I woke up to the sunlight falling on my face from the window. I looked around to check the time but could not find my clock. It must be later than usual, the sun is brighter than usual. As always, I forgot to close the curtains last night and I am bearing the brunt of it now. I contemplate if I should quickly pull the curtains and sleep again or let it be. I know I am not sleeping with the sunlight on my face.
Thoughts start piercing my groggy mind like swords as the light slowly seeps into my mind. The thought about her strikes me like a hot blade. An image of her flashes across my mind. I get a little flustered, why can’t I see her clearly? Why is it hazy? I persuade myself that it is my drowsiness. The fog in my mind is yet to evaporate. I want her image to stay imprinted. I try peeping into my mind to see more of her. But I am afraid. I backed off. I pull my quilt over my face to escape the sunlight. Maybe the darkness will help me evade her. I fear what might happen if I keep thinking of her.
The more I try avoiding her in my thoughts, the more she is present. Her thoughts are my mind’s shadow. A shadow that doesn’t reduce by noon or cease existing by the night. I contemplated the idea of not resisting her thoughts. To give in, to indulge. I am afraid again. What if I lose restraint? What if I want the absurd? No, I should not let her thoughts control me. I hate myself for being attracted to her. I hate that my mind buckles down to my attraction, always. Why can’t I distance my mind from my attraction?
I hear a door creaking. I lay motionless under the quilt. I continue my charade of sleeping. How’d they know if I am sleeping or not? My body’s exhaustion and my mind’s vigour exist in a contradictory rapport. I realize it is not my door that was opened. Someone would try waking me up by now if it was mine. It must have been hers. Oh, here she is, in my thoughts again!
I can hear her walking and climbing down the stairs to the kitchen. She loves her morning cup of coffee with silence. She says that it helps her calm her warring mind. But what is her mind waging a war against? She never tells. I picture her sitting in her usual chair at the dining table sipping her coffee. She sits there always, lost in her thoughts. She responds to people talking to her, she smiles at them and wishes them. She exudes warmth, but I can see the numbness beneath her façade. What is bothering her? I wish I knew.
I closed my eyes to paint my mind on how she bumped into me unexpectedly at the dining table one morning. I woke up early that day; rather, I did not sleep the previous night. She sat in the chair opposite to me and not her usual. She smiled at me while cupping her hot mug of coffee. She has just woken up. She is wearing her favourite t-shirt of his. She jerked out of her morning stupor as I asked her about the painting she has been working on. She waved it off with a disappointed smirk. She tried making small talk. She asked me about the hospital. She wanted to know if things were sorted between the doctors and the management. She was talking about how the doctors’ protest has caught public attention. I was listening to her, but my eyes wandered off to her person sitting in front of me. His t-shirt is a couple of sizes large for her. I could see the mole on her right breast as she leaned forward. I could notice the green veins and reddish tinge of her fair-skinned breasts. I could see them heaving slightly as she breathed. She did not notice that her breasts were visible. Her left breast was exposed a little deeper and I noticed a small mark. It wasn’t a cut. It wasn’t a permanent scar. It was probably the result of her lovemaking with him. I couldn’t help but imagine her breasts being bitten. I felt a tinge of excitement. I felt an ounce of guilt. I tried concentrating on her words. I was avoiding seeing her breasts, her beautiful breasts. I could not get the image of her naked breasts out of my mind. I craved to see more. I craved to touch them. I smiled at her while I thought of how her breasts would feel under my hand. My excitement reached my groin. I could see her breasts rubbing against each other as she moved in her chair. I wanted to slide my hand in and pull one out. Kiss her over the table while kneading it. Squeeze them until they hurt, until she pushes me away.
The barrage of thoughts in my mind came to a screeching halt as I heard her calling my name. I looked at her. She saw me in the eye. She knew. I struggled to match her gaze. I tried to recollect what she was talking about, where did the conversation end. My mind failed me. I frantically searched to come up with something. She leaned back, pulled her t-shirt up and asked if I wanted to have more coffee. I declined and went back to my room with my heart pacing.
I cursed myself for doing what I did. How could I get carried away? How could I let her notice? How could I be attracted to her? And how could I be aroused? The questions pounded me like a hammer pounding a nail. I walked restlessly into my room. I was not sure how this would affect our future. I expected to feel guilty, but the uncertainty masked everything else. I sat back in my chair and tried to take stock of the situation. I did the unforgivable. I broke the rules. I broke the relationship. I must mend it now. I must mend it without him knowing it. I must talk to her about it, apologize and repair the damages. I decided to talk to her later in the day once he leaves for work. I will cook up a reason for going late to work. No, she should not get suspicious about my intentions. I must make it look ordinary.
I decided to take a shower and slow my racing mind. I stood under the piercing coldness of the shower hoping to numb my mind as well. I didn’t move a muscle lest my mind wanders off to unwanted territories. As much as I tried to forget what happened, I could not help but feel my excitement towards her. Why am I so excited about her? Why did the excitement possess me if it was wrong? Why is the excitement not reducing? The image of her veiny breasts has not escaped my mind yet. Is it the breasts I am attracted to or her? Sure, the breasts are attractive, but I want her as well. I want to see her nakedness. I want to feel her under me. I want my hands exploring her body. I want to crush her soft supple body against mine. I want to kiss her hairy patch and lick her cunt. I want to pin her against the wall in this very bath and take her, both of us thrusting into each other in harmony. I want to make love to her and fuck her like there is no tomorrow. I want to be inside her. I want to forget the world and become one with her.
I could feel the exhilarating climax build up. I opened my eyes to the sticky cum on my hands. The cum on my hand stands testimony to the betrayal of my mind to its decisions. It indulged in what it should not. It marched into the abyss than the other way. The quilt on top of me is dishevelled. There is a little cum on my abdomen and the quilt. I slowly sit up with the quilt falling off me and wipe the cum off it. The wet cum from the quilt is now drying on my hand. I move my fingers slightly as a protest against the drying cum. I sit on my bed in my nakedness thinking about what just happened. What got me off so violently. And why is it so peaceful after the violent thoughts?
This is not the first time I thought about her. Or dreamt about her. I cannot see her for what she is. I cannot see her through our relationship. I wanted more. I wanted more than what is acceptable. But how do I get back from this quagmire I am trapped in?
All these frenzied thoughts do not let my exhausted mind sleep. They are a constant lumber in the fireplace. I must learn to live with the burning mind. I must learn to push the fire to a corner, to ignore it. I should turn away from the fire, lest it consumes me. This is a fire that cannot be put off. There is nothing else to do but tame it. But how do you tame fires? Fires that should not be existing.
I do not realize somebody has opened my door until I hear a voice. I quickly doubt my mind. No, it is her this time. She opened the door partially and stood by it. I quickly pull my quilt over me to cover myself. She looked the other way. She acknowledges but pretends that my nakedness is not a reality. I envy her for that, truly.
She quietly said, “He’s been unwell since last night. He’s coughing blood a lot more than he usually does. Can you check him and tell me if we need to go to the hospital, or shall I inform our family?”, and went back to him.
I was still looking at her while she walked away leaving the door open. Her unemotional telling of the situation left me with more questions than it should. Her acceptance of a future without him makes me afraid of her iron-strong demeanour but excited me at the prospect of being with her, alone. Do I want him to die?
I was disgusted at myself for thinking about it. I cannot possibly be a doctor while wishing for someone’s death. But what does my profession have to do with my desire? Maybe his loss would act as a catalyst to my intimacy with her. Maybe she’d open her vulnerable self to me. Maybe she will get carried away. I will make her feel comfortable until the relationship between us becomes a blur. Yes, the blurry mess is where I survive. The blurry mess is my reality. And maybe, she will accept it too.
I quickly change into my nightwear and walk to their room. The door is not closed. It is not completely open either. I can see her sitting on the bed beside him. She seems to be caressing him. She looks sad and broken. I feel sad for her. I did not want to see her broken. She is a symbol of strength in my life. She taught me valuable lessons in life. But my excitement is immoral. It pounces on every opportunity to forward its agenda. It takes no cognizance of the effects. It is selfish. My adrenaline keeps me on the edge. I slowly open their door trying to make it as noiseless as I can. She turns around to look at me. Her eyes are teary. I look aside to find him motionless. He has blood on his quilt and his t-shirt. He looks exhausted. I can tell, he has given up. I met her eyes again. She knows. I walk towards him to check his pulse.
I sit beside her while checking his vitals. I can feel her thigh touch my leg. I move a little towards her hoping she would not notice. I can now feel her thighs against mine while I check his weak pulse. I tell her that I will call the family. She leans in towards me and I hug her. I hug her a little closer than always. I can smell her. She smells pleasant even in the room reeking of blood. My excitement races through the course of my body. I give in, I wrap my hands around her and console her. I feel my heart pounding. I am afraid she’d notice it.
I look at myself in the mirror opposite to me. I don’t know who I am anymore. I am not my mind. I am not my profession. I am not the values that she taught me.
I am, maybe but a slave to my laalsa (desire).