Ovid has warned us that love and dignity cannot share the same abode.

Titillate. Tantalize, interest, grapple. Provoke, arouse, thrill. A shrill cry pierced the sedated afternoon, punctuating the tranquility of expansive rooms, followed by a laugh. Spacious hallways trailing the sheets as they ran from each other and large windows pouring in the sun, and the smell of summer flowers. Laughter, grazing the walls and falling to the floor in fragments. Green, crimson, a violent shade of blue. Thick paints, beige canvas and a smudged finger touching the tip of her nose. The silence takes over the house as she hides from him and then laughter when he finds her behind the laundry bin. The sheets come undone, to reveal glistening skins, caught by the sun. Olive, the colour of love. And then an anecdote, as he wraps the sheets around her, getting comfortable on the kitchen floor.

Sunsets, because everything needs to come to an end. And there is no ending tragic enough to overshadow the magic of a new beginning. And I am smiling, at the thought of a new day, my head touching the ground in prayer. It is human nature, to believe in what is convenient, his accusations aimed at his feet, scared of the outbursts that religions tend to demand. But none came, only a slight smile and a dismissal. Quick flick of the wrist and a sudden movement. The cloth slipped off her head, resting at her shoulders, releasing long black hair that reflected the sun, the sin. Their eyes met and she chose not to look away. But he was too scared to ask if that was a yes. If that was an agreement to raise confused children with no devotion.

It's been a long day, and I am sitting on the floor, too tired to move. The windows have swung open, sending shivers through my spine, allowing the wind to kiss my skin. And I trace my finger over the goosebumps, connecting the light freckles from my knees to my ankles, resting momentarily over scars from a forgotten childhood to those caused in the name of vanity. Because I don't remember owning a single pair of shoes that was not painful in its beauty.

And if there could be a song, it would be Bittersweet Symphony. I would walk the long hallways of this imagined house, with wooden floors, and open windows decorating every wall in every room. With white curtains bellowing fiercely, and the whistle of the winds, adding rhythm to my symphony. And I would sing about the place where all the veins meet, about being a million different people from one day to the next. And I would keep walking, my face decorated with streaks of mascara and tears, blinded with misery. I would walk to the place where all good things meet and fall into your arms, tired. Exhausted from loving you. Enervated, languid, lackadaisical.

But don't love me back, I whisper into your ears. Don't talk about love either, I manage to utter through my tired lips, my feet having given way a while ago, at the sight of you. A trail of blood has followed me, a shard having cut into my feet. Don't talk to me about love, don't compare it to your art, the texture of paint on canvas. I don't like vague impressionist descriptions of what are fragmented disillusions to you, but an unyielding actuality for me. I breathe in the illusion of your presence, happy in a moment of paused dementia, trapped within the walls of my imagination. And for a while, I choose not to look for answers to questions that were never asked.

Hope is a dangerous thing to lose.

Broken. A black word, with coal like texture, reduced to fragments, leaving traces on the fingers that crushed it, merging with the silent lines of the maker's destiny. Tears, translucent wonders falling into the thick mix of darkness, diluting the pain, easing the trachle of constant grief, the one which makes you feel hollow in its absence. Traces, left on the wall, the railing, the floor. Everywhere that the hand touched, the smears of coal. Of brokenness, of hypocritical grief, painful lachrymose. Love which once was, its deep red mixed into the harsh black, creating streaks of mud, left untouched. Oh what a wonderful world we live in, croon, screech, silence, bow, applause.

I cut the grapefruit into half, and waited for the world to fall apart. I watched from under netted screens and from behind wooden frames. The pictures on the wall speak of stories untold, unreal, untrue. And the thoughts are wrapped around the unseen, the unfelt. There is a glimmer of a diamond, a hint of a once happy heart. A broken clip and a sudden cascade of hair over her face. A frenzied hurry to pull them back up again. Contents of her bag, displayed to a room full of strangers, none kind enough to look away. Respect the fallen, for one day you will fall too. And that's the only truth, the only reality you need to know.

Warnings, they come in all sizes, in every language, some with illustrations, others emphasised in bright colours of instigation. Every word I speak, I whisper to you, every lie I utter, is only for you. Deep kohled eyes, darkened lips, she sits on the floor with her legs crossed, her back erect and her eyes staring into space. The tears are skillfully hidden, but a streak of running mascara has missed her deft knuckles. She has no story to tell, everything has been told. She has nothing to hide, but she hides it very well. There is pain, and I feel it too, so I fall to the floor and choose instead to feel the rough edges of the rug pushing against my soul.

A keepsake once broken, he is lying in bed, not fully awake. The sun has seeped into his room, intrusive as always. White walls, white sheets, white carpet, shining bright as they welcome another day. His eyes are closed, because he is afraid of losing the last of his dreams. A whisper, which woke him up, and the weight of a warm body, lying beside his sleeping self. Brown hair, olive skin, and small eyes. He can trace the lines that define her face, a dream so vivid, he can feel her breaths on his bare chest. His dream girl, he calls her. Mocking the reality of the people he is surrounded with, the beauty he doesn't see, the love he can't feel. His name, in a velvety voice, waking him from his slumber as he opens his eyes to an empty room.

I hesitate, then choose against revealing. Provoking thoughts, self-policed by the mind which is generating them, spinning the reality into illusions. A conflict within, a storm brewing, waiting, erupting. And I fall to the floor again, tears streaming down, a scream trying to push through my body. A mighty effort, to pull it all together. I look in the mirror and watch in wonder. Fear is a strange thing, threatening even in its absence. So I get into bed and pull a book towards me, open a random page and read this: I pricked up my ears at this suggestion, and although I possessed nothing, promised him rewards beyond his wildest dreams. That must have been some suggestion, driving a man to promise that which isn't his to give away. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, my next read.

If I had a Polaroid, I would take pictures of inconsequential circumstances, and leave a trail of forgotten memories for unknown hands to sift through. Questions would be asked, moments analysed, letters read. I know nothing but what you tell me. So I ask you again, what I always ask. Will you stay, will you promise not to stray? If the sky grows darker, if I go insane, would you still care for me, when it starts to rain?

“Flirting is a woman’s trade, one must keep in practice.” - Charlotte Bronte

Your words have entered the uterus of my brain. And then I read it again. Your words, have entered the uterus of my brain. Then nothing. Awe maybe, a sense of disbelief. Astonishment, a curious urge, the kind that is known to kill the cat. I need to know, know the reason behind this sentence, the exact meaning of his imagination. The words were penned by Swedish playwright August Strindberg, but of course, his first name is Johan. How can you not read, when there is a chance of coming across something as dementedly genius as this? I will answer the question with a question. And remember not to smirk.

I slept at dawn and woke up a while ago. And there is not a muscle in my body that isn't aching. Constant throbbing of comfortable ache, punctuated with the sharp pain of every movement I make. And from my window, I can see a proud British flag, waving in all its glory, catching the wind in a flurry. It takes me back to the numerous flag hoisting I attended in India, powdered sweets accepted with both hands, elders patting my head and my grandfather insisting that I don't leave his sight, as he wished his colleagues at court a happy independence day. I remember the scratching of stiff clothes on my childish skin, ill-altered and brand new, as the bright sky threatened to break into a seasonal monsoon.

The sky that falls, follows me. Holds me in its blackened grip and takes away all the colours that I ever wished to see. Sometimes, I just want to be sitting in the passenger seat, my feet on the dash, my head resting against the fogged window, my eyes trying to see past the slow raindrops. I want to shudder involuntarily because of the cold, wrap my shawl tightly around my shoulders, hum tunelessly to the music on the radio. And nod along as the conversation glides through something about the last bullet in the gun, a dinner gone bad, a blind date, meeting at Tate. I smile at the thought of nervous glances, red flowers, the shy holding of hands. I smile at the thought of the distance between them, as they walk from one frame to another, pretending to be interested in the wonders displayed in front of them, while only conscious of the other person's voice. The impending touch. The laugh, the thoughts, the spring in their steps.

It's been three continuous nights of staying up to greet the morning sun, the slight hue, the pleasant dew. Four hours of sleep every day, because Charlotte Bronte's book makes everything else pale, greyed out, a mere shadow. The morning feels distant, the night fades away from my conscience, everything is a series of blurs. My days too are neatly divided into times when I am reading the book, and when I am not. There is something addictive about the words strung together. I think it's the beauty of the words that pulls me deeper, gripping me by my metaphorical collar and dragging me through the many imagined and few autobiographical scenes of an epic. I remember watching the film, and being haunted by her eyes, her outstretched hand, as the camera panned from Helen to Jane, from the dead, to the grieving. And the pain that Jane felt, was it something similar to what Charlotte felt at having lost her sisters? I ask, but no answer. Just a silent understanding. A curt nod, a quick shift of the eyes, a raise of the brow.

All my thoughts today are fragments, not coming together to mean anything grand, my imagination rightfully captured by Jane and her anecdotes. But words are tumbling through my mind anyway, words from a forgotten past. Words which I had written on bills, at the back of my chemistry notes, scribbled along the edges of a sketch book, illegible words decorating the side of a wall, the back of a postcard. Words everywhere, lifting themselves from the open pages of the books I love and loathe, lining my lulled mind and forcing my thoughts to follow the imaginary trails of frail berths. The scared eyes, open mouth, the heavy cough, the fear. Hold onto every thought, every emotion, every lie, every troth. Impending doom, a melancholic gloom, he spoke of elegant pasts but I want to see magnificence that will last.

Because it starts out slowly and ends in a fatal crash.

Don't smoke that.

Why?

Because I am thinking of kissing you.

That's good to know. That's good to know.

Twice, repeating himself. Walking around in circles, talking about the life he has led, the stories he has yet to finish. But he is twenty now and hasn't yet met the woman he is going to grey with. And at twenty-two he is going to be heartbroken. I know it, he knows it, the trees outside his window know it. The sky knows it, the rotting cheese at the back of the fridge knows it. The creaking wooden floorboards know it, the threadbare carpets know it. The waves crashing against the rocks know it, the floating jellyfishes know it. But she doesn't know it, as she leans in for a kiss, her eyes closed, her breath minty. She doesn't know it.

It's killing me. It's really killing me. The words are brilliant, as always, but I am barely keeping up. And the sun sets with the brilliance of a practiced ballet dancer, with the same elegance and smoothness of the slender lady that comes to mind every time you hear or read the word. Ballet. He was asked to remember just one thing and that's the only thing he can no longer remember. And if it was happening to someone else, he would be laughing through the cigarette smoke, silently at first and then with a scary mirth. And I miss having a direction in my life, a concrete goal, a silver lining. I miss knowing the name of the next stop, the speed with which I am moving and the reason for the words that are spilling through my quivering fingers.

She wanted to sing another song, another Johnny Cash. And he had to press most letters twice, sometimes thrice, as he carefully typed out a memoir that was once meant to be a letter. The typewriter was old, and just as hesitant to tell the story he had kept hidden from the world. He listened for a while, as Johnny Cash went on about walking the line. Yes, he crooned, I will admit I am a fool for you. And because you are mine, I walk the line. He leaned his head backwards, staring at the cracked ceiling. He slowly traced his fingers around his temples and over his eyes, resting them both on either side of his nose, beside his now closed eyes. When he finally opened them, Jesse Harris was singing out a fair warning. Something about no matter how long it takes, one day the dam will break, one day the tears will fall, just like that waterfall.

It was Wednesday when I met her, Saturday when I asked her to move in, and by Sunday there were flowers in my apartment and humus in my refrigerator. I don't remember waking up that Sunday, I don't think I had ever slept. His words are swaying lazily through the still air of my barren room. I am mesmerised. And with him staring out of my laptop screen, I sit here thinking. This must be what praying must feel like, he muses. No, no no, I hasten to whisper back, afraid already of blasphemy. As they move into her new apartment, I am reminded of the beautiful room waiting for me, with its white walls and mirrored wardrobes. With its black chest of drawers and a fountain in the garden. The wall which is lined with wide windows and the other, waiting to be decorated with my photos and postcards. I will probably just run away and leave you crushed, she spoke nonchalantly. But he doesn't care, he is thinking of other things. When do you think it will get ugly, he wants to know. When do you think it will get abusive? And I wish they would rip the plastic off the mattress already.

Tell me you are desperately falling in love with me.

No.

Say it!

What do you even mean by love?

A question I have often asked myself. But not today, because there is darkness in walking down the alleyway of unknown twists and turns. I know it was happening, and it was nice, but it wasn't what I wanted. Wasn't what I thought I wanted. A whole life, chasing the lie you thought to be your only truth. And her dead mother was exactly like Sylvia Plath but without the publishing contract, he confessed, heavily inebriated.

Where are you from? Your accent is just beguiling.

Thank you.

The questions that were never answered, the mistakes that were never corrected. The broken bits which were never fixed, the love which was never felt, never returned. Everything begins with an intention of ending and everything ends, with the hope to start again. Everyone laughs, to hide some strange pain, everyone talks, to drown the loneliness. Everyone, everything, every day, we hope, we pray, we wish for a better day, the right way. Because I am not as interesting as you think I am, I am just a dork. A fool in love, a bumblebee, someone short of words. Ruining everything I touch, breaking the fragile stuff. Smiling through it all, because, why not?

"I tell you all the time, heaven is a place on earth with you."

He only wanted to write. Write about him and her, about them and theirs. About love and loss. About the wet towel lying on the floor, the ivory curtains. About the sheer fucking pride that got in the way, and then there was the stupidity and how they wanted everything. About the kiss on the beach, about the waves that touched their ankles. About the lines that were blurred. And the knowledge of previous lovers, the ones who never were. And now here he lay, dying. Dying by the window. Dying in a room full of forgotten memories. Dying with a smile on his face. But he wanted to stay alive for her. For when she would barge into the house with her trench coat hanging over her shoulders, her fingers curved around a half-read book. And they would smile but without exchanging any words. She would lift the towel from the floor and place it on the bed. He would pick it up and attempt to fold it into a careful square. She would watch him in silence, from a distance, and then from a little closer.

It rained today, so I caught a glimpse of me in every dark puddle in my way. A reflection of a stranger's eyes. I forgot to smile, but I didn't mind. And the maid was angry because she was left without instructions. Without instructions and a decomposing body. And the river that flowed behind the burning house was oblivious to the magnificent blaze. She was like light and dark at the same time. Think black fire, he said, trying to be helpful. So she nodded, listening about a woman from his past, as she herself was wiped from his memory, in spite of sitting there in her pretty little dress. Pretty little dress, dirty little secrets. She wants to throw back her head and laugh at the misery waiting to unfold for her. For her to bend down and pick up the pieces of everything that went wrong. And I am thinking of how I have never read a Jane Austen.

And it all falls down, burning everything to the ground,  the ground. She sways as she sings, her hips, her waist, her shoulders. Her hair, her eyes, her lips. The dress, it has little sequences, which catch everyone's eyes, even yours. The song is something melancholic, but you expected nothing else, nothing less. Plaza Hotel, red carpets, black limos, diamonds and heels. A low swoop of the wind, lifting an elegant dress, forcing her to bend down, her shoulder hunched, her neck sticking out, as she laughs at the cameras. Who knew that would be the end of her marriage. That movement, that moment, beautifully captured to adorn a million white walls. A single strike, no second chances. And this is my idea of fun, she sang, playing your videos games. Because it's all for you, everything I do..

They are white, these flowers, shaped like sprouts. I don't know what they are called, but they are making me happy. They remind me of flowers that were exchanged on a bridge, the accompanying smile, a shy hug, a spontaneous kiss. A painful goodbye, walking away in opposite directions, the gushing wind, taking away a few petals, leaving the bouquet more maudlin than the beating heart, the sad soul.

Why is it so difficult? I am not asking out of spite, or low spirits. I am not accusing, but not accepting either. Why is it so difficult to hold on to that happiness, the hope. Maybe that's why I loved Gatsby so much, for his eternal hope, the green light at the end of her dock. Maybe it's the way he wanted his life to be, never stopping, always on a move. Maybe it was because he wanted everything, and I settled for nothing. Better wasn't good enough, only the best would do. The music, the people, the dance and the drinks. I remember tears, when I reached the end of the book. I was in Bangalore, sitting in an armchair by the porch. My feet propped against the railing, feeling the cold rain wash over my warm bared soles, between my toes.

So I stay in bed and piece my life together, the one which crumbles with every memory, every story, an orphan sentence, an illegitimate thought, a really good book. Maybe I loved Gatsby for the madness in his love. The passion with which he loved and yearned for his Daisy. Wasn't that all I had asked from you, to never leave? To catch me as I fall through. But I hit rock bottom and have bruises to show. It was raining, and I was crying. Crying at the death of Gatsby, the loss, the injustice and anger, but also an understanding. Knowing that I might have done the same, packed up and left. Years ago, I met Gatsby at my front porch and he never left. The blue eyes, the sadness, the music, the cars, the fatal crash. The crazy parties, the mansion, the collection of beautiful shirts, bought from London. Everything remains within my heart, as I mourn his loss.

I put my favourite perfume on and walked the dark streets to meet you. They say that the world was built for two, only worth living if somebody is loving you. But I wish it was easier, to let go of yourself, submit to the words that take over. To not crumble to the floor from the exhaustion of writing. Of failing. Why does it have to be so difficult? I ask again, imploring. No reply. I am thinking of how she died, with stones in her pockets, stepping into the river. I cry because I feel, you laugh because you think. I am thinking of Virginia Woolf. Of Hart Crane. Of Ernest Hemingway. Paul Celan, who threw himself into the Seine, David Foster Wallace, who hanged himself, John Kennedy Toole attached a garden hose to his tailpipe, ran it into the window of his car, and died. And then there was my beloved Sylvia Plath, who sealed herself in the kitchen and put her head in the gas oven. Now how is that for a thought?