As the auto chugged through Chennai’s late morning sun, I saw two young men at the gate of a house. One young man stroked the other’s cheek, fingers mapping that stubbled terrain, while the other young man held still, arms loosely held at their side, ever so slightly leaning in. That slight tilt of their head seemed to throw the sentence in my head in disarray; it was unclear what the subject and the object was. Was it the young man stroking the other’s cheek, or was it the young man’s cheek pressing into those exploring fingers. Framed by the gate, they formed untitled tableau, for, sometimes, words do not know the difference between static and stillness.
As I got ready to leave for the early morning train, I hesitated by their bed. They were asleep, their body quiet and still, the fan’s whooshes insisting nothing had changed, the sky outside dabbing out the night’s dark was not their concern. The door had to be latched, and so, with the fan looming its disapproval, I woke them up. We hugged, their limbs still thick with sleep. I did not need to say good bye.
I want to write something. I type and then retype, and then go back to the book. There is so much I want to say, I think. After a while, the phone pings, announcing another bot who wishes to say hello and offer discount on pest control services. I watch the moon with its jaw punched in. I message, saying, ‘Send hugs’. I get ‘Hugs.’, and emojis.
I wake up thinking, maybe, I will write a letter. Maybe, I will write the letter in my journal, with the pen’s nib scratching out my thoughts like a gramophone needle. I woke up before the alarm marked time, and I have not yet written anything. Something inside feels still. I think I shall wait till I see them someday, and I can hug them again.
Maybe, there’s something feral in us when it comes to love.
Middle aged 