White Noise

Ok, so you will tell me that I don't have a dime's worth knowledge of backingbin. Or JSF. Or wmA. Or stocks. Or debentures. Or Vuitton bags. Or Bahamas vacations. Or Micra wheels. Or promiscuity. Or how to make out with a girl in a pub. Or how being a gay feels. And then you will catch your breath (bashing me takes a lot out of you, still. Love, is it?) and with a foaming pair of pouty Angelina lips and the faint purple vein on your left temple throbbing like the ribcage of a 80-something rickshaw-puller you will spew out. That I am a lousy loser (you do love alliterating, don't you, bitch) and that I with my scalp showing through my keo-karpin-slathered wisps and my decadent right incisor and my unhyperactive sweat glands which do not ooze musky fluid- am not 1/10 a man as the strapping Cristiano Ronaldo lookalike at your office who loves scoring with married women. And all the while I will minutely observe how the dimple on your left cheek shows no signs of waning and how, somehow, even distantly so, you remind me of Gayatri Joshi. You will pick up my favorite Marquez and do a little salsa on it's left cover. You will tug at the chord of my awesome grainy television until the screen and its breaking news blares fizz into silence. You will kick away your left stilleto on my timid denims. But I will secretly lust after your heaving breasts. Or wonder how bad stretch marks will be on your Mila Kunis belly. Meanwhile, the non-jacuzzi will seethe you up. The spout will effuse forth. My non-MBA. My little magazine dreams. My Sachin Tendulkar gods. My Anjan Dutta orgasms. My ancient silence. That wraps an arm around me when you shout. Or when Maa gets sick. Or Baba coughs off into another Ritwik Ghatak night. Or when I dream of my dead friends. Or when I am scared. And you will sashay yet again into the bedroom. Manicured nails clutching Blackberry. Thonged libido seeking Ronaldo-clone. Perfect flossed incisors gnashing blue words. The door will slam. The last pressure cooker will whistle ouut. The last tomcat will fornicate. The last insomniac will recite manic Ginsberg. Or Shakti. Or Rabbi. The last 'worker' will wipe off her cheap mascara. The last lovelorn will cry into sleep. The wrapped arm will not let go of my married hand.