Half a Confession II

[Warning: offensive language and subject matter.]

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Soow’wur Kuttay:

Can’t you tolerate this for my sake? You write: what would you gain by this display of un-ladylike language?

Oye khotay, you know what a bitch I am? Keep your guilt feelings to yourselves. Remember when you returned from a holiday to find your favorite plant withering away? And then you dropped everything and watered the plant and it slowly returned to life? How the leaves and branches firmed up and gathered strength? I feel like that plant in reverse; each passing day it takes me longer and longer to regroup after minimal physical exertions.

Nothing new there: the specialists had already warned me of the gory details earlier. Now they have also increased the frequency of the nurse’s visit from once to twice daily.

Body sponges, change of sheets, the general bull shit and I cannot help but smile -- what everyone prays for and dreams about -- I had taken for granted -- the leisurely life style where people around me would do my bidding without me having to lift a finger; but not this way yaara!

You write spill your heart out -- well, what else is there to do -- but you have to promise me one thing -- you will not rat on me. Ah fuck! what does it matter? Once you are gone you are gone -- as Ismat had told you: Yeh Khuda wuda bhaiyya apni samajh maiN nahiN aata hay -- if He exists He has to be nice and friendly and will treat me nicely after all that I had to endure in this world -- didn’t I read somewhere you saying your God smiles -- and if He doesn’t who cares? Remember what you recalled when you met Ismat Chughtai? She had a puja/prayer corner set aside with miniature portraits of Guru Nanak, Jesus, Buddha and all those deities and the pictures of churches and mosques and temples? I think she was just hedging her bets.

The mid-day nurse was a kindly soul. He plopped me up on this electronically controlled bed with everything within easy reach and the lap top perched on the breakfast tray so I can indulge with you; and I am doing everything but -- but who cares really -- I mean let us be realistic -- after Kid I discovered drug chemistry with a renewed zeal and vehemence -- I could have done a doctorate in those uppers and downers had I cared -- had no idea how I found Shaa on the pillow beside mine one morning.

He was the most unlikely person I could have slept with -- actually I did not -- not that night -- he later told me how in a drug-induced stupor I had dragged him out of the party and into the bedroom and threatened to raise a ruckus if he would sneak out -- held him tight and passed out while he drifted off to sleep -- guess he felt so guilty -- and guilt is one emotion we women and your two bit jahil guardians of conscience have learned instinctively to use so very effectively over men.

Shaa was a closet mullah all right -- you guys could never have guessed it -- but I lived and slept with him, I know -- know what -- outside of you the best sex I ever had was with him -- I would do anything once -- went the distance and beyond with the bugger who would not even kiss me before the nikah -- oh, how he supported my withdrawal and rehab -- and then the sex -- he had frenzied imagination and energy, my poor mullah -- floating smoke from agarbattees, scented candles and aromatic oil lamps, exotic music, khayal, thumri, dadra the light classical ghazals -- and he was so gentle I looked forward to sex with him -- though he would not eat me -- the hippocratic prude.

I feel so powerful and in control when I give head but Shaa changed when his mother came to live with us. I always thought men could be controlled through their organs: give them a good fuck or head and they are like the proverbial dog, wagging tails and all, but that is not counting for the saas -- the mother of all bitches -- she stroked on his latent mullahism and almost threw me out of my condominium -- what audacity!

After my lawyers kicked them out, had you not returned to the city I would have certainly drifted back into drugs -- I am crushed by your and E’s caring yara -- okay, but no, it is not okay -- enough for now...

pyar, buhat sara pyar -- jao sou jaao

tumhari,