Monday, 28 September 2015

episode 28 touch me

in the silence, something seeped into him and all he could do was be its captive. his hands moved without volition, almost as though pulled by a magnet toward her face. he had no idea what he was doing, just that he had to do this. for she had touched him already. with her tear.

"touch has memory."
~~~ john keats ~~~


a sense was awakened today. touch. physical, emotional, in the gut, in the heart. he thrust her back against a huge drum of some sort, wanting to calm her, and himself perhaps too. the searing storm had entered both, and swirled dangerously. he had no idea things were in such a state, he said. as he watched, her face spoke fire, anger, transiting to pain and surprisingly almost a plea for mercy; he hadn't realised how hard he was holding her wrist. a tear formed and fell.

all through played rabba vey in the layer beyond, speaking of connection beyond words beyond logic beyond the limits of our reality, even when there was anger, when everything hurt, there was no looking back.
sight had made the crack in the fortress wall, sound of her name revealed how hard it had hit, now touch smashed a rampart. beautiful direction and feel for the moment. tremulous, strains of rabba vey played on.

a glistening pearl on his hand. then another. like his first, then second call: khushi.

as though first drops of rain on parched earth. and they flooded his heart. stronger than an ocean, swifter than the rain. he freed her wrist and grappled with unknown feelings. those tears, what were they doing to him. his eyes wouldn't, couldn't leave her face.

before he could pull himself together, she passed out. limp, and trusting in his arms. concern and bafflement...

and so it was that his gaze fell on a stray strand of hair and a desire he couldn't understand or overcome took over.

to touch.

to feel that hair and tuck it behind that ear, to stroke a cheek, and then another? why, asr, why? he had no answer. he wasn't even thinking. she had let go on him, and he just wanted to be there with her. tender, loving, gentle, sweet, just feeling her innocent skin against his. something beyond him pulled him and kept him there.
"see how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
o that i were a glove upon that hand,
that i might touch that cheek!
"~~~ romeo's soliloquy, william shakespeare

he lifted his hand and did as he felt compelled to. i felt my breath stay still as this most intoxicating sequence unfolded.

later he would pick her up in his arms, cradle her like a child, something precious, and take her to his suv, then her home. there, he'd be greeted by a sister's wrath, and an aunt's curses; insulted, shown the door. yet all he'd know is that she held on to his shirt, that he had to be gentle with her, that he couldn't just leave without knowing she was alright. he'd notice his finger marks on her wrist, and the cut on the other, her blood, red, deep, alive in that ugly gash.

he'd been responsible for that too.

someone called shyam would make him wonder. was he thinking this is a man important to her? did he not like it? in the car, a broken bangle, she'd left behind a memory for him, and then he'd see the wound on his palm. his blood, red, deep, alive. had their blood touched?

a dupatta once had billowed with abandon and caressed his face, now it streamed out and marked memories, catching the tale in its folds. i listened, captivated. the makers of this story had a strange passion to tell it well, take it deeper than the idiot box's measurements and reach. their simple devices to cross into another dimension, one beyond the senses five: a churi, a dupatta, a jalebi, a couch.. among them the dupatta so elegant, so eloquent. romantic, unheeding of good sense, going to forbidden places and touching eternity whenever it wished.

the episode was ballet like, musical, and a song just kept coming to me. listen to it while you read, might be more fun.

 credit: uploader 


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