The Fantastic Moments
I would love to write about what happens every time I begin to imagine his presence, his warm little words and their overwhelming effects on my mind, though it is always my heart where it all remains etched forever. The memories play a crazy role sometimes, making you completely lost in its pleasantly agonising company. It haunts you with some real-looking images, rattles in our mind like a resonating toy of a child, hums like some unbidden fly that occasionally visits your house – the fly that sticks to the things you eat, or drink, or touch. Yes, touch. That is the thing that actually happens when a part of you is touched by some freaking thing called love. Freaking? I asked. Freaking? It must be ‘coz nothing is as complicated as love, or the feeling of love, and the things it does to you. A lot of things have been said on love; millions of people – poets and authors and lovers – have mentioned and illustrated its sly aspects and its sweet aftermath, either favourably or tragically. So I ask myself what I should write that has never been told before, how differently I can deal with it. And this is how I dare to do it.
I remember my romance with him, the romantic time that never existed and yet I spent proudly; my weird little memoirs and shreds of longings that I like to piece together, now that it has been played out completely. I still can feel the drum of rain landing on earth the day I sat across from him until I began to hear just his heartbeats throbbing nicely with its nervous rhythm. It was a wooden bench of a tea-stall, fissured in places and rickety, on which he sat, and the similar one that supported my bums too, both opposite to each other, with just a mass of air that separated us. My head is already infused with certain smells: sweet-sugary steam that emits from the overboiled tea; mild pong of rain that gathers into sparse puddles; mixed odour of people loitering for their evening chat, made interesting with sips of tea. Of all kind of smells, the only whiff I want to catch is the sweat of my lover as it lifts from under his shirt and dissolves in to the air amongst many others. I want something in order to sense it, call it the special power to discriminate his own from that of others. But that power is nowhere to see except within myself; I must ask my soul to feel the sour minerals that comes off his blood and are dumped along his skin. Then only, I think. Perhaps then I’ll be able to tell what he’s been through for the day. But it would be wildest thing to say, because I know the driving rain has done its untoward job and washed away most of his substance. So there is not much for me to take, not by the look of it.
Still there is a lot to consider about him; the rain must have helped. His hair, drenched partially in raindrops, has a beautiful single pattern now. Black and lush as it always is, a mass of hair is almost even in its spread. Watery diamonds have now adorned his head, a drop or two is hanging at the tip of its front tuft, about to fall, giving it a spectacular impression of mercury. Silvery delight, I think. And it really is. The mild sunlight has done a magical ‘special effects’ on him (the ones that you get to see in Hollywood movies in all its vivid Technicolor) and added unique grace to his charm. And as if this is not enough, a vibrant rainbow has flashed behind him, I see that now. So it’s a heaven I am in, a living god I am having a pleasure to catch the sight of. What a scene!
Here it comes, our glass of tea which a small, weak boy delivers in hurry. I take it without taking my eyes off him. I am engrossed into his outward show; there is a thing he does as he picks his glass from the hand of the boy. He does it carefully, my love. He has no hurry as such and is modest enough to return the favour with a tinge of smile on his face, which is not for me so much – I must be damned, I think – as it is for the person who serves. I liked it anyway, this small little etiquette, the delicacy of his calm manners, and his ability to acquit himself socially. But there is a selfish bubble rising and bursting in my chest too, the big, miserable fucking roar of jealousy, telling me that I deserved the gift of his smile, and instead I had to watch someone else earn it.
Insanity strikes me like a servant in any small restaurant (with a sense of refilling glasses and smoking cigarettes). It’s stupidity, I know, though it’s my business here to venture into the lanes of stupidity. And as soon as I summon the courage enough to distract myself from the course of resentment, I join again the journey of drinking my man’s beauty, not only of his face but equally of his acts. I want to get into the details, observe minutely how he does it all. How he brings himself to taking in this brown little caffeine he is holding in a thick, clammy glass. I try to hear just the sound of his sips, want to make sure whether he does it with audible slurps, or with no sound at all. It is hard to notice though. There are lots of other noise in our vicinity, terrible clamour of people making a casual bargain at nearby market, gross cacophony of tea-buyers discussing their day’s work, deep mooing of drifting cows, and loud vehicles moving past, and in the middle of this chaos, a decorous thing in front of me, a man in his early twenties as against me in my late twenties, a heap of rugged, human sack that I love more than anything, a sparkling body sitting almost straight in a manner of a person who knows in his bones how to maintain the sanity in public. He’s wise, of course, and polite, and he knows how to emerge unscathed from every situation, no matter how hard it may be. I love him, I think to myself, as he slowly swipes the glass off the bench and holds it close to his lips, but he’s in no hurry. He doesn’t seem to have urgency to drain the glass in a single shot as other tea-freaks might do. There is an edge about him that won’t let him do it so quickly, because I know him well. He’s never, in his life, been such a frantic mess. Patience and ease are his key elements; they are his handy tools especially when it comes to being involved in healthy operations. And it seems like this is one of them, the act of enjoying an evening drink. So I am curious to see the next thing he would do.
He smells the liquid in the glass, the brown little pleasure, or he looks like he smells, but his eyes are not onto it, in fact they are watching what I would rather avoid. His two bright balls are stuck somewhere else in a constant gaze, to watch whatever there is to watch, all the while tilting the glass in to his mouth, just at a small angle, his lips making a beautiful movement as he sucks it in, hot, refreshing, nice. Small little slugs of it taken in a flash, one after one, and the operation is over. Mission accomplished, I think, and a smile crosses my face. My stupid ability to make such a sharp remark.
There is a shift around me, I now observe(I can observe since the reason for my focus on him is over, the thing he had to is done, the business has been wound up now, the movie is over for now.) and everybody is on the go, leaving for their home, I guess. The rain has stopped and so we can move too. He cranes about to take a note of people, or rain maybe, and gives me a fleeting look, as if to tell me that it’s time to walk to our place. And ‘ya sure’, I say with my pleased eyes. He rises to his feet, still wet and perhaps under the effect of cold, and approaches the tea-maker to pay for his tea. Shukriya, he might have said to him, or it might be simple ‘thanks’. I don’t know ‘coz all my wit is captured by his saturated clothes; his shirt has clung to his torso like a crazy bitch, his formal trousers is showing a gorgeous shape of his bubble buttocks, and I am amazed at my knowledge that he’s almost naked(of course he’s, after all, fully dressed). Thanks to the rain of the day!! His clothes don’t mock his wiry body, I can unpeel him and he’ll still be true. He can’t hide himself from me now and I want him right there and then. I feel a terrific rush of desire breathing on my lips, telling me to grab him in my arms, to hold him gently by his waist, to look deep into his eyes, and, without any further waste of time, by pulling him closer, to kiss him tight and test his saliva.
But there is also the presence of another sensation, this one a bit nastier and wilder, a diabolic lust, an untamed passion growing like a burning hell in my body; I feel the crazy, blind rush flowering inside me in the place somewhere between my legs, a selfish animal that wants to make a sudden move and quench its desperate thirst. I mean there is this stupid little thing working inside my body, and it comes into action whenever this man teases me with some sort of promise – whatever that promise is, it might be I-am-gonna-make-your-day kind of promise – I feel it stir in the deep root of my penis, the beginning of love, or something like love. I think for a while of the gland easing out from the sack of skin, preparing itself for some sort of assault, without my permission. It is always like this, the thing with my micky, rebellious and furious, in hurry, and this is how it all starts, my inability to control this demon of desire, my refusal to surrender to this unbounded urges, and in the end it wins to my surprise, it conquers all my strength sooner or later.
I hate it, I would say. I particularly hate this act of being overpowered by the force of passion denied, and the ugliness of it when it sweeps its hand through the whole of me. But I love what it leaves behind for me when it is gone. I love its aftermaths.
I do think, though, that it is a horrible thing to ponder, especially when we are only a few feet apart in open, with a crowd milling around us, maybe scanning us like we are under some secret observation. So I have to think of the other things – like what? – like look around, wait, or adjust my own clothes. Yes I need to adjust them, I now realize, I look like I have just emerged from the beach water. I have my specs, carbon-framed and fibre-glassed, tucked in the front shirt pocket with a pen beside it. My hair, long, unmanaged, has its shiny black spread extended down the scruff where it scatters thinly so that when I move my head around, I feel the terrible slither of water dripping off its edge, running down my back, halting somewhere in my rump. It tickles me bad, like my lover’s naughty hands tracing the line of beauty in the shape of S.
Just a little sudden shiver and I am jolted back to where I was. Where I am now. In the transcendental world of love and romance, the casual flirt and inadvertent desires, the ignorant blush of joy and feisty attraction. I want this moment to last forever, I want to laugh someday at the way it all happened here. And we both would. We’ll both go to our place and talk about it, I would tell him how I had a whacky foreplay with him which I did with my dreamy eyes. I would let him know about my virtual emotions running within me like so many snakes fighting in a tangled mess. And I know he would relish each piece expressed by me in my words. He would jump in his mind thousand times because of a lot of craziness involved in it. And it is crazy. It really is. How can I deny that?
As for me, I think it is superb, all of it, brilliant and well-loved. There is a small feeling in my mind; I will to cut this piece of land we are standing on, the whole stage of tea-stall where all the drama was played. I am deeply willing to run a tractor of my deranged mind and move its sharp tail in a square manner so that in the end all I could get is a smooth rectangle of hallucinated events and swashbuckling experiences; the ultimate story that entails me and him, endless pictures and multiple movies coming together at once, the whole kaleidoscope of various senses bringing themselves to such a beautiful emotion called love. Love. Love.
I would love to write about what happens every time I begin to imagine his presence, his warm little words and their overwhelming effects on my mind, though it is always my heart where it all remains etched forever. The memories play a crazy role sometimes, making you completely lost in its pleasantly agonising company. It haunts you with some real-looking images, rattles in our mind like a resonating toy of a child, hums like some unbidden fly that occasionally visits your house – the fly that sticks to the things you eat, or drink, or touch. Yes, touch. That is the thing that actually happens when a part of you is touched by some freaking thing called love. Freaking? I asked. Freaking? It must be ‘coz nothing is as complicated as love, or the feeling of love, and the things it does to you. A lot of things have been said on love; millions of people – poets and authors and lovers – have mentioned and illustrated its sly aspects and its sweet aftermath, either favourably or tragically. So I ask myself what I should write that has never been told before, how differently I can deal with it. And this is how I dare to do it.
I remember my romance with him, the romantic time that never existed and yet I spent proudly; my weird little memoirs and shreds of longings that I like to piece together, now that it has been played out completely. I still can feel the drum of rain landing on earth the day I sat across from him until I began to hear just his heartbeats throbbing nicely with its nervous rhythm. It was a wooden bench of a tea-stall, fissured in places and rickety, on which he sat, and the similar one that supported my bums too, both opposite to each other, with just a mass of air that separated us. My head is already infused with certain smells: sweet-sugary steam that emits from the overboiled tea; mild pong of rain that gathers into sparse puddles; mixed odour of people loitering for their evening chat, made interesting with sips of tea. Of all kind of smells, the only whiff I want to catch is the sweat of my lover as it lifts from under his shirt and dissolves in to the air amongst many others. I want something in order to sense it, call it the special power to discriminate his own from that of others. But that power is nowhere to see except within myself; I must ask my soul to feel the sour minerals that comes off his blood and are dumped along his skin. Then only, I think. Perhaps then I’ll be able to tell what he’s been through for the day. But it would be wildest thing to say, because I know the driving rain has done its untoward job and washed away most of his substance. So there is not much for me to take, not by the look of it.
Still there is a lot to consider about him; the rain must have helped. His hair, drenched partially in raindrops, has a beautiful single pattern now. Black and lush as it always is, a mass of hair is almost even in its spread. Watery diamonds have now adorned his head, a drop or two is hanging at the tip of its front tuft, about to fall, giving it a spectacular impression of mercury. Silvery delight, I think. And it really is. The mild sunlight has done a magical ‘special effects’ on him (the ones that you get to see in Hollywood movies in all its vivid Technicolor) and added unique grace to his charm. And as if this is not enough, a vibrant rainbow has flashed behind him, I see that now. So it’s a heaven I am in, a living god I am having a pleasure to catch the sight of. What a scene!
Here it comes, our glass of tea which a small, weak boy delivers in hurry. I take it without taking my eyes off him. I am engrossed into his outward show; there is a thing he does as he picks his glass from the hand of the boy. He does it carefully, my love. He has no hurry as such and is modest enough to return the favour with a tinge of smile on his face, which is not for me so much – I must be damned, I think – as it is for the person who serves. I liked it anyway, this small little etiquette, the delicacy of his calm manners, and his ability to acquit himself socially. But there is a selfish bubble rising and bursting in my chest too, the big, miserable fucking roar of jealousy, telling me that I deserved the gift of his smile, and instead I had to watch someone else earn it.
Insanity strikes me like a servant in any small restaurant (with a sense of refilling glasses and smoking cigarettes). It’s stupidity, I know, though it’s my business here to venture into the lanes of stupidity. And as soon as I summon the courage enough to distract myself from the course of resentment, I join again the journey of drinking my man’s beauty, not only of his face but equally of his acts. I want to get into the details, observe minutely how he does it all. How he brings himself to taking in this brown little caffeine he is holding in a thick, clammy glass. I try to hear just the sound of his sips, want to make sure whether he does it with audible slurps, or with no sound at all. It is hard to notice though. There are lots of other noise in our vicinity, terrible clamour of people making a casual bargain at nearby market, gross cacophony of tea-buyers discussing their day’s work, deep mooing of drifting cows, and loud vehicles moving past, and in the middle of this chaos, a decorous thing in front of me, a man in his early twenties as against me in my late twenties, a heap of rugged, human sack that I love more than anything, a sparkling body sitting almost straight in a manner of a person who knows in his bones how to maintain the sanity in public. He’s wise, of course, and polite, and he knows how to emerge unscathed from every situation, no matter how hard it may be. I love him, I think to myself, as he slowly swipes the glass off the bench and holds it close to his lips, but he’s in no hurry. He doesn’t seem to have urgency to drain the glass in a single shot as other tea-freaks might do. There is an edge about him that won’t let him do it so quickly, because I know him well. He’s never, in his life, been such a frantic mess. Patience and ease are his key elements; they are his handy tools especially when it comes to being involved in healthy operations. And it seems like this is one of them, the act of enjoying an evening drink. So I am curious to see the next thing he would do.
He smells the liquid in the glass, the brown little pleasure, or he looks like he smells, but his eyes are not onto it, in fact they are watching what I would rather avoid. His two bright balls are stuck somewhere else in a constant gaze, to watch whatever there is to watch, all the while tilting the glass in to his mouth, just at a small angle, his lips making a beautiful movement as he sucks it in, hot, refreshing, nice. Small little slugs of it taken in a flash, one after one, and the operation is over. Mission accomplished, I think, and a smile crosses my face. My stupid ability to make such a sharp remark.
There is a shift around me, I now observe(I can observe since the reason for my focus on him is over, the thing he had to is done, the business has been wound up now, the movie is over for now.) and everybody is on the go, leaving for their home, I guess. The rain has stopped and so we can move too. He cranes about to take a note of people, or rain maybe, and gives me a fleeting look, as if to tell me that it’s time to walk to our place. And ‘ya sure’, I say with my pleased eyes. He rises to his feet, still wet and perhaps under the effect of cold, and approaches the tea-maker to pay for his tea. Shukriya, he might have said to him, or it might be simple ‘thanks’. I don’t know ‘coz all my wit is captured by his saturated clothes; his shirt has clung to his torso like a crazy bitch, his formal trousers is showing a gorgeous shape of his bubble buttocks, and I am amazed at my knowledge that he’s almost naked(of course he’s, after all, fully dressed). Thanks to the rain of the day!! His clothes don’t mock his wiry body, I can unpeel him and he’ll still be true. He can’t hide himself from me now and I want him right there and then. I feel a terrific rush of desire breathing on my lips, telling me to grab him in my arms, to hold him gently by his waist, to look deep into his eyes, and, without any further waste of time, by pulling him closer, to kiss him tight and test his saliva.
But there is also the presence of another sensation, this one a bit nastier and wilder, a diabolic lust, an untamed passion growing like a burning hell in my body; I feel the crazy, blind rush flowering inside me in the place somewhere between my legs, a selfish animal that wants to make a sudden move and quench its desperate thirst. I mean there is this stupid little thing working inside my body, and it comes into action whenever this man teases me with some sort of promise – whatever that promise is, it might be I-am-gonna-make-your-day kind of promise – I feel it stir in the deep root of my penis, the beginning of love, or something like love. I think for a while of the gland easing out from the sack of skin, preparing itself for some sort of assault, without my permission. It is always like this, the thing with my micky, rebellious and furious, in hurry, and this is how it all starts, my inability to control this demon of desire, my refusal to surrender to this unbounded urges, and in the end it wins to my surprise, it conquers all my strength sooner or later.
I hate it, I would say. I particularly hate this act of being overpowered by the force of passion denied, and the ugliness of it when it sweeps its hand through the whole of me. But I love what it leaves behind for me when it is gone. I love its aftermaths.
I do think, though, that it is a horrible thing to ponder, especially when we are only a few feet apart in open, with a crowd milling around us, maybe scanning us like we are under some secret observation. So I have to think of the other things – like what? – like look around, wait, or adjust my own clothes. Yes I need to adjust them, I now realize, I look like I have just emerged from the beach water. I have my specs, carbon-framed and fibre-glassed, tucked in the front shirt pocket with a pen beside it. My hair, long, unmanaged, has its shiny black spread extended down the scruff where it scatters thinly so that when I move my head around, I feel the terrible slither of water dripping off its edge, running down my back, halting somewhere in my rump. It tickles me bad, like my lover’s naughty hands tracing the line of beauty in the shape of S.
Just a little sudden shiver and I am jolted back to where I was. Where I am now. In the transcendental world of love and romance, the casual flirt and inadvertent desires, the ignorant blush of joy and feisty attraction. I want this moment to last forever, I want to laugh someday at the way it all happened here. And we both would. We’ll both go to our place and talk about it, I would tell him how I had a whacky foreplay with him which I did with my dreamy eyes. I would let him know about my virtual emotions running within me like so many snakes fighting in a tangled mess. And I know he would relish each piece expressed by me in my words. He would jump in his mind thousand times because of a lot of craziness involved in it. And it is crazy. It really is. How can I deny that?
As for me, I think it is superb, all of it, brilliant and well-loved. There is a small feeling in my mind; I will to cut this piece of land we are standing on, the whole stage of tea-stall where all the drama was played. I am deeply willing to run a tractor of my deranged mind and move its sharp tail in a square manner so that in the end all I could get is a smooth rectangle of hallucinated events and swashbuckling experiences; the ultimate story that entails me and him, endless pictures and multiple movies coming together at once, the whole kaleidoscope of various senses bringing themselves to such a beautiful emotion called love. Love. Love.
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