Girl, it’s been a long time. An incredibly long time since the last time we met. The last time we made love. The last time we felt for each other.
You see Girl, for me it always was a very promising start; an auspicious beginning to a life full of love, devotion, respect and of course, sex. A lot of sex.
But you, Girl, are a disappointment. A disappointment of such a huge magnitude that even my most ferocious pejoratives will fail to belittle you. Your connotations of love and lust were to no avail, seeing how things have turned out. You might have fooled me out with your pomposity but know this Girl: for my body, you still taste of heaven.
But I digress Girl. I digress. Tonight, as I am writing this, I am going to talk about the two of us only. All those cherished memories we had; how we understood love as it was meant for the two of us; how we came to find light through our bodily passion; and perhaps, most significantly, how we came to be.
I remember the day quite clearly. But do correct me in case I am mistaken. As far as I can recall, it was a fertile blue April morning. The month of Baishakh, the first month on the Bengali calendar, was on full flow and the glaring Dhaka heat was staring down at us when one of my colleagues at work introduced you to me while we were entering the façade of our office. You were one of the experts the company had recently hired for current asset evaluation-purposes. But as soon as I had settled my eyes upon your crystal-blue ones believe me Girl, to me, it all turned into a blur. I was overpowered for the first time by the power of femininity. I was forced, literally coerced by you, Girl, to confront to the fact that I belonged to the weaker, the lustful sex created by nature.
But had we not stumbled upon each other again in the official party the following week, that transient meet-up of the eyes would have been easily forgotten. I still go over that beautiful starry night. I was talking with one of my seniors; chatting away wildly about the latest economic indicators and how the company was doing in my statistical point of view.
When you advanced forwards.
My aptitude in statistics befuddled me as soon as your eyes underscored my weakness once again. Your silky fair complexion, the gently-highlighted hair that fell out to cover your backless blouse, the kohl under your eyes, the deeply-engraved mascara on your eyelids, and of course the mild pair of blue eyes; all those salient features were turning heads towards you constantly. So much so that even I, a man of emotionless statistics and logic, couldn’t help but feel curious about you. I knew I had to advance towards you faster before one of my bosses ditched their affluent girl-friends. The way you had swung your sari over your hips and then pulled them up to cover your presumptuous breasts, Girl, believe me, that night my head had turned into a complete nothingness. I was inflicted with the strongest desire to see and feel what you kept concealed beneath your sari. Despite my highly promiscuous, polygamous lifestyle my temptations had never been so extreme as on that particular night.
And then it happened. Girl, it happened. We entered into a firm official discourse and went on talking about the economic indicators while never once paying attention to any of our expensive attire or candor. And slowly but conspicuously the conversation turned into numerous topics ranging from our lifestyle to which particular brand of beer we preferred the most.
It was blissful Girl. It was blissful.
Deep down inside both of us knew that something was happening. A fire was burning down each of our throats and no alcoholic drink was able to quell that out. I volunteered to drive you to your apartment and you readily agreed, understanding my exasperated gestures and allusions. Your innuendos that night, trust me Girl, were definitely urbane despite the fact that we said almost nothing about lust.
So before long, we were both inside your apartment, stripped out of our clothes and lying on top of each other. Intoxicated with five rounds of margaritas, that night Girl, for the first time in my life, I thought I had a future awaiting me. I envisaged a glorious tomorrow with someone. And in that vision you occupied the forefront.
Do you still remember that first night Girl? In my entire life, I had never tasted a lust so transcending. A bodily passion so overpowering. A corporeal love so special, and a feeling so immaculate.
I still reminisce over that night Girl, as if it had all happened just yesterday. The way you opened yourself up to me, and encouraged me to penetrate into your womanhood. The provocative manner in which you allowed me to taste the pungency of your lustful physique. The rosewater fragrance emanating from your supple skin. It was special Girl. That night really was special.
And do you remember the time we finally decided to tie the knot after a year and a half of sleeping around on a regular basis? When we moved in to our new apartment? The memories still haunt me Girl, as I begin to realize the timeframe through which we were gradually drifting apart from each other. But I can easily claim that for that time period we enjoyed devotion and love; sex became a daily affair, forcing you to stay on pills on almost each and every other day.
I particularly liked our godless ways, and especially the intellectual discourses we often had on nights after having sex—–over a puff of cigarette that we liked to share between us after our private parts had been worked up—–about how atheism and logic was the solution to all worldly problems. How religion was a stupid, man-made affair. The fact that we were both orphans had guaranteed us complete abstinence from family and social constraints. So it was the peak of love for just the two of us: we lived for each other, and each other only.
I can now recall that visit to Interlaken during our winter holidays. Flaunted by the beauty of the Swiss mountains, for the first time in my life you made me see the heavens through you. If there ever was a heaven somewhere, I am sure Girl, I saw it through your eyes during those holidays. I remember the snogging session under the mistletoe on Christmas Eve according to Western tradition. It was a kiss so passionate and powerful that even in that cold December night, we felt glued to each other both spiritually and bodily. Fully aroused for sex, we promised each other to repeat that kiss again next year in the same venue under a fresh batch of mistletoe.
But now that you are so far away Girl will you be able to keep that promise? Will I wait for you in that particular hotel-lobby to get a taste of your lips? Will you be there? Will the mistletoe be as beautifully adorned as they were on that particular night?
I can also remember the two of us sitting together for rickshaw rides in Dhaka during the Friday afternoons. The time when the sky was beautiful and azure, and the sun was holidaying as well. That signature style you employed to pull up your transparent, silky, black dupatta when the wind moved it out over your breasts to conceal the little amount of your exposed cleavage—God, believe me Girl, I always waited to see that elegant move. And the black kameez you wore which were always cut up to above the waist-lines making passers-by ogle at the small amount of exposed flesh on your waist, how can I ever forget those most intimate days of my life! And your black and red bindis, to which I always gasped on seeing how beautiful they made you. Trust me Girl, if there ever was a God for me, it was only you.
But I also remember that fateful night in the doctor’s chamber. Your blood test reports had arrived and the doctor had called me in for some bad news. I returned from the chamber unable to control my tears. I wanted to shout out loud, and ask someone— not knowing whom since I did not believe in any religious fallacy —why it had to be me and no one else. Why happiness had to be fleeting for me.
That night Girl, I cried after a really long time. I came back home and unfurled my dead mother’s prayer mats. I prostrated in front of a God whom I had always believed to be non-extant and fanciful. I recited long-forgotten fragmented parts of the Qur’an that I had previously shunned away firmly from my life. I asked for forgiveness. For assistance.
That night, you came out of the washroom down in your knickers with voracious bodily demands commanding your every move. You noticed for the first time that you had failed to arouse my interests. You collapsed over my chest and tried to nudge me, asking me what was wrong.
How I was lost for words Girl! I didn’t know how to relate it to you. How to tell you that you had cancer running in your veins. That you had only a few months to spare before facing a horrible death.
That night Girl, despite the monstrous remonstrations inside me, I told you what the doctor had previously explained to me inside his chamber.
I remember your smile, your ever-perfect, all-knowing smile at that point in time. I could murder countless just to see that smile on your face. Everyone had to die, you consoled me, So just carry on living in the present because this is the moment we have access to. You brushed away everything immediately, telling me to be courageous, to be ready to face what tomorrow had in store for the two of us.
Only time couldn’t brush it away.
I don’t know Girl. I don’t know what those few months actually were. Wasn’t it all bodily love that bonded us together? Wasn’t it more like a sex partnership rather than anything else between the two of us? Or was it, unknowingly, love? A love that time and nature had so skilfully morphed with the most ambidextrous hands of the most virtuoso artist? A love so powerfully built from the remnants of bodily emotion; so impeccably created from nothing but lust? Is it possible that I will find your love again in the bodies of others? Is it possible to locate that level of transcending love again?
You know what Girl? Sometimes I think you are one of those Hur the Qur’an talks about. The brilliantly fair, pure and chaste women who emit a flair illuminated enough to light up the world. Your Creator might have mistakenly dropped you off into the Earth and into my life. And after realizing what He had done in ignorance and haste, He had called you back up immediately in order for you to fulfill your purpose.
Sometimes I imagine I am sitting in the Gardens under which Rivers Flow, and you are my Hur, handing out my red wine in the goblets composed of gold and silver.
Sometimes I doubt whether those few months we had were happening here on this planet. After all, you defined Paradise to me; how can I presume a coexistence with you to be ever omnipresent here on this planet of the mortals?