I return to you

(Image: 'And Love is Forever, So I Say in my Self-Portrait' by Yayoi Kusama)

All my roads spell your name, as do my dead ends,
You are branded with fire, upon my existence.

Master of my words, you are my virtue and my vice,
You've made home, my hearth, you spread across my skies.

You fill up my nights, you consume me each day,
Every path transpires, to send you my way.

The stars tell your story, the wind bears your scent
And that rogue heart O mine? Your way, I think, it went.

How far I have run, all nays have fallen through,
Truth comes home tonight; I return to you.

Letters

(Made on MS Paint on a lazy Sunday afternoon in 2012)

Fever

(Image: paintingsilove.com)

I never forgot your smell,

or how soft your cheek was;

like tender coconut flesh.

How soft your cheek was,

when I dared to push my lips against it.

 I never forgot how

my back pressed against the wall.

Green, cold, flaky paint.

I remember trying to remember the moment

the hot flush of love against the cold of the wall.

The memory lives, grows, sears.  

It is a fever. You shudder, you sweat. 

You want to lie down, you need to sit up. 

Yes, a fever. A fire that's burning me up.

A fire that won't listen to reason. 

I will be your phoenix, you can be my arsonist.

Scarlet lips to burn you, flushed cheeks to burn you.

Here, inside of me, is a living arsenal.

A veritable, flammable woman;

you will keep alive with flames of longing.

That first spark has grown,

brighter now, bolder now. 

Your lips are under my thumb:

trembling pink flesh. Now wet with wanting, 

now parched in anticipation.

Fan my flames, for I need you, to make it through

this stark and lonely night.

Touch your tongue to mine, quench this longing.

Nay, stay away, lest all turn to ashes.

There is a desperation in this denial. A quiet hunger. 

A spasming want.

I will wait. I will make you want me.

(Co-written with Mahinn Ali Khan @mentalexotica)

Lovers

(Image: josephbarbara.com)

Voices, smooth, smoky,
rich like kohl.

Eyes that speak of delicious darknesses
Awake and seeking and bold.

Wait, is that a fallen eye-lash
or a dirty little secret?

Perhaps a wish you would want,
oh-so-badly want to come true!

Looking away doesn't help
when your rosy cheeks are screaming out.

Why then do your steps falter?
Your heart knows where it's bound.

Formulating coded moves to reach there unnoticed.
Surprise, love.

Beatskip, timestop, lifechange.
A surprise unlike any other.

With the sound of a piano on flames.
Not to be mistaken for pain.

What road this, despite its confounding twists,
leading yet to the beginning of a dream?

In tangles, wilted and quilted.
Arms in arms, legs between legs.

Two shades of skin - one pale, one blush.
The flutterings of a heart, a thrush.

In a cage of their own. Bar to bar, tease to tease,
felch and squeeze.

A bubble of exhaustion floats, sleep wins awhile.
Then it bursts. Boom!

Brings them crashing down,
to find new ways of love.

Heavy like stone, they lay.
Touch like feathers, they stay.

(Co-written with @bumblebooger)

A missed connection

  (Image: zazzle.com)

Humdrum-er it coudn't be,

Another day, to be lost in history,

No promise of love or magic,

until it caught my eye...

Your lime green scarf,

intimate with your skin,

Were there stars on it?

Or were they flowers?

Your phone rolled down your lap,

a delinquent, a runaway at my feet,

You turned to look, bent, picked it,

said, "Nice shoes."

Too dazzled to think,

"Nice scarf" is all I could say,

You turned away, lips curled,

in what I imagined a smile.

Three stations past,

The tube buzzed forth,

I sat in agony, wondering,

what destination would snatch you.

Lips sealed, muffling a drumming heart

Station four; you were gone.

No time for parting sorrow.

A vision snapped, a blossom plucked.

Only a whiff remained,

and a 'what could be'

with a girl with a lime green scarf, 

with stars on it - or perhaps flowers.

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 I chanced upon the most wonderful blog yesterday, via Twitter, and haven't been able to stop thinking about it. The magical realm of http://missedconnectionsny.blogspot.com drew me in and locked me up - at least a part of me. It is that part that has haunted me ceaselessly and pushed me to write this little poem. I, of course, couldn't name it anything else but A missed connection.

A familiar love

Missives from one side of the bed to the other

Dear Viren,

While reading through some of our first conversations on the Internet, I was jolted into the realization that I’ve known you for five years now. Wow, it’s been a while! And although I’ve been your wife for only three years and nine months of those five years, and perhaps do not qualify to be called an old wife, I certainly feel like one. But by old wife, I do not mean by way of sagging boobs or flagging sex drives; I refer to the feeling of an eternity by your side. We’ve often wondered if our relationship feels new or old, exciting or comfortable, and almost always have decided that it feels like both. But since the birth of Jishnu, our relationship feels more old than new, more comfortable than exciting. We are more mother-father than man-woman. Passion has taken a complacent second spot, even as familiar love rules the roost.

But re-reading those letters from five years ago reminded me of the person you really are, the person I married, and the person I had almost forgotten about, amidst diaper changes and midnight feeds.  He, who earned my respect from the first word uttered; he, who stood tall enough for me to look up to even with my head in the clouds; he, who earned so much regard that I believed I could spend the rest of my life with him, you are. You are the same man, who awed me with his mind, tickled me with his words, and humbled me with his self assuredness. You are the same one, who I so excitedly turned over a new leaf with. Yet in sharing the same house, same bed, same food, same people and same life with you day after day, everyday, I forgot the exhilarating beginnings of that sameness. Waking up next to you every morning, I had forgotten the privilege of getting to sleep with a man like you.

We have been through that difficult time most new parents go through, and sometimes it seemed we had drifted too far to ever be able to match wavelengths again. I snapped at you, raged, vented, and sometimes accused you of things you had never done, dumping ever so often my emotional excesses on you. You took it calmly – as I could never have, if our places were to be changed. You remained my bedrock, and I began to imagine you were obliged to be so.

But these old letters reminded me of that singular person you were, before you gave away so much of yourself to our family. You didn’t have to be kind, or loving, or understanding, or helpful, or supportive. A man with a mind as strong as yours, you could be the opposing force. But you lay low, played the good husband and an even better father, and you waited while I fought fatigue, sorted priorities, and found myself again. We stopped talking. I was always too tired. You sought refuge in your hobbies; I in my books. We sang this wordless duet for a while. I forgot how wonderful your voice was. But then I read those letters again, and realized what I have been missing. 

I haven’t written a letter to you in a long time. I haven’t told you how much you mean to me in a long time. I haven’t expressed my love in a sincere voice in a long time. So, this.

Urmi.  

The supermodel

(A Guy Bourdain fashion photo. Image source: http://fashionprettyrabbit.blogspot.com/)

She was a natural at the supermodel hunch. Years ago, when a depressed, aging ramp queen had showed it to her, she had copied it perfectly. She knew she was perfect even now, as Raphael smiled and clicked away. The makeup had always been thick, but perhaps never enough to mask the emptiness of her spirit. Her hunch half enveloped that ever widening hole in her soul.

"Look into the camera," Raphael roused. He distracted her. She was comfortable in her skin, but she didn't like the way he undressed her - she felt vulnerable. She moved her arms above her head and delicately stepped back, staring directly into the lens. That circled darkness spoke to her, she identified with its soul-less eyes. She gently moved her fingers to her lips for her next pose and felt the cracks appear in her facade. She tried to look deeper into the lens, hoping her eyes would meet with his.

"Wonderful," Raphael said, and continued to click, oblivious of her pain and longing. He was unseeing now, as he had been through the five years of their professional relationship. His perfunctory greeting of "Hello Jasmine" stayed unchanged. It seemed cold, even cruel to her - a calculated distance designed to singe her with indifference.

Every night she'd retire to her boudoir, where portraits he had shot lined her walls. She loved his intensity, his affair with the camera. Oh! How she longed to be held the same way. She wanted to be moulded into any shape of his desire, his longing. She wanted him to lustfully forge her into any shape. Just as long as he held her. She wanted to be desired. Her mascara trickled down her cheeks in despair, she lifted her hand to wipe it away. Just then the doorbell rang.

She ran up to the door in hope, and opened it to nothingness. Raphael was her neighbour too, and she always hoped he would drop in, if only to ask whether the mailman had come by. But he never did. He hadn't come now either. But there was an enormous envelope at her feet, with her name on it, in Raphael's familiar hand.
Nonchalantly, she tossed the envelope on to the dining table and retired back to her bedroom. Why couldn't he see her hope, her longing, she wondered. "Jasmine, pretty pretty Jasmine; you need to come out of your shell, show the world your beauty!", Raphael's words echoed in her head from their conversation earlier today. Tomorrow, she thought, she'd tell him everything. She'd be beautiful to him, for him.

She couldn't sleep that night in eager anticipation. Visions of Raphael undoing layers of her clothes and her soul swam in her head. She tossed and turned a hundred times over wondering how best she could reveal herself to him. She mentally picked her favourite Versace LBD to wear tomorrow. But her mind would not ease. Restless, she walked to the dining table and opened the envelope. She thought it would be the usual proofs of the fashion shots taken by Raphael earlier in the day. But it wasn't. With the thick sheaf tumbled out pictures of her glorious nakedness; tumbled out years of voyeurism, admiration and worship through the lens of the man she had always desired. And there was a note too.

 Her fingers trembled. Did she really want to read the note? Was she ready for him to confess her feelings for her? Her head spun with all the questions. She wasn't sure. He had been her escape for many years now, she watched him closely. But not as closely as he watched her, she thought. She felt violated, but she liked the feeling. She knew he loved her now; she could feel it. Slowly she open the note and read it. Her body froze, her lips quivered, she let the note drop to her feet.

*******

She wondered what he would have said about the suit. She thought the colour didn't suit him at all. The suit looked a little oversized too. She wondered which of his family members had chosen that suit and given it to the undertaker. But his face was handsome as ever...
She was roused out of her reverie by the priest's solemn voice. She was roused to the truth that Raphael now lay quietly in a satin-lined box, his bruised blue neck hidden under a stiffly starched collar. He had chosen to confess, and he had chosen to go. Confessions she would never forget. Her mind replayed the happenings of last night for the zillionth time. She remembered being frozen, she remembered running to his door, she remembered howling, she remembered white hot pain searing her heart, she remembered calling 911 and she remembered reading and rereading the letter, till every word had inked itself upon her soul.

*******

That night after the funeral, she dressed up in her favourite LBD. She had to try to come out of her shell. She had to try to show her beauty to the world. She applied another thick coat of makeup and looked at the mirror. The note stuck to the mirror looked right back at her. That was all she had of Raphael. The only time, he ever truly spoke to her. She picked up her purse and her priced note and went to Raphael's favourite bar. Midnite. She took her seat at the end of the bar, lifelessly. She didn't know any of these people, yet she knew they were judging her. "Scotch, on the rocks and keep 'em coming," she told the man behind the counter. "Rough day?" he asked. She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing.

Five o clock the next morning, when the last of the bar's customers were leaving, they noticed that famous supermodel bundled on the floor in her black designer dress, a glass of whiskey spilled nearby, and shook their heads. What they did not see was a crumpled note in her hand that read,

"Dear Jasmine," the note had simply begun. "I only wish to repeat what I have always said - you need to come out of your shell, show the world your beauty. I've lived in my shell for long, with only your beauty for company. I stayed and watched from a distance for fear of contaminating your divinity. I lived in the wretched pain of loneliness, loving and longing, because you were always so achingly delicate. I was afraid I would break you. But your imploring eyes impaled my soul today. I cannot stay away now, but I cannot come close either, so I choose the easy way out.

Raphael"

(Co-authored with @LilMissIssues)

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)

Spring cleaning

(Image from allposters.com)

   Good things must often begin with the not-so-good. Spring cleaning wasn't the best way to begin the season of light and warmth and colour, but the old must be done away with, to make place for the new, mustn't it? She sat amidst a mountain of mess, pulling out things and memories from her closet.
    And, then, like a ruthless Tsunami, memories gushed forth. Unabashed. Unrepentant. An old photo-frame here, a worn out sweater there. Some mugs tossed in there casually, the new abode of some spiders. Then she saw it. That relic of her kaleidoscopic past. Its impact searing her retina. It was just a small black diary. She could feel her heart thud like a drum and that faint feeling of sinking begin to gnaw away.     

   Some dried petals fell out, as she held aloft the diary, and put an end to the debate of whether she should open it or not. The now bare stem of that long-lost symbol of love guided her to that day of January, 1996. She smiled, as she read the opening words of a heartbroken teenager. "Dear Diary, I want to kill myself, and him..."     

   "...I really mean it. This bottle of rat poison that I've smuggled into my purse is going to do the trick. A few drops into our coffee tomorrow, and I will end this misery! What does he mean we are just not on the same wavelength anymore? Didn't feel like that when we made love in his pad last week! It's that bitch, playing games. Ha! How would he know I've just ran my car over her? Aren't accidents common in this part of town? *Giggle*."
    She looked up from the diary and laughed out loud at the memory. She had been quite the firebrand in those days. Fortunately, only the Bitch's leg was broken in that accident. And the rat poison had never happened. Good sense had prevailed. 'It should have...' she thought. Two fat tear drops blotted some words on the page, and she started shedding silent tears. Aravind was a beautiful dream that had ended too young.
    She flipped over a couple of pages. November 96. "Dear Diary, Just back from Aravind's wedding. It was grand. He looked cute. I actually smiled at his wife. I loved his expression, when I went on stage to meet them. For all he's done to me, I actually wish him well. Couldn't stay there very long. It hurt. Him too? Wonder... They're relocating to NZ. He's always loved that place. We'd planned a holiday there. Sighhhh.. I miss him bad. Feeling bleary, baby. Think it's this rum. Glass number 4. Ha! I'm happy.... " :-/
    There stuck a picture of a dashing 28-year-old Aravind, his pretty, wide-smiling bride, Mischa, and her, still the awkward teenager, edging towards womanhood. She ran her fingers over the picture, especially over Aravind's face, and smiled. Then she remembered what cancer had done to his handsome countenance, and tears streamed down her face again.
    It was 14 years since she last saw him on that bed. She saw him until she could bear to see no more. The mess of saline lines hanging over him, his skeletal body -  a sad reminder of his muscular frame. She'd walked away sobbing, vowing never to be back. She had slept that night, crying. Numb with  pain. Unable to feel anything else. When she woke up the next morning, she really couldn't feel a thing. She was unable to move, unable to feel her legs. It took months for the fact to sink in that she was paralyzed, and could walk no more. Aravind had died sometime in those dreadful months too. She never found the strength to verify the news. It wasn't his death that had crushed her; it was the death of the idea of her first love that she had grieved - soul and body. 

   Years of visits to specialists had only offered one diagnosis: her paralysis was psychosomatic. Nothing was physically wrong with her. Physiotherapists, psychiatrists, and even faith healers had tried to convince her she could walk. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. She wondered which part of her didn't want to.
   Her husband, Dev, had been kind. Beyond kind. He was a physiotherapist, and they'd met during one of her first frantic visits to the hospitals. She hadn't got used to this cumbersome wheelchair then. She hadn't gotten used to her legs (or her mind) not obeying her then. She hadn't gotten used to the past tense that Aravind had become then. She was hysterical, when she first met Dev. Somehow, his understanding presence had broken her down. She howled in pain, or the lack of it in her legs, letting loose all the anguish that her tender 20-year-old heart had held.
   Dev had held her then, as he held her now. Forever loving, forever patient. He was patiently stirring the soup in the kitchen now, even as she messed about with the skeletons in her closet. She smiled fondly at the gentle noises of the wooden ladle. Ever so consistent. It had taken years of Dev's mature love for her to start forgetting Aravind, and now she had stupidly done this. She shut the diary and wheeled her chair to the window of their fifth floor apartment, which overlooked the river. She closed her eyes, and flung the diary out, feeling the weight of her past let go of her shoulders, her head, her heart. It was high time Aravind made place for Dev...
   She sat back, and took a deep breath. She felt light. Her heart felt joy. Her stomach felt fluttery... Fluttery? Wait-a-minute! Was it? Could it be? Yes it was! It was her and Dev's child's seal of approval. It was their baby's first kick! She held her stomach, and began to weep loudly. Dev rushed in from the kitchen, and stood at the door of their study.
  "Babe, are you alright?" he asked.
  She looked up, and smiled a smile of ecstasy. Rising unselfconsciously, she ran up to him, and holding him like she would never let go, said, "Never better."  

(Co-authored with Nikhil Deshmukh  @red_devill22)

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.

-------------------------------------------------------

   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)

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 train to forever after

   That dusk marked big thresholds in her life. From a known, cruel day to an unknown, perhaps, kind night. The horizon beckoned.
   The ordeal that the last six months were, had sapped her of all her mental fortitude. She felt bleary. Yet strangely conscious. She had very few possessions. A child, a scar from the newest wound on her swollen lip, a box of clothes and a ticket to as far as she could go. She let out a cold breath. She wanted to grin, but 'aaarggh, this bloody cut.' She grimaced, still feeling the sting of his blow.
    It had been this way ever since she could remember. It was hard to believe love was the beginning of it all, and this child the beginning of the flash point. He'd loved her crazy. Her every wish, his manna from the heavens. But in his loss of trust, he had turned monster.
   His jealous rages had become a way of life, and she was reminded of gentler manners only when a young man in the train said, "What beautiful eyes these are."
   She looked up, surprised. He sat across from her, looking unabashedly.
   "I'm an artist," he explained, "and you are mistress of the most beautiful pair of eyes I've ever seen."
   She looked at him, smiled through her pain; said "You're kind," and turned away.
   "Those wonderful eyes are tired too. Maybe they should sleep," he said, offering her his seat. She nodded, too tired to resist and slept like she hadn't in days.
   She woke up to find him curled like a baby on the floor below. Tranquil. Something in her melted, but she denied that emotion. She gathered her bundles and her child, and prepared to leave. But she couldn't leave without a goodbye and a thank you. Strings. She bent down, and whispered a 'thank you' in his ear, ever so softly, hoping he wouldn't wake up. But he did. He sprang up, and said, "Pleasure. No thank yous, please..."   
   "...Anna," she offered.
     He smiled, and pulled out a paper. "This is for you, Anna."
   She took the paper from his hands, and stared at it intently. There she was; beautiful, scar-free like before.
   "It isn't true; this picture," she said politely, and smiled. She couldn't help feeling flattered.
   "I see people," he said, "I see you; and you are beautiful."
   His words danced violently in her head, as the train chugged off. He was gone. She stood transfixed for a while, his words gnawing at her heart. It was all she needed. Somehow his validation mattered more than anything else. She wasn't just an object; she felt alive.
   As if by some unseen force, she felt compelled to get off the train. Clutching the portrait and her possessions, she jumped. Her things scattered about her, her baby in her arms, in this strange land, she stood; and wept. Like a cloudburst on a barren heart, she wept. She realised she was free at last. Terribly alone, beautiful and free. Unloaded off her murky past. Of her ugly brush with love. Free. She held on to her child, and breathed in a lungful of uninhibited air.
   "Shall we go home?" a familiar voice said.
   She turned around, her heart frozen for a moment; then smiled.

(Co-authored with Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devill22)

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)

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)
  

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)

Lovey-dovey dos

Sound cheesy as they may, these poems are the result of real tugs at real heartstrings of a real love in a real relationship. These are the words of a young woman in love studying English literature.

Looking at tomorrow (2000)
To wake up in your arms each morning,
I dream of growing old with you.
I imagine walking hand in hand,
On grass wet with morning dew.
To bring you bed tea each morning,
Want to argue about the colour of your shirt,
I think of experiencing myriad emotions
With you – healings and hurt.
I want you to despair over my cooking
And smile at  my little victories,
I’d expect you to kiss me each time
I help you solve life’s mysteries.
With you life’s journey, my trusted friend,
I want to live a fairytale with you.
But when I say that; don’t mistake
That bickering and quarrels will be few.
Each time yet, I’ll come to make it up
And imagine you playfully turn away,
I dream of an evergreen relationship
Whence new love awaits each day.
I imagine being your support
And dream of you as my strength.
I know that saying matters; trust me,
Each word I’ve said, I’ve meant.

Farewell my trust (2000)
Yes,
That’s what I’ve always known you as
My faith, my trust.
Though it tears my heart apart,
Bid farewell I must.
Today we are separating,
Just bodily, not by mind.
I’ll not lose you forever
For you are one of a kind.
People come and they will do so.
They come and they leave,
But I’ll not let you go.
How can I do thus?
When you are my credence,
When I gain my strength from you,
When with you is my alliance.
But a goodbye is inevitable,
For you’ve played your part.
You have a fresh future ahead
And a new life to start.
Leave you might,
But I’ll detain your care.
For without it,
My soul will be bare.
Stifling a sob,
Striving to smile,
I take my virgin step
Towards my first lonely mile.
Through love and laughter,
And hatred and pain
You’ve been the best of friends,
And will be the same.
Of heartaches and disappointments,
I hereby apologise,
The depths of my remorse,
Perhaps you’ll never surmise.
The days, the months, the years,
Have swiftly passed us by
With you by my side
Within the blink of an eye.
I’ll treasure the times,
With you which I’ve spent
For in my life you were,
An angel God sent.
With a prayer for you,
This bond I untie,
Though it breaks my heart,
To say the last goodbye.

Stirrings (2001)
Talking about past tense,
Love seemed like nonsense.
Couldn’t see how intense
Is love’s pure effulgence.
It is only of late,
That she smiled upon me – fate.
Now united with my soul mate
After this interminable wait.
Love is an infinite possibility,
Exposing lucre’s naked frailty,
No more ego, nor vanity,
Trust is now the eternal verity.
A whole new world I see,
Come share the sight with me.
Boundless joy is love’s decree,
Will last us an eternity.
Love’s depths I cannot surmise
Not to fall in love, but rise,
Have no desire for paradise,
Just a place forever in his eyes.

Endeavour (2001)
Strange, how we never know,
What we’ve got,
Until it is time,
For us to let it go.
But I’ll live and love you everyday,
Through tears and through mirth,
And wait not till the day you leave
To know all that you are worth.
You’re my most precious dream,
The one that came true.
 Who has loved me for real
With pains, and seen me through.
With you love’s no mystery,
Oh, simple-hearted angel of mine.
It is bright. As pure daylight
Rips through despair to come forth
And shine.
Can I lock you in my heart?
Can I keep you forever?
For the love that is an eternity,
A promise, an endeavour?

Modern lovers speak (2001)
Love is as changeless as the sun
That every lover knows.
But expressions change over time,
This is how modern lovers speak.
And it goes…
“Why can’t it move the clock hands?
Love moves mountains they say.
The moments creep by inches,
Damn this long interminable day.
Are dreams just dreams?
Hopes seem fragile indeed.
But isn’t love tough?
Isn’t it strong enough
That we may name it our creed?
Indulgence, innocence,
Ambition, desperation…
Components or conflicts of love?
After shedding all the false shame,
Love leads to salvation.
Acceptance of society,
I guess is yet the bare necessity.
Do we dare ignore it?
Meanwhile, love me pure love
No doubt, no guilt, no fear, no pity.
SMS-ing our hearts out,
Phoning in our feelings.
Do we look clichéd?
No, I conclude I love you just like that,
Even as I stare at the ceiling.
‘Will you be my souse?’
Oh, it’s just a routine question
Over the click of a mouse.
What is true love?
Bank balance, a car, a house?
No, no again. Love is what I feel for you.
No logic, no reasons, even so
Neither a justification.
It’s plain love,
Not without expectations though.
I need you, you time and attention.
Not very unreasonable either.
Is it?
A future together?
Depends on fair weather!”
Long before the sun rises,
The sky glows with a warm red hue.
Love’s effulgence is brighter.
Lucky enough to bathe in this light,
Let’s cherish it – me and you.