I could have swore that you had brown eyes and not black, but who am I say any of these things. Last night, when you entered me and my body relaxed itself, you knew immediately what that meant. And that’s probably all.
But it has already been a long pressing day. And at its peak it was 42 degrees in the afternoon, right when I had left home. The wind was stronger than usual because of which my students at the slum came only an hour after I had arrived. And that irritated me. I was angry so I left early. And luckily caught a volvo fast, for the long ride ahead.
It would approximately take me another hour and a half before I would reach home.
I need a shower. A long shower to take everything off my mind. And the fact that no one would be home for the next two days is a relief.
Maybe I could skip tomorrow’s work. Taking a day off would surely not be a big deal.
It was the first time I had ever kissed a guy yesterday. So thinking of everything that happened last night was certainly not the easiest thing for me to process.
“Certain landscapes demand fidelity,” wrote Agha Shahid Ali. He was a master of poetry that resonated with his past and that of the places he had lived in. I wish he were still alive. And whether he had ever loved Delhi more than Kashmir. And somewhere in my heart, I knew he would say yes. And it would snow so much that night in Kashmir that every house would know the stories of betrayal.
Some lady is shouting on the top of her voice from somewhere in the front of the bus. It seems that her husband(i presume) just got pick pocketed. And of course there is no one to catch. She shouts at the driver first and then at the conductor. I am not sure if she understands all of this at all.
And I, I have decided to just sit and watch this from my seat somewhere in the back. I swear I have never thought of someone so much as I have of you. You have taken up residence in my own intimate memories and something about this feels so right and wrong at the same time.
Smog covered skies and windows shut, the city is capable of poetry only twice a day.
First in the night when the wind is strong and the moon watches over you and your lover. Now holding hands, the stars are capable of promising kisses even in public spaces.
And in the first half hour after dawn, when there are vendors selling jasmine garlands and the sun bearing witness to the eyes that wake up early. Contrary to afternoons, this half hour is when the plants are the greenest and your hickies visible, dark red.
Afternoons aren’t capable of poetry or of lovers kissing in open spaces. Delhi isn’t capable of lilac skies or of the color pink with cherry blossom flowers. Pink here is your shorts and that t-shirt you just saw but left because it was too girlish. Soft pastel shades of pink and blue, and white and yellow. Balloons in the sky, Beyonce’s album, pride parades. Delhi isn’t capable of the color pink, but you are.
I am smiling but I swear I could cry any moment.
My phone rings in the middle of all this, it’s you on the other line. And I remember asking you to call me around this time, knowing I would be done with my work for the day. But right now, I just don’t know what to say.
“Heya. Work ended early today. I am already on my way back home.”
“That’s great. Any plans for the night.”
“None really. It seems that no one is going to be home tonight. Family is leaving for a visit to Rajasthan. Why don’t you come over.”
We talk some more and I ask you what you want to eat for dinner because I know you haven’t had lunch.
You promise to come before 8 and not leave unless I’m fine. But I fear I’ll never be. This middle part is the hardest. Coming to accept you, means forgetting so much. And I am not ready for that.