Kaya

Chapter 3- The cradled lust

He entered his flat gingerly, as if the frame of the door will break and fall as soon as he set his foot through it. Kabir was patient with this; he figured it was probably weakness and dizziness from all those sleeping drugs.

It was, however, partially true. Pradhyum had walked in and out of that very flat a lot of times after that particular night, but it was still, somehow, the freshest memory in his fried brain.

A perfect silhouette of an imperfect figure, the orange light kissing her curves, the sides of her breasts, her hair complimenting the overall poise of the moment.

She just stood there; in the half light; smoke caressing whatever of her cheeks he could see from behind.

One of her shoulders slumped against the frame of the door, another holding the joint.

This mesmerising moment lasted merely a few seconds, and he could swear he hadn't felt higher up in space before, or after that.

He was suddenly back in reality, resting his head against the wall of his room, lying on his bed. It had been a week since he had visited his old place.

He relaxed and take a good look of the familiarity in front of him: the small window that were more about his cigarette smoke than their original purpose, the sightseeing of those very few stars the Delhi pollution allowed him to witness at wee hours; the desk in front of it which was made of iron and held his typewriter and a set of papers; Kabir had probably been handed the typewriter. Or maybe the motel staff had brought it back; he had entered his address in their register after all. The chair kept in front of it was a wooden one, a perfect mismatch, exactly like his life.

There used to be curtains veiling the windows; but they'd caught fire once and he hadn't bothered picking up new ones. He remembers that day, how everyone would've guessed that it must have been a cigarette that caused the fire, but actually, it was an oil lamp.

Kaya had gifted him one, and he had kept it on the table, lit. Very foolish, yes, but what's the point when the damage is done? The vintage, still blackened from that night's fire lamp was kept at the back of the almirah that stood parallel to the desk. It was a regular Godrej one, which you find in almost every home.

Beside it, leaning very casually was a beige six-string. The B string was missing since the past two and a half years. He used to play it back when he was thirteen and he had picked it up when he'd stormed out of his parents' residence; just because he didn't want any piece of him that they'd tried to crush to remain in that house.

He was supposed to be studying for his entrances; but his soul, as usual, had plans that differ greatly from what his mind had mapped out.

He pressed his temples with his fingertips as a roaring headache suddenly hit him. He closed his eyes and eases out the creases on his forehead. The sun was too bright, a very typical spring afternoon. He wished he'd have bought some new curtains.

His mind traveled back to that day, she had been so happy. One of those rare days he had witnessed a genuinely bubbly Kaya, excited about everything that had taken place that weekend.

A lot had happened. She had applied for Universities, they had gone on a trip etc., but more on that later. He was too caught up on the memory of her pushing the wrapped box in his hands. How she had refused to tell him what it was or how she had prevented him from opening the packet till it got dark.

He had always liked vintage stuff, outdated music that you only get to hear if the waiter accidentally plays it at the bar, the writers of the 60s and everything that had lost its charm in the age of cellphones and internet.