.
   "Stop letching, mofo," she barked. "We got a job to do," she said, typing away furiously at her laptop. 'Just as hot in her head too,' he thought. "Yeah, yeah, the part I hate most," he mock cringed. "Look, you've milked this horny oldie enough. Just transfer that million to Antwerp."
   "Umm...oh, that's done. I caught some really big fish this time," she said. "Come, look." He flopped on the couch beside her, peering at the screen. "Poor fellow," he said with a frown. They exchanged glances, and burst out laughing. It was the Sheikh. "I swiped the horny bugger clean. He must be on his way to Mecca now," she said. "5 million, and you and I will make a good menage a trois," she laughed.
   "Shut the fuck up," he mocked, as he leaned over to plant a kiss on those painted lips. She lorded over the men. But she was his. In greed and in lust. "Wine, love?" he asked. He knew she could never refuse wine or him. She nodded and he poured out two glasses. One for him, one for his partner in crime. They had come a long way. From dingy single rooms, to this plush 5-star room. Sinister ambitions had no limit. "Let's toast tonight," he said.
   "Yes, let's," she said, stripping. She knew this was his greatest intoxication. He scooped her in his arms and dropped her on the bed. "Take me to bed or lose me forever," he winked. They laughed at his favourite line. "Un instant, ma chérie," she said, and walked to the bathroom, wine glass in hand. When she returned, with her sheer leopard print negligee, his desires throbbed, turning physical. He ran his hands all over her. Exploring, caressing, loving, hurting. She smelt of smoke, alcohol, impatience and money. His favourite smells of vice on his favourite woman. He took a swig, and a lick. Life felt full; perfect.
    He had always liked the smaller pleasures in life. But she really was on to bigger things. 'Bigger is always better,' she smiled to herself, as she glanced out of the airplane window. His motionless body lay in the room; the spiked wine by his side. She really had got the 'big fish'. 'Blind love fool', she smirked and ordered some more in-flight red.

(Co-authored with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devil22)

   

Crushed

   He had been trying to write to her, about her. Words came out in incoherent clumps. But his muse refused to be described. There was paper everywhere. Crushed, crumpled into balls, plain, scratched, on the pad, off it. On the bed, in the refrigerator... everywhere. He had never tried to describe her before. His words often fell short. He had felt lucky, in a strange way.
   But today he tried, tried very hard. It was as if those words would fill up the void of these unbearable, endless hours. When she left, she had left him more vulnerable than he'd have liked. He hated to admit it. And it was a cruel, gaping void. It was only two days since she had left. It was only two months since they had met. Yet it could have been a lifetime. He was possessed by her.
   He had even followed her to Goa, while she was attending a sales conference. Their nights were spent on the beaches, making love under the stars... They would make love long into the night, sometimes all night. Their backs sore with the sand, their feet cold with the waves, but their appetite for each other, insatiable. She'd go bleary eyed to the conferences, thinking when she could have him again.
   He had felt desperate then, as he did now. He would stand outside the conference hall all day, smoking, wishing, smoking... There would be endless drives in his convertible, in agonizing wait. He felt he owned her. Not just her body, but also her mind. He was willing to let nothing go. As soon as she stepped out, he'd whisk her away in a corner and they would melt in a kiss, that would send their bodies racing.
  His brow broke into a sweat, even now, as he thought of her. But the pure pleasures of recollection were sometimes marred by doubt. For all their passion, and their dramatic last couple of months together, there was one question that never left him. Who was she? Where had she come from? How had she landed at his door on that December night? He had never really asked. She had never said. It wasn't important. What was, was her. Her waiting arms, full lips, soft thighs - she gave him all he needed.
   But now, when he was alone in his room, the questions came back. Her absence hurt. It hurt so bad; like the last drop of his life was being squeezed out every moment.
   She was gone just like that. Without mercy. Without an address. She might return. She might not. For now, all he had was words and the company of crushed letters.

(Co-authored with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devil22)

Knot in love

   Associations are damning, compelling. She loved his hair tousled. He hated her now. He'd have to comb them straight for all of life. He stood before the mirror comb in hand, and a hundred thoughts of her...
   He let himself slip into that quicksand of exciting yesterdays, holding on to his comb as his last vestige of a heartless now.
   As much as she loved ruffling his hair, he loved running his fingers through hers. It was one of their many little blisses. The bed behind him bore testimony. He was sure if he looked hard, there'd be a strand or two of her auburn hair there. But he didn't have to look. Only close his eyes. He could feel her hands slide up from behind, to caress his taut body. She always did. "Wanna play?" she would ask.
   He drew a deep breath. She didn't have to go so suddenly, and break the thousand promises they made to each other. It made him bitter. It was so unlike the time when everything seemed pleasure-soaked. Their days and nights smelted into one. Only their mad love mattered. Her body weaving magic on his as night fell, her breath on his neck as morning dawned. That crumpled bed mocked him now.
   "You're such a child in bed," she'd tease. They both knew it wasn't true, and they both wanted to use the cue so bad. He loved challenges. "I'll show you now what a man is like, tigress," he'd say with a sly smile as he slipped inside her and exploded. "I love you, tiger," she'd admit breathlessly, as her final surrender. "I love your messed up hair more," she'd add. They'd laugh. He'd hold her close, look deep into her eyes, and caress her hair. It all came back to him now.
   No, he didn't hate her. He hated this stupid straight combed hair. He hated himself for letting her go. He tousled his hair. He needed her to tell him he looked nicer this way. He needed her. 'Miss you, tease' he sighed. 'I so want you. Did my apology mean nothing?' his body shivered as a cold draft of breeze eased into the room. He put on a shirt and left without combing his hair.
   The weather had been quite mad today. Her wind-swept hair reminded her of him, as she stood before her mirror. The door opened behind her, and a tousled head peeked in. She smiled.


(Co-authored with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devil22)
  

Not funny, Mr. K

Dear Mr. Gursimran Khamba ji sir (not sure if they’ve knighted you yet),

You write open letters so well. You inspired me. So I wrote one; to you.

First things first, why not add the word ‘troll’ to your Twitter bio?

First things first, you have 11000 something followers on Twitter. How cool is that? What I found cooler still is your attempt to balance out karma by writing an open letter to yourself after you wrote one to a writer you seem to particularly dislike, and so many others you have a problem with. I notice you say something to yourself about an inflated ego, even as you constantly deride others, and oh, list your ‘achievements’ in the same breath. Must be a rather sticky habit.

Anyway, the point of this letter was to tell you I am a fan (even if a hugely disagreeing one). But I'm not half as eloquent. I have that terrible problem of a small vocabulary, and before I know it, my point will have gotten across. Damn, I wish I could go on and on and write some 5000-word super blog posts like yours. But what’s the point? I don’t have an asslicking amazing set of followers, who’ll RT my post several hundred times (no matter how insensitive this letter be) and start to crack jokes about you, just because I do. I am not even half as pretty. I have what you call a BT brinjal face, minus the glasses. And I’m married with a child (so there are no random men adding me on Gtalk with pseudo marriage proposals either.) Sigh.

Tch. I deviate. I envy you. It’s so clear, no? Very few people have the gift of intelligent humour. You do. Mere mortals and mere celebrities don’t. Which is why you use your gift to piggyback them, and find stuff (inspiration is the word, is it?) for your insanely popular blog. You make people laugh with your writing; and what superb writing at that. As liberal as you are with your swear words, people draw double the vicarious pleasure of dissing those they can never be. They add so many ‘ROFLs’ (or something to that effect) and pat-on-your-back comments to every post, you think you are genuinely funny.

What you are, nine times out of ten, is vile. I’m sure you know that too, while you type away gleefully at your computer, things that most people would be terribly hurt by. All human beings (celebrities are human beings too, remember?) like to be treated well. That, dear G, is THE truth. Not swearing like there was no tomorrow. Not personally assaulting people and their weaknesses. Not packaging them as honest opinion. You are a minor celebrity too. And though you can blow this letter to bits with your clever words (you, of course, are the professional), this letter will hurt you. Even if the tiniest of bits, it will. Because it was designed to do so.

I hope you will alter your designs a little. Words are supremely powerful things. The only things, perhaps, people keep with them. You know that. You also know there are other ways to make people laugh. Pointing fingers is the least of them. Nobody likes to be told they are wrong. It isn’t funny. Try writing a (your brand of) humour post about the greatest of your fans. And you’ll see how they won’t be laughing anymore.

(P.S. Dear @gkhamba fans, as you will now realise that the phrases "no offence meant" and "in jest" don't mean anything, I am open to brickbats. #kthnxbai)

Maximum City: Not a Bombaylover-maker

Goodbye, Mr. Mehta (Suketu, if I may).

The last month and a half has been rather nice in your company. Don’t raise your eyebrows yet for that month and a half bit. Your lovely book is not slow; I’m a working mother to a 19-month old… you get the picture.

Incidentally, my son, Jishnu, turned 19 months today, and you’re the only one I’ve allowed into my very precious ‘me time’ – something I’ve not had in nearly two years.

And while I took you along on my pleasurable, almost stolen, reading excursions, you took me along on the journey to discovering the city that I’ve made home a little over a year ago...

***

As always, I've refrained from reading any book reviews for that terrible fear of bias. But you, dear Suketu, probably made it to my bookshelf because people have spoken enough about your book. Never the one to go after talked-about books, I picked you up as the cheap guide to this city of dreams and nightmares. I was wrong. You didn't talk very much about the Mumbai you've lived in; you talked about the Mumbai that lived in you - that lives in different ways in all of us.

Through your explorations of the history, economics, politics, crime, entertainment, love, lust, desperation and renunciation of Bombay, you did what all good books do - touched the reader. You enticed and terrified an outsider like me with rivetting stories of people, who are so like me, yet not. One phrase from the book that has remained with me is "shouted lives." The exaggeration that Mumbai is of everything, condenses beautifully in those two words. The hurry and the heartbreak that the city offers to those who come into its seemingly magnaimous fold, is multiplied many times over. 

An Ajay Lal, a Girish, a Monalisa, a Sunil, a Honey or a Sevantilal - all are in me, as much as they are probably in you. But you have to be born and raised here in this garishness to find its loveliness. A mellower small town person simply finds these theatrics overwhelming. In the city, where Bollywood lives, the lines between art and life seem blurred. One forgets who inspires what. Or perhaps in this rapid barter, the individual ceases to exist. Ceases, until he accepts the mass of humanity pressing in around him all the time, and then proceeds to carve out his precious inches. 

I am maintaining my distances still. I am fighting this siren that they have renamed Mumbai. Although you showed me some faces of the real Mumbaikar, they're as lovable and alien to me as characters on the silver screen. I shall take my time to find my Mumbai.  

The raw deal

   She coughed softly as she entered his office. "Gimme a moment," he said, without looking up from the desk. But her heels, black and high, caught his eye. The long, shapely legs above them, a brown tweed skirt and a prim white blouse waited patiently. The expensive clothes seemed alien to her, as she fidgeted with her hemline. Maybe she was trying too hard. But it got his attention alright!
   "Come in," he said. She wobbled in her heels, giving away the fact that she was unused to them. Yet, in all her clumsiness, her honesty was graceful. "Maybe we could sit on the couch," he said. He didn't want to lose sight of parts of her, behind that huge mahogany desk. Unsure, demure and achingly beautiful, she mumbled a "Yessir" and walked up to the couch, holding on to her file for dear life.
   "Coffee?" he asked, as he sat directly across from her. 'God! She had long legs!' he noticed.
   "Actually, I'd like a smoke, if that's OK. I'm terribly nervous," she said.
   If he was taken aback, he didn't show it.
   "Sure," he said, fishing for the Zippo in his coat pocket. She knew she had thrown him off gear. She opened her bag and extracted a pack of cheap cigarettes. Sticking one into her scarlet lips, she leaned forward. Life never ceases to remind you that appearances can be deceptive. She took the lighter from him, lit her cigarette and sparked off his desires.
   "So, may I see your... " he hesitated, as she looked him straight in the eye.
   "Yes? My...?" she teased.
   "Um...uh... resume. Resume, of course," he fumbled with words, his tailored gray suit growing oppressively warm and uncomfortable. There was so much of her outside her clothes. Those slender calves were like highway to his destiny.          "Get to the point," he said, standing up, trying hopelessly, to get to business.
   "I'm here for your job," she said point blank. "The cowards at the HO didn't want to fire you upfront. So they sent me. I'm here for the dirty work."
   He sat back on the couch. Before he could utter a word, the peon walked in with a tray, two steaming mugs on it.
   "Coffee's here," he said. "That may just provide us the stimulation this situation demands."
   "Here's to new beginnings," she said lifting her mug and settling down on the couch; her skirt a little higher, her blouse a little lower.
   "Was just six billion that I took," he said. "Didn't think they'd ever notice. Well, they did, and all they could do is hire you to fire me." 
   She shot a cold glance at him.
  "But since you are here to make sure I'm fucked, why don't we get down to it?" he continued.
   "You are a brave man," she remarked, "Big steals are not for little boys. Let's do this exit interview properly," she said, unzipping her skirt.
   'Red and lace! Every dark cloud has a red, lacy lining,' he thought and smiled. It was starting to get really warm in the room. He turned the AC to a full blast, before leading her to the mahogany desk. He would use it for the last and the first time today.
   Even as they made this strange passionate love, her mind was thick with calculation. Six billion dollars was a lot of money.
   "I've a proposition for you," he said panting, as she dug her nails into his back. "I know," she moaned. "Run away?" they asked each other.
   The cold glass top of his desk was making her head spin, or was it his tongue? She didn't care. There was a decision to be made.
   "Yes, yes, oh yes!" she screamed. It was too good a deal to refuse.
   'Ah, I can have my cake, and eat it too,' he thought, as he fell back, wasted.
   They sat, that night, at the jazziest bar in town drinking the finest champagne, celebrating the fool each had made of the other.


  

(Co-authored with Satish Lakshman @tishman)

The red message

  

   She had been awake for a while; but her eyes refused to open. She enjoyed the light beyond her eyes and the darkness behind them. She was drowsy, and pleasantly disoriented. Like the times when you are not sure which side of the bed your head is on. She could lie there forever. But there was a nasty throbbing somewhere. Her hand... her fingers... yes, her index finger of her right hand.
   She opened her eyes, irritated. There was a deepish cut; now clotted. The pillow had patterns of blood on it. Ugly caked red, but pretty bloody designs. The blood had gotten on her hair. It was matted in places. She'd have to shower & put a tape on her finger. She had no recollection of how and where she had got cut. All she cared about was her hair; and oh, the designs. Like mysterious divinations.
    She dragged herself out of the bed, one leaden step at a time and stood in front of the mirror, groggy yet intensely aware... There were messages she had to hear, to interpret. 'I wish I could cut and frame the blood-stained sheet,' she thought. The thought didn't leave her all day, as she went about her work, carrying her wounded finger like a curious trophy. She got home, carefully cut out the section of the pillow case and got it framed. She hung the frame on the wall opposite her fireplace. She would sit on her rocking chair and look at it. The designs would tell a story some day.

(With inputs from Satish Lakshman @tishman and Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devill22 )

Another time for love

   'It's been a hell of a long while,' he thought, as he lay under the cooling shade of the tree. 'How much longer?' It felt like hours. Maybe it was hours. Maybe minutes. The cool shade didn't feel so cool now. The waiting was burning his insides. Yet he could not leave. She had a promise to keep.
   A promise that she had made back when they had planted this very tree. Not exactly planted it. Spat out the seeds rather. They had been feasting on sweet tangerines that day, under an orange sky. It seemed like yesterday... As a

matter of fact, it WAS yesterday. 'This tree has grown rather fast... in a day. A few more hours for the tree to start bearing fruit,' chugged his train of thought. 

   His reverie broke with a flash of something. WHAT WAS THAT? A torch? A strong, almost cruel white ray shone into his eyes. She was here. Again, after years. Again, after yesterday. Time seemed warped.

   'I hope she's brought sandwiches,' he thought to himself, as she switched off what seemed like fog lights. 'Why would she use them in the day?' he wondered. Actually he didn't. She was never like the other women he knew. "What's life without a little drama?" she'd say. Even now, as she walked toward him with the picnic basket, she seemed to be performing. A surreal stage; her feet one, perhaps two feet above the ground.

   She hadn't aged a day since yesterday, or from a few years ago. With her quick, light steps she walked over to him, and held out the basket. He could see the Chardonnay wrapped in a towel. Wine there had to be. They needed it to lose themselves, to find each other. The real world wasn't for them. He whipped out his Burmese army knife and expertly popped the cork. Some birds took wing, protesting loudly at the sudden sound. She could hear music even in the angry chirping of the birds. His presence made everything beautiful. They raised a toast, drank and nibbled at the sandwiches. It would be a lovely day...

   They sat content for a while, then she leaned over and kissed his cheek. The smell of his sweat mildly intoxicating her. A kiss, a touch, a caress, an embrace. The summer morning would ripen their bodies again with heat and lust. Love would have to wait. A gentle breeze blew, tousling strands of his long, raven black hair across his face. "The markets open in an hour" she said. The urgency hit him in the gut. She had these gentle-cruel reminders of forevers that end.

   They made fast, furious love, squeezing in a million pleasures every moment. Time was little. Tomorrow might come years later. Bodies entwined in a slow serpentine dance under the double suns. Sweat poured as they rolled in the throes of manic ecstasy. Time stood still. Time flew. The clock tower in the market warned them ten times. The lovers would have to go. Wait for interminable centuries... until tomorrow.

   "Reports say Earth will be habitable again in a less than a year," she said, as she slipped into her little, lacy red panties. Then she dissolved into the light, as dramatically as she had arrived. They weren't fog lights. He walked to the market, basket in hand; the leftover Chardonnay still cold. He reached the market, sat in his little curio shop - the quaint little spaceship model always by his side. 'Wonder if she'll bring sandwiches tomorrow,' he thought, as he slipped back into a patient slumber.

(Co-authored with Satish Lakshman - @tishman) 

   

 

   

   

Snatches of a dream

She probably sounded a little too happy.
   "I'd like a shot of whatever it is you are drinking," he says, mischievously. "I'm drinking joy," she says equally playfully and passes him the cup.
    He accepts it, and takes a deep gulp of the viscous fluid. It runs down his throat, engulfing it in its warm embrace, and despite himself, he begins to feel 'nice'. The warmth of the liquid spreads its tentacles around his body...a gentle tingling at first. The tingle soon spread to his extremities. Hands, feet, then brain. Pushing him towards who knew where.

   The window... a gentle breeze enticing him towards it. He stepped up, leaned forth and drew draughts of air that seemed intoxicating in their freshness. Suddenly something caught his eye...
   "It couldn't be!" Could it??? After nearly 2 decades... "Could it be her?" he says to himself. His heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. Her hair was the same, if a little thinner. Her gait was the same, if a little heavier. Then he noticed that derrière... Oh! That derrière... He could never forget it. It HAD to be her!
   The headiness of the liquid was now being replaced by another. Of a distant time. Of passionate memories. Should he turn back time?
   But here he was with the woman, who had given him the drink, the one person he would be slave to, in the entire world.
   The woman in the room smiled; blushed. She was still holding the cup. She let it drop. It was time to break the dream.
   Shattering into a 1000 pieces, the earthen cup spilled its contents on the floor. He looked up at the face of the woman...
   The woman started to fade; an apparition all along. Her lips curled in a smile, disappeared slowly. His heart felt heavy and light.

  But the shattered earthen pot on the floor... the fluid splashed across his Guccis.
  Evidences of a parallel universe, perhaps. Today had been a confluence of her world and his. Something had opened the portal...   
   He could still smell her around him. That strange odour, that he could only explain as HER! He smiled to himself, thinking how strange it would be if someone walked into the room and saw him buck naked in just his Guccis.
   He had chased his dream indeed. He missed her already. But there were important things to get done.

(A dream sequence co-authored by @tishman)

Memories are strange things..

Strange things, memories. She'd forgotten the lovemaking. Only her hair
remembered the hours her lover's fingers had spent undoing knots.

Her feet remembered how they felt tickled when he kissed them, and how he had commented on the colour of the nail polish. "Lime green".

She could still summon the sensations on her midriff, that his linen shirt had first caused; but not the feelings when they first kissed.

She remembered his skin had felt coarse around his chest. She remembered he said he had been burnt as a child. But nothing about the ecstasy.

Here he was, with her, in parts. His love, in fragments. 'Memories are strange things', she concluded.

Ache

You break my heart, my pretty child,
For there will be a day, when you will fly away.
And leave my womb in a cold, numb pain.
To find another woman, a greater love, a better love.
When I can only long and bless.
And cry and mourn a loss that isn't.
For didn't I raise you strong and tall...
To leave your mother's arms one day?