The Black pigeon Speaks False

Today, me and my friend were left looking at a video that left us basically in awe with it’s regressive views. So, as is usual, we entered into a feminist and political view of the entire deal. So, me and Shivangi sat down and discussed the video below to well, find out what was wrong with it.

Me : OK, so what are your primary thoughts? For me the video performs quite a few fallacies, there have been several countries where enforced monogamy is the norm (*cough* India *cough), where the economic situation has not seen uniform growth over the years and has in fact in the long term, only benefited from the outside trade. Also, equation sexual liberation with the political ideologies of the left is naivete. Historically, as well as recently, the left has routinely stood up for women’s rights, and sexual liberation has played a key part in it. Also, let us remember that there have been countries with high levels of gender equality, which have offered a multicultural approach to Islam and have worked their way. So, the correlation, however, positive cannot account for the causation. The prime example of course is the Danish government, which despite having one of the most sexually liberated, and gender equal societies in Europe has remained staunchly against immigration. Which by definition of scientific research makes the entire debate moot.

S : The perspective of the narrator is completely wrong. He is looking at everything from a biological point of view and not social.

Me : So, as we scientifically disprove this false ideal we also have to question the sources he is using, a 1936 book cannot account for recent economic trends and of course the developing nations with new trade opportunities are growing at a faster rate than developed countries where the trade opportunities have become limited in scope. However, there has been a scope for development still, USA is still growing in the business sector, the sexually liberated and free bordered EU countries have seen growth too

S : Also the comparison of Vietnamese and Nazi incidents with the Syrian refugees is not only stupid but also blatantly racist. The women who married the enemies were just in a social position where they could take advantage and they did like any man would have as well.

Me : Of course, the biological perspective sans any social context puts things at a backseat, traditionally, men have sought out women with larger hips and larger breasts because they were indicators of greater fertility, but, in the context of a steady growth of population and an already overpopulated world, the concept of a monogamous family as a production unit of children holds no purpose and is quite archaic.

S : Where he brings in the 87% women orgasm during rape. That doesn’t prove that women naturally seek more aggressive men.

Me : A lot of American soldiers would have had relations with Vietnamese men, this was not seeking out the enemy, historically this was to protect the family from the oppression, I believe we can find studies and books written about the same

S : Because by that logic we can also say that a lot of men get erections during rape so they like aggressive women as well.

Me : Sexual arousal is a bodily response to penetration and other things, it is removed from the consensual basis of a relationship that should be established. there are psychological repercussions

S : Exactly

Me : This disproves the aggressive men theory

S : Plus people have different personalities on bed and in public.

Me : Also, it is a moot point that women tend to have rape fantasies, because by consenting to have those fantasies women essentially want sex that is consensual. This cannot be equated to rape.

S : The most irritating part for me was the author’s 80% and 40% part. He clearly ignored the fact that maybe the women were lesser in quantity.

And of the rest 60% of men maybe some were not interested in Heterosexuality.

Me : Also, the fact that polygamy was an accepted social norm in the older societies and that monogamy is a recent construct which basically created the family as a production unit has been noted in Marxist philosophies for such a long time.There is positive evidence that colonization of the older cultures particularly in native America was when the monogamy as the accepted norm started there, there is actual documented evidence of this

S : Exactly. And moreover the sex ratio has not always been equal.

Me : Basically, the construct of civilized society has been so influenced by colonization it is very difficult to construct a narrative where you can account for a part where a polygamous society or a society where the women were more sexually liberated was worse off

S : Also he said that women never built or maintained a civilization. Whose fault is that?

Me : Because as far as I remember, in India particularly, the polygamy and sexual liberation of women, to the point of an entire sexual culture centered around it was when it was showing maximal growth. Of course the colonists did not see it as growth because they were myopic in their views of what growth really meant

S : While the civilization was about to start women did not have an option but to reproduce

Me : Patriarchal societies have routinely not allowed female participation in decision making and with male opinions dominating the media, and the male narrative still dictating a large amount of consumerist society, we cannot construct a view of how a matriarchal society might perform in the real time world

There is simply no credible scientific evidence either way.

S : I like how he keeps saying that he isn’t referring to all women but women as an organism. I have really never seen a sentence contradict itself so much

Me : Woman isn’t an individual organism, the female sex still belongs to homo sapiens and has particularly same base characteristics, despite societal norms dictating behavioral changes and the inherent biological differences almost all female and males of any species have

This other-ing of woman into another separate organism as a whole represents a myopic view in itself and showcases an inherent misogynist view

Out of everything, we can probably understand that the author represents this mindset which is scary. mostly, we debated on the feminist characteristics of the views represented in the video, the inherent xenophobia would need a whole other source.
*sigh*

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On thorny mornings

This is a part of the series of posts about Rabindrasangeets that have influenced me, I am not even a speck of what the bard was, but, I try…

I remember you before dawns, walking out with a horse, in a sunset that I could only describe as thorny. You held in your fingers a pencil, and you decided to draw poetry on a sand. I wouldn’t find my portrait in those words until you decided to leave the city on your car.
Now, i remember days like I remember nights. They are the same. No one wets my candle with their touch the moment I have turned around. The saree is no longer a seductress and the red and white often becomes a landscape of lilies marred by the blood of a swallow. You never did know how much of a storm you threatened to become did you?
Neither did you remember how walking out on an evening which was striking into the night like a hammer, you were sparking onto a momentary bliss, and all I had was this expectation that the pain of burning could ease out this pain. But, then you would say swallows are shallow for wanting the same thing again and again. And I would be a sandstorm covering the footprints I left near the streaks of your tires which were nearly paintbrushes. Then again you are an evening that hammers the night till she becomes a seductress and I am childish lips drawn on the corners of a shirt collar to mimic kisses you should have left.

Was it fate that we fell in love in a desert town? Or was it fate that inevitably we ended up drowning. I meant to ask how many men you have drowned before me but, I know you would smile and I would be left drinking sandy waters on the banks of an oasis. Do you know palm trees smell of the way you spilled milk on the water to make it into an image reflected infinitely on the shores like the moon was. I knew your secrets, you wanted to see the moon have a blue stain, because you were always sans marks on your visage, something that lent uniqueness to your being.

If I could sail, I would sail with you, through the distant shores of endlessness, and I will drown too, much like lipstick stains do. Please do not let me put more acetone on the nailpolish wounds.

 

 

This is influenced by “Tomar Khola Hawa”, you can listen to the song below

Past Lovers

Who do you complain to when your ninth grade romance
leads to a silent night before 12th grade when you lose
your virginity in a background, and you become just a silhouette
screaming that you wish you had not? When you have known
about masturbation from the day you were eight because
someone masturbated to you, after closing bedroom doors.
“Does anal hurt?”, she asks after smoking the third cigarette
I smile and I whisper, “Lots.” “But, not as much as him
Forcing me down so that I wouldn’t enjoy it more than he did”
remains a subtext. This grows until my silences become
novels which need writing, and I am afraid that he would notice
his name which rides on anonymity. Maybe, he has forgotten.
I’m ambivalent about that, do I want him to forget how I felt?
Maybe, if he remembers, there will be regret, but, what if
it is another day when he does not listen to my screams and is
there telling me about how he would like to try something new.
“Something new”, my friend who is strong says, and starts
Painting with words, showcasing her pain to be a strength
surviving without dilution, without any kind of pretense.
Shame flows through me, I remember my false pretense
and how I tried to remove his taste, by spraying deodorant
on my tongue. Shit decomposing, turns to green goo
and you can drown and suffocate, without a light to see.
You detoxify, and I have spent years trying to run away like an addict
getting rid of heroin in their bloodstream. Every time I look at a man
I measure him up to the past failure, telling myself that I am
not looking for you. “Battered wife” is not what I will live with
but, it is painful because books become smokescreens before
a TV screen showcases our past, and I am puking.
I have not listened to music, and I could not masturbate until I was 18
before your face was replaced by another, and I believe
that he was worse because I knew what he was doing.
Only I didn’t protest because ever since, eight I never had
anyone exclusively. There are only so many musicians you can
cut out because of the memories. Suddenly, you are dancing
ballet with the most amazing guy in the company and they will
put on that song, and he won’t know what hit him.
However, that is not how I know what the worst is, the absolute worst
comes from reclaiming my body. Answering my friend’s
call, walking back into your restaurant and realizing though
they change the interior decoration and shit, the chicken soup
still got your saliva in it. I am still afraid about going out
meeting people not pre-approved, but, then that is shit.
The last time I had a hook up I went outside and I smoked
five cigarettes, one after the other, until he walked into me
and hugged me. Yeah, we weren’t supposed to keep contact
but, that was the only bus ride from our hotel, that did not stink
of your masculinity. And I know I am 21 and fuck, I need to figure
out a way out of this, but, I cannot behind
this wall that is chasing me. You do not return my calls, as if me
accusing you was the greater crime than you raping me.
Sorry I wrote this poem
You did always accuse me of not keeping the peace

Almost Infinities

This is a part of the series of posts about Rabindrasangeets that have influenced me, I am not even a speck of what the bard was, but, I try…

 

I believe I feel like a river joining the sea whenever I encounter you in my thoughts. You are impenetrable yet, inevitable, and our paths are always going to collide. You are the burst of divine greens before my untimely death, and yet, I seek you out for there is little purpose to me without you.
Yet, we are meant to be separate. My thoughts, my fishes do not mingle with yours, and in the small parts in spaces where we can pretend that we are lovers, you remind me so harshly that it is never to be. Your tornados, your typhoons, ravage me and my lands. I overflow with emotions, I let the banks drown out the pain that you cause whenever you are on a whim.
For I miss the summers, the calm when you are going to sit and drink in your own image, speaking of words that I do not comprehend. You would breathe so deeply in thoughts that would make me feel so insufficient, and yet, fulfilled. We are meeting uninterrupted, and happiness reigns.
I wish that it would be so always.
Yet, inevitably the seasons of the negatives blows over us. You push me back with force, I fume and rage. White froth, cold rage and the deaths.
I am stubborn, but, you fail to move too.
The third glass of whiskey makes you want to sleep it off, and make me want to go on and make love; make love till the sunset takes us into her arms like another who has had enough. You are ever an adult though, always a “No” waits, and I break. A piece of my bank becomes sand, a piece of tress falls into my way, I block myself.
This prevents me from wanting more, for I do deserve less.
However, I do not complain much. It is the endless nights when the Baul plays his mad music in the heart of mine, and your shores are alighted with campfires of newlyweds; you still welcome me to your arms. I dry off, and drench myself in tears we mingle. Then, the replies stream into an insignificant memory upon my person, and like the ever flowing water, it also floats away, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Perhaps, this is the nature of waiting for the inevitable. You save me from being inadequate when you prevent me from getting too close too soon. It is a cautionary tale, it is a truth. And it makes it ever so sweeter, because some days you open yourself. Our thoughts play along. Our books remain unopened and we sing songs that are the truth as a whole.
You refuse me so, and that is enlightenment, for my losses make me love you ever more. You do not let me flow into expectations that overwhelm, you do not let me become less, we are just alright, almost there, and no one asks whether we are there yet. And I cry through your blessings in a drunken night, I adorn your pictures with thorns, I rage and rage. Yet, when inevitability pushes us together, I know that it has come in the right time, in the right place. And our kiss doesn’t smell only of my lipstick, but, of happiness. Every time I dive into the saltiness of your beard, I fall more for you again.
I guess, this is why I await, even though I wish I could escape, for you feel like a chain that does not yield, for you yield rewards when it is a midsummer’s evening, and we both are too late.

 

This is inspired by the song “Ami Bahu Bashonaye”, you can listen to one of my favourite renditions below.

The way you started as a fairytale, I almost wished that you never became my reality.

And yet, here you stand, four years hence, with the same smile on your face and you have not changed at all, and I am still trying to hold onto the shores while you become storm after storm. Would you believe if I told you that I have cried more for your sake than I did for my stupid depression? It’s fucked up really, and I feel like I need a smoke before I even sit down with these stupid posts.

I remember that night, I guess it was three in the morning and you asked me to a dance. I don’t understand why I danced. You hair was messed up and the music was some stupid indie band you were recently obsessed with, and I looked like a zombie out of hell. You swore you were not high that day, but, you left me with a hit that was bigger than all the smokes I had had in the past five years.

You motherfucking piece of shit you, God, I love you.

I want to sound edgy and make a comment that makes sense, I want to wear a gown to our wedding even though it seems impossible. But, moreover I want to wake up next to you like this, again and again until my breathlessness on seeing you is the norm and I don’t feel so scared anymore.

Heres to winters honey, heres to lovers galore and all the little things that sems to matter to you.

 

Women in my life, and Chores

As I labored throughout yesterday to wash a turmeric stain out of my clothes, I wondered how much hard work my mom does for this. This was a feeling that grew stronger with each moment. It was while, I was listening to Amanda Palmer’s “Confessions of a Mother”, that it finally hit me.
I have always abhorred doing these chores, and somehow the duty always fell to my grandmother and my mother. It was easy really, throughout my childhood I had seen them doing these works and I thought, “Well, maybe they will be doing it forever.”
That was regressive of me.
But, I guess that is how it goes. You get used to it. Your mom is washing your clothes, your grandmother is filling your water bottles. Somewhere in between you start to think that it IS a woman’s job to do these things. The worst thing being, that you pass that on, to your friends, to your children.
Also, somewhere it is because of the mollycoddling, somewhere every mother is responsible for that one vice towards their children. So, even when you are a child you are never taught these things. Until, one fine day you are just supposed to do it by yourself. That’s when you turn into this bitter teenager.
“How do I do this?”
“Do it.”

Simple as that.
However, we abuse our sisters because of this too. For, it is so easy since, they do it all by themselves from an early age. You do that with your peers, who are very diligent about these chores, and it becomes a simple method for you. You push your work to someone else. Till date, I have not washed my jeans by hand, and I have always relied on my mother for that particular task. It seems funny really. I am growing old, sitting in a hostel, living alone, and soon enough I might have to live completely alone for the rest of days. Yet, I would still rely on the female members of my household to do this task.e of this too. For, it is so easy since, they do it all by themselves from an early age and you push the load onto them. You do that with your peers, who are very diligent about these chores, and it becomes a simple method for you. You push your work to someone else. Till date, I have not washed my jeans by hand, and I have always relied on my mother for that particular task. It seems funny really. I am growing old, sitting in a hostel, living alone, and soon enough I might have to live completely alone for the rest of days. Yet, I would still rely on the female members of my household to do this task.

How long till is transfers to babies then? I doubt I will ever have a female partner, but, if I do, it will be easy to say, “You change the baby, I will take it to travel.”. Knowing myself, I will be inept in both of them equally, yet, washing seems to be filthy and tiresome work.
I mean my mom calls up and tells me that I could just give the shirts to a laundry for washing but, she would never do that by herself. And that creates this bad habit in me. I expect that my work will be done by someone else. It’s scary that we will make generations after generations like this.

You know what? You could stop today too. You could simply, walk out and decide that “Hey, I am going to wash those clothes, and clean the floor of my room.”, “Maybe, I will fill the water bottle too.”

This, is a issue that needs to be resolved within yourself, and that will help you with it always. So, that’s part of what I plan to do from now on, share the workload.

I am joining the Ariel #ShareTheLoad campaign at BlogAdda and blogging about the prejudice related to household chores being passed on to the next generation.

Despite all you gave me

I often wonder about life before the internet. This is not as far from the present as I would like it to be. It has only been about 7 years since, i have had fully functional internet, and it has given me so much to learn over the past few years. I have grown immensely, made so many friends and got so big with this marvel.

However, the thought keeps coming back to me, what if it was not like that. If I did not have the internet.

I believe that we would have found a way. Communications increase no matter how and where you reside and you grow like that. If e-mail did not exist, we would still send scented love letters, and the novelty of meeting new friends will still be there. We will call on unknown numbers and find out stuff through text messages.

The thing is internet changes stuff. it gives you a lot of knowledge and other things but, it takes away the personal touch. Faced with the cartload of choice you forget the experience of actually having someone be in front of you telling you something they are interested about. You forget about poetry readings at midnight which smell of old books and steam and you don’t dream a lot.
That is not meant to be.

I love my internet but, I miss being alone among a sea of friends, talking to someone special about a poem I read, and writing stuff down and showing it to people day in and day out.

So, that is it I guess, I will  miss you, but, I will survive.

Because that’s what humans do

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

The Argonauts and a meditation on Sexuality

While reading “The Argonauts” by Maggie Nelson I had the image I once had while I was high bursting open through my head. It was a demon again, in the shape of a man I have recently been infatuated it. Long hairs, long fangs, all boring into me pulling me onto myself, folding time and life into intricate folds of passion. It was a vision of me that I suppressed, this is not something you tell your friends, it is not normal, it is not something they would associate themselves with. Then again, it is simply expressed by how we explain bisexuality to some friends of ours, “You know, it does not matter what genitalia they carry because I am attracted to the ass”, however, it is not like that.

“The Argonauts” is not simple either. It is not possible to contain it with simple connotations of good and bad, it is beyond that. I believe that poets are the hardest souls to categorise on any given day anyway. This book will probably come under romance, or probably even poetry. It is a look with the author’s relationship with the world really, with motherhood, with people, with Harry. Harry, her partner in this journey is an enigmatic personality, it’s a joy to see the image he draws, it’s terrifying to see the world with the lens of a person who has been in literature so long.

In one long paragraph she tells us of Harry how the Ms. had to be fixated onto the name because otherwise, New York Times would not publish the article written about the person. A prison released and another built because there is no other way about it. It made me realise how scary classification, labelling becomes and how some times our complexity cannot be treated simply with one word or a few. For me “The Argonauts” is not simply a meditation of a person and their relationships, it is the eternal meditations we all have, this urge of breaking free that we all cherish in our souls.

You see that is just it. I don’t want to conform anymore, to the traditional ideas of relationship at the very least. I wish to love for the sake of loving and that some days requires a partner and some days it does not. Some days are whole night orgies in to the beats of a Ginsberg poem, and other nights are days where I would torture my soul till it breaths out of myself. I wish to leave gashes on the lovers body, a mark of me, a territorial cut of the wolf, and I wish to leave lipstick marks on his or her soul that they would not be able to erase. I want to do this all for myself, not because some guy imagines me this way.

I do not seek validation for my passions from you in the form of labels. I wish for you to understand me yes, but, I also want you to understand that most days understanding my sexuality is not a study in academia but, simply a practice in letting go.

Words have a power to free, and they have a power to contain you forever into their boxes.

In a passage where she describes Schyumayer, the author goes into talking about the flaccidity and impotence. It is left there to hang, and his poetry is a testament to that.

We’re obsessed with different things. I am supposed to like the breasts and labia and I appreciate them but, I don’t like them. I do not love the male genitalia either. I like the body and the way it fits into pieces of a puzzle when it is late at night. I am turned on by the birth mark down the side of my butt that watches the open worlds hoping that someone would find it and bestow a kiss.

Heck, even kisses change. I wish that some days I could kiss like the whirlwind my lover and I lost in the intricacies, and other days it is me softly bending over the mirror to leave behind a lipstick mark that I spend the other half of the day in erasing.

Conformations hurt I believe, because we are not chemical structures bound to reacting in the same way.
There is a talk about a performance artist who through her act of blowing dildos to the eternal tune of rude voices repeating “Suck it”, “You bitch” and other expletives, and yet, she only gets up to receive prizes and adoration. She was a prostitute earlier, but, the performance, her past, does not define her now. She is more and she is complex.

We’re human before we are fitted into any of our labels. Some days my sexuality is not defined, my love for a person might be more than my love for a person overreaches the conformations that my labels give to me. Thus, labels can’t describe me, I’m not a bisexual I am a terrible poetry written out in anger and passion over the face of my lover with yesterday night’s ejacuate. Yes, that is me, unadorned by labels, thorns and roses and erotic.

Our freedoms are just as precious as yours and it is not something we should get along with cages, however, spacious you might think them to be at the end of the day.

I want you to read “The Argonauts” but, do not approach it as a riddle you have to unravel. A life is more than that at the very least. Approach it with an open mind, let it take it to places she has visited. The literature that has embodied her, and listen to those pieces.

I want you to see beyond my sexuality, give me a chance to be more by opening your eyes and seeing my whole being.

Read Maggie like you would read poetry. If you have time, give me that chance too.

A bit of a beginning

“They used to say they met at a house-party. It was true for neither of them of course…”
The waitress smiled at her as she put the last dish for the party onto the table.
“Yes, Anna, would you care to listen?”
Anna ran a hand through her buzz cut hair and looked at the exquisitely dressed woman before her.
“Sure, Miss Gauri, someday…”
Gauri trailed behind Anna’s walk for a while before she sighed. Then she looked at the people around her table, and resumed the story.
“So… Yeah as I said. Neither of them were telling the truth of course. He was that one guy on a dating website who was invariably put into the “Too high for me” folder, and she was the only girl he had ever looked at seriously in all the years of college. Then, ofcouse the house party happened. She was wearing… Umm… You know one of those low neck__”
“Um Gauri, could I have a refill.”
She looked at the face of the moustached man. She didn’t like parties and this was why. Her eyes trailed off to the one guy not wearing a suit, her best friend, slowly messing with the food.
She didn’t like parties anymore.
“Yeah…”
She put a handkerchief on her face and wiped away the oil.
“Hey, Anna? Bring the wine please?”
She tried her best not to look at the waitress whose complexion had taken a red tone because of the kitchen heat.
“Ma’am?”
Gauri noticed the red lipstick and her nails done in blue. She smiled to herself and looked the mirror again.
In a hurry she pulled the kerchief over her face again.
“Ma’am,wine?”
“Yeah, sure.”
As Anna hurried back to the kitchen, Gauri looked at her way again.
“She wore one white low necked gown and deep red lipstick. And he wore a suit…”
She narrated the story with small interruptions and ended the dinner. As the party dissolved itself in dream she stood apart and corrected her saree again.
“You look perfect.”
“Thanks Reetzi.”
He towered over her, 6 feets of height. Yet, he could be childish. Who else would wear a hoodie to a formal party?
“I look specifically out of place darling.” He sipped on his neat whiskey.
“And you didn’t utter a word during dinner.”
“You had me in your awe.”
She smiled at him and hugged him ever so slightly, before letting go. It had been too long.
“You never come to the friends meeting.”
“They are not as important anymore.”
Gauri sat on the verandah sit, and stared at Ritzy. A stubble that was overgrown, the ruined hoodie, and the… She moved away from his shirt and to his face again.
He came in close and removed the one stray hair on her face.
She remembered the warmth ever too well.
“So tell me about you.”
“It has been fun, honestly speaking. Everything has been fun.”
“You don’t look fun love.”
He smiled and sat beside her.
The lone one door overlooked the bar. As the list of overdressed guests went ahead and ordered drinks, Anna looked positively flustered.
Gauri stared at her for a moment. Extras were a comfort, but, leaving her would be so strange, so unfulfilling.
She looked at the man in the hoodie, and sighed.
“So, you’re leaving.”
She wondered why she always messaged him like that, when she was too far along.
“Yeah, it’s an overseas job and everything so.”
“And then what? What about the friendship?”
She imagined him laughing then, and setting down to write this at the back of the party.
“We won’t work out, not like that Gauri. You know that, you’ve known that all along.”
She didn’t message after that. It took her two years though, to get over that silly notion. When everyone else tells you that it is love, you kind of believe it, and he had been so sweet. Even if it would have not been completely fulfilling__
“Go ahead and flirt with her.”
Half burnt cigarette in hand, Ritzie looked out to the street.
“Ritz…”
“I notice the looks Gauri, come on, how long will you hide this. You’re old enough.”
“But, everything about that, and all that.. And you…”
“You only told me because you were lonely at this party honey, and you see none of those guests need you.”
“I am…”
“You always looked cute when you blushed crimson, and I knew it too, that’s part of why I left. It was hard being in love with someone that__”
“I was in love though.”
He put his cigarette out and turned onto her face. His brown eyes shone in the tubelight. Ever so slightly, he pecked her on the forehead.
“You were only in love because we expected you to be. Now, you have fulfilled all of our expectations love, go fulfill yours.”
She stared at his face and turned away to look at the crowd again, they were calming down. The drinks were ending too.
“We spent our fair amount of time here didn’t we?”
“We did.”
Ritzie looked at the door, and got up to leave.
“Ritz…”
“Gauri, it’s not polite to call someone back when they are leaving.”
“Goodbye.”
“Buh bye hon, I will see you when things are less formal.”
As he left, Anna walked in with a tray filled with drinks.
“Uh, ma’am are you OK?”
“Yes, yeah…”
Gauri picked up the large whiskey oeg, and drank it in one large gulp.
“If you want, we have some finger food left ma’am.”
“Will you stay here Anna?”
“Yes, yeah.”
Anna stared at her boss, so exquisitely dressed and yet, so sad. The crowd thinned out as they do always.
“Ma’am, uh, if you don’t need me anymore…”
“Anna, will you stay the night?”
Anna looked over at her with interest, and then ran her hand through the hair. It would be nice to stay in this apartment, but, then again, there probably was no space, and she had work and…
“I will arrange everything, the work, and all. I just need you to.”
Anna took up a wine glass and drank it ever so slowly.
“Ma’am, will you tell me one of your stories?”
“Only if you call me Gauri.”
She smiled a little, and sat down beside her. The apartment was emptying and the caterers were cleaning out what was left.
Gauri laid her head on Anna’s shoulder.
“This one’s about a woman Anna, she hasn’t met her soulmate yet…”