"What is the size of your back? 34?"
"Such a broad back and only 34? It's 36."
"And how big are these? D?"
"You think I'm a D?"
"Haha... I don't know."
My disappointment at not knowing how big or broad you was overcome by your remembrance of a term I'd often used while drooling over your back. 'Broad.' I'd told you on so many occasions about my desire to slither across the ends - between the breasts and from the nape of your neck to the centre of your waist.
As you lay cradled in my arms, your hair disheveled, your bra unhooked and your layers shred, I had the opportunity to fulfill my desire. But you stopped me, because you knew that your broad back was narrow enough for me to slip off and die.
What you didn't know, though, was that I was dead the moment you whispered 'I don't love you' just before we kissed.
Rebounds and highlight reels
We're drifting away. I can feel it. It was meant to be, I think, because even if we had taken off, it would have been a rebound. I've already had a rebound and it had left me poorer than how I was previously. I've come to realize that my heart has been broken once and for all. I've also realized that you get your heart broken only once in life. Each subsequent heartbreak is nothing but a mirage - to show you a false picture of your wholeness before it happens, even as you know you were broken all the while. The truth is that you're never quite the same once you've had yours shattered into pieces. It is subtle, painful and inevitable. Sometimes, I feel that we were put on Earth to get our hearts broken and search for the lost pieces for a definite period of time called life. So essentially, life is nothing but a series of heartbreaks, only one of which is real. So basically, life, most of the time, is a farce.
I've had my heartbreak. My empty bed awaits a woman who can fill the void, who I can use as a mirage. I wanted to ask you to drop your pallu and lure me into an illusion. But I've had enough of it. Nothing is going to heal me. They can fill-in for the one who left, like action-doubles, but they can never replace the person. That's how the world is. Drunk on action-doubles. High on tamasha. They want activity. They want curiosity. It's like the favourite part of your movie you play in your head again and again until it no longer affects you. But you know that the movie is over. The love is gone. So you have to settle for replays. For highlights. So I request you tonight. Would you pease be my highlight reel?
I'm at a bus stop. It's raining here, so cabs aren't easily available. I'm waiting for a bus that might not arrive either. Just like you. You will never arrive. I'm sure that by now I would have made myself an object of mockery. A creep, perhaps, who cannot take things in the stride. And why shouldn't I be mocked?
Sometimes, I cringe thinking how easily you slipped into another man's arms after slipping out of mine; how your conscience wouldn't have been one bit guilty even after knowing how I felt about you and how your touch had the power to destroy me, which it did. I think about how nonchalantly you would have placed your lips on his without giving even a second of a thought that your taste off mine hadn't waned. And how easily the two of you took off. Even fate didn't have fucks to give.
I've suffered enough and I have decided that I won't let it happen. I wouldn't allow myself to be played with so easily. But, what can I do? For if I do anything, you have an easy way out. You'll cry in front of the police and the police would listen to you. Because you're a woman. But I will do what's legally correct.
I have been wronged by you. And I think it's only fair that you give me closure. Since you're not ready to do that, I'll have to take this last resort. I have never been to your place. You'd told me it's somewhere near the Hanuman Mandir. So I'll go there and ask people. I think it will not be difficult to find a place in your own city. Once I reach there, I'll knock on the door. If your parents don't entertain me and ask me to leave, I'll do that. If they listen, I'll tell them everything that happened without fabricating anything.
I'll tell them how I had fallen for you but you didn't feel the same way. I'll tell them how you had protected me from harm for more than two years before ruining everything in one night. I'll tell them how I cribbed and cried, and how listened to everything. I'll tell them how you used to call me once every few weeks just to check on me or because you were missing me. I'll also tell them that each of those calls gave me fresh hopes. I'll tell them how kind you had been to me.
Then, I'll tell them that after taking care of me for so many days you did the most cruel thing. You slept with me and then left me for the dead. I'll tell them that you accompanied me to my friend's place only because I had asked you to and because you still cared for me. I'll tell them that I had no intention of doing anything, although they might not believe me. I'll tell them how you lured me in. (Were you really that stupid to think that you'll hug me in bed, being fully aware of the history, and I would feel nothing?)
I'll tell them how beautiful that night was for me and how disastrous was your departure thereafter. I'll tell them that you slept with another man and lived with him. I'll tell them you'd slept with one already before sleeping with me. After I narrate all of this, I'll tell them what I have told you in the two letters that I've written since you had last called. I'll also tell them about what happened on May 19 and how that was unfair.
I'll do this because you shouldn't have done so many things. To start with, after what had happened, you shouldn't have left me, no matter how many times I brought up that night in our conversations. Well, ideally you should have fallen in love with me after doing that, but I know you couldn't do it. Then, you shouldn't have fallen in love with him. It's unfair. You shouldn't have slept with him. Not after what had happened. I have every right to feel cheated. You shouldn't have spent those days and nights with him, or any other man for that matter. I'll tell all of this to them. In short, I'll them how badly I've been hurt. I don't know what difference will it make. I just hope it will give me closure. I'm in pain. And yes, I'll tell them only if they're willing to listen. I'll admit my mistakes, don't worry.
I will be scared, you know. Because I've never done anything like this. I will feel, I think, like how I had felt the first time I got late to school. It was Class 5, and I was whipped on the legs mercilessly by Sister Philomena. I cried sitting in front of the staff room and there was nobody to wipe my tears. I hobbled my way back to the class, on my own, only after the first period was over because it was her class and I was afraid she'll beat me again. But I will gather all of my courage and go knock on the door. I might stammer, might ask for water first, but I'll make sure that I tell them everything. What will I get out of it? Closure, maybe. I think it's my last chance at getting closure. And I hope you know how important it is for a broken heart to find closure. I hope you will understand. This is not against you. This is for my own peace. Please understand that I'm doing this because I'm in pain; a kind of pain I can't describe, or should I say, I'm too tired of describing again and again.
~ Of loaned beds and lost sleep~
It was a loaned bed,
l o a n e d
from a friend
for a night.
The mattress still had the plastic cover,
meaning it was
as good as new.
But, it wasn't new.
Nor was our first night
b e g i n n i n g.
You seemed restless,
two layers of blankets
generated more heat
than the human flesh underneath
and asked for a pillow.
r e j e c t e d
the one I'd offered earlier.
So it was natural
for me to think
whether there was something
b o t h e r i n g
You moaned and ebbed
in your sleep.
I grew restless
and sat upright.
I watched you slip
from slumber to
u n c o n s c i o u s n e s s
before you lent me a palm
and drew me close,
as I buried my nose
in the crevice between your breasts.
It is now that I realize
it had nothing to do
It was you
and your sleep.
You didn't sleep
with your sleep.
You want to
s l e e p
with your sleep,
which always refuses to sleep
In the middle of a cricket match,
I think about who would have clicked the picture
that sits on her profile.
Her hands are tied at the back,
not tied per se,
but they're not holding the camera.
Did he click it?
She's pouting at the mirror.
Was she pouting at him?
Her bindi gives her the look of a goddess,
her lips, of a bitch.
What did she do after posing for it?
Did he really click the picture?
Would he have fucked her
after taking the picture?
Or did he fuck her first
and then took the picture
as she was dressing up for work?
Did he stop her at the door,
and rip the kurta apart?
Did she bend over?
Did they stop?
Will l stop?
Three wickets have fallen
since I had started writing this.
Time moves so fast
but why does it slow down
when it pains?
It doesn't slow down,
You choose to feel it
over and over again.
Snippets from a beautiful conversation that I had recently with a lady.
Me: तुमसे मिलना चाहिए था I लेकिन खतरा होता, एक और अपना मिलता तो एक और जरिया बन जाता खुद को ज़ख़्मी करने का I
She: "हर अपना खतरा नहीं होता"
Me: साबित करो!
She: "हर चीज़ साबित करनी होती है?"
सहमा दिल सबूत मांगता है, इतना प्यार करो इससे की शक करना भूल जाये I
"प्यार में वक़्त लगता है"
तभी तो मैंने कहा था कि इश्क़ दर्द मांगता है I
"उनका क्या जिनका इश्क़ से भरोसा उठ चुका हो?"
बताया तो मैंने, इश्क़ दर्द मांगता है I इश्क़ का सजदा न करना भी एक दर्द है I दर्द बहाओ, जैसे आज बह रहा था मेरा I कोई घाव तो नहीं भर पायेगा, पर उसके दर्द को तुम्हारे दर्द से इश्क़ हो जायेगा I पहले इंसान का दर्द पसंद आता है, फिर अगर किस्मत रही, तो इंसान I
हर टूटा दिल ऐसे हे प्यार करना सीखता है, टुकड़ों से दिल लगा कर I
"और जिनका दिल ही न हो?"
उनका क्या? उनको तो किसी से भी इश्क़ हो जायेगा I पर वो दर्द नहीं देगा I लेकिन अगर नहीं देगा तो फिर आग भी नहीं लगाएगा सीने में I इश्क़ की पहचान दर्द से होती है I किसी और को अपना आधा दिल काट कर देना होगा I बहुत उम्दा पैमाने का इश्क़ चाहिए इसके लिए I क्यूकि अपने दिल के टुकड़े कर किसी और को देना बहुत खून बहता है I
जिनके दिल ही नहीं, उन्हें दिलदार मिल जाते हैं, और जो दिलदार होते हैं उन्हें दिलजले I
"हर बार ऐसा नहीं होता मगर"
हाँ, तभी तो दिल टूटता है I दिल तब तक टूटेगा जब तक उसे अपने हिस्से का दिलदार या दिलजला नहीं मिल जाता I
अंग्रेजी में कहते हैं न, 'The fault in our stars?'