Meeting you, at that Indie concert, where a local band covered Marc Broussard, and being enveloped in the blue haze of the lighting, while looking at the dark beige of the cocktail in your hands gave me freedom from a society full of obscurantism, suspicions and superstitions. We were young, rebellious and carefree, so disintegrated and yet held together by our individual and collective red bands of anarchism. I think of then now, and though age has made me nuanced and more eloquent, toning down my Rabelaisian wit, and raw hunger for independence, making me want to give and take, forgive and respect, and no longer dismiss convention with a flip of the finger like I’d have done then, a part of me still wants the thrill of existing with you in motel rooms, making our own music – while some band performs downstairs – with each gentle bite of the lip, with me unhooking your bra, and you gently unbuttoning me. You always liked that scar on my stomach. A part of me wants us studying every inch of each other, while skin grazes skin, and whispers and echoes of something primal, something medieval, give us the pleasure and pain of becoming one, and our synergy gives us this heightened sense of both awareness and dissociation – the apex of our union. But this is just one facet of our relationship that I crave for. I also long for the subtle, spontaneous kisses, when you look at me with a faint lascivious smile, and I draw you closer and hold you. I long for impromptu dances in the slice of the moonlight, in closed parks, after we climb the locked gates and find in each other the courage and strength to dare to dream for more. And, I long to just see you again, because I know that who we’ve become won’t matter. There’ll always be an outpouring of laughter and tears and we’ll still love each other like we did then.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)