Self exploitation.

Hunger, now that you are tackled
And I'm warm in my bed,
Let me remind myself of the lovers
And how I failed them,
And cry myself to sleep.

Memoirs.

Leftovers of a pudding once fresh,
Some sweet something sticky.
Reminders of happy morsels.
Of uncontained gaits and naivety,
Encounters with part strangers.
Of a time of plush love,
And tears in excess.
Marks on bodies,
Blood clots on skin.
His one hair,
Wrapped curiously around the soap.
And one tshirt,
Bleached to death in the sun.
His one slipper -
Only one,
The other ripening memories
Hanging on that mango tree.
The unfinished tea bags,
The finished cigeratte packs,
Countless lighters.
The pillow still sick in your sweet smell,
The stained bedsheet of a romantic night.
These are my morsels, my pudding
Some by the nightstand I keep
Some discarded, kept.
A hoarder of some sorts
A romantic gypsy.
A warehouse of mindscapes
Forever expanding.

Over apetite.

The lovemaking session perished quicker than usual. The crisp course was inventive but not effective. He was still aching for more foreplay but had already been stirred in the deeper parts of his anatomy. His wetness could hardly evaporate off his lips and his legs were already enslaved. The sex seemed rough, almost non-caring and secluded; a vague thumping on the wrong door. It reminded him of everything not meant to be, but he did not intend to stop it. To exert his branding to the current setting was the last thing he would have done. It was already fading.

The urgency that presented itself dripped of only one conclusion - his lover trying hard to not stop abruptly, but to live every sexual stage with a greater velocity, so that the effect is silent and unquestionable, like he would not come to know of the ungrowing and the history of him inside him.

Rahul remembered the exact second they started. Not always did he keep a count (to pick up the best one on an anniversary or a birthday to excite and worst as weapons for the arguments and fights). These days he had to himself such less of Prateek and this just added to the memory cushion of his relation, making it less comfortable. He had seen the times of greater passions and undying conquests and yes he could tell the difference.

One done, the other longing and hurt. One finished quickly, the other just rousing from a slumber realizing he had been touched. It lived the fragile life of a moth. The sweat of labor, generated in the last hour of the sexual brawling would generally make them inseparable and they would embrace for hours.

“One’s own space,” to them was just a concept theoretical in nature. Why would one want to be separated from one's lover? Other than the usual liabilities of work, for which they would have to be away in different places, they would forever be spotted together. The films, the food courts, occasional dosage of theatre when drama in life dipped low, the dirty beach and the parties, would always whisper about their uncomfortable presence, for Rahul was a little effeminate for a man, his gait and gestures, the Prateek forever caressing him in a sort of encouragement. They were not the kinds who would like to be left alone in love in a setting. They hated being without each other and without people. People were their oxygen and they thrived on them. Sometimes it was the hard criticism they received on the displays of their affection, the other times the jealously they stirred among other insecure men- single or compromising. It made them feel good when people wished to be like them- to walk like them, to hug like them, embrace like them and no one had seen but assumed, to even make love like them.

Lovemaking was already over but today they didn't embrace after, like they usually did. In fact it seemed like a race to the edge of the bed, the finishing line on either sides. No words were expressed. Eyes kept to each its own, trying hard to not meet the other's. For if it did match there will be the questions, the complaints, the guilt and the shame and god forbid those tears. No Prateek couldn’t take his tears. They would make him helpless; he would at times let him win arguments and disagreements just with a dramatic “tear from one eye running down the side of his cheek.” Rahul actually knew about this power he enjoyed and at times even misused it. Not like a criminal explaining murder, but like a child faking tiredness to get to the mother's lap. Prateek felt guilt surging in him and the other hoped he did. There was so much to be articulated, but to shut up seemed a good resolution then.

Silence so understated was not so transparent after all at the moment. Here and there it left clues of disdain and discord- the proximity of the couple to the edge of the bed and the distance between them, the quilt stretched from the centre to its threshold for they were far away. Things had suddenly duplicated in the room - two water bottle, two ashtrays and two books. Silence; it was becoming more and more visual and unbearable; a guilty Prateek spoke aloud-

"You want to smoke? ”

"Yes please, in the lower drawer. Pass me the lighter as well."

"You know, if you want to..."

“If I could what I wished I would not be here”

“Are you angry?”

“ How does that matter? Would it change things?”

“Why are you so angry and cold?”

“I’m not or probably I have been transformed to this since a couple of months now. Maybe you stopped noticing.” Rahul suggested.

“Fine, if you say there is no issue to talk about, then I believe you.”

"Pass me my boxers."

With the boxer deported to the other side, the ownership and boundaries were clearly demarcated now, possessions like the eyes- to each his own. Rahul did not want to address the issue of careless lovemaking right now. If Prateek had insisted more he might have probably said a point or two, but would have eventually given up and forgiven him- for today and for the past so many days, of his ignorance, his selfishness and his every move that had strained him. Rahul loved him more than his books and his stationary, somewhere ranking at par with his family, and that was the truth. He had to fake anger at times, to retain his self-respect and his stand. But it was very short lived but believable. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to get back into the game but Prateek never asked.

Now the cigarettes were lit. The smoke generally added to the intoxication of the atmosphere. Prateek loved the way Rahul held his cigarette with straight back, stiff necked; one arm folded the other supported at the elbow, while the wrist seemed to pivot the hand flexibly, almost like an anxious spoilt ballerina dancer, relieving his self before an act. The nature of the smoke puffs and trails from the cigarette tell a lot. The content lovers that they were some months back, would be tried by the end of the sessions (always in plural). Supporting themselves with a terrain of pillows they would lazily light up cigarettes and hold still, the room, the air and even the silence. The smoke from the tip of the burning stick would daintily drift up in the most French fashion in a straight line and fade into nothingness. Even the mouths would be left open for the smoke to escape. Nothing would be forced, everything effortless. A perfect setting where Rahul would manage to make a ring or two out of smoke. Nothing would move in the room, for they were content and tired and anything that stirred in the moment was deafening.

Today the smoke did the wild swirling dance before melting. There was silence in the room but no peace. The puffs were deep and the exhaling stronger. No shapes and ribbons, just a hazy obscure drill of smoke befitting their clouded hearts. The heavy panting, the cough and the impressionist backdrop; guilt arose in Prateek again -

"I’m sorry. If you want to say anything you can," said he in the most non-committed conduct.

"I want to have a muffin," Rahul dodged.

"I meant more on what happened right now," as if it weren’t lucid enough.

"If you didn't notice, things barely happened for me," in finality.

"There we go" he dared not to say it aloud.

Prateek didn't feel particularly good about being thought a sloppy lover, incapable. If there were a choice to stretch the love workout for long he would have. It tired him today- more physically than mentally. Nothing changed visually. Rahul was still his slender, delicate lover with mortal marks on his body and a mole above his lip. Still as beautiful as the first time he saw him, technically. Inside, he was saturated with him. He did love him, but failed to be excited by him now. Also this he could always get on demand any time. The sadistic disapproval and the chase to turn it into an approval was something Prateek missed. The sense of achievement everytime he got someone into bed was something that he would not get in this relation, or any for that matter, and he craved for it.

"I'm just a person, and sex is enjoyed impulsive, not robotic," Prateek tried to half convince himself. 

His mind was diverted and the reasons ran deep and low, and more than being just bored with his partner, it was a problem of plenty today. This distraction came in the form of this tangible other boy. He, who impregnated him with a fond erotic memory, was something that Rahul now failed to provide him. This beautiful colleague he had been eyeing since days. He managed to play a similar game of love with him this afternoon. It was fresh, pickled in pure lust. He felt he actually blacked out in sweet pain today.

There was a break at work, a public wash room and too much desire to steer. A heaven driven coincidence and these two boys found each other in the washroom at the same time. A little peek-a-boo and a faint smile, smeared with a literature full of lust led quickly the incidents voluntarily, and they settled in one of the cubicles. What happened then was pure art, yielding and moving. It simmered of hot passion and eclectic imagery. Not even once did Prateek think of his partner who might have been thinking about him at that instant. He enjoyed the best sex of the past few months and it didn’t last long- the rush of it and the fragility.

Suddenly a rash on his own triceps caught his attention and the same wooing smile of the washroom appeared again. In an instant Prateek went through the full course of the sinful indulgence of the late noon in his mind in his bedroom. Like the moon in all its imperfections shines in the night sky, his smile brazenly lit up the room of mourning. 

He caught the eye of Rahul catching the view of his scared arm, slowly flowing up to meet his eyes.

"That doesn’t seem to be a mark of my doing. Mine are less red out of concern and more defined out of perfection." this Prateek thought he could read in Rahul’s eyes.

He then saw him light another cigarette and pull deep puffs, exhale slowly and drift off to sleep, as if some heavy burden lifted from Rahul’s head and on to his. 

The morning will define the incident now, and Prateek wished the night carries on incessantly.

On homecoming.

Guess what brews

In a cauldron plush ?

A toasted angel.

Some exotic love.

Rare finds of a druids toil,

Herbs and roots.

A spectacular dish to be plated soon.

Hunger and love.

And longing.

The people can only wait.

Hungry metaphors.

Dark chocolate ice cream
And cigarettes.

One seductive

The other swaying.

All I need now,

Is a real person.

The sin city.

I know of a place full to brim with sin. A place to be the original human. Vats of love portions magically refill themselves with the lovable. Men of flesh, young and loose, in skins of pink and slate flaunt in nude here. Erotic smells and ammoniac fumes fill the nostrils while the soles try balancing on slippery floors. Loose yourself here. Fall, for someone will catch you. In nothingness some hands, some soft lips shall sing you lullaby, caress you till you moan. In that moaning don't forget to return it back to them- hand for a hand, mouth for a mouth. Must I tell you this is no wonderland of Alice. Its a grown up and a more selfish place.
"Seek and you shall find, ask and it shall be opened unto you."
 If you have no business here then go away- no second glances. Its a matter of skin and touch. No visuals. A braille of porn will simmer you hot. Textures soft and hard will touch you on your thigh and a little above. They will tour your back and chest- flow with the hair patterns and body curves. Don't be alarmed, don't cry panic. Don't stir, just slide. Loose yourself to the endless night and do not count the hours. When drained pause, dress up and leave. Do come back for more.

Some considerations please.

They smoke deep puffs,

Melting and mingling with each.
Behind, a cranky child.

In naivety.

The sea tickled beyond its threshold
Rolls to the habited land,
Stirring panic among men.

Freeshow.

A charcoal approaching sky,

And a theatrical symphony of waves
No onlookers. 
Just lonesome light poles.

The give away.

Tummy tucked,all conscious

Slowly biting the bread.
Too bad the wallowing winds cheats you.
Pulling clothes,sticking,
Defining your curves.

Wind victim.

Miss, balancing a cake box in one,
The other in failed attempts to tame the free hair.
The high heels are another story altogether,
By the windy seaside.

Bewilderment.

The winds head on,
The trees bent to the sides,
Sea pulling me,
The directions left confused.

Happy rains?

In my abode, secured,
I wonder, recalling the violent waves,
How many fish mothers lost their babies today ?

Rain sacrifice.

In what metallic urgency

Did the leaves hurriedly offered

The only tokens of the bygone year?

To shine and sparkle,
The settled dust babies, fragile.

Little birdie by the window.

Little bird, your puckish hopping in desperation

Tree to tree,

Hiding underneath coconut leaves from rain.

They seem big, but they are thin slivers.

For you a little leaf is just enough.

Rain retain.

I don't want to get saturated in the torrent

For it only melts my skin.

My heart and my soul were thawed,

Just by the rumor if it.

In a very ill fitting setting

On a television channel they declared,

"Monsoons to come early to Mumbai this year"

I smelted then and there.

Now the rains just validate it.

I need to keep a morsel of my soul

My skin, fingertips and my eyes,

To write about it, to put into words.

And so I’m not getting moist.

Like a greedy man who picked up more than he could hold

I will not act.

And so I’m missing, from you gentle rain.

By the balcony of my tiny abode, I stand,

Relaxed by your droplets echoed from a surface on me.

I don’t even sing in the rain,

It sings to me,

Songs of love misplaced and lovers.

We keep our own spaces,

Rain outside and me indoors.

Content.

The cloud factory.

While in my mouth, clenched,

I swirl to the rhythm of silence.
Gently exhaling diffusing sallow.

Guessing shapes in still air 

Of the suspended smoke. I wonder,

My cigarettes and me,

And the clouds aren't needed anymore.

Hate, our child.

When we first met, something

we brewed between us.

Impregnating me willingly.

We decided to call 

this first child of ours-"Hate"

Hate was a curious kid.

It lacked limbs and features

Like smog it hung low

And napped most of the time

between us.

Incapable of expressions, it couldn't even talk.

Sometimes in silence, I would even 

forget that the existence of 

our love "hate" existed,

Until you would remind me.

Now and then "hate" grew

and so grew the distance

Between you and me.

He took up a lot of space

in the bed and the house.

In those slight moment of proximity

I'd wonder if someone was babysitting our kid.

A dominating and attention seeking child it was.

Out hate, wouldn't love apples, or candy and jam.

It grew fond of our "uncared for" egos.

And grew fat, for there was a lot to eat.

For dessert it would relish some misery

and the many unsaid words

I hid in my closet from you.

It would crunch happily on that.

Im sure you fed it loads too.

Otherwise how did it become so plump, so quick ?

I never asked you

and you never told.

Do you recall the time when

only me and hate slept on the bed.

You had to do with the mattress outside.

I didn't wish that for you

But I was helpless.

A child's need is more important you see.

Hate is what happened to us when we were in love.

I struggled my all for its custody

When we split.

But you got the most of it.

I had it in my idleness,

Reckless sundays and the late evenings.

When the weather outside was good.

Or when I ran out of water in the house.

Ours born was besides me

While I reclined on the dusty bed,sneezing.

Like a clueless new mother,

I ignored our first child,

because you were around.

I let it be, while I tried to fit in to you

Body and fingers.

Hate, the child of our doom

Now takes advantage of the upsetting past.

It reminds me of my sluggish upbringing

And my incapabilities.

Its a hungry child, who ate you up,

Your existence, the good I saw in you.

The locked cupboard of fond memories

Its consumed them too.

Misbehaved, does he do this to you too ?

Hate my child, is never content.

After he ate you,

He is now feeding on me too.