New Year's Reading - Not Compulsory

A bit of reading for you if you're bored. Feel free to be put off.


The third night I made love on the roof. Scratched and bruised all over my body (back and knees got the worst, of course), I was exhausted and puzzled. Did it really happen? I floated in the air feeling as light as I would have ever imagined. My fingertips were imprinted on your body and the fact that it was here, here in India where these things simply do not happen, made it even better. Black and white, day and night. Just like you and me. I love the poetry of our different skin colours. White chocolate. Coffee with cream - bitter and sweet at the same time.
Your body is in harmony with the night but mine just shines into the dark. Sometimes it even screams. You say it reflects the stars and the moon like a mirror but I just think you are trying to flatter me.
Still it was not you who made me realize.
The following night I could not resist the temptation to climb up that shaky ladder once again. Maybe in a hope that you would come again, maybe just because I wanted to see what else could happen.
I had to wait for some time. Nearly lost my patience. Of course I know you would never come again. Stupid me. What am I expecting?
And there you stood. I could not really focus on your figure first. I was not sure if it was not just your shadow. It was not. It was somebody else. I know him. You?! Up here?
I love your inner sexuality, you said. What do you know about my inner sexuality? I can feel it, you replied. And that is why I spent that night with you. And never regretted.
Then another night came and another man with it. He would not even untie his turban, which is maybe worse than keeping the socks on. And your hairy chest that felt like touching a teddy bear. Oh my god, I was making love to a teddy bear. But still enjoyed.
From that time on I climbed up that ladder every night. All the time it was one of you coming to me. Sometimes I would just chat with you for hours or silently smoke Golden Flake cigarettes. In curiosity and expectation I would be squatting behind the small wall on that flat Indian roof pretending not to be there but obviously you would always find me and say I had not changed at all.
It was you who would beat me the more I had wanted you to stop, my nails in your flesh and traces of blood on the sheet. Who cares you can dance samba and turn three pirouettes? You whose morning coffee I loved the most.
You came too. I had to laugh remembering you started to giggle each time I’d clutch your tiny butt.
And you whom I have never even touched despite adoring endlessly your forearms and the soft hairs on them.
I invited even you who made me feel like a prostitute. Kitne? Ten thousand rupees. Only.
But the next night I stayed alone. I simply had to. Needed to. I wished to chase you all away and never see you again. You all tried to knock but I pretended not to be in, not to hear. I did not want to see anything masculine at all. In this bloody country.
The following morning looked brighter. I woke up knowing I’d come up there again. Determined to let the nicer of you in. We smoked a lot. We chatted a bit. Embraced and said goodbye. I loved you all at that moment. At the moment when it was happening and days after. Even now, sometimes, I still love you because I know you all made me feel special. For a few minutes maybe. Some of you for seconds, just one look, or long long years.
I was so glad for that third night.
This meant I’d be coming to the roof from this time on. Being sure I’d find at least one of you there. And I did. I still do.
I met you who smell of herbs. You whose ring I lost. You who never asked. You who knew.
These nights I’ve learnt something about you and … myself.
I am not afraid of that ladder anymore.
I am so glad for that third night.
And regret I wasted the two nights before.