Give me that, Leo.

Watched 'Lost in Translation' today with Michellia. Still speechless.

This too, shall pass.

Don't look at me like that, you fool. I slept with an older woman. Does that make me so different from you, you who try to look at the hem of her skirt like you might expect it to burst into flames any moment.

I'm an object of surprise now. Suddenly, everyone is coming to terms with Ayan Ray, the Gargantuan man-slut.

Balderdash in Bombay - Part 1.

Saturday was one of those those touch-and-go days which I frequently find myself subjected to. Groggily reaching for my toothbrush, I stumbled towards the mirror and was amused to find a five'o clock shadow on my face. Whirling the toothbrush around, I found myself thinking about thoughts I didn't know that I had. Here goes.
My parents first lived in a suburb of Bombay called Antop Hill. Back then, it was a pleasant place to live in and I can still smell the wafting magnolia scent that used to blow in through the windows. Antop Hill was a sort of refuge for the individuals of a naturally dimunitive temperament. So,quite naturally,my parents found it to be a restful and pleasing environment. I could never second their opinion because I was only a child then and my emotional grasp of the situation would be limited to playing with the neighbour's children and the stuffy candy shop across the street. Indeed,those are the only sights and sounds I remember. I am not surprised,though. My paedaetrician used to be this rather affable Parsi who had his clinic in Parsi Colony. Point blank,I have always held firmly that Parsis were the original caretakers of Bombay. I don't mean to sound regionalist but these people lend a rather colonial air to the city, without the Victorian flummery. Back then,I rember being fascinated by the outer poise and the inner calm that defined their persona. Now, of course, they have taken a backseat. what with all the simmering regionalism that's brewing in Bombay. Antop Hill has now become one of those sorrily mismanaged areas that disgust you whenever you look at the peeling paint, the dusty playground, the runny taps. It leaves you with a sense of loathing but you can't exactly pigeonhole the source or the target. So much for colonialism.
My parents later bought a flat in the teeming suburb of Sion. I never knew the origin of the glitzy name and probably never will. Sion is also major railway junction that most office-goers resent. It is because the majority of sweaty,buck-toothed commuters generally come aboard at Sion.
Besides that, there's almost nothing the place can boast about now save perhaps a few bungalows here and there. You feel sorry for the place and it appears like an exotic affair gone badly off the track.When I was fifteen, I once walked on the pavements while it was raining. When it rains in Bombay,it pours.But you like it enormously.You see the black umbrellas dripping all about you and then you button your parka because of a sudden draught.It is really the perfect catalyst for thought.Even in the Sion of today,it is an experience to walk down it's streets. The smell of hot cocoa near coffee shops,of burnt hazelnuts near confectionery stores and then there is that earthly smell you always get when you cross rainwater with loose soil.Even as I sit by the window with a cup of hot coffee by my left arm and a yellow legal pad beside my right,i can visualize the sights and sounds that are so ephemeral for every person growing up in Bombay.When you grow up in a place,you generally take for granted all the things that the place has to (or can) offer.You get used to the hot summer sun burning the back of your neck,the raindrops that hit the windows of your room and the cold night air that settles around your bed while you curl up in bed with a book.When I moved out of Sion,I realized that I loved the place dearly but I hadn't been aware of that until I left.So this is what they call blues. Nice.

Lament.

In my world, there's no wiggle room for foolishness. None whatsoever.

Look,Ma,Speedy Gonzales!

She is beautiful. And her body is just about perfect. As she slips out of her nightgown, I can see in the light of the nightstand that her breasts are upturned, expectant. Her navel is a finicky dip of an affair. Her waist is perfect - I can see her panties are already wet. I put the glass of wine and let out a slow whistle. She looks at me coyly, yet I can see that she is feeling shy. Her lips are petulant, and I can see the corners of her mouth rise as she smiles. The moonlight reflects off her perfectly formed shoulders, and I see the elegant curves gesturing to me unconsciously. The bend in her elbow. The soft flicking of her wrists as I offer her my glass. She sips a little, and then climbs into bed with me. It is a long night. We make slow, passionate love - our bodies warm with pleasure, and then we fall apart, exhausted with all the feverish lovemaking.

Good God,you were amazing, I compliment her.

Was I? Thank God. I haven't made love to anyone in a decade. My faggot of a husband never looks at my body. You are very good in bed. I take it you are experienced already. She smiles as she rests her head on my chest and strokes my belly.

I look away. What are you doing,Ayan?