I stood there, stealing glimpses of you; my face, being caressed by the coarseness of the cemented pillar; you walked past me, etching an image of red in my mind; the “lal teep” and your saree stripped in red, adding a contrast to your dark and pale skin, your lips chapped and faded. Your footsteps falling against the ground which lay ornamented with the dry twigs left a monotonous sound; you walked only to leave my ears with a different muse.
That night, I found myself reliving the memory of you, only wishing I could’ve found a name I could christen you with. Drowning in lust, my hands found their way unentangling the knot of the “dhoti”, moving further down under. I could only imagine your face as my manliness felt the rigor form of my fisted hand. My body was virgin to the sensation I was going through, I was foreign to the feeling; I felt elated. Ecstacy was soon over taken by the feeling of guilt. I felt terrible; my childhood was broken.
Cigarettes and ashes. 