ABHI_CONSC

I believe it's easy to write boring sex—that which is mechanical, objectified, full of faked voices, lacking gentle touch or rough kisses, and ending in a one-sided climax.  Both turn over and never meet eyes again for the rest of the time. How distasteful and unpassionate it sounds; nevertheless, it is uglier in the act. Sex is one of the most intimate and passionate arts of human physical experience. It needs to be enjoyed boldly and fully, not in a sober manner—it should be like being drunk on the heavenly nectar of a trance.  Each touch has to delicately explore the curves and rises like attempting an archaeological discovery.  Each kiss should leave the lips throbbing like a heart on a cardio machine.  Each moan needs to wake the devil from its sleep and ask in awe, "Where the hell is this coming from?" Nipples sensitized and baptized with a tongue tip.  The bones and curves of the waist kissed so softly that the diaphragm pulls up.  The th...

Camus once wrote that the very thing which gives one a reason to live can also become a reason to die. I'm paraphrasing here, but this is what it meant, in gist. Initially, whenever I read this, I thought, "What does it mean?" I mean, how can something one loves be a cause of one's death? But now, as I come to realize it, I wish I had never read it in the first place. The settling of this thought is very disturbing — so disturbing that it is dead calm, and there is nothing more terrifying than a storm that goes silent within one. We have all loved something once, very deeply — so deeply that we thought of it as our whole life. But there comes a day when it all vanishes, it all breaks, and never returns. Now the same dreams, the same memories, ache daily, and slowly the thing that kept you alive kills you the same way. You cannot die, as you did not live because of that thing. But neither living nor dying seems a rightful recourse from this. The voice that ...

Club-bar midnight, three drinks upright, world swirls like a jet flight. Hands on the thighs and kisses on the neck, sweat on the palms and lips on the neck. Post-midnight, in the corner, still kissing, but somewhat somber. On the table-top, hands on the waist— drinks spill, oh, what a waste! Lips moving towards the lips, locks in and pulls it all in, tongues searching to reconnect, but dissect feels more passionate. Lifting up and locking eyes as they met, both knowing where this will end. In the morning, in the bedroom, waking up, pulling her close. The night has been a wild ride, with animals howling, running wild on the loose. Moonlight dancing on the sheet, making shadows as bodies meet. The night has to end, the stars retreat. The messy room and sweat on the sheets all tell the tale of last night.

कल तुम्हारा दिया हुआ आखिरी खत मिला। ना जाने क्या ढूँढते हुए मैं कमरे के उस कोने में चला गया, जहाँ यूँ तो बरसों से झांकना नहीं हुआ था। यहाँ एक कोने में बहुत सलीके से मोड़ा हुआ एक कागज़ का टुकड़ा था, जिसमें अभी भी तुम्हारी खुशबू बरकरार थी। थोड़ी देर मैंने सोचा कि यह कागज़ यहाँ क्या कर रहा है। फिर याद आया, जब तुम गए थे तो मैंने तुम्हारी दी हुई सारी चीजें घर के अलग-अलग कोनों में छुपा दी थीं, इस उम्मीद से कि मैं फिर अब इन्हें कभी नहीं देखूँगा। शायद यही वो चीजें हैं जो रोज़ रात को खुसर-पुसर करती हैं, इस इंतज़ार में कि किस दिन मैं इन्हें मुक्ति दे दूँ। परंतु मुक्ति तो मैं खुद को भी नहीं दे पाया हूँ, इसीलिए तो यह खत यहाँ छुपा हुआ था, वरना जल चुका होता। जला ही देना चाहिए था, पर जब भी जलाने का सोचा, तब माचिस की तीली से सिगरेट जलाना ज्यादा सुंदर लगा... और यह खत जलाना स्वास्थ्य के लिए हानिकारक, इसीलिए इन्हें मैंने छुपा दिया था। खत को देख कर लगता है कि यह तुम्हारा आखिरी खत था। आखिरी इसलिए बोल रहा हूँ क्योंकि यह खुला नहीं है, मैंने कभी इसे पढ़ा नहीं। तुम्हारे जाने का कारण आज भी मुझे नहीं पता। लगता ह...