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 m...

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 ...

Such a weird creature, desire. A few weeks ago, I was narrating my experience of a date to a friend. Although things didn't work out eventually, the night itself was memorable. We had dinner, went on a drive, made out in his car and debated the logistics of having sex in that limited space. But we didn't. Especially because I wanted the date to go, for once, according to me. And anyway, I enjoy making out more than anything else. I can spend hours exploring a person's mouth, ruffling through their hair and touching their skin. And he was happy to oblige. Whenever I think of that night, I ask myself this question - What do I really miss? The person, or the experience? Are these two questions so exclusive anyway? However, the answer is always 'experience'. I do miss the excitement of getting ready, going out, taking the metro, stepping into a restaurant, to (preferably) see someone waiting, talking and then (hopefully) going for a walk or a drive. I miss the process. ...

Is it fascination or identification? I would not say that I have been struggling  with this conundrum "all my life". But there are several moments of comfort that I can recall. All these moments of comfort (actually not "all" but at least the ones I have in mind) are ones where I dressed in a "woman's" attire. Other than looking (objectively) pretty, there was also a sense of being in one's own skin. An exhilarating feeling of being extremely true to oneself. However, these moments have been extremely private, if one discounts the "dressing up as the other gender" that almost every elder sibling subjects their guinea pigs to, in full-family view, often photographed and memorialized. Whenever I have chosen  to do those things to myself, it was when no one was looking, no one was present and no one but me had the option to remember or record it. If it is not in the public, is it not true? No record, so it didn't happen? But that is not ...

I swipe through profiles on Tinder, almost as a force of habit. When I match with someone, I'm thrilled. I send an excited message to them, hoping they'd reply. Sometimes, there is a short lived conversation. Sometimes so short that it ends with an "I'm good". Sometimes, it develops into a long monologue about life, love, loss and longing. And they are reminded of me only when there is something else to rant about. And I'm forced to think, "Am I not approaching people the right way?", "Are my 'hi's and 'hello's too regular and boring?", "Am I a boring person to chat with, in the first place?", "Do people only want to talk about their life problems with me?". One of my friends recently told me (and a group of other friends) that I give "amazing teacher vibes". Now, of course, that's a compliment, considering the professional stage I'm in. But has that always been so? These compliments/cha...

I recently started making a weekly plan of action. It consists of tasks to be done every day of the week, a list of which I send to my sister, who makes it a point to check with me daily, about my targets. I figured that as much as I'd like to believe I can monitor myself, I end up cutting myself a lot of slack. So, exercise of some authority seems like a good idea. Gosh, I'm such a sub/bottom. One of these days when I was done with around 8 things out of 10 for the day, I was like yay, time for a break. And as one does, I disabled the flight mode on my phone, opened Grindr and scrolled through my messages. And there were a quite a few. There was one guy who had messaged me weeks ago: shirtless photos, photos in a tank top, and one in a military print body-hugging shirt. I was like okayyy, yeah, happening. There was an unread message from him: "Hey man" I replied: "How's it going?" "Done with this app now" "It's ful...

It started when I saw my kundali in my parents' room, lying on the table underneath the TV.  Calling out to my mother, I asked what was it doing outside, more like why was it out. My father replied instead, "वो बस ऐसे ही देख रहे थे". What do you mean, ऐसे ही, I asked. Since when did the two of you get an astrologer's qualifications? I was also annoyed that my mother was avoiding answering the question. "माँ, ये क्या है? मेरी कुंडली के साथ क्या खेल खेल रहे हो तुम लोग?". She came in rushing. I could see a hint of nervousness in her eyes. "तेरे को बताया तो था! हम पूजा करने जा रहे हैं न, इसीलिए!". I knew about a  पूजा, but what connection did my kundali  have with it? I knew that they had been planning to go some 100 kms away from Lucknow for this पूजा, but why are my stars being studied for that performance? "मुझे क्यों नहीं बताया की मेरी कुंडली दिखाई जा रही है इस पूजा के लिए? और क्यों दिखाई जा रही है, ज़रा ये भी बता दो?", I said, with ...

A significant portion of my day is spent watching tv shows and movies. Either on one of the streaming platforms or on a pirated streaming website. More than anything, I just love watching something. It's the act of watching a show or a film or even a YouTube video that gives me immense pleasure. I marvel at the creation of such things, or at least that's the motivation behind binge watching so many of these shows. However one trait that I just cant make peace with (however much my friends try) is a character (who's usually the protagonist) who does nothing in terms of self development but relies on the mercy of others to make things right. And usually it's a cis-white-straight-male. Ugh. An annoying combination anyway. Why do show creators force feed a sympathy arc for such douchebags? Why should I feel anything for a character who's unnecessarily mean to his mother, trashes the house in an unplanned party, insults his ex girlfriend and potential partner at the same...

"I can feel your stool", he said. "I think I just touched it". I rushed to the washroom. Rolling out a handful of tissue from the stand, I wiped off the fuckload of vaseline he had applied to finger me. On the first wipe, there was just some translucent fluid that came off. I wiped again, some more of that. I continued. Further down this exercise, I saw a faint hint of red on the tissue. I ignored. I wiped again, and the hint became a smear and later, the quarters of paper came out white as dove. I went back into the room. I was embarrassed that he had to "touch" and "feel" my stool, so I did what I hate doing. I sucked his dick. He should have something in return for having come so close to my excretion. Even if that meant I had to take in his smelly, ugly dick down my throat. Dicks are ugly. At least the ones I have seen in my life, including mine. The way the foreskin collects at the top, wrinkly, lifeless, covering up a not-so-beautiful-lo...

Last night, I deliberately walked back home from the metro station. It was beyond midnight and the road was dotted only by barricades and streetlights. The decision to do so was almost impulsive, although I can't be entirely sure. There was also a desire. A desire to be looked at, called upon, and touched.  The walk back home is almost a kilometre and it usually takes ten to fifteen minutes. I had reached the market near my home and had taken a turn to get into my lane when I heard a loud whistle. I looked back; no one. I tried to strain my eyes and look, still no one. I walked ahead. When I was well near my gate, I could sense headlights flashing behind me. I looked back but couldn't see a face, the headlights glaring into my eyes. I went inside my gate but could see a car moving ahead from the corner of my eyes. I stood there, with my back towards the car, pretending to check my phone. A man emerged from the car asking for directions to get out of the colony, as the...

It has been almost 10 years since I told my parents about Ram. Since I told my parents about the possibility of me being gay (I wasn't so sure of the term myself). Since I went up to my mother and bawled in her lap, not knowing where to start and what to tell. It has also been 10 years since my parents have asked me anything about it. 10 years since my parents have come up to me and asked if I'm okay, if I need any help with coping, or just asked me a simple question - how are you? So, I ask it to myself - how are you? The first thing that comes to mind is disappointment. Why is that even after 10 years have passed, the memory of that time continues to occupy my being, continues to rule my mood, my reactions, my conduct? Why is it that that face still doesn't escape my imagination? For some reason (maybe it's naive) I had imagined that the more distant I get from home, the better it would be for me to forget what all had happened. And honestly, I did forget it for ...

“ Humare ghar pe logon ko baat karni chahiye, baat karna bahut important hai. Andar koi bhi cheez daba ke nahi rakhni chahiye !” “ She notices everything, doesn’t she ?” “ I have a thing for noticing these stupid things, you know .” “ Ye bahut accha luck leke chal raha hai, iska sab achha hi hoga! ” These are few of the statements that are thrown in during everyday conversation at home. They strike me like glass. Patang ke maanjhe ki tarah . And I’m not sure how to react to these. Because these are said by the people I love, hold very close to my heart and can’t seem them hurting at any point of time. But at the same time I wonder. Where were these acute observational skills when Ram was shoving his dick inside me. Where was that noticing eye when I tried committing suicide, twice. Where was my luck when I could not escape Ram’s clutches? “Why didn’t you ever tell us?” Seriously? That’s your defence? That’s your answer to a person who has been subject to ac...

The face and body of Ram has long evaded me. Consciously or sub-consciously, his image has become a thing of the past, which I think is for good. However, whenever his face or even the idea of him strikes back, is when the mind starts spinning in some unknown direction. And mostly, the central question is ‘Why?’ Why after so long? Why does his face or his memory still stir something in me? And why was it that this morning he came in my dream, in the same way he used to come on to me ten years back? The dream, or what I recall of it, was extremely brief. As of now, I recall a room, similar to my room in my home in Lucknow, although painted in the earlier sky blue colour. What I distinctly recall is his bare body, going up and down on me. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s him. That dotted-pigmented skin, that lean figure, but that resolute force. I cannot picture where his hands are. It’s only his head and his body that I recall now. It’s positioned in a way so as to resemble ...

After having written the last two posts, I really don't know to what extent I can recount things. It's not as if I don't  recall them. I clearly do, in every minute detail possible, but I don't see the purpose of going into everything.  Somehow, getting involved in every detail and recounting almost everything makes  me forget  the purpose with which I had started this exercise. What was the purpose anyway? Of what I can recall now, is the faint memory of  how I want to see myself. It seems strange as to how  I remember details of incidents that happened years ago and not the reason with which I started writing about these incidents, the memory of the latter being more recent in time. Anyway, of what I do, the primary reason why I wrote about all of this is because it forms a very essential part of me, of who I am today and however much I try, I can't just chuck it from my life or my memory. This is not to say that it haunts me  day and night. As...

'कुछ नहीं होगा, एक बार कर के तो देखो....मैं ज़्यादा ज़ोर से नहीं करूँगा' was the way Ram first convinced me to insert his dick into my ass, or what I today understand as sex. The first time it happened, it wasn't pleasant at all. It pained and continued to pain for a good while. I had trouble sitting down to shit, it used to burn each time I had to use the loo. And this was the first time when he had said 'किसी को बताना नही..मेमसाहब को तो बिलकुल भी नहीं'. However, after a few times, I began to enjoy it. But largely, I would avoid having sex with him. My thrill and orgasm would be satisfied with our naked bodies rubbing against each other or with an occasional blow-job. He would largely stick to this pattern too but there would always be a hint of resentment in his eyes or his voice when I would say no.  However, there were times when the resentment was too hard for him to contain. I remember that time when we were on my bed, toying with each oth...

People have different ways of 'moving on'. Moving on from relationships, experiences, traumatic experiences, what not. I write. I prefer this mode because frankly, nothing else seems cathartic. Nothing else seems to make me focus my mind on that one thing. This is also because I have hardly been a speaker. Or expressive (in terms of words from my mouth). On top of that, I am evasive, and massively so. All this in combination makes me explosive (I don't think I have ever used so many adjectives for myself!). And I prefer to spew that explosion on my keyboard (or paper) rather than on someone. So, why this sudden urge to write? Primarily because I have been thinking. Thinking how I have never thought, at length, of the one thing that dominated my childhood. Most of the recounting of those series of incidents happens through speech and especially when it is the occasion of 'coming out' to someone. Then begins the saga which started years ago and ended quite some...

Okay. This is a happy post. Like, one of those light, buoyant* types. Where I feel extremely nice about myself. Like this minion. I feel like looking around and smiling at everyone, at the cost of seeming stupid. I guess this is one of those few times (and quite late in my life) where I feel like a teenager. Maybe because I didn't have that 'teenage' life. But whatever, it feels like this is that life, and I don't want to think about the past and cry or whine or crib. Obviously, I can't think of anything impossible to happen now. It's just that there is this recognition of something I have harboured for a long time, and when I see the acknowledgment of that recognition on someone's face, it's just amazing. I mean 'amazing' is too shallow a feeling (is that even a feeling?); it's just beyond explanation, I guess! Well, I have important things to do, I know. But I thought it better to write it down than let it linger in my mind. So, yeah...