RassMalaai Rites

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...