I can never tell you how lonely I am

It was one those days. Where the earth sighed in contentment after a rain drench. The air heavy with the misty sprays. And people walked in lazy languor in the hope that the weekend would follow their pace.

And they walked too... Oblivious of people and their thoughts. In the rickety elevator, they held hands pretending to be oblivious to the frown of the bald guy with the religious line on his forehead.

His little space of a balcony… Which looks out to the lonely little temple on the hill to which no path led. He holds her. His hands touched her in suggestive places.

Sighing in contentment, she whispered, “What is the one thing that you would want to do with me?"

He was always one to have a lag in his answers. Like in those old long distance telephone calls. She was used to his pauses.

"Spend the rest of my life with you"

An act of sex would have been what she expected. And that would have been so much easier.

And that's how he said what she didn't want to hear.

And that's how he said something he'll never say again.

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The hill now has some grooves cut into it and there is the temple.
His hands touch me in suggestive places. But he holds me without words.

Oh yeah

In a life.

They were always nameless women. Sex was the same. Same organs. Different noises and patterns of breathing. Different passions. But the same still. All take and a pretence at give.

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In a life.

They were always men with different names. Sex was always cloaked in making love. All the giving and no getting back. Because getting back always extended beyond the four posters of the bed.

On an anniversary note

He was always like that. A terrific teacher. Words scented by woody cigarette smoke.

It was the day that college began. The worn corners of the old windows and the joy of balancing on narrow windowsills. Life on the edge.

Freshmen year. Most of them without a clue as to why they were there. That always happened to his class. Which I sometimes felt was a pity- he had so much to give and if you strip away the hollow of expectation, then everything becomes more than enough. Asking for more was what he always wanted. And that's why I was sent into his life.

His books which had innumerable strips of papers eagerly waiting to be pulled out and read. Scribbles of his thoughts and what he wanted say. There was so much I didn't understand. There was so much I understood.

So sitting by the windowsill, I heard the white finger of chalk squeal on the summer-dust-collected-board that had been wiped almost clean that morning. Scars always remain.

His handwriting was terrible. Achingly painful was the feeling as always, when I saw him address a crowd. As in response to his hope that this year would be different.

The words that stayed on my mind that year. And forever.

'Hitch your wagon to a star'.

And that's what he did. On a wagon that moved too fast and all that was left behind of him was a whiff of stardust.

Everything movies

So the movie is a nightmare. Violently violent films should go the animation way. Thank you Tarantino.

The light after the darkness is always blinding. It follows the principle of getting-used-to-in-small-measures.

He is furious for making him walk out of the movie. I gave him a choice that never was when I walked out.

And so he yells. He liked the movie, he liked the violence and he found the heroine damn hot!

I recognize logic when I see it. After all he also paid for the tickets.

I want to shout back too. Not because I am angry. But fury requires retaliation does it not? His anger is genuine and in retaliation does not suit me.

Instead I link my arms with his.

He is surprised, I can tell.

I like being predictably unpredictive.