RassMalaai Rites

There was a slight rustle in the palm tree across the garden abutting the lake and I noticed an old worn-out branch crashing on the manicured lawn below. The city lights reflected in the water and the moon shone bright in a starless sky. I could neither hear the water rippling slowly nor the cars driving by on the other side of the lake made any sound. Just tiny flickers of light following each other, as if in a school parade instructed by a rather stern-looking instructor. I stubbed my cigarette on the rusty balcony railing and waited for the smoke to vanish completely before heading back into the room to plant myself between two bodies and be alone again.   I often find myself alone with my thoughts. Sometimes, it seems like a pointless, melancholic and pretentious exercise of talking to myself. Sometimes, I want to write them down that very moment but often don’t for either lack of effort or resources. And sometimes, I go into long winding imaginations of the future, rather of mysel

I don’t want to dwell in the past. But sometimes, it flashes across my mind. That of being decked up. That of my sister saying that I don't need to be stuffed with oranges, I have a plump chest anyway. Of staring at my mother getting ready. Her jewellery. Her cheap, sticky, cakey foundation which she sometimes applied on me. Touching her sarees and feeling beautiful just looking at them. Of observing how my mother and sister emerged from a bath with one towel wrapped around their heads and another pulled upto above their breasts. I imitated that, and no one really said anything. Today, when I put on my sister’s or my girlfriends’ dresses and look in the mirror, I go wow. Who is she? Where was she? When my chest fits into those padded bras, I can’t help feeling gorgeous. When these clothes fit me perfectly, I don’t want to take them off. I want to walk, eat and sleep in them. But when I do take them off and my eyes travel down to my penis, there is a certain awkwardness. Why is it