Bastard

“You’re a bastard,” she said that again. Perhaps, this time stressed more on the word – bastard – may be her tongue pushed against her teeth a little more. For this time, it sounded distant...erotic and then simply like bastard. Abusing is a funny business, sometimes you just do it for the fun of it, and at times you mean it. I guess here she was trying to manage both.

She looked at me, perhaps, trying to gauge if any sense of guilt has loomed on my face. I remained quiet. In fact, I was thinking how to hide my malnourished frame. I guess I was trying to pull the bed sheet, which somehow got stuck under our state of undress.

It was early morning, more than four hours, when the exchange of limited body fluids would’ve happened. Limited because I knew this was to happen and bought what need to be bought. Anyhow, I had managed to catch a wink and had completely forgotten that I was sleeping next to a unclothed woman.

Believe me; yours truly, have been extremely unlucky in matters such as these and at some point of time was almost going to renunciate the means to genesis. Naturally, I was disappointed with myself when I realised I had wasted such precious time sleeping. But this has always been the case with me and sleep has taken precedence over various important tasks of mine.

Adding to my disappointment was the berating behaviour of my object of desire. And, here i was trying to hide myself both from her gaze and her verbal volleys, shielding my uncovered display of skinniness with the crumpled bed sheet and fighting her barbed remarks with supersonic silence.

“Light up a smoke,” she ordered. I promptly did. I don’t know what possible conversation was apt for the moment. I mean what do you ask – was it good? Or hope you enjoyed! Or can we do it again? Or simply say it was fun – but somehow none of this seemed to be fit, and I kept silent.

As the smell of nicotine burnt my nostrils, I started questioning myself. Did she like it? I guess she did. She even counted my ribs, six of them, the first five were too obvious...gawking out of my sparsely distributed flesh, but the sixth one...she traced it too. Or did she just enjoy it, perversely. You know, the way, people enjoy watching poverty struck children. Slum Dogs, Poverty Tourism.

May be she did. For she compared our wrists, length of my shoulder, bony fingers and the non-availability of flesh around my stomach. But then why we went this far? Did she took pity on me? Pity, that i was deprived. Pity, that am so pitiable or was it some “motherly” instinct that my pities aroused. And as when i tried to dechipher this unnatural behaviour displayed during a natural act, i started feeling that may be, and mind you, dear reader, that may be, she offered her as a mother to a child. And if it was so, it’s a pity.

“Here,” she broke my chain of thoughts, with rings of smoke blown on my face, as she passed on the cigarette. Perched on her elbow, staring at my face, she continued, “You know, you ruined it all for me. I would never be normal. Friends we were. It was so good. “Bastard,” she said that again.

I maintained silence. And sucked on the cigarette bud, which nearly burnt my lips... “You would keep it to yourself, right?” she was looking intently at me, perhaps for an answer. I guess here was my chance to retort. “You won’t?” She asked again. I was trying to think fast. But only managed to utter, “I don’t take myself seriously.”

She stared at me, for a full minute. I stared back. “I can see that,” she said. Pointing towards perhaps my only body organ, where there are some muscles, which were already flexing. I don’t know, at that moment, i tried to look – ashamed, proud, confused or just relaxed – but I remained silent.

Some days back, I saw her with another friend. They looked happy. I smiled, and so did they. As they moved ahead, she turned back. Her lips made a non-audible “bastard”. I smiled. I guess she’s wrong. I’m only unsuccessful...