Women in Life

Do I need more?

To the remains of my untortured past

One of the thousand things we didn’t discuss while in love was the winter of Mauryan era. I don’t know if it holds anything of the slightest importance, or in that case, if it smelt different or felt amazing, I know nothing of that sort.

But comrade when we could pick up certain things straight form trivia and attach extraordinary significance to them and assume them to be love, then we could very well have attended to things that demand our imagery.

Nevertheless. Trifle is a literary paradox. It always cocoons the subtlest and the most remarkable of things.

I invite you to explore through one of such trivially significant domains.

WINTERS OF THE MAURYAN ERA

They were cold. Frosty at places. A south-eastern wind blew gently over the plains with its perennial stock of dew. It planted a drop each on infant leaves of a shrub extinct now. A courtesan at Chandragupta’s palace once told me that these winds emanated form the nostrils of maidens who had just discovered the art of love. Their mates could trace them in the dew drops, glistening on the leaves of that tiny shrub, Ria.

of smells and touches

Of smells and touches….


On a hay bed
She pretends to be asleep
As I breathe her breaths
In the dim of a lantern

On her back
What does it matter
They are not my fingers now


The cold bounces on an autorickshaw
As we stitch a night together
Between the warmth of her inner thighs

What does it matter
Those shivering palms are not mine


The asymmetry of a jungle
A sky falls in drops
To console a begging soul
She keeps a promise

What does it matter
Those geographies of Lakha remain extinct


In the adjacency of a room
I wait for papa to sleep
As she swathes my desires
With that irresistible smell of her’s

The room’s invisible
And what does it matter
Its my turn to sleep now…