Tuesday, April 26, 2011


   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)


Anonymous said...

Finish it.

Felt incomplete without the sting that usually awaits us at the end. Waiting for it...hopefully, like the protagonist, will get it.

Viren said...

Oh! Very Nice.
As usual you painted a lovely picture. Not the easiest when u're sharing the canvas.

Somya Uberoi said...

Really nice & Absolutely touching!! :)

Anonymous said...

Hey, nicely and lovely written piece...