Love is matter

(Image source: isiopolis.com)

Love is a need like no other.

Love is matter.

The terrible, unstable kind, yes?

The wild, sweeping kind that rips every notion apart until only nothing remains. And you weep, your tears are diamonds.

Or perhaps the luminescent, sublime kind.

The soothing, balmy kind, that caresses every scar, contains tides until only stillness remains and your smiles are rainbows.

Ah, of glorious hurts and shimmering pools of blood. Of nightskies dark with longing and days bright with impudent hope.

Of quiet acceptance that every drop of blood and sweat is mine, is thine, is ours.

Of every kiss that proclaims the tongue and every ache that screams for a union.

Of shivering limbs that crave steadiness from firm but gentle arms, but alas! Love must steady itself in its own whirlpool of collapse.

Of looking for answers in a beloved's eyes and the stoking of yellow embers that burn beneath the lids all night.

Of finding yourself staring back, a splash of white in every black; wind chimes tinkle in solitude and hearts splinter in gratitude.

Of blue cowherds and song and milkmaids and dance.

Of a day that won't see dawn on the banks of a swollen river, forever in spate.

Love is so many things, yet I know only your face.


I love so many things about you but all I can do is look at your face, helplessly, hopelessly.

(With @ScrollsNInk)

Languorous Love

Let things linger, let things soak,
Let love permeate slowly into your bones.

Let it slide down the edges, of sides left untouched for years
Let it show what one has no claim over, let it show what one owns.

Let it burn, ever so little, singeing slowly by the minute
Let it steal from restful sleep, and push stealthily every limit.

Let it extinguish fires of doubt, let even clarity cloud,
Let it prevail over reason, let it subdue logic, wit.

Let it walk in nonchalance, let it your patience try,
Let it act like there is forever, let it sometimes make you cry.

Let it make breathing scarce, let it melt every living cell,
Let it erase every fact, farce, let it listen, let it tell.

Let its fragrance madden you, let its burden sadden you,
Sometimes fire, sometimes ice, let it become your virtue, your vice.

Let it bind in chains of glory, let it give heights to your story,
At times bright, then dark, let it be your victim and your jury.

(Co-written with @shakwrites)

It probably isn't love

If it hasn't made you leap up wildly to embrace one morning or try to sink into the wretched bowels of one night, it probably isn't Love.

Yes, if it hasn't made you a model of unreasonable behaviour, it probably isn't love.

If it hasn't made you an amalgam of opposites; a fiery iceberg, a bleeding bouquet, it probably isn't Love.

 If it hasn't made you want to wander streets in search of your lover or death, it probably isn't love.

If it hasn't made you more tolerant than you've ever been yet more petty than you've ever dreaded, it probably isn't Love.

If it hasn't made you want to own the person, the whole and every part, then it probably isn't love.

And in return, give yourself to them; more than they ask for, more than they can handle, and say '' Keep me,'' it probably isn't Love.

If there are whys and wherefores, it probably isn't love.

(Co-written with @talli_redux)

An interlude

(Image from zazzle.com.au)

..."Drat! Like a man, I ought to have taken my chances," he said half joking, half flirting.
"You are still a man, and there are still chances," she said, half challenging him.
Their chance meeting and the impulsive coffee date was taking a rather interesting turn. She had a dinner to cook, he had an office to go back to. But the currents led them elsewhere.
"It's time for the adventure to begin then, ma lady," he bowed, feeling every bit like the man he'd found again. She tittered rather loudly, drawing stares from the young cafe crowd. She looked down and then up at him. He stood there smiling, and she knew it was her turn.
"Let's have an affair," she chuckled, "this ring has been sitting heavy on my hand for quite some time. And this bag of vegetables too."
He guffawed. "Sounds like a plan. You carry the same cross as all of us do," he said. "I need a story too. I'm done with status quos, much like you."
"Come, then. There is a change in both our post-lunch plans," she said, and led him to her car.
She motioned for him to sit, took the wheel and drove. Driving and some more and then some more. Over smooth turns and rough ones, over gurgling brooks, past barren scapes. Like their life. She kept driving till a piece of wilderness inspired her to stop. He sat quietly, storms raging within, wondering at the end of this journey, marvelling at the fire driving her, and now him. The tyres screeched in protest as she rammed the brakes.
"What now? What chances are you taking, now that they are yours to take?"
He smiled. He couldn't believe they were doing what they were doing. He played along. "Let's rebel," he said, "It's old hat for you, but still... Whaddya say?"
She smiled back at the recollection. "Yeah... That was a time. I haven't broken rules in a long time. So yes, let's. Let's rebel..." she said. Through her charade of excitement, he could see a sadness creeping into her eyes. He noticed she was drifting. "...let's rebel, because life is short, and happiness elusive. I thought I was happy because I chose my life. But I'm not. Are you? Will this little rebellion against our status quos give you happiness? Will it make me happy?"
Though they hadn't met in years, he knew where she was coming from. They had exchanged many frivolous details about their lives in the coffee shop after so many years, but the songs of the heart were only emerging now. He knew there were many little stories of unhappiness beneath the surface, underlining this moment. He felt united again with her, in his unhappinesses. He remembered the boundless joy that had once bound them and silently mourned its loss.
Smiling sadly, he nodded and said, "We're booby trapped. Not that that hurts. What does is the clipping of the wings we were so proud of."
She faced him, then kissed him, then sighed. "Yes. We grew up and the wings were gone. This world is a sorry place. The love has gone too."
He looked away. The landscape appeared misty. Was it his eyes? He held her face close. "You think so? I think I still love you. Don't take that away."
"Yes, I think so. And I'm not taking away anything. I'm only asking for a story in the earnest. A story without lies; a story without love."
"A story without love? How, my love, are we to have a story without love? You leave me helpless," he said and noticed the mild exasperation in his voice.
"Oh, come on, must you weigh us down again? Weigh us down with an old, pointless, hurtful love? Let's aim for a higher or a baser deal."
"I'm not sure what you mean, but will a 'different' partnership mean more to you now? And how can I, we, be different? How different can a man and a woman be when put together?" he asked quizzically.
"What I want is a mate of the spirit, or a mate of the body. You know, let's be partners in a spiritual quest or let's just have sex. Leave my heart alone. I can't deal with any more posing and pleasing. Let this rebellion, this secret, this affair be spiritual or animalistic."
He was surprised and looked it. "You really have grown up. You had once worshipped love."
"I changed my mind. Love is one big fucking lie," she said.
He put his hand around her waist saying, "I'd argue, but time's flying..." He then pulled her to him with force that was only his. Their lips met in a violent force. He was being himself, his old self again. And yet he wasn't. It was a strange yet familiar moment to them.
As the past hurtled past her eyes, visions of their younger vulnerable selves swimming past her consciousness, she let him kiss. She kissed back, and tore at his clothes and his flesh seeking satiety, seeking happiness, amid that wilderness. She focussed on his skin on hers, her focussed on the goosebumps, she focussed on the stirrings between her thighs. An old, familiar surge of love hit her - love that had once bound them, love that had given her pain. She closed her eyes, and mumbled a "No", as if willing love to go away, and continued to kiss him. A misty haze of past-present, love-hate, moral-amoral surrounded her.
The haze enveloped him too. He wanted to own her without wanting her. He let her body dictate his senses; the way they had when they first crossed paths. He was now a savage animal, shorn of all senses, all things beautiful and tender. She joined him in his abandon...
Later, as they lay spent, the stereo of her jeep belting out shameless youthful pop music, she sighed a 'Phew!' "That was nice, and I feel strangely fulfilled. Call it happiness, should I? But you and I know it won't last..."
She trailed off again. "...Nevermind, what makes you happy?"
He smiled, shook his head and ruffled her hair. "I stopped searching for happiness. Like love, it is an impermanent illusion. And it mostly hurts... Now I just be. Take what comes my way - good or sinful. No guilt. I stay happy knowing I followed my heart. Like I did today," he said and turned to face her.
"You did good," she said, "I think I did too. Our changed post-lunch plan has made me happy," she winked.
He winked back.

(Written in collaboration with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devil22)

They said it was love...

I remember this day ~ when we coined ~ what transcends ~ all definition

They said ~ it was love ~ we were too entrenched ~ to care

Drank in each other ~ touched and ached ~ felt more than what ~ love could have faked

And in their soft caress ~ they finally taught ~ the world ~ love, how its done

The world ~ watched them drown ~ let them drown ~ their depths too deep

But what does ~ the world know ~ Of depths or ecstasy ~ of drowning, fingers entwined?

Of bodies in joy ~ of minds in pain ~ of a longing ~ even in togetherness

Their rigid love ~ we smoothened to curves ~ with our sigh-ridden calls ~ to each other

 (Co-written with @_eroteme_)

The farewell

   They laid carnations on the grave. Her favourite flowers. How often he had walked home carrying a bunch. He was carrying one that day too. But nothing could have prepared him for what he saw, as he opened the door of his home on that summer evening of '98.

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   She lay there in the passage to their drawing room, in a pool of blood. Eyes still open, smiling even, as if welcoming him. He fell to his knees and clutched his head. She had slit her wrists. "Oh God... Oh MY GOD!" he shrieked. "What happened? Why did you...," he asked in shock, even as he rushed towards the medicine cabinet to get the first aid kit out.
   "Don't." she said softly, stopping him mid step, "I was just waiting to tell you I loved you," and closed her eyes forever.
   "NO! Please don't leave me Yana, please!" He held her face, and kissed her forehead, bawling like a baby. He had booked two tickets to Bali just a few days ago. "She needs a vacation," her doc had told them last week. Six years. Six years he had been caring for her, through her chronic, complicated illnesses. "We'll be okay," he'd smile assuringly, as her put her to sleep every night. She'd just smile sadly.
   But he knew she was slipping away. His beautiful, young bride was slipping away everyday, as they tried in vain to battle her premature Alzheimer's and depression. Her past was fading, and her present turning dark. There was little he could do. Sometimes, love isn't enough. He dialed the police station and hospital numbers.
   As he waited for them to arrive, he sat next to her, and looked around their drawing room misty-eyed. It was neat and orderly just as she had done it up, when they first moved here. She had picked all the things personally and supervised every small detail in the house. And now she lay there, lifeless like her favourite Victorian furniture, her favourite Persian rug, her favourite Chinese vase. He slouched on the floor next to her and stared at the eerie whiteness of the wall. Their 20" wedding frame was missing! Bewildered, he wiped his tears and stood up.
   His first instinct was to check their bedroom. He ran up the stairs, and right enough, found the frame propped up on their bed. Her ivory wedding dress lay neatly alongside it. The floor was strewn with their wedding photographs. She had probably spent her final hours trying desperately to hold on to the slipping memory of the happiest day of her life. She had probably decided life wasn't worth living, if she couldn't remember the love of her life - him. He broke down, and threw himself on the bed. His heart threatened to stop with the pain he felt. Tears streamed down his face, as he lovingly caressed her dress. That's when he found the note, neatly rolled into a scroll, and slid into her gold wedding band.

"Dear Jim,

   Now, don't be mad at me. Look at it this way; no more medicine schedules on that darned excel sheet! (Bad joke. So, sue me!)
   P.S.: Darling, I know you won't be in the best of your minds when you read this. But this is something I meant to tell you for so many months. It has taken many painful days and nights to say this to you. I want to leave. I need to leave.
   Meeting you has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. In you I found the love I had always dreamt of, waited for. In your arms I found the solace and love a woman can only dream of. Only with you, I could feel happy, healthy and whole. I have no regrets. You loved me like a man should a woman. You loved me like a dream. But life can sometimes cruelly shatter dreams. Six years you stayed by my side. Nursed me, held me, took care of me. Even in my imperfection, you remained perfect. I've never felt more loved than in these six years I've spent with you. But I could give you nothing back. Not even happy memories, because they are beginning to deceive me...
   I'm sorry, Jim. You deserve a better life, a partner, who can take care of you. Who can love you, like I wished I could. Do me a favour, Jim. I have gathered all my stuff here. Burn all of this up. Burn my memories off. Start your life again, Jim. Marry. Have kids. Play with your grandchildren. Promise me you will, and forgive me. Love, Yana."
   
   He kissed the letter, and as he held it tight, felt something on the other side. He turned it around and found their two Bali tickets attached to the letter and a small note under it. It read,

"P.P.S.: Go. I hate to be a spoilsport."

   The bell rang.
   It was the cops. He was surprised to see their lawyer with them. "What's he doing here?" he wondered to himself, puzzled.
   "Hi Jim," the lawyer said, "I'm so sorry. Yana called me this morning about her will. She wanted me to keep a copy ready. I had no idea..." He handed Jim a copy. Tears welled in Jim's eyes. She had been planning it for a while. 'Why didn't you let me in to your biggest secret?' He took a deep breath, and nodded. The cops went about their business in a cold manner, as his world came crashing down. They began to take the corpse away. His love gone cold, white. "May I, officer?" he asked, choking with emotion. "Of course," said the officer, and respectfully laid down Yana's still beautiful body. He kissed her lightly on the lips one last time. "Goodbye my love," he said, bursting into a fresh spate of tears.
   Hours later, when he could summon the courage, he opened her will. She had left everything to him, and asked him to burn it all. He would. There was nothing here for him anymore. This house now felt like a coffin. She was all around. In every nook. In every breath. He could think of no better way to let it all go. Moments later, he was out on the porch with several cans of gasoline. He splashed it all around the house. He was having none of it stay with him, without her in it. She had left him behind; he would leave all of this behind. He smiled, and dropped a burning match on the balcony. An angry streak went right into the house and started turning everything it touched into ash. He began to walk away, even as fire engines rung their bells furiously and approached the home of Mr. and late Mrs. Smith.

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   That night had been a living nightmare. Cops, questions, fire and darkness. Courts, more cops, lawyers, friends and alcohol followed soon after. He had walked through those days in a daze, until he found her. Today he had brought her to the charred remains of his past for the first time. He did not wish to walk down that road again. That neighbourhood, that pain. But she had insisted. Behind their good life, she had sensed a void. All through their first days together in Bali four years ago, their whirlwind romance, their crazy-quick wedding, their marriage and kids, a part of him had been missing.
   "It's time you truly fulfilled Yana's last wish, darling," she said softly. "Forgive her for leaving you. Forgive yourself for not being able to stop her. You have never once visited her grave. Let's go say hello. You need it for a goodbye."

(Co-authored with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devil22)

Point blank love

It was like she took a 12 gauge shotgun, 

Pointed it straight at my heart, 

And pulled the trigger at point blank range

It was like even the blood she spilled would do her bidding; 

Make patterns, write love letters. 

Every drop splattered on the walls, 

Retreated in slow motion, back into my body, 

Like an ingenious design of the unknown.

Forming a stronger love than the one she shot out, 

In a cycle, till she runs out of shells. 

She kissed him and began to leave; a love too strong to fight.

A love too strong to fight, too strong to be one with. 

A true love that would hurt her, like she had hurt him. 

A love that turned to venom inside him, made him want to hurt her.

Like holding a 12 gauge shotgun, pointing straight at her heart, 

And pulling the trigger at point blank range.

He loads the revolver one last time, faces the mirror, 

Sees her, and pulls the trigger. 

He crashes out of his dream head first,

A million glittering pieces and reality.

(Co-written with Siddarth Pathak @ShivaShadow)

Tweeterature

   I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said Twitter has changed my life. Though there was a stage of disillusionment, when I proceeded to delete my account, I came right back to it; an addict.
   Day after day, I witness streams of brilliance, profundity, honesty, vanity, meanness, and sometimes plain stupidity. It is human nature, joy and misery at its best. And oh, art. Achingly beautiful art. One thing I thank Twitter a lot for, is the portal of beautiful words it has opened up for me. And people capable of such beauty. Sifting through several thousand tweets, I've chanced upon people who never cease to please. It is a joyride of poetry, stories, little victories and losses, love, wisdom, laughter and fleeting yet firm friendships. A place of endless amusement, discovery and ego-massages, and, sadly, my only excuse of a social life.
   But what I owe to Twitter the most is, what I call, Tweeterature. Laugh if you will, but I find this corny coinage a very fitting tribute to this tireless factory that produces Twitter literature. This seemingly restricting140-character limit extracts the most intense, insane kind of beauty a poet or a writer is capable of. After experimenting with micropoetry, I landed this wonderful spot called microfiction, whereby I attempted to create complete stories in a line or two. It was good, but I was left wanting. Soon I chanced upon two of my wonderful author friends on Twitter (@ramyaranee and @indianerotica) collaborating on my timeline, and conjuring up the most wonderful kind of stories, one tweet at a time. I wanted to do it too. That jugalbandi looked like so much fun. I waited for someone to follow my lead. And someone did.
     One fine morning, when I was throwing random lines at my timeline, like I usually do, a follower (who has since become a friend) called @tishman responded with a tweet that connected. I tweeted back with a third line in sequence and over the next few hours, we tweeted back and forth, and wove what became my first story collaboration on Twitter. It was exhilarating! I gathered each of our story tweets carefully later that day, and put it up on my blog. I think I was as proud and happy as the day Jishnu was born! :)
   It became something of a ritual. Each morning he or I would throw an opening line to the other, and a story would be created. We wrote 'Snatches of a Dream', 'Another time for love' and 'The raw deal'. I had never before experienced such creative challenges. It's like trying to drive a car that has two steering wheels and two drivers, who often steer in the opposite direction. Sometimes, you read each other's mind, follow a plot with a telepathic agreement, and sometimes, take off in a direction that completely stumps the other person. But not knowing what the next line of your story will be, is exciting, to say the least.
   Others caught whiff of the exhilaration, and I got my next enthusiastic co-author in @red_devil22. He slipped into the co-writer's seat with equal ease, and has been consistently writing stories with me. We have churned out a sizable number of stories yet, that include 'Knot in love', 'Crushed', 'Green love', 'A train to forever after,' 'Lovesick' and 'The reunion.' We seem to show no signs of tiring, and I hope there will be many more such wonderful collaborations. A couple of other Twitter friends played along too, and with @ShwetaKaushik was born 'Saviours', and as a deviation, @pranavvk and I co-wrote a poem called 'A change of heart'.
   Each piece of Tweeterature has come with its share of exultation and grrr. As with everything else in life, collaborative story writing is about getting your way. You are happy when your co-author follows your lead, understands your pre-set plot and plays along. When they veer off your chosen track, you, well, don't like it. But that's also where the wonderful challenge is. You then try to match up to the unexpected step, and continue with the story without losing the plot. Sometimes, just for fun, or as a mild act of vengeance, you throw them off track too. But it is these crests and troughs that make the writing experience so amazing.
   Another interesting facet is the gender of the co-author. Most of these stories have inadvertently focused on man-woman encounters/relationships, and I hate to admit that this is one classic space for stereotypes. While my repertoire of, and experience with, co-authors is really little, two things have leapt out at me. One: the men love sex; two: the women love love. I know it isn't news. But I've never before seen such a frank display of preferences. It's a place for writing out fantasies, in the shadow of characters. It is about giving vent to disappointments and expressing joy. It is about meeting our innate narcissistic needs. It's amazing really, how in writing fiction, we let out facts.

The reunion

   She poured him a stiff one on the rocks, and some overflowing on to the table. "It's rather hot today," she said, offering him the frosted glass with some gold liquid in it.
   He pulled down his tie as if on cue, responding to the two buttons of her shirt, which she had unbuttoned. Hot it was. She was making it worse. This woman knew a man's anticipation. He took the glass gratefully, sipped, and drunk in the luscious sight of her. She was beautiful.
   "Thanks for fixing this meeting," he mumbled. His senses were fixed on her. Her slender frame, smooth skin, those peeking thighs that taunted, those arms he wanted, her copper-streaked hair. It wasn't the whiskey yet; he was high on her. She walked up to him and sat close, their legs almost brushing.
   "Oh, don't be formal, love," she said, "It is, after all, our anniversary."
   He smiled weakly. They had been divorced for nearly three years now. But she had refused to vacate a very special place in his heart. Three years. It seemed like a blur. Life was never the same without her. Her vivaciousness, her bold charm. They were madly in love, until their marriage could bear their careers no more. He missed her. But he never acknowledged that. Tonight was different though. "Do you miss me?" he asked, shuffling closer. He was surprised at his own words. Was it the whiskey or her... He was falling, failing too fast for his liking. She just sat there, taking it in.
   "I miss being constantly told how desirable I am by a man, who had me every night," she said.
   "You are...," he started.
   "I know," she cut him off, "but is she desirable?"
   "The problem is always the same, honey. They are not you," he whispered, drilling his gaze on her. He held her hand. It felt the same. Tender. A slight shiver ran down his spine. "They can never be you."
    She walked up behind him, slid her hands inside his shirt, rested her face on his broad back and said, "You haven't lost touch." A single tear rolled down her cheek.
    "Three years, baby. This fire, all this fire, and no you," he said, "I've missed you like hell." He took a deep breath and pulled her closer into a tight embrace. Tonight there would be no inhibitions, no pretensions. He kissed her. Those lips still tasted sweet and warm. He thought peaches. Vintage her. He wanted her. He didn't care.
   She half returned his kiss. Then, "No." She broke away. The pain had been too great to want it again. "We mustn't... I shouldn't have called you here," she said.    
   "Shhh...!" he said, and kissed her some more. "I'll go away again... just not yet," he said, undoing the zipper down her back. "I've missed this, love. I've missed you", his voice quivered, as pulled down her bra strap over her shoulder, and put his lips to her shoulder. His lips sizzled. She was perfect. He wasn't going to forget this couch in a hurry. She pulled off his shirt. It was lust and abandon like when they had first made love, except they now knew what they wanted and how to offer it. She ran her fingers through his hair, and led him towards the couch. The small table fell off, as they bumped into it, and so did the half full glass, breaking.
   She let him consume her, she let herself consume him. Passions danced, bodies writhed, time flew. The stars gave way to the sun, and the soft morning light bathed the reunited lovers. He stroked her cheek, as she opened her eyes.
   "I'm glad you came. I don't have much time left," she said. "I'm flying off to the US this afternoon. That's where Sunil wants to shift base. He has always wanted to..." she trailed off. She couldn't bear to look in his eyes. She got out of bed with a reluctant urgency. Her clothes lay scattered around the room, and his thoughts equally so.
   "Uh...you mean..", he stopped short, lit a cigarette and just lay there naked.
   "I remarried; yes," she said, avoiding his gaze. The way he had held her all night told her he hadn't been able to let go. "But I needed to know if I could truly leave here, without any strings attached."
   "And?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage, letting out a puff.
   "And I have my answer. Too many effing strings," she said wistfully. Their divorce was an ugly fact they had never really come to terms with. They were only lawfully out of each other lives. "I could never let you go. I can't. It's a funny game, this. Still carry your pic in my wallet, still want your arms around me more than anything else when I'm low," she said.
   He turned his moist eyes away from her, as he put on his clothes. His phone buzzed. It was his wife. "Hi honey... yeah, the flight was good... I'll be headed to the meeting in some time," he said softly into the phone.
   She dressed up too, in silence, and dialed room service. The broken pieces needed to be picked up. She put back the receiver, and observed simply, "You're married too. I needn't carry the cross of guilt alone," she added, planting another kiss on his forehead, and buttoning his shirt, just like before.
    "Some things never change. Perhaps some bridges are best not burned," he said, and flashed a broad, sad smile.
   She smiled back, as if at an internal joke. "Where do we go from here?" she asked matter-of-factly.
   He took a deep breath. "If you could, somehow, for some reason, for one reason, miss your flight, I would do away with all your dummies in my life," he said softly.
   Was she hearing him right? It was an incredulous line, coming from him. But so was this moment. Her mind whirred so loud, it almost made noises. Things were moving too fast, too awry, too perfect.
   "Are you crazy?" she said, and laughed.
   "Never saner. Wanna run away?" he offered.
   She picked up her phone and switched it off. Sunil would never know where to find her.
   "I do," she said; one more time.

(Co-written with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devil22)

Lovesick

   As she lay there, bleeding, every part of her hurting, doctors and nurses hovering around her - their faces covered, their eyes worried - she could remember only one thing.
   His face. Vengeful. Red. Unlike the face she knew and loved. Playful. Naughty. Besotted."Why, Jack, why?" she had managed between breaths. Her vision getting blurred with each passing moment. She sank into an indescribable blackness, as she felt the knife go through both her hearts - flesh and feeling. "Stay awake!" the doctor kept saying. Her eyes felt leaden. The pain wasn't exactly alien. She knew how it felt to be butchered. On the inside. Her feelings often left to hang out dry after brutal assaults on her character. She kept floating in and out of consciousness as she heard shouts of "Don't give up...Don't give up!" She felt like she was being sucked into a vortex of memories.
   Jack was obsessive love personified. But he was a gentle lover. It was unimaginable that the hands which loved so tenderly, could want to kill. But hadn't she always known that? On the night they had first met, he had almost sniffed the life out of the goons, who had tried to harass her. He then took her home, and healed her with a love she didn't know existed. As she fell back on his large sofa, shivering, he brought out a swab of cotton, and cleaned the cut on her arm. He had wrapped her in a large Pashmina shawl, and stroked her head, saying "You'll be fine." His smile was so reassuring. She felt nice, warm and fuzzy, as she watched him brew coffee for her in his functional kitchen.
   One thing led to another, and before she knew it, his functional kitchen and home was hers. But moving in with him was perhaps the biggest mistake of her life. The realisation hit, when she found all the messages in her phone erased one day. It had surprised her at first. Only Jack could've done it. 'But why?' Questions swirled in her mind. Was he snooping on her? Didn't she love him? Why would he be scanning her phone in her absence? There were a few messages from her friends, harmlessly signed 'Miss You' or 'Love You'. Wait, was he suspecting her of infidelity? She thought he knew better. She started watching her back. Sure enough, Jack appeared in dark alleys, in parking lots, in basements, always in the shadows, shadowing her. His love for her grew everyday - alien tentacles holding her tighter each day in a vice-like grip.
   Some nights he would brandish his favourite Swiss knife, as they lay in bed. He'd run the knife down her body, tearing away her gown with it, as she watched frozen, in strange fear and fascination. He'd laugh at her nervousness. "What's love without a little danger?", he would ask. His would move the knife close to her face, as he kissed her with a manic intensity. It was unbearable. Unbearable, yet addictive. The cold of his knife and the warmth of his body made her swoon. She could not bear nights without him making mad, passionate and painful love to her. But mornings would bring back the greater darkness in him. She would often wake up to find her purse ransacked, her laptop scanned, her phone checked. Yet she could never question him. She needed him. Needed his strong arms, which would protect her from the whole world. Needed that baritone to tell her he loved her. For all his flaws, he had filled a vacuum no one had. But now he questioned her. She tolerated the suffocation only for those nights of love. But now she questioned herself.
   "Jack, do you remember the first time we slept together?", she casually asked at a dinner one day.
   "Of course I do, baby. Why do you ask?" he asked.
   "Do you believe our love was born that night?" she persisted.
   "Yes. What are you getting at?"
   "Do you believe I've loved you and no other since that day - mind, body and soul?" she urged.
   He looked away.
   " Answer me, Jack."   
   "I don't know. But what I know is that you are mine! I own you. Every breath you take is mine. I cannot bear to see any man come close to you and sense your scent. I'll pluck their eyes out, if they lay them on you!" he said, with a strange gleam in his eyes. He dug the fork into the table. She gripped her chair in an instinct. Some bells started to ring inside her.
   "You cannot control me!" she screamed. "You cannot stalk me like this, Jack! I cannot take this anymore! You..." A plate came crashing on the floor, and then several others. Jack drowned her first confrontation in a violent pandemonium. "You're mine, bitch," he growled. "You don't know what you signed up for, baby," he laughed a spine-chilling laugh.  
   The whole restaurant had their eyes fixed on them. But he was oblivious. "What's this?" he yelled, holding up a cheap lighter in his hand. "Who the fuck does this belong to? I got it in your purse!" "It's only..." she couldn't complete her sentence. Ladies rushed out screaming, and their men watched in horror as Jack screamed "Shut up, you lying whore!" and flung a pitcher at her. 
   Drenched in beer, she started running, screaming in fear, horror and pain. What had she done? Who was this person she had been living with, sleeping with? Thump, thump, thump... Jack was closing in. She ran up to a dead end in the dark alleyway. She could see Jack's teeth gleaming white from where she stood, and he could see shiny beads of perspiration on her pretty forehead. She fumbled to open her purse. 'Good Lord, where is it?' She rummaged desperately looking for that one thing that could possibly save her... Jack was inching closer. "What are you scared of, baby? Come to me. I won't hurt you. How can I hurt you? Don't you know, I love you...?" he rambled with each step. She prayed, as her hands searched the insides of her purse. Jack's hands fondled the knife in his pocket.
   "I couldn't help it, baby. I just couldn't see them around you! Know what, I thrust this knife inside that cashier friend of yours. That was his lighter, wasn't it?" She muffled a horrified scream, as he said that. 'He had killed Aakash?' She sobbed violently, as she crouched behind a bin, still groping inside her purse. She could now smell him.
    Her phone lay on their bed, ringing, where Jack had been checking it for messages from Aakash, while she got ready for dinner. Her heart sank, when she couldn't find it in her bag. Suddenly, she was yanked up by her hair, and her eyes met his. He was crying too. "What did Aakash have to tell you? What big fucking secret did he have to tell you?" he yelled in her ear. She dared not tell him the warning signs Aakash had given her. "Be safe. Be well." He had texted her often in the evenings. She had no idea those four simple words were so loaded. He had never told her directly for fear of hurting her. He had meant to warn her about Jack; his shady past, his ex-wife, who had mysteriously disappeared. It was a small town. News travelled fast. "I should have listened to his warnings Jack, I should have," she managed. She winced in pain as he pulled her hair harder. Suddenly, that comforting cold metal inside her purse...
   She couldn't believe she was carrying Jack's gift in her purse. She was carrying the same purse on her birthday last month, when he gave her a .22 pistol. "Shoot any bastard, who tries to hurt you," he had said. "After all, I cannot be there, watching you all the time." She smiled, as she began to fish out the gun. But before she could summon her fingers to do the job, he summoned his. He began to throttle her. "You must go, so you can stay," he said, his eyes bloodshot; his face vengeful, red. "Why, Jack, why?" she cried, as he drove the knife through her chest.
    Bang! The noise rang clear in that empty lane, as two bodies slumped to the ground. The bullet had entered his neck, and out of his skull. "You blow my mind away," he had tenderly said, after their first night together. She had meant it in a different way now. And there she lay, her heart broken, literally. He lay beside, his hand over her chest, just the way they had lain many warm nights in their bed. She could hear sirens in the distance...
    Blackness. Then light - cold, inhuman, surgical lights. "Don't give up," they kept saying. She wouldn't. Jack had loved her zest for life.

(Co-authored with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devil22) 

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)

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)