It started out as fun -
him and you giggling and nibbling ears, taking turns to pin each other down.
It got a little rough -
every time you showed a little strength; it was a game after all and you didn't mind.
It felt comforting to touch, to know intimately -
the lines of thought on his forehead,
the crow-feet around his eyes that rendered them grave,
the folds of skin that fell limp when he turned his neck,
the brown gums gaping through growing gaps in his tiny teeth and carrying gritty remnants of raw tobacco.
They were muddy, the waters -
you could see yourself and imagine your future, but it lacked depth.
You were probably just driftwood caught in the tempest.
You thought it romantic.
He couldn't tell his friends you both holed up together;
they wouldn't approve or understand, he said.
He couldn't tell his parents about you;
they were orthodox and wouldn't understand, he said.
He couldn't let his daughter see you when she visited;
she was too young and wouldn't understand, he said.
His ex-but not-yet-divorced-wife couldn't know you had sex and he couldn't get a divorce, and you didn't know that she didn't know. No, bizarrely, you just hold hands!
But let's start over, he said.
You understood, or thought you did. You believed him.
It was three years too late before you knew what it meant that he knew nothing about you -
not even the obvious marks of identification that you joyfully jotted down for your passport that carried his security signature,
not the strands that curled against the strands that waved and fell on his bare chest,
not the side of cheek that dipped, nor the side that didn't.
You had mistaken the obvious red flags for boyish forgetfulness, as obvious and as red as they were.
Once, outside the lofty bar, wrapping your arms around yourself against the Bangalore breeze,
you didn't want to be driftwood, you said.
He said it was PMS!
He put on his shining armour and dazzled you with a warm kiss on the forehead and a warm tummy rub.
It was a joke, he said. He made you laugh. He made everybody laugh, especially after a few Vodka-Bulls.
The joke was on you.
It had gotten rougher and it was now a sport, bordering on unfamiliar territory of psychological bend -
the tickling seemed unfriendly and the fondling of breasts, a purposeful patriarchal punishment.
You continued to laugh, until you couldn't -
for there was no shamed and battered male part to grope for a win.
him and you giggling and nibbling ears, taking turns to pin each other down.
It got a little rough -
every time you showed a little strength; it was a game after all and you didn't mind.
It felt comforting to touch, to know intimately -
the lines of thought on his forehead,
the crow-feet around his eyes that rendered them grave,
the folds of skin that fell limp when he turned his neck,
the brown gums gaping through growing gaps in his tiny teeth and carrying gritty remnants of raw tobacco.
They were muddy, the waters -
you could see yourself and imagine your future, but it lacked depth.
You were probably just driftwood caught in the tempest.
You thought it romantic.
He couldn't tell his friends you both holed up together;
they wouldn't approve or understand, he said.
He couldn't tell his parents about you;
they were orthodox and wouldn't understand, he said.
He couldn't let his daughter see you when she visited;
she was too young and wouldn't understand, he said.
His ex-but not-yet-divorced-wife couldn't know you had sex and he couldn't get a divorce, and you didn't know that she didn't know. No, bizarrely, you just hold hands!
But let's start over, he said.
You understood, or thought you did. You believed him.
It was three years too late before you knew what it meant that he knew nothing about you -
not even the obvious marks of identification that you joyfully jotted down for your passport that carried his security signature,
not the strands that curled against the strands that waved and fell on his bare chest,
not the side of cheek that dipped, nor the side that didn't.
You had mistaken the obvious red flags for boyish forgetfulness, as obvious and as red as they were.
Once, outside the lofty bar, wrapping your arms around yourself against the Bangalore breeze,
you didn't want to be driftwood, you said.
He said it was PMS!
He put on his shining armour and dazzled you with a warm kiss on the forehead and a warm tummy rub.
It was a joke, he said. He made you laugh. He made everybody laugh, especially after a few Vodka-Bulls.
The joke was on you.
It had gotten rougher and it was now a sport, bordering on unfamiliar territory of psychological bend -
the tickling seemed unfriendly and the fondling of breasts, a purposeful patriarchal punishment.
You continued to laugh, until you couldn't -
for there was no shamed and battered male part to grope for a win.
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