RassMalaai Rites

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...