Wednesday, May 4, 2011
"You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit." (Oscar Wilde)
I could almost feel how bent my back was under the weight of all my self-imposed morality. Girls this, girls that. Moral, but not excessively religious, so neither in this world, nor that. Must not date anyone, must not kiss him just because of the way he makes you feel in towering, loveless cities, must not wear the sleeves too short, must not let my eyes wander on the charmingly lit face of a broody stranger. And the way he called me out, I wanted to break away from it all.
And he called me out all the time.
Why, hello there.
Why are you following me?
Because you're beautiful.
Silence. Him, smiles. Her, the dull ache of withered passion.
Just once, to shut his smile with a kiss.
Just once, to return his advances, shove for push.
God was always sitting between you and me, when I wanted to reach out and touch your face. Sitting there, with a wan smile, an eyebrow arched, almost daring me to go on. You goaded. He just mocked. I never will forgive Him for that.
Come over, my flat mates aren't in, we'll make pancakes.
Want me to teach you how to touch the strings of a rubab in a way that coaxes them into making music?
Can I sketch you?
No. No. NO.
Sometimes, it was almost as if I was incapable of saying yes, even when I wanted to, so I kept on frowning into his merry eyes, hoping he would keep coming back.
In the meantime, Rumi spoke low and soft from behind his lop-sided smile on the streak of blue paint that was his overstudied mouth.
"People who repress desires often turn, suddenly, into hypocrites."