Lhamu. A gasping impulse for an intangible desire.

A tired puff of relentless air, a revolting hand on the spreads and a failure lathered headbutt. All the signals of discontent the protagonist entails during an effort to gain some much eluded sleep and a thoughtless tranquil being. He eyes blindingly towards his cell to catch a sneaky glimpse of the time flying by as if never having envisioned such a mass source of radiance, almost like the tales of knowledge that once the philosopher and teacher Socrates foretold. 12:45am – is the stamp of time read by this forsaken soul, as if out of the sandman’s delight. It has now been nearly 3 hours since the battle for appeasement from a fulfilled rest began.  Eyeing around his room you would dearth an amalgamation of genres of interest and endeavours – politics, art, commerce, history, fiction and even sports. A stampede of books, whose width would sunken the heart of any other contingent of the contemporary youth stand like the individual in talk; a riot of colours and shapes through the medium of paint, metal and plastic that are enough to blind even the most hardline of enthusiasts; and an unnatural blend of objects from the past and gadgets of the present. From among the confusions and contradictions of the surrounding space emerges a sight of focus or rather an entity that seems misplaced, if not concealed, among the zealous of the individual’s concentrations. It is a small black notebook, no larger than the size of a personal dairy. No graphics, corporate trademark or even a cheeky title on the medium of expression. It materializes as a blank slate from the superficial perspective, maybe in an attempt of shrugging off intruders through false deception of emptiness. Finally, after glancing through the enormity of his feats and glaring limply at the objectification of the black book, he slithers up from his slump and contemplates an action or thought while gathering strength hinging on his bedside bank.


Reminiscing through the dreary lanes, monotonous streets and ill gone offspring of fate dwelling around the pessimists of devotion and charity, he finds himself entering a world governed around the appearance and disappearance of the authoritative, yet draconian, red light. The ideologically undeveloped mind of the boy, if that what he is, trying to rationalize the adolescence behind the whores, the neglect behind the pimps and the bewildered lust behind the secretive pigs thriving on fornicating nymphs. In spite of dilutions to the concepts of rights and wrongs in the protagonist’s cognisant, he seems never farfetched from his habitual state under the realms of unfounded plight, sly and ache for wealth and ability to cause misery. Strolling callously around the veins of panic and horror, he spots a bar, only in name, which is still unwrapped by the night’s lore and persists to invite solitary characters and dire amnesia addict slowly awakening as sobering folks. Neither is he gutted by the mind nor by the soul as he observes the epitome of shame that the proposed society has dragged a prostitute to be. He is not repelled by her enticing stand for it must have taken scores of thumping to make a girl limp as her. He cherishes her consuming scent; the very same potted with the sweat of her feats, her patrons and her cause earned redemption. He transpires beyond the coat of slapstick pleasantries that the vermin of the world desire to smitten on and indulges into the splendour of the less uppity aspects of beautifications like the mesmeric ballet of the eminent nose ring, the tomes of the enigmatic kajal or the strict shyness of a freckle. May be it’s because of his obsession with the slick past or nervousness for the eventual taste. He puts himself under the grips of the night sky and the solace of a lonely corner as if he is stuck and the only thing he can do is stare endlessly into the oblivion that has come to be this tavern of so called aberrant desires, as termed by the intellectual and the holy, and the shanty-shack professions around it. He lay there in torment of a thought, a thought he is yet to decipher and fully understand. He lay there in his confusion   concerning the world, its people and the possible afterlife. Concerning his mind with the most fundament of question which glories the intellectual, but even the most ardent and spiritual laureates of the past failed to find an answer to. But he sat there in his naivety, self-claiming inability and a set of eyes cracked with the torment to find an answer, no matter the question. His body was twitching, shivering as his formidable instincts. After an impulsive squeeze to the eyes, he propounds an action and moves squeamishly towards the gates of the night-lit bar. He walks with a concealed cynicism, yet profound buoyancy as if the skies were his and the moon his apprentice. To his delight or simple plutonic luck, there were no obstructions at the gateway. No bouncer, pimp or even a menial watchguard to bard his heartthrob entrance. Feeding to his cynicism, he peeks in a look to see if the doors held more than he desired for or least needed.

Among the humming of the ethanol clouds and tinkering of the rainbow rains, he comforted in an uneventful corner while eyeing the various caricatures of the place. He drifted his foci from everything in between the fat guys with heavy drinks to the petite men with over-compensative roars.

“One screwdriver.”

He ordered so with a guilty quench to the evidently elder and characteristic bartender as if with the embarrassment of what impression of his celebrated age would be shed. A 19 year old sipping on intoxicating vodka at nearly 2 in the morning is not the least of pleasing sights, he thought.

He ushers a random gaze through the morbid shells of females baring their bones for the incessant primordial requirements of the here dominant males. Among the frail   jazzing women, he focused his off and on attention on a girl who was seen as the exotic delight of the lot. She was a petite woman of possibly North-East Indian descent, unlike her companions who largely appeared to be from the hinterlands of the nation. At first the blinding streams of rainbow lights and the dimmed chastity of this edifice made it hard to resonate with one’s eyes, yet her disenchantment with her surroundings carried the dangled boy’s interest. Flickering between the smoothness of his drink and the disenchantment of the girl, he continued to lavish her with attention.  He in an impulsive act seeks a look towards the fairly hidden clock on the wall. 2:35 – it has now been more than half an hour since he drifted into his creation of self serving lust, yet he was the  only person there who hadn’t had a cheeky twirl with one of the girls or an overzealous consumption of slippery alcohol. He laid rooted there in his obsessions, his drink and the girl, until the dawn of the hangovers was evoked by the seeping rays of a new day and the paranoia of a transcending night. By now, the stage had been cleared and the various fornication enthusiasts had emptied their respective chambers of interest. The boy no longer bothered to check the time or know of whether he is now suppose to be somewhere or do something and be worried about someone caring. For now, in these lusciously illuminating speed sticks, he did not seem to care.

He now once again scrambles up from a prolonged state of skirmishing in his nothingness, except only for this time to find one of his obsessions standing in front of him.  His muscles contracted, his eyes stretched and his body stared murmuring its own tones. He stood there in silence, yet embarrassed by his answers. He released no refined speech of the sublime con man or the garnished delights of the petite youth filled boy, not even the least inspiring grunts of the nymphotic teenager.   He stood there flinching, left alone by the trades of knowledge which he so eagerly attained.

And with the flicker of an amorous smile, letters drizzled in an intervene fashion of an elapsed age of harmonious occurrings and gentle times.


His hidden obsession spoke with an accompanied gesture of a crucial introduction. She spoke with an unlinked passage to the indigenous trends of her environment, unaware of the generated awareness around her.


“Uncle, doh coffee dena” (Uncle, two coffees please)

“Uncle? … ”

He eyed back and forth between his transcendent desire and an old grunt tacking his daily tweaks.   A petty bourgeois is what the boy thought of him, someone who administered his entire medium of life around the mechanical principles of pride and respect. He quarrels with a wholesaler not for a few extra rupees, but for the primordial intent of protecting his paradigm of rational content. The shopkeeper remains negligent, and the boy distant. As he stood there in time waiting for the man to cease his blustering sounds of anger, the girl carelessly pounced near gentlemen and shrugged his shoulder in an act of frisk. She ushered furtively in his ears, as the man gazed in concentration and the boy perplexed.


This was only the second word liberated by the girl’s speech, after the initial exuberance of her name. She placed forth a yellowish delight for the oblivious boy. He at first was questionable of her offer, not because of his ambiguity towards the girl’s intentions rather, due to the sight of a floating visitor twirling in his drink. Yet, it seemed irrational to challenge his irrational reason that had brought him so far, that too over just a minor infectious pest.

“Uhmm.. What is this?”

The girl mimed her request for gratification, as the bounds of communication between linguistics placed a thorn.

“(Strident coughing)”

He felt a burn through his throat and a fond contact, one of the two was all too proverbial. The former was the girl drawing him towards a trail while he reminisced about the taste. She walked him through a pathway into an indicatively concealed door placed inside the store.


Stammering, muttering on and off the stairs, he felt enriched by the dust and dirt around him. He felt no longer perplexed by the accompanied splendour and her clandestine endeavours. He focussed on the dirt as usual, only to be remarkably amazed. He felt the exuberance of his reactions fading away. He followed an old man enlightening the way as he rode in the comfort of an alluring girl beside him; another cliché that he felt reality had made him to experience. The aged individual, like the girl, seemed to have swayed away from the luring clarity of the emerald east and under blotted tint of these escalating crimson lanes. He seemed one with the grime and filth that bounded him, making it hard for the boy to percept his existence. He finally eloped into delusion and then an illustration, making him what now seemed to be a tarnished rustic door. There were droplets of absent hues trickling onto the door, only to soak the habits of colours and fly away in a mist of twittering birds.

“(Coughing) haha . . ha…”

The illusion imagining disillusioned boy gained his momentarily misplaced wits to visualise the now seeming monotonous fellow only opening a snuck door, stuck between the staircase and a blocked passage. What lay beyond the other side was a half-naked white male lying unconscious on the lavatory with a beer bottle snug between his bare legs. Before the boy could gather enough recollect, the foreign man was severed from the boy’s memory and given a soothing crack of radiance.  The half-naked man was frisked away, leaving behind a traditionally reserved for a few unkempt eyes.  Strings of rose-coloured light seemed parched for a flounce in the niche of her eyes. He felt an absence of air, all seemed to be galloping for a blissful thump off her lips. Her radiance blinded time as it callously swept by, as the boy glared in a daze.  She retreated into a dejected tub that lay behind her, with her hand in his and his face following hers. An image that he undertook constructing barely hours ago erupted facing him like a sultry slap from temptress reality. As till now, he compulsively followed her again. Anxious, quite and flabbergasted, he stood there as the exposed splendour sought to   uncover the hidden boy.

The two said naked individuals stood alone in a nervous rut with their visions misaligned. The girl in a haze turns on the shower, perhaps in a vague attempt to suppress a discrete unease. Through the feeble walls of shower the boy, for once this night, extended towards his lust for desires by surrounding the soothe of the lady with the comfort of his hands. At first, she expressed some minor contempt, in the end fell into a relentless slump and into the boy’s soothe. After moments of pampering holds and indulgence, the boy once more took initiative to slither his hands on to the girl’s face in an attempt to align their eyes into harmony. He observes the liquid sliding down from the crevasse below her eyes and finally off precipice of her lips, as if having being slayed by its own self delight. He stared at her for moments on, only to be brought to abrupt by a hesitant approach of her eyes, nose and lips that seeked more than just menial harmony. She sought unity, which he made obtainable.


Frivolously loitering in her room, or least what he presumes to be, he is encompassed within a sense of enticing ecstasy indulging his every gulp of air with a flavour of fresh pleasing perceptions. The streams of the red light that once stood for the despot, now morphed into the stems of uncut roses that hid the space under their caring shade. The Red eyes, red lights, red lips with the red roses read what the boy’s broken reed had to be. Searching through her belongings, he smiles at the sight of an image. It was of her, floating her pre-pubescent innocence in an immature dress with a pair of annoyed eyes.  And then, hastily shedding the picture aside he witnessed what his actions made and his thoughts desired. So, he ran towards his obsession for new found desires.


He stood on both the zenith of his emotions and at the peak near the skies facing the rising dreams of mankind. With watery eyes and a hardened fist, he opened his dazzle wits to the old man whose path he once thoughtlessly followed to quench the needs for his much eluded answers. On the roof of this abandoned place, the boy relenting in his haze, while the elderly man with his back towards him sought to face the more appealing traits of existence like the rising sun and the twirling-teetering bird. One youth stood in a mist of rage, as the old wept appreciating the imminent age.




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