… who loved breaking as much as building. It made him feel fresh and new and free. There were times when he built an immensely intricate lego puzzle, all the while looking forward to smashing it into its inherent tiny little atoms of desire.
…whose abiding flaw was what he called I-know-exactly-what-you-are-talking-about syndrome. No experience, no story was fresh or new for him, everything a sense of deja vu. Even the flaw itself was a part of the syndrome if you know exactly what I mean.
…who never jerked off to any woman he knew wouldn’t have him. Wasn’t it rape, his mind asked him? Fucking a woman who didn’t want to be fucked by you? When his friends jerked off to Katrina Kaif and Deepika Padukone and the college hottie who never gave them a second glance, imagining them spreading their legs and their pussy lips, and begging for a fuck, he stuck to women who were his friends or ex lovers or women who could be had one day. Did laws apply to the dream world too, he sometimes wondered.
…who loved grabbing the pussy of his partner when she was asleep when he wanted to jerk off. Just hold it firmly like you would a hand rail on which your life depended. That was the best kept secret of sex, how resilient pussies were, how much they liked being grabbed. If only men knew, their hands would treat breasts with a gentleness they deserved and pussies with the firmness that they so apparently wanted instead of vice versa. Once his wife came to know, it became their favourite foreplay, pussy pinching.
…whose one endearing quality was his affection. For buildings, for people who built them, for people who lived in them- which is to say everyone. He would see an ugly man picking his nose sitting across him in a salon and think of how he would describe his eyes if he were writing a novel, or what sort of a house would he build for him? Probably one with a booger shaft in all his rooms directly connected to the main drainage. Then he would go into the technical details and start loving the man already.
…who once fell in love with a glass house with no windows. All the stones he threw to break the windows sunk in glass like it were water. Finally he concluded there was no one inside, and instantly hated the house.
…whose conclusions tended to change every time the sun hit the glass at another angle, which is to say three times a day. It was a mark of a mind in the present, wasn’t it?
…who wrote a love song, the best that ever was, as Donald Trump would say, and shouted it out in a concrete jungle with no one to hear.
…who loved his profession as there are no echoes in glass and concrete. What is lost is lost. There is only freedom.