Houses of the Unholy.

My eyes open to find the ceiling above painted a vivid pink. I stare blankly at it for a moment, then glance at the sleeping figure beside me. Her eyes are closed, and she clutches the blanket tightly. Her breath reminds me of lilies and her hair has settled comfortably around her neck. I remember she said that her parents would be home by noon, so that leaves me about two hours to get dressed. I throw the covers off myself, then sit by the side of the bed, catching up with the events of last night. Although much of it is a haze, I can recollect enough about it to get a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I proceed to the bathroom, splash my tired face with cold water. As I dry my face with a towel, I can tell that a hangover is on its way. My head is already throbbing and a vein is pulsating on the side of my head. I remember now.

Four of us sit at a table in a pub at Powai. We are almost done with the hors d'oeuvres and are already in high spirits. The girl beside me is pretty and intelligent enough to be pleasant company for many evenings. My friend and his girlfriend sit across the table from us, and they are motioning to the waiter to refill our drinks. I can hear Eddie Vedder screaming in the background and my arm is around the girls shoulder. She looks at me appraisingly, as if she wants me to up the sexual tension between us. While her hands go limp in mine, I smile haplessly at my friend who is looking at me knowingly. I am irritated at the look he is giving me, but I don't say anything. Better to let the madness wring itself dry. His girlfriend is talking about how Jack Nicholson should not be allowed to sleep with so many women. He signals her to be quiet, because she is already tipsy. So, they excuse themselves and make for the exit. As they pass the next table, I hear her heave. Sigh. I look at the girl beside me, whose hand is now resting on my thigh.

X : Foolish, aren't they?
Me : More than I'd like to acknowledge. But, they are happy with each other. That is what matters,doesn't it?
X : Ah, good. What are your plans, now that they have left us in peace?
Me : Let's take a walk. This is getting stuffy.

I pay for the table. We make a quick exit. I look ahead at the glittering city. Men and women hasten to get out of their sedans, the women balance themselves on their stilettos, the men stare at their exquisitely-cut dresses, and the women giggle. God, I'm trapped in Bukowski's world again. There is a momentary hush as we pass the doorway. The girl must be a familiar face and they ogle at her backside as she runs to keep pace with me.

X : Walk slower, man. You in a hurry?
Me : I'm just not too used to the glitterati. I like to keep a low profile. You know, conscience-keeper and their ilk.
X : Oh. And here I was thinking you were at ease with these people. (smiles)
Me : Yeah, I tend to give that impression. Where are you studying?
X : St. Stanislaus. You?
Me : Singhania.
X : Oh,good. You live in Thane?
Me : Yes.

We are silent. She weaves her arm around mine. I don't object. She looks sullen. Probably, I look sullen too. One can never tell how these nights end.

X : Can you come to my house? I have a stash of weed somewhere.
Me : Haha. Okay, but I'm not sleeping with you. What about your parents?
X : Oh,don't worry. I'm not asking you to. They are not home.

We walk to her house. As she turns the key in the lock, I look around. Either the neighbourhood is sleeping or it's a quiet neighbourhood. I walk through the hallway.

The rest I have forgotten. Fuck. Now, I'm an alcoholic AND a man-slut.

The girl is now one of my best friends. Irony hits me square between the eyes. And I look back at how time murders everything so rapaciously.

A Case of the Lonely Lips.

I'm bare-chested. I am Iggy Pop. I swing my tee over my head, and land on the eager,outstretched arms of the sweaty,fornicating crowd. I look outside the window. The city is quiet tonight. As I look into the mirror, and take the razor to tough stubble, I am reminded of my date tonight, with a girl who has maddeningly beautiful lips. The razor sears its cruel way through the hair, and the tufts fall to the wash in agony. The sex is good. A long time since I had a good time. I feel the cold edge of the blade as I dunk the razor in the shaving-water. My upper lip looks bruised. Form follows function. I come out of the bathroom, do a quick search around my room for my parka, wrap it around myself and feel the cold night air bite my exposed face. Come July, and the weather is almost pleasant. The streetlights are cold and flickering. The bodies around me moan as they weave in and out of focus. I go inside a bar, sit on the bar-stool and ask the bartender for a drink. He knows I'm underage, but he also knows I'm a regular. I come here with my father often and we exchange pleasantries with this soft-spoken man behind the counter. The Dandy Warhols. Good. He brings me white rum, with a dash of lemon. I look at my drink, then take a mindful sip. I wait for the date. Tonight, I'm the Passenger.

Dangerous prosthetic.

I'm winning prizes. I'm going places. Yet, I long to whisper to him that I don't need him. All I can manage to do is whimper. His eyes are unforgiving. His brilliance scares me.

Consummation of grief, heal thyself.

When the clock strikes twelve, I will be a voracious litterateur slash theatre-dabbler slash art aficionado slash moral philanderer slash academic achiever slash Post-War dreamer slash whatever.

'Rhetoric',he screams. My electronic identity is taking a hit with each post, and I have lost count of the metaphors I last used to describe my wilfulness. There's no reason that my ego should be receiving these hits with alacrity. I play with the Styrofoam coffee-cup, inspecting the brown dregs with disinterest.I observe sullenly that I'm not quite my usual testy self. Which would mean that the caffeine is calming me, soothing my nerves, kissing my palpitations goodbye. I am reading in the airport lounge today. A paperback edition of An Equal Music (Vikram Seth) rests snugly on my lap. I am shifty, because the announcer has very formally informed us of the flights delay by an hour. I hang around in the Bookshop and then walk the length of the Duty-free shop without really giving the items so much as a glance. Then,I walk into the Jet Executive Lounge and begin reading. I had read the book a year ago, so I am quite aware of the predicament Michael was in. I stow the book away in my backpack. I lean on the handrail and look around casually, my eyes roving the terminal for an out-of-place sight, an unnoticed sound. A little here,a little there.

A little way off from the place where the bored policemen are frisking the passengers, I see a girl maneuvering expertly through the long file of commuters. About my age, wheatish, black-haired, her hair tied back into a ponytail. She is dressed demurely in a salwar-kameez, but the way she carries herself tells me that she knew more about Coco Chanel and Manolo Blahnik than any number of the garishly dressed females here. Her handbag is slung rakishly on one shoulder. I spy a book in her hand. I squint my eyes narrowly to catch a glimpse of the title. Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. Good God. I look at her hands. They are slender and beautiful, and the fingernails are carefully manicured. Yet,there is a restless urgency about her, it shows through her sense of security and it makes her look vulnerable. And beautiful. These fleeting moments. Where the other person is so inaccessible, yet so tangible in every other way that sexuality is heightened, and perception, as we know it, glues itself to individual opinion.
Then, without warning, she catches my eye. Something stirs in the brown irises. There is a hasty tidying up of misplaced recognition,and she looks away,blushing a furious crimson. Then, she turns her head and looks at me again. Her lips purse and the hand clutching the handbag turns white. I walk away, humming to myself. Better to let these moments be.