What I write about when I write about writing

We are two abysses.

A well staring at the sky.

Mirroring it, in the only way it can.

The more you soar, the higher you fly, the better you get, the deeper I will dig into myself.

And a deep well only gets darker, but it has the confidence of mirroring clear blue sky carrying it along.

That’s the only way I can keep up.

They say there are two ways to reach infinity from zero on the number line.

One infinity. Two opposite directions.

Never shall they meet. Yet they shall reach together – if you think about it, there’s no difference between two sets of infinities. There’s an infinity of numbers between zero and one. There’s an infinite number of prime numbers. And there are infinite numbers. All infinities, albeit of different sizes but proudly carrying one name.

If excellence that comes naturally to you doesn’t bless me, I shall chase absurdity. If brilliance doesn’t cast a shadow on me, I shall go and touch depravity.

When dark clouds in the sky, sooner or later, will obstruct my view, I shall rejoice in their reflection in me. If the brilliant blue blinds me, I shall offer you black to keep up the contrast. I shall keep digging in the confidence that your vastness covers my pettiness, your invincibility makes up for my vulnerability, that when you need to rain, I shall be deep enough to contain every drop within me.

But I shall not slow down. I shall not back down. I shall keep up.

And maybe as you get higher and higher, maybe when you leave dust and gravity and atmosphere behind, maybe you will force me to dig so deep, that I shall find crystal clear water from the bowels of the earth.

Maybe that will quench my inexcusable thirst.

For you. For everything that you think. For everything that touches you. For everything that makes up what is you.

Everything that I am looking for – I shall have to find within myself.

And I will.

Encounters – 17



I had a new low last week which laid my assumptions to rest, one assumption that I have learnt to live with the low frequency of action without letting it get to me, and the other that I have grown up a bit. I’ve a colleague I meet occasionally when I go work for her and I have become quite decent friends with her over last year. And we were working together standing next to each other when I suddenly realized that I had a… view. I’ve outgrown the peeping tom phase since a couple of decades, and it has become almost instinctive to turn away when any such thing occurs by chance. But for once, maybe because her cleavage was utterly enchanting, maybe because it was an utter aberration in the surroundings, maybe because I had never even once thought of her sexually in my head though she’s quite the looker, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off. It was as if both persons had disappeared and a dick (literally and figuratively) was in the presence of breasts. Boobs. Trying to catch a glimpse of the tits. I always have a belief that women uncannily know as soon as you look at their cleavage, that its a test you have to ace by denial if you ever want to befriend that woman, that for some women who like showing a bit of cleavage, there’s only that tiny split second when you are supposed to look, and acknowledge with appreciation, staring any more than that is just creepy. But men are masters at rationalization when they are being ruled by their dicks. I told myself – I shall catch her eye and then look away, she’ll realize and shift position. If she doesnt, I shall watch. And I did catch her eye but there wasn’t a hint of awkwardness in her tone, she kept telling the story she was saying while we kept working and so I said fuck it how’s it going to harm if I keep looking and I kept looking till I could without being caught.

When I reached home, all I could think about was I need to see some boobs. I need to touch some. I need to kiss some. Right now. I don’t need a woman, I don’t need love, I don’t need sex, I just need breasts and nipples and taking off bra straps and I need my mouth to be there where I was mentally a couple of hours ago. What an easier time it was when I was a horny teen – all I needed was a glimpse, a show of skin from a beautiful woman, and I could get as high as an eagle in a minute, gliding away in my own world. This foreplay and this ritual and this entire elongated process of niceties has ruined sex for me, hasn’t it? I felt like a kid again today, staring at boobs, convincing myself that every woman is a closet exhibitionist, and rather not thinking at all for once, no propriety, no judgement of self – because let’s face it – ever since I laid down rules of conduct for myself about even thinking about sex, I have been the strictest critic of self. I needed to be let loose today. I needed to touch some breasts.

The partner, as usual had fallen asleep, while putting the kids to sleep, and was looking like an angel, gently snoring, so peaceful. It wasn’t even 10 pm and I didn’t want to watch porn, I didn’t want to jerk off myself to sleep. I snuggled besides her, gently cuddling her, trying to wake her up, kissing her neck, her ears ever so gently while my fingers caressed her midriff. That’s the key, remember that. Never wake a woman up by touching her breasts or her pussy, never grope, cup, be forceful. Stick to non-erotic areas because strangely even horny women hate that unless they are really turned on and by that time generally you are too far gone to think of anything except getting your dick in and going wham wham wham. Stick to midriff, collarbone, shoulder, neck, maybe the ass if the woman likes it. Not even feet or thighs cos many women are really ticklish and its best to let them get warmed up first. So I kept snuggling and pecking and necking but she was snoring as if someone had force fed 5 mg alprazolam to her. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Not even the usual pushing me away in sleep.

It was then, when the man in me generally curses silently, promises himself that one day he will have an affair as revenge, etc etc that after a long time, the boy in me sensed an opportunity to have what he wanted. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Cup them. Grope them. Touch them. Slide your hands inside her top to feel the nipples, kiss them through her dress, push it away and kiss them if you dare, suck over them like a baby, do whatever that boy staring with the tongue out at a fucking glimpse of boobs would have done. Try as hard as you can to wake her up – so that Christmas would come early. If not, fulfill your fantasy. Win-win.

But is one ever satisfied? 10 mins into my game, I thought of another one. Could I undress her without waking her up?

Now that’s a story for a different day.


Our sense of aesthetic is complicated by our effort to try and capture it in words. I blame a lot of it on the concept of cheesy. I am tired of sincerity and honesty being something I have to be afraid of doing. I am too tired of being too cool, being too temperate, being measured because that’s how smart people are, a little less truthful than they actually feel about things, a little less passionate, all to beat that cheesy bugbear. 

There’s only one reason not to be cheesy and that’s because words face inflation the same way money does. They seem to have lost their value when you try to express something and that’s because everything is imperfect. There’s no sunrise so lovely that it couldn’t be lovelier. No mountain so tempting that you don’t want to climb another one. No breeze so gentle putting us to sleep on a bed of grass that there couldn’t be a sounder sleep. No orgasm so complete that you stop looking for a more intense one. 

There’s no end to looking further. There’s no word you can use where you won’t need a superlative sometime in the future. 

So one can’t be cheesy when one wants to. One may feel he or she is being sincere, but at a later date, you run out of superlatives. 

Why on earth does this fact not apply to everything, everything at all? Why are we limited to absolutes in certain things, in which we absolutely do not need to? Why isn’t there any inflation or deflation in our way of seeing things, why must we surrender to irrevocable truths? 

Why can’t there be a dozen women who could and would look as beautiful, inspire the same stop-in-the-tracks jolt, to me? 

A brief history of covetousness

Sometimes I wonder about the strangest of the things. 

Why is there sand on a beach? 

Is the beach just a piece of land which got lucky due to its proximity to that great big ocean, did the ocean gift it all this sand which makes it beautiful at some lucky date in the past, or did the sand pile up, one day at a time, grain upon grain, a tiny everyday gift and before you knew it, the beach got fundamentally altered, became something it wasn’t before the ocean met it, before it got used to the tides washing it clean and leaving it soaked every day according to schedule. Before you knew it, the beach was sand, just sand, it’s identity irreversibly linked to the ocean, it’s most visible trait all a silent gift, all intertwined in the land and the ocean, you couldn’t say where one started and the other ended, you just couldn’t however hard you tried. 

And when the tide wouldn’t come, when the sand would be carried away back where it belonged, a realization would strike that maybe it wasn’t a gift, it was a loan whenever the ocean came to meet it which it took back when it left, it had become complacent in confusing a loan with a gift. 

For a few days, it would remain salty, moist, holding on to that taste in every pore. Then, with the sun beating down, the wetness would slowly turn into just a memory, though you only had to dig in a shovel to find what you were looking for, something irretrievably a part of itself but hidden from the sea itself, a brazen hiding of its neediness in plain sight . 

But, when you get down to the brass tacks, if there’s no tide, just what is the beach without an ocean? 

Just mud.