Fiction: Choosing you…

It’s been two weeks since we even spoke to each other. I see you waiting for me even before I turn into the road. My heart skips a beat. I can’t wait to be with you and feel your presence. You’re busy talking to someone as I pull up. You glance sideways and raise your hand, gesturing that you’ll be right there in a minute. I wait. You say bye to the person you’re talking to and get into the car.

Where do you want to go? Home, you tell me. Home? I thought we had dinner plans? Yes, but first go home. I’m puzzled at this sudden change of plans, but I don’t ask much. Ten minutes and we’re home. You get out and walk up, as if on a mission. I still don’t get it. I park and go up as well. You’re already inside by the time I get to the door. I shut the door behind me and call out your name. I realise you’re in the bedroom. I dump my bag on the sofa and go inside. You’re waiting. What? I begin to talk. You pull me into your arms and kiss me. The unexpected act makes me stumble over my words. I return your kiss. Your hands seek my hips. I melt. You hold me to the wall and kiss me again. I’m now a puddle of mush. What happened to you? I look up quizzically.

“Nothing. I needed to show you that I love you. With everything I have. And couldn’t wait for later in the evening. Now we can go for dinner!” I laugh out loud at your words. A part of me finds this exceptionally silly. But mostly, I’m overwhelmed. It’s at this moment that I decide that if I could live my life all over again, I’d still choose you over everything else.

Fiction: Pleasant surprises

The morning is insanely busy. Murphy’s law comes true in almost every possible situation. My alarm fails and I oversleep. I wake up at 8.30 to realise the geyser has malfunctioned and I have no hot water. The milk boils over, forcing me to clean the entire gas stove, thereby wasting even more time. By the time I leave home, I’m already exhausted. I’m just getting to the car as I see his incoming message. “Hey. What’s up?”

Running late. Will ping once I reach office, I tell him. I reach office at a very late 10.30 AM. Almost an hour after my usual time. I’m still catching up on emails and pending work when the phone buzzes. It’s an unknown number. “Sir, we are calling from HDFC bank.” First of all, I’m not sir, I tell the poor guy and hang up. Barely tens minutes later, it buzzes again. This time I’m really irritated. I pick it up with the intention of giving the stupid marketing callers a piece of my mind.

“Good morning! How’s office?” His voice startles me, and then jolts me out of my reverie as I ask. What the fuck are you doing calling from an Indian number? “Uhm…let’s see. I’m standing opposite a building that says, Ganesh Apartments. And the building I’m standing in says, some tech park.”

It dawns on me as he’s talking that he’s standing at the entrance of my office. When the hell did you get here, I ask. “Come down first and meet me. Then you can start the interrogation.” I can hardly believe my ears. He’s actually here. And he didn’t even know where exactly my office was. How? How did he find out? My company has three buildings in the city. How did he know which one I work in?

I literally fly down the stairs to meet him. I haven’t seen him in years and I still struggle to believe that he’s actually here. I get to the main lobby and see him in a white shirt, blue jeans and sunglasses, looking good enough to eat. He sees me and breaks into a breathtaking smile. I slow down as I approach him and hold out a hand, unsure of how to greet him. “Oh come on!! Give me a hug now.” I melt into a big bear hug, reveling in the joy of seeing him again.

Of identity, belonging and other things…

The weekend has been relaxing. But it’s also been a time for introspection and reflection. I’ve been meaning to put my thoughts down in words for two days and failed: partially because I haven’t had the time. But mostly because I’ve struggled to articulate these feelings like never before.

We drove from Chennai to Coonoor via GST Road. And back from Coimbatore to Chennai via the Bangalore highway. And I was struck by how wonderfully connected the state is. I’ve been speaking to someone who works in the remotest parts of the country and on topics like education and health. When he speaks of how remote these places are, how it’s difficult to find transport, communication connectivity or even proper roads, I can’t help but wonder how we fare. This drive through the small towns of Tamil Nadu assures me that we’re definitely better off. Almost 100% mobile connectivity, decent (sometimes excellent) roads, roadside eateries, highway rest areas: everything speaks of levels of development that are impressive. Maybe I’m biased, but I’m pretty sure that the state’s human development indicators are among the best in the country. I even recall seeing government schools with boards speaking of technology enabled, smart classrooms in small towns. Overall, I’m quite convinced that TN is a good place to live.

But beyond these obvious and objective reasons to love this place, there’s something far more emotional. A sense of belonging that I don’t feel when I travel in other parts of the country. I’m kannadiga. At least, that’s how I’ve identified myself all these years. Suddenly, over the course of one long weekend, I find myself wondering if I should reconsider this. I speak Kannada. Some broken thanjavur Marathi as well. And Hindi quite well. Plus English and French fluently. But somehow, with Tamil, I feel an emotional connect that I don’t quite feel with any other language. Except English perhaps. I realise now that Kannada is my language of communication. So is Marathi (for purely functional conversations). To a large extent, Hindi is a language I’d rather not speak unless I have to. It’s not a language I’m comfortable with. It doesn’t come naturally. French is the language of business. But Tamil. Tamil is a different quantity. It makes me cry and laugh. It makes me crave and want. It appeals to the deepest emotions in a way only English has so far. And in a far more earthy, close-to-the-heart kind of way.

I realise that deep inside, my personal identity is inextricably intertwined with Tamil. The language, the culture and its people. I now realise that I’m well on my way to identifying myself as a Tamilian, something I’ve never done till date. And this realisation is important for my growth as a person.

After all, questions of identity aren’t so easily resolved, are they?

Fiction: Reunion…

As the plane taxis down the runway, I find myself suddenly nervous. “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. We have arrived in Pune. The temperature outside is 28 degrees. Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign is turned off. It is now safe to use your mobile phones.”

At these words, I stop paying attention to the announcements and reach into my handbag for my phone. I dial your number and wait for the ring, a strange nervousness once again surfacing in the pit of my stomach. “The number you are calling is either switched off or not reachable.”

My heart skips a beat. Not reachable? Now what? You’re supposed to come and pick me up at the airport. Now what do I do? I call again, only to hear the same message. I’m increasingly agitated and restless. In the meantime, my co-passengers have begun to get off the plane and I realise I’m one of the last few left on the plane. I grab my bag and get off the plane in a hurry. My mind is racing, unable to concentrate on any one thing at a time. Why is the phone switched off? Will you actually come and pick me up? Or have you changed your mind about this at the last minute? I go past the arrival lounge and towards the baggage carousel, absently trying to locate the correct one. After some struggle, I find it. As I wait impatiently for my suitcase, I can’t help becoming restless again. I keep trying to reach your phone and keep getting the same message.

By the time my baggage arrives, I’m convinced you don’t want to see me ever again and that you’re regretting this. I pick up the suitcase and start walking towards the exit. I scan the crowd for your face. I don’t find you. I slow down, deliberately looking at every face in the crowd. You’re still missing. My mind races. I have three days before my return. Where do I stay? What do I do?

As I reach the exit, my steps slow down to a stop. My heart sinks. I’ve been an idiot. How did I even believe you’d want these three days with me? Why did I come all the way? Tears threaten to flow. I blink them back and force myself to think practically. I could walk back to the Taj counter and book myself a room. Or I could…

My thoughts are interrupted as I feel a warm breath in my hair. I turn around and freeze. It’s you. Looking like a dream. Your smile melts my heart. And for some reason, the tears I’ve held back for so long begin to flow.

“Hey! I’m sorry darling. The traffic was terrible and my phone battery died on me. I’d never have been so late otherwise.” You pull me into your arms as if to reassure me that all will be well. I look up at your confused face and manage a thin smile.

You put your fingers under my chin and lift my head to face you. Slowly, you bring your lips to mine and kiss me deeply. And with that, I forget my fears, my nervousness. I forget the restlessness that so consumed me a few minutes ago. I forget everything because I have all I need. You.

Fiction: Coincidences…

It’s a cold winter night. I curse my luck for having forgotten my scarf as I hurry back to the hotel room in an effort to avoid an unexpected sharp shower. It’s almost March but this year, it looks like winter has decided to stay longer. Too bad, because I was actually looking forward to this trip and hoping for more temperate weather.

I get to the hotel and realise I’m frozen solid by the cold winds. I can hardly feel my fingers. On an impulse, I fish out my phone from the folds of my anorak and text you. You’ll probably not even read my text until the next day given time zone differences, but I’m ok with that. I put the phone back into the pocket as I fumble with the key card for the elevator. I barely manage to find it when I feel the phone buzzing in my pocket. I ignore it and continue up to my room on the 5th floor. I let myself into the room, crank up the heating and change into warm and comfortable pyjamas. By now, I’ve completely forgotten about the message waiting in my inbox.

Fifteen minutes later, I settle down on the couch with my laptop and hear an incoming message tone again. I pick up the phone hoping it isn’t someone from back home. I look at my inbox and am pleasantly surprised to see you’ve responded to my text. I smile to myself as I reply to your text. It’s been so long since we spoke. So long since I heard that teasing lilt in your voice that I so adore.

“What are you doing awake at 2.30 AM? Go get your beauty sleep di!” I’m surprised you haven’t seen my texts and emails about travelling to Europe. I tell you I’m in London and that it’s barely 10.

“Wait! You’re in London?”

You sound not surprised so much as stunned. I say yes. So? I’ve been in London one week now and staying another week. Why?

“Where in London are you? And why the hell didn’t you tell me you were going to be there?”

By now, I’m confused. I remind you of all the emails I’d sent and that you’d failed to see. You tell me you never got those emails and ask where I am right now. I give you the name of my hotel and the room number.

“Ok. Stay there ok? Don’t go anywhere.”

Are you planning to call on the landline, I ask. Whatsapp works quite well, I say. You don’t reply to my text. I call, only for you to cut my call. I wonder what I’ve done to upset you so much as the restlessness builds in me. I text you again in an effort to elicit some sort of reaction from you. No response yet.

Five minutes later, I hear the door bell. I pull myself out of the bed and force myself to the door. I’m sure it’s someone who’s got the wrong room number. My mind is still with you, as I wait desperately for you to return my call. Before I can get to the door, the door bell rings again. What’s with these people? I open the door and freeze.

There you are, at my doorstep, looking like you haven’t aged a day in the three years since we last met. My face lights up like a Christmas tree. I feel like a child who’s been told Santa Claus will bring her gifts. Yet, I’m unable to move.

As if you were expecting this reaction, you step into the room, shut the door behind you and hug me. It takes me a second to get used to the unexpectedness of it all and hug you back. Three years. Three years since we last met and it feels like you never went away. You take a step back and look at me. I stare at you wondering what I did to deserve what I got today. The flecks of gold in your chocolate brown eyes. That incredibly sexy smile. The grays that seem to have made their way into your hair. The pure joy in your eyes for having seen me again. Everything tugs at my heartstrings. And then, very deliberately, you take a step towards me, pull me into your arms and kiss me deeply.

The three years, the distance, the lack of communication: everything suddenly seems irrelevant.

Fiction: Raging Storms

I park the car and get off. I look up to see a sight that takes my breath away. It’s a small but beautiful house. I walk up to the tiny wicket gate. An overgrown canopy of creepers arch over the entrance making the sight prettier than ever. I briefly wonder if I must take this risk. My mind goes back to our conversation of three hours ago.

I am in the middle of cleaning up when my phone rings. Annoyed at the interruption, I glance at it with the intention of silencing it and continuing with my work. I freeze at the name of my display. After the happenings of the last fifteen days, you are the last person I expect a call from. My tears threaten to break barriers. I thought this was over. A cold rage seizes me. What gave you the right to expect me to answer your call or speak to you when you’ve broken my trust in you?

I briefly consider ignoring the call and realise with a jolt that I’m not quite capable of that just yet. I reach over to answer the call with a calmness that belies the storm raging inside me. “Give me a chance to say sorry. Please.” These words trip over themselves in a desperation to make themselves heard. I give in.

Three hours later, here I am. In front of your house, following the directions you gave me. I consider turning around and driving back the three hours it took me to get here, to the comfort of my own home. But I also know the storm inside me will not calm until I face this.

I push past the wicket gate and under the canopy of creepers. I look around, taking in the beauty. The house feels familiar. Like you. Like home. The rains, the greens, the hills: they remind me of us. It’s somehow fitting that you asked me to come here instead of meeting me in a coffee shop in the plains.

I walk up the cobbled pathway to the verandah. I am still wondering if I should ring the bell or call your phone when I realise you’re right there, standing at the doorstep waiting patiently for me. My eyes meet yours and light up in a smile, almost involuntarily. I forget the last fortnight, the pain, the hurt. A part of me wants to fight and rage. The other part however, wants exactly the opposite. You smile back. A smile that would melt the most stubborn heart. You hold your hand out, as if asking me to put my hands in them. I sidestep. The internal struggle between rage and forgiveness is still raging inside me. You step aside to let me in.

I enter the house and freeze again. It’s exactly like I would have wanted my house to be. The furniture, the carpets, the little fireplace, the recliner next to it, the bookshelves, the décor. Everything. The struggle ends. I can no longer rage or fight. You offer your hand once again. This time, there is no hesitation. I take it in mine and come closer. I reach up and cup your face, and draw you into a deep kiss. You return my kiss with a passion that conveys every emotion you need to convey. This time, I know I can never leave you. I know that the fights, the arguments and the tears are only temporary. What’s permanent is this. This longing, this need for each other. We both know that we will never leave the other, no matter what happens.

You move your hands down my body, drawing me closer. You press yourself against me, conveying the desperate need for me. Outside, it begins to pour again. We can hear a storm raging outside the window. The heat inside however, it unbearable. I kiss you again, this time all over your face, your neck, your shoulders. I don’t want this to end. I want to offer all I have to you and make you mine. Tonight and forever. My kisses seem to trigger a very different kind of storm inside you. You become more aggressive, more demanding. My body responds to your every demand, as if anticipating it. You tug at my shirt, ripping off the buttons in one go. You guide me to the rug in front of the fireplace and lay me down gently.

My skin reflects the glow of the fireplace. You take charge and kiss me. You kiss every inch of my skin, exposing each part before giving it the love it deserves. The moistness between my legs and the swell of my breasts tell you exactly how much I want you. I raise my hips slightly offering you my body. You take it without hesitation, worshipping it in a way you’ve never done before. I melt into you, unable to offer any further resistance.

Hours later, we lie still in front of the fireplace, the dying embers still offering some warmth. You bring the quilt around us and hug me tighter. “Don’t leave me, babe. I will never be able to live with myself if you do. And forgive me for everything.” I respond to you by snuggling in closer. I know I will never leave you or push you away. No matter what happens.

If wishes were horses…

If wishes were horses, I’d be right next to you, snuggling up to you in the warmth of your bed.

If wishes were horses, I’d kiss you deeply, drawing myself close, with every inch of gap being an inch too much.

If wishes were horses, I’d hold your hand against my chest so you can feel my racing heartbeat.

If wishes were horses, I’d bring your arms around my hips and press my body against yours.

If wishes were horses, I’d take your hands in mine and kiss each finger, the heel of your palm, the back of your hand.

If wishes were horses… I’d give my all, my heart and soul and body, into your keeping.

Fiction: Exploration

You gently hug me from behind, blowing into my hair, kissing my nape. Goosebumps erupt on my skin as I feel the most pleasurable sensations. Your hands seek my hips, caressing them softly. I sigh. You turn me around and look deep into my eyes. My heart stops.

You take my fingers and kiss them deeply. You linger over each finger, taking your time, tasting them. I feel a warm dampness between my legs.

Your left arm is firmly secured around my hips, keeping me close to your body. Your right is making love to my fingers. The dampness between my legs grows. Every fibre of my being yearns for more.

I press my hips against you, letting you know, subtly, that I want more. You take my hint. You reluctantly release my hand and move on. You move up my arms, kissing, nibbling. You kiss my shoulders, my neck. You kiss the top of my breasts. My breasts swell in response.

You nuzzle my cleavage, taking in my scent. My arousal peaks. You are in no mood to hurry. You move from my cleavage to the side of my breast. You kiss it. And then, you bury your face under my arms and take in my scent, a heady mix of perfume and me. I am in heaven.

Our bodies glisten with a fine layer of sweat, sweat that results from the heat of our passion. We are still fully dressed. You seem determined to make me climax with just your lips/fingers. You lift my tee and caress my waist. You probe my navel with your thumb.

I buckle under you. My desire is now peaking. My body needs to be satisfied. I hold you tight and say, “take me.” You smile and say, “Not so soon, my love.”

You gently lay me back on the bed & flick your tongue across my navel. I draw in a sharp breath. You hold my hips firmly with both your hands and kiss it, a deep, intense and wet kiss. My womanhood explodes in a million colours.

Tears of joy threaten to flow. I don’t hold them back. My fingers are in your hair, playing with them as my body responds to your touch. Your fingers caress the abdomen just below my navel. You tug the pants down and touch my most intimate folds. The touch pushes me over the edge. You feel the intensity of my climax.

You quickly put your left arm around my shoulder and bring me close. As my breasts meet your chest, I let myself go. You then bring your lips to mine, smothering me with your passion as I experience the most intense orgasm in a very long time.

Exhausted, I fall back on the bed. You smile, kiss me again and say, “We’re just getting started my darling.” And my body tenses again.

Fiction: Crossing lines…

I touch you tentatively. You flinch at first, and then, as if taking a decision, nod at me, giving me permission to touch. I come close. I hold you close, my fingers gently cupping your shoulders, my right hand on your chest. You move gracefully to the sound of music.

I’m surprised. I didn’t know you danced. Your hand rests firmly on the small of my back, gently guiding my movements. I look up. Your eyes are almost closed, as though enjoying the pleasure of the moment. I can’t resist. I reach up and kiss your jawline.

A slow smile spreads on your lips as you open your eyes. You pull me in closer, as if to ask, “what next?” I’ve made my decision. Tonight is mine. I kiss you deeply, my fingers running through your hair. You return my kiss, with a passion that makes me believe you wanted this for longer than you cared to admit.

Your arms tighten around my waist, drawing me in. I can feel your desire, and my heart does a victory dance. I glance quickly around the room and realise that nobody is quite bothered if we’re there. As if reading my mind, you nod and pull me along towards the exit.

I can hardly contain my emotions, my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts. I hand over my parking card to the valet and wait. All the while, your arms are firmly around my hips, as if to reassure me that all will be well. As the car arrives, you take the keys and slide into the driver’s seat. I’m surprised, and don’t quite know what to expect. You take my hand and hold it to your chest for a second before starting. Twenty mins later, you’ve pulled into an apartment I’m unfamiliar with.

You park, come around and open my door as I sit frozen. It’s your place, it dawns on me. You’ve brought me home. Home. Not a nondescript hotel room. This begins to take on a whole new meaning. I get down from the car and fall into step with you. Minutes later, I’m in a beautiful apartment. It’s obvious that you live alone, but it’s exactly like I’d have wanted it to be: cozy, intimate. It’s clear that this is your space. Everything here feels like you. Feels like home.

As you shut the door behind us, I feel the excitement return. My heart races as you once again pull me close to you. And now, it’s no holds barred. I kiss you again, this time more passionately, more surely. My fingers caress your neck, wishing you weren’t wearing so many layers. You break the kiss and whisper into my ear, “Tonight, I surrender to your will.”

I need no more invitation. I unbutton your shirt, and run my fingers on your bare chest. You moan softly. I look up into your eyes to see raw passion. I realise with a jolt how much and how long I have wanted this. For as long as we have known each other, I’ve wanted this intimacy.

You unzip my dress, letting it fall in a heap around my feet. Now I know there’s no going back. I kiss you again, not getting enough of you. My own desires are impossible to deny. I know yours is too. You smell like soap and aftershave and a perfume that’s uniquely you. I reach down and undo your belt, letting your pants fall. You oblige by stepping out if it, and lifting me in one swift motion out of my clothes. Now, it’s just you and me.

I’m almost crying in anticipation and desire. You snap my bra open, even while gently guiding me to your room. We leave a trail of clothes in our wake, expensive garments carelessly discarded in the heat of desire. I pull you in, wrap one leg around your hips and nibble your earlobe. I hear a sharp intake of breath that indicates how pleasurable it is for you. I gently push you back on the bed and take charge.

I kiss every inch of you, relishing the feel of your skin, the hardness of your muscles and the heat of your desire. I can see you beginning to lose control. I see the lust in your eyes, threatening to overshadow everything else. I decide not to tease you any more.

I straddle your hip, gently guiding you into me. You gasp. You moan. And then, swept up in a wave of desire, you begin to stroke. I’m still in control but I realise that it’s not going to last much longer. You’re on the edge. You take control. I relinquish mine. As you take me, I ride on wave after wave of pure pleasure. Our bodies glisten with sweat despite the air conditioning.

Finally, you allow yourself to climax, filling me deep inside. Exhausted, I fall back onto the sheets. You draw me closer, pulling the sheet around us. As we fall asleep, I only see a contented smile on your face, signalling that this was an important line to cross.


Sometimes, when people ask me if S will “allow” this and that, it makes me wonder. Would you like to spend the rest of your life with someone who controls your every move, monitoring how you engage with the world, and what you do with your time? No right? Nobody would. Husbands who actively stop their wives from working, travelling, staying late and everything else belong in the same category: unpleasant to live with, and insecure in the relationship.

Why would you ask me if my husband with ok with all this? How would he have a say in whether and how frequently I travel, who I meet and how I spend my time while I am away? He does not and would not want to. The space is critical for the healthy relationship and he gives it to me.

Love is like that handful of sand that you hold on to. The tighter you hold, the quicker it will slip away, leaving you empty handed. If you simply cup your hands and let the sand be, it will stay within the confines of your palm, unresisting, forever.

I have said this before, and I will say it again. Love is free, it is accepting. If someone is possessive and controlling, they are not in love. They are in need and insecure that you will leave. And it’s not the same thing. They are not in love with you but in love with what you do for them and how you make them feel. If you really want something from life, love would let you go get it. It would stand by, waiting for you to come back. If it doesn’t or cannot, perhaps it is not love, and not what you need in life?

It is often said that the support of the family is paramount for a woman’s success. I would differ. The family matters much less than that one person who is willing to just let you be. That person who understand, empathises and stands by. That person who trusts your judgement on things even if he does not really understand what it is that you need. And perhaps, that’s why that person would be the one to make you happy.

If you do find that one person, don’t let him go. Hold him, as you would that handful of sand; cup your palms and let him be and you’ll find more fulfilment that ever before.