Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Homecoming

As evening became night and the world turned its back on me, I was suddenly reminded of home, of her. I staggered on the street, intoxicated; where was that road that would lead me home?

I had trouble recalling when I had left home. Was it four in the afternoon? Yes, that must have been it.

I reeked of alcohol. Or probably I did not. There was, of course, no lipstick stain, for I was too clever for all that nonsense.

But she knew the moment she opened the door. She could tell. She could always tell from the way I looked back at her. She could read the exhaustion in my eyes.

It was my first night home after a fortnight. Was I too harsh on her? Was having an affair that bad? Do people not have relationships?

Of course, she had crossed my mind over these two weeks. There had been moments when I had wanted to call home, call her. I did check my cell-phone for text messages.

But she never texted or called me when I was away for a night. She knew better than that. She settled for the fact that I returned home every morning and slept for hours. She never complained when I left again in the afternoon without taking the slightest notice of her.

Most women would have left me by now. But she understood. That was why I keep coming back.

That was why I took advantage of her, night after night, being completely aware of exactly what I was doing and precisely what was going through her mind.

I did not feel guilty for a minute over the past fortnight. The other woman had been lustful, hungry, demanding, addictive. She was a storm that turned you inside out every time you went to bed, those insatiably ravenous curves demanding more, more...

Even during those nights I always knew I would return home, to her.

Even she knew.

Despite that, you could not miss the sadness in her eyes when you left her for the night. Or return in the morning after hours of frenzied passion with another. She always knew.

She always welcomed me back with a smile, but there was sadness in her eyes, sadness I was selfish enough to ignore.

Today was no different. The relationship, stormy and turbulent, had ended the same way every one of my numerous flings had.

There was warmth in that hug. She knew I was done with the other woman. She has lived it too frequently to not know. I was hers, again, till someone else crossed my way.

“I love you,” she whispered in my ear, still engulfing me in that hug that had was erotic yet tranquil, passionate yet peaceful.


“I love you too, cricket,” I responded gratefully.

14 comments:

  1. Hah ! Never been into Olympics. But then, it was not like there was a lot of choice when we used to go medal-less every time.

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  2. Maybe because I have been reading your stories for long - it was easy to guess what's coming in the end. That 'fortnight' was more than a hint.

    It was still impossible not to enjoy the mesmerizing storytelling.

    But then, I have told you many a times how good a writer you are. :)

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  3. well, now that everything is sorted out, just wanted to ask one thing,
    how do you ignore the ipl ruckus your beloved offers every summer?

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  4. Ditto to the comments of Anushtup Sett. Another giveaway was your FB status message a few days back on similar lines. But it was a very enjoyable read nonetheless.

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  5. Lovely. Very well concocted. Loved the twist.

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  6. You have genderised everything,almost everything in your previous posts,from city to season,whether Kolkata or February,and now cricket...but babu moshai,spare cricket bcoz i believe cricket bat and ball are veritable phallic symbols,and as a matter of fact that could be of some grave concern to your wife- you are obsessed with women.

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  7. Pardon my grammer

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  8. You have some imagination indeed!

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  9. Worst cricket BLOG.

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  10. I read your piece on Hugh Tayfield.
    I saw him bowl and saw some of that 1956/7 series v England.

    It would be nice to correspond if you would like to know more.

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