“The sex is so good.” I used to gush like a mynah bird. Heard a bulbul sing recently? Intently? Kyun nahin, nahin, kyun nahin, nahin. Sounds don’t translate; words do. Be mindful where you place your words, your love. Making love is not the same as love making. Frangipani cradles the last run of sun in his lit-up groins; knobby tree trunks know light is a migrant. The day the surgeon’s solution glowered like a boon; I ate kadhi-chawal with blackened lemon pickle. My tongue lingered on the cold moon of the steel plate. “Live. You’re young. You have a young wife.” As distant as someone else’s grief, I heard the euphony of the two words—unstable bladder—placed side by side like us and why us and what if. Nerves carry impulses. Locked in my car, I cried once. Even while getting groceries. Our fingers, lips, skin, breath, eyes, pores remember the ripples. We are the shores those ripples seek. Come, let us let them quiver us once again. This is the love we are making – kyun nahin, nahin, kyun nahin,nahin. Ocean-songs of your heartbeat wash me salty. You snuggle deep. I close my eyes.
Love is a paper boat sailing in swollen drains. We don’t need to create Adam and Eve.