Fiction: New chapters
As I get past airport security and look around for a place to eat something, I feel a pair of eyes boring into my head. I turn to see him staring at me like he’s seen a ghost in the darkness. I freeze for a minute, and then gather my wits about me.
I nod an acknowledgement, smile and walk on in my pursuit of food. On the outside I appear calm and composed but who knows of the storms that brew within? It’s been three years since we spoke. Three years since I broke down and cried like a child at the unexpected end of this relationship. And then I gathered myself, rose from my ashes like the proverbial Phoenix and swore I’d never let a man hurt me again.
Yet, those storms seem to have merely taken a sabbatical, only to return with unexpected force in this characterless airport lounge. I swear at myself for being so vulnerable to him even after all these years.
I find a chair and sink into it, no longer even wanting any food or drink. All I want is to disappear from this place and never have to see him again. But I know that won’t happen.
Almost as if on cue, he finds me and approaches. He sits down next to me and calls out my name. I look up, expressionless, deadpan. He starts apologising. I hold a hand up asking him to stop. He pauses and then asks, “How are you?”
The rage bubbles. How dare he? How dare he ask me this after leaving me to pick up my pieces? I steel myself to face him. With the same deadpan expression, I nod and say, “Very well. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to finish.”
He looks taken aback but I’m sure I don’t want to engage in further conversation. I’m done. That chapter is over. And it will remain but a chapter in the book of my life.
I hear the boarding call and pick up my bag to take that flight I’d missed all those years ago. And a new chapter begins.
Fiction: A long-lost love
You step forward and turn me around in your arms. You look into my eyes and gently lean forward for a kiss. I melt. Into your arms. I return your kiss, gentle at first, more passionate and insistent later. My toes curl in anticipation of what pleasures you’ll give. A soft sigh escapes me, as I wish this moment would never end.
Finally, you break the kiss, look into my eyes and say, “I love you di!” I can hardly breathe. Wasn’t this what I’ve waited for all these years?
You lean back in for another kiss and this time, it’s more demanding, more insistent. I return your kisses with a passion I did not know I was capable of. I acknowledge, after years, the depth my own desire for you.
You push me against the wall and gently caress my hips. I offer myself up to you almost instinctively, like I know how my body fits into yours. You take me in your arms and ask, “Can we go to the bed please?” Before I can respond, you’ve swept me away to the bed we shared so many years ago. The bed I could never bring myself to share with anyone else in the years you were away
You reclaim what’s rightfully yours. The bed. My body. Every inch of my skin that yearns for your touch. And how? With an aggression I haven’t felt in all those years we were together.
You make love to me like it’s the last time you’ll ever touch me, like the proverbial drowning man clutching at straws. Your fingers, oh those beautiful fingers…trace the curves of my hips that you so love.
After all these years, I feel alive again. I feel beautiful again. You hold my hips and bring me close, pause a second, as if to give me a final chance to say no, and then take me. Now, I feel whole again. After all these years.
Fiction: A lovely summer day…
It's a lovely summer day, and here we are, cooped up in a damned meeting room. This is going nowhere. The conversations are frustrating as ever. I glare at you and you look away in embarrassment. You realise that asking me to join this meeting was a mistake. They have no idea what they want and we can't help them. You know I didn't want this client. You insisted.
Two hours later, we walk out in frustration at our time wasted and with no conclusion in sight. You turn around, asking if I want to grab a drink. It's 8 PM after all. And it's still bright, the European summer being at its sunny best. I nod, still unwilling to forgive you for the waste of my time.
You get me a drink, order some food and reach out to touch my fingers. I'm surprised, and quite confused at this sudden change in behaviour. I look up, only to see your eyes boring into mine. I raise my eyebrows slightly in silent enquiry. You smile. And something flips in me.
What is it that makes my heart flutter when you flash that gorgeous smile? And why suddenly? We've known each other for years, decades even. Why did I never notice?
Your breath on my neck interrupts my reverie as you whisper, "You were right. I'm sorry about today."
I turn to see you closer than you've ever been. You slightly lift my chin and kiss me. Now I know. It only takes a minute for one of the worst days of my life to become one of the best.
Mini fiction: The ephemeral and the ethereal
You hug me from behind, look into my eyes in the mirror and whisper, “You’re gorgeous”. Seconds later, I surrender to your will with love. I offer myself up to you, allowing you to explore at will, relinquishing control over myself. Never have I felt so loved, so desired.
You gently caress the flesh, willing it to respond. You gather me into your arms, bringing the sheets around us. I wish time would freeze.
Hours later, as we lay in each other’s arms, energies spent, you gently kiss my forehead and say, “how I wish this could last a lifetime.”
But my darling, the terrible and the most awful truth is that some things aren’t meant to last. Maybe that’s why they’re so beautiful. Because they’re ethereal and ephemeral.
Of Father’s Day and other things…
It’s Father’s Day. And my TLs, both on FB and Twitter have been flooded with thoughts, wishes and expressions of love. But how do I tell my father what he means. We are not part of that section that celebrates days and anniversaries, real and imagined. We belong to that section that quietly goes about its work, save for a quick phone call on a birthday or anniversary. We don’t tell each other how much we care. It is assumed. It is a given. I don’t quite know how else to be. I haven’t spoken to my father today. I haven’t told him how much he means to me, not because I don’t care, but because saying it is too difficult.
That said, today is perhaps as good a day as any other to remember the childhood years when Appa was everything. When Amma was the villain of the piece and Appa was the superhero. My earliest memories of my father involve talking about everything under the sun. They involve lying down in the terrace, on a beautiful starry night and learning to identify the stars. I remember learning to recognise Venus, the Pole Star and Ursa Major. I remember finding the Pleiades somewhere in the distance and trying to understand what they mean. I remember trying, and failing to distinguish between Sirius and some other distant star in the galaxy. Much later, I remember the discussions around the meaning of life. On whether the scriptures really spoke the truth. Whether there was really some such thing as the absolute truth. I will never forget what my father told me that day. That truth is always relative. That reality is often a grey area between the black and the white. That every single thing, every single human, even the gods are some shade of grey. That between the black and the white lie a million shades of grey, each unique, each special.
A second, more tangible memory of my childhood years is the way he engaged with me. I remember the games we played. I never had dolls and kitchen sets and makeup kits. Instead, he bought me books and crayons and brushes. He bought me pens and notebooks. He played hangman and word building when children my age were playing car racing games. He taught me to teach myself, to learn, to grasp and to understand. The greatest gift I have ever received from him is the ability to learn something out of my own volition. He taught me to enjoy the written word, to let my mind wander, far into mythical and fictional worlds, to explore and to travel into the deepest recesses of my heart. He taught me that failure is not just acceptable, but actually encouraged. He taught me that unless you make an attempt, you will never learn. And for this, I love him.
To this day, he engages me in ways nobody else quite can. In his mind, I am still his 3-year old who doesn’t quite understand what she wants. Yet, he lets me be. Lets me make my mistakes. He lets me fall so that I can pick myself up and emerge stronger from the experience. And most importantly, he has never once said I cannot do something I truly want to because I’m a girl. And for that, he’s the best father one can ask for.