Living a Fantasy

Only a handful of us can bring our fantasies to life. However, once they do, they lose the sublime feeling of that fantasy. Others grudge them without comprehending this loss; they do not realize how important it is to carry on with this marijuana-like stupor. We sometimes outgrow our fantasies, like old clothes; sometimes they are laid threadbare from overuse or damaged in accidents.

Remember the time when as a little boy, you were resting your chin on the dirty window-sill of the train; getting warned against sticking your arm out and wishing that you could stick your head out; the wind blowing into your face, the slightly acrid smell of burning coal turning your throat itchy, the curling black smoke tearing your eyes and crusting your lips, and the piercing whistle conjuring dreams of far-off places.

I used to dream, as green fields, moss covered ponds, neat mud houses, half-clad children, swimming ducks, flew by my window. I saw the twig-chewing shepherd boy lazing under the breezy shed of a cascading tree, or a group of them hollering on the backs of dirty buffaloes, and thought if I could.

So many times, quaint little railway stations, tucked away in nooks of this vast land, beckoned me enticingly. Their red-tiled roofs, the patch of garden, with bright oranges and sunshiny yellow marigolds, flaming red or soft pink hibiscus, and flaring magenta bougainvilleas, whispered sweet nothings. How many moments have I spend thinking what it would be like to get down at one of these places? The fantasy changed content, though not purpose, as I grew up. While the child wanted to ride on the dirty buffaloes, the youth dreamt of bringing sea-changes in that unknown place. The dreams slowly included a friend, a soul-mate…

Where were you then? I had seen you so many times, the faceless face of my imagination. In all those time zones that I crossed, you were always on the edge, urging me along. You came but always as someone else, hiding yourself in the mist that separated one time zone from another. I looked for you and I found you in parts, scattered in the lives surrounding me.

It’s funny how fantasies merge; the house of my dreams was always by the sea. Today, it still is. The waves, relentless, mesmerize me with their rise and fall that is unpredictable and at the same time unchangeable. You never know where the next wave will rise from, but that it will rise is for sure. There is a sense of security in this. The sea is like a living being, active, vibrating, turbulent, and unpredictable. As the water recedes and you walk into the ocean, it feels like walking into your lover’s arm.

Will you come here? Will you walk with me in the morning sun, our naked feet tracing patterns in the soft wet sand? The warm water silently kissing our toes and melting away from the very touch; will you be there holding my hand, our souls silently communicating? The wind tousles your hair; you know I love to tease it, passing my fingers through them. Your eyes shinning with laughter, you deny me that simple pleasure. Our slippers hang around your waist, a warm surge floods my heart and those silly tears threaten to swell up. I turn my face and silently flick away the first drop. You come around and fold me in your arms. Nuzzling my face deep inside you, I stop existing.

Breakfast is just ‘bread and jam’, “eggs and fruits’, I holler. It’s healthy and it’s fast. I hate to cook for survival, I explain. You know I am being lazy. ‘With the amount of exercise that we are doing’, you say, pointing mischievously at the crumpled bed sheet, ‘you need real food, darlin’, not that tame stuff’. I know you love this tame stuff. I am the one who drools on fritters. You make me my oily delectable, sit with your sad looking jam sandwiches. ‘Are they good?’ you wait with the apprehensions of a new chef!

We laze around; the clock hands are broken for good. Our phones have been put to death. It’s just you and me and the open blue sea.

Just being near you is so tranquil. We drift in and out of a hazy slumber. Our toes touch and we curl together. Our bodies are like jigsaw pieces, which automatically slots themselves in pre-assigned positions. The picture is complete, the story has begun.

We walk back into the dusk. I pull your head down and taste the salt on your lips. Your cheeks are cold, your eyes wet, and my lips feel them all. You pull me close; I melt as you crush me against you.
‘Goodness me, don’t you soap your back? What a tramp’, I stare aghast at the black, soapy water running down your back, carrying away the dirt and grime of your nomadic existence. You try to foil all my stoic intentions by running your fingers along my spine. You lips trace the curve of my breast to rest at the tip; I shudder in pleasure.

It’s one of our favorite flicks, one which we have seen innumerable times. We watch it together for the first time. I refuse to let you watch the way you love it; curving forward in rapt attention, your eyes cringed, your lips curving in a smile, sneer, or scowl. I arrange the cushions behind you, dim the lights, and switch the player on. Then, slowly I slide myself, between your legs, settling comfortably against your chest. We settle in blissful togetherness, drifting off and away from the world around us, wrapped in the magical web of the movie. I do not know when the sounds of voices fade away in the background, leaving us in the throes of muted passion.

I know you will not be there, for you love me too much to break my Marijuana-like stupor. Just keep my fantasy alive.