Vibhavari Desai (18)
Kharghar
Whenever I shut my eyes and think of Kharghar, I am back in your arms, like many years ago. Back then, as we strolled through the winding lanes of the city which embraced us with open arms, the blaring bottleneck, the Lego-like multicoloured apartments, and the dark mole on the side of your neck became more of a home to me than the scattered memories of the odd fishing trips my father took me on, a decade before I met you.
I have now taught myself to not think of Kharghar, but on those odd nights when there is nothing but a stretch of darkness, my wandering mind drifts back to the train rides—to your fingers pausing near my wrist before walking into my palm; the tender chicken filling stuffed between the warm slices of bread; and the disappointment etched on your face, every time I got off at my station.
Each time I drive past Hotel Royal Tulip, I inevitably float back to your bedroom and to those never-ending hours we spent thumbing through home-decor magazines, pointing at cozy kitchenettes and king-sized beds, circling the ones we loved with a pen and earmarking those pages.
I have, since the time we first met, hoarded colourful pieces of you—the fleeting gold of your laughter or the way you entwined your fingers with mine as we watched the sun set every evening or the curve of your lips tugging upwards at the sight of the purple orchids on the bed. On the way, however, I lost some parts, wishing over and over that we could relive those careless monsoon days, when I wanted to be nothing more than the raindrops trickling down your face.
Now, I cannot recite the words to your favourite songs. On the tip of my tongue, they seem alien, like waking up in a bed that is not mine. Back then, though, we would sing along when the familiar tunes echoed in cheap diners, and you would tell me how you always wanted to cook while the singers you loved crooned in the background, and your beloved wrapped his arms around your waist. But then, after what would seem like a fraction of a second, you would laugh bitterly and say that no man would take you home to his mother.
In some half-remembered fantasy, we still sit on the rooftop of my building, our legs dangerously swaying from the parapet, a half-burnt cigarette dangling from between your lips, while my eyes follow the grey ash that the breeze scatters. Had someone questioned what terrified me the most, my answer wouldn’t have been death; it would’ve been the idea of climbing down the stairs and going our separate ways.
Where I wake up now, it is a grid of matchbox lives, all of whom confine themselves to binaries, monochromatic schemes and the dull tick-tock of a clock that refuses to stop—the city does not sleep and I doubt I ever will. I know that I should not, but every now and then, I wonder if your neighbours could have peeped through your window on the fifteenth floor, the hastily-drawn curtains inviting onlookers to a careless peepshow, and watched you pin me up against the wall, a devious smile lighting up your face. I recall vividly how I cautiously wrapped my arms around your waist, a sense of newness seeping through my skin, liquefying my bones. I smiled back as if to say finally.
We were sitting in an abandoned pizzeria that we had discovered three days ago, after a round of frantic love-making, when I traced patterns on the back of your hand, starting from your knuckles down till your wrist, which seemed to resemble the defunct train track next to which we shared our first kiss. I did not know this back then but you considered yourself to be a marooned sailor, betrayed, stranded, with just a gun in your hand, which contained a single bullet. One night, when we huddled close to each other, you feasted ferociously on the edges of my lips and I devoured your mouth like an explorer stumbling upon something immemorial. I had not realised this back then, but you used up your only bullet. It was a shot in the dark. And when I woke up, hours later, all traces of you had simply vanished like a bottle of acetone left open for too long.
I am guilty of sipping coffee from the only mug which sits on my desk, and wondering why I woke up alone in your bed. I think I know the answer, but that does not make this chronic craving any easier to feed.
You knew that I fell in love too easily and forgot slowly; perhaps that is why misplaced distrust clouded your eyes, when I scribbled declarations of love on the back of tissues. Call me cynical, but forever was never a concept that you believed in; I was sure that you would leave. So, although we played footsie under the table while the waitress repeated our order, and you looked into my eyes as we made love on wintry nights, we were a cosmic joke.
Sometimes, I pause in my tracks, staring at a woman on the street because her eyes radiate an intimacy that yours suppressed with every blink. Most of the time, when I am driving through the city that still doesn't feel like home, I think of the ease with which you disappeared, like soap bubbles in the air. I do not know where you are, I do not know if you still admire the night sky and its twinkling stars, I do not know whether you dance in your kitchen every night or not, but I know that you were never a coffee stain on a white tablecloth; you were the forest fire that destroyed the entire goddamn town, and although time has passed, I see your footprints in the charred remnants, every now and then. Even though I have taught myself to not think of the stolen moments in Kharghar, I still allow my thoughts to crawl back to you, and I cannot help but question if that is what migrating flamingos think of—home; you were my home.
As an undergraduate studying in FLAME University, Vibhavari has an avid interest in Abnormal Psychology. She absolutely adores cats, coffee and cup noodles, in no particular order. She has previously been published in Issue Two of Body Without Organs. She also writes for an independent magazine run by students of her university.
Kharghar
Whenever I shut my eyes and think of Kharghar, I am back in your arms, like many years ago. Back then, as we strolled through the winding lanes of the city which embraced us with open arms, the blaring bottleneck, the Lego-like multicoloured apartments, and the dark mole on the side of your neck became more of a home to me than the scattered memories of the odd fishing trips my father took me on, a decade before I met you.
I have now taught myself to not think of Kharghar, but on those odd nights when there is nothing but a stretch of darkness, my wandering mind drifts back to the train rides—to your fingers pausing near my wrist before walking into my palm; the tender chicken filling stuffed between the warm slices of bread; and the disappointment etched on your face, every time I got off at my station.
Each time I drive past Hotel Royal Tulip, I inevitably float back to your bedroom and to those never-ending hours we spent thumbing through home-decor magazines, pointing at cozy kitchenettes and king-sized beds, circling the ones we loved with a pen and earmarking those pages.
I have, since the time we first met, hoarded colourful pieces of you—the fleeting gold of your laughter or the way you entwined your fingers with mine as we watched the sun set every evening or the curve of your lips tugging upwards at the sight of the purple orchids on the bed. On the way, however, I lost some parts, wishing over and over that we could relive those careless monsoon days, when I wanted to be nothing more than the raindrops trickling down your face.
Now, I cannot recite the words to your favourite songs. On the tip of my tongue, they seem alien, like waking up in a bed that is not mine. Back then, though, we would sing along when the familiar tunes echoed in cheap diners, and you would tell me how you always wanted to cook while the singers you loved crooned in the background, and your beloved wrapped his arms around your waist. But then, after what would seem like a fraction of a second, you would laugh bitterly and say that no man would take you home to his mother.
In some half-remembered fantasy, we still sit on the rooftop of my building, our legs dangerously swaying from the parapet, a half-burnt cigarette dangling from between your lips, while my eyes follow the grey ash that the breeze scatters. Had someone questioned what terrified me the most, my answer wouldn’t have been death; it would’ve been the idea of climbing down the stairs and going our separate ways.
Where I wake up now, it is a grid of matchbox lives, all of whom confine themselves to binaries, monochromatic schemes and the dull tick-tock of a clock that refuses to stop—the city does not sleep and I doubt I ever will. I know that I should not, but every now and then, I wonder if your neighbours could have peeped through your window on the fifteenth floor, the hastily-drawn curtains inviting onlookers to a careless peepshow, and watched you pin me up against the wall, a devious smile lighting up your face. I recall vividly how I cautiously wrapped my arms around your waist, a sense of newness seeping through my skin, liquefying my bones. I smiled back as if to say finally.
We were sitting in an abandoned pizzeria that we had discovered three days ago, after a round of frantic love-making, when I traced patterns on the back of your hand, starting from your knuckles down till your wrist, which seemed to resemble the defunct train track next to which we shared our first kiss. I did not know this back then but you considered yourself to be a marooned sailor, betrayed, stranded, with just a gun in your hand, which contained a single bullet. One night, when we huddled close to each other, you feasted ferociously on the edges of my lips and I devoured your mouth like an explorer stumbling upon something immemorial. I had not realised this back then, but you used up your only bullet. It was a shot in the dark. And when I woke up, hours later, all traces of you had simply vanished like a bottle of acetone left open for too long.
I am guilty of sipping coffee from the only mug which sits on my desk, and wondering why I woke up alone in your bed. I think I know the answer, but that does not make this chronic craving any easier to feed.
You knew that I fell in love too easily and forgot slowly; perhaps that is why misplaced distrust clouded your eyes, when I scribbled declarations of love on the back of tissues. Call me cynical, but forever was never a concept that you believed in; I was sure that you would leave. So, although we played footsie under the table while the waitress repeated our order, and you looked into my eyes as we made love on wintry nights, we were a cosmic joke.
Sometimes, I pause in my tracks, staring at a woman on the street because her eyes radiate an intimacy that yours suppressed with every blink. Most of the time, when I am driving through the city that still doesn't feel like home, I think of the ease with which you disappeared, like soap bubbles in the air. I do not know where you are, I do not know if you still admire the night sky and its twinkling stars, I do not know whether you dance in your kitchen every night or not, but I know that you were never a coffee stain on a white tablecloth; you were the forest fire that destroyed the entire goddamn town, and although time has passed, I see your footprints in the charred remnants, every now and then. Even though I have taught myself to not think of the stolen moments in Kharghar, I still allow my thoughts to crawl back to you, and I cannot help but question if that is what migrating flamingos think of—home; you were my home.
As an undergraduate studying in FLAME University, Vibhavari has an avid interest in Abnormal Psychology. She absolutely adores cats, coffee and cup noodles, in no particular order. She has previously been published in Issue Two of Body Without Organs. She also writes for an independent magazine run by students of her university.