She was headed for a quick jog, listening to her favourite Bollywood singers Asha and Lata Mangeshkar seductively croon Mann Kyun Behka Re Behka Aadhi Raat Ko (why does the heart wander in the middle of the night?) and amazed at how the city she loved, changed moods and shades without warning …
Archive for the category Fiction
Fiction stories and poems by the Gaysi to be read by all.
“I’m going in for a shower,” Jane yelled out. Dee’s eyes flew wide open. The wheels of her imagination started turning. She could feel that warm feeling. The one that always came on right before she started getting wet and clenched, almost as if she were having a mini-orgasm. Jane, who was passing by, caught that fleeting look on Dee’s face: eyes fluttering close, a small smile playing on her slightly parted lips and her head tilted heavenwards. At that moment, Dee did look like she was in heaven. Well, at the gates of it, at least. Jane stopped and decided to play.
Such are the dreams that one conjures when a passing stranger steals your senses for a few seconds, so much so, that even though she looked through her lens to capture a scene of the wonderful valleys behind you, you in turn, end up writing an entire story on her. Bushy at least remains real.
On the pillow, On an old t-shirt, On the phone’s receiver, On an empty bottle, In unexpected corners
It’s 2.35 am. I wake up with her in my head. She has no face, for I have never seen her. But I know it’s her.
Several breaths into the brew, my body sat upright. The chemical reactions from the bean had sparked some eagerness. Around me were the lost, the preoccupied, the keyboard-clackers, the chatterboxes and the silent coffee sippers buried in their books. A dash of milk and two sugars later, she walked through the door.
She was younger, much younger, but felt much older – in the way she spoke, in her silences. We met for coffee, late one night. She ordered tea. We hadn’t seen each other until then, but neither of us was disappointed. There were no sparks, no obvious undercurrents, but we couldn’t look at each other very long.
Amma and Daddy were never at home on Saturdays. If anybody was, then it was the one who kept the house clean – vessels, clothes, fans, window-sills, sinks, bath, toilets, anything that needed to be mopped, swept or scrubbed – it was Maari with a coconut-‘kondai’ on her head, blessed with uneven, protruding teeth and the height and gait of a giantess.
When our eyes meet now, you seem to look through me and I simply look at you. We no longer look into each other as we used to, as we could.
I ask myself, When will I be able to hold your hand In public and say we are intertwined? Is a vocal declaration of my love necessary for you?
Rika slept beside her, spooned up close, her body snug against that of her beloved’s. It was the end of what had been a long week, and they were finally sleeping soundly, together.
Her wild hair fell down her back in tangles, dark brown curls unwashed and uncared for. In her long white nightgowns with her too thin arms, she looked every bit of the wraith she was fast becoming, pale from lack of sun and food. It was hard for her to think or focus on anything but her rage of cheated chance. She knew nothing of patience or endurance, but everything of survival and struggle. She was the negative print of her own self.
The faint whisper of love caught my attention today and it’s on rare occasions like these that my feelings find ink. I had decided to see ‘Love Actually’ (for the third time) and was reminded of that petty emotion that is usually ignored, tossed around, talked about, deeply felt and sometimes refused to be acknowledged by my very full but slightly stale heart.
You play me with your words. With murky sentiments and darker intentions you purr seductively in that husky, unreal voice of yours
I knew virtually that she lived in the housing board with her daughter and family. I knew she had finished her duties as a mother. And one fine day, back in India, I came to know from Amma that she’d passed away after a brief fever. No more flowers.
We would go on smoke breaks, she and I. She would call and I would drop everything I was doing just so I could have those 5 minutes with her. As she lit up, I would drink her in from head to toe. Her lips, with that tantalizing red lipstick, wrapping around the cigarette and the hollow of her neck getting deeper as she sucked on it.
I wrote you fairytales. Fairytales I thought you dreamed. You did not dream so. I wrote you kisses. Kisses I thought were wanted. You did not want so.
I'm a mother, first and foremost. I live for getting up with my babies in the morning, doing the little ones' hair, and walking them to the bus stop. All day, I think of them while they're gone, and I race home to hear their stories of childhood streaming out of their mouths like a podcast.
as we lie together minds and bodies entwined in perfect, formless symmetry
A full wall-to-wall mirror in my engineering days made the first time I wore a salwar kurta almost a Yash Chopra canvas… The silver bangles, the long dupatta, the almost see through kurta… And the day I fell in love, I felt like Sridevi in Lamhe’s song – Meri Bindiya.