Kaya

Chapter 10- The open jeep

Note: I will be writing this book privately now. Thank you for reading, hopefully you'll find the completed paperback in the market some fine day. I am not stopping writing it, I am just putting an end to posting it here. Love.

As Pradhyum scrolled through job profiles again the next day, after Kabir gave him another motivational speech before leaving for breakfast ; (in reality he wanted funds to score some weed and keep his supply of booze going and some permanence wouldn't hurt) he smoked his first cigarette of the day.

As soon as his lips took the deadly lover in, he knew the length of it was exactly how long he'd be looking on the screen.

The room was as dark as you could make it on a summer morning, the heavy drapes made it look as sick as he felt.

He had a terrible hangover.

And all his feverish pulse could do was turn his mind back to how they'd returned from the vacation and he had put on old rock n' roll music on his headphones to cut out the sex noises from his roommate's bedroom and had read the last of what she had offered him.

18th February, '13

I am over him, for sure. It's funny, I feel like I've lost a soul or maybe I never had one. The bad habit of not remembering all I've been through, just having a void struggling to be noticed in my abdomen is slowly killing me. And so, I fill it up with Jack Daniel's. And even that is killing me. I have forgotten a lot of things or I simply don't have the strength to recall them anymore, I really can't say.

I've become okay with being called a 'whore'. I have always been, really; it's horrible to think that having an active sex life is bad. Yeah, I am a whore, a slut, whatever these kids call it these days. I fall in love with a conversation and I get turned on by the wilderness they have in their eyes. The rawness, the insanity. I drink them down and smoke them up, and then I fuck them.

I will not apologise for creating art in form of sweat and sounds, and everyone loves orgasms. At least I do.

He withheld me, you know. He was a cage and he planted a seed in my eyes, not allowing me to believe anything beyond the realms of him.

He might've did that unintentionally, but he did. He suffocated me and made me believe I was breathing fine.

And I let him. I am addicted to the horror of being treated like crap, I just want to end up like that haunted house down my street back home.

Destroyed things have a limitless capacity to contain madness and beauty, that reconstructed and the fulfilled lack.

I have a crush on this girl I met at a bar. Layla. I like her name, has a nice ring to it. She is weirdly scared of Autorickshaws. She walks or takes a bus instead. She has a nice ass, too. She liked mine as well, she likes to touch it. We made out.

I might be going out with her but I'm not sure, we haven't named it anything really. We're just two broken wings trying to make this life fly, somehow.

When I was a kid, my father used to drive me around in an open jeep we had, whenever I used to feel low. We used to drink a few beers and come back home.

I used to like standing at the back, with my hands clutching the seat in front of me tightly. We used to go out in the evenings and the night would have fallen on us halfway. I used to feel like a divine link between the hustle bustle of the city and the stars of the sky.