Skip to main content

Aqualung

One beer.

One beer just won't do. It really isn't enough. On a sultry night, when the very air is thrumming and shimmering, it doesn't quench your thirst (no matter how much you tell yourself that it does). It makes you crave more. More beer, more everything. The taste evaporates off your palate slowly. Reluctantly. Like lovers relinquishing their grasp on each others fingers at the end of a lovely evening; before one of you gets out of bed in the morning.

Beer is mean. When it realises that you are serious; that you really, truly aren't going to follow up with another, when it doesn't get to glide past your lips, swish about your teeth and hit your throat again with all the wallop of a gastronomic "Hallelujah", then it becomes vindictive. And it takes revenge by drowning you in memories; of good times and better times. When it was the grease that kept the night, the laughter and the glow of camaraderie going on and on. You'll smile since you can't help it, but that's a mistake because the smile will trip you into falling down the spiral staircase of your head; back and back, as you search for the best times you've ever had. And of course, because they are the best times, you won't be able to remember anything except the morning after. Which, in normal circumstances, is the ideal way to remember them, if you know what I mean. Not now though. The beer doesn't care, however. You stopped at one, so it'll gift you the aftertaste and thoughts of friends, witty repartee, cutting, breathtaking humour, arm-in-arm stumbles down dark, empty lanes with the echo of your favourite songs ringing in your ears... and as a knockout reward, sudden, quicksilver exhibitions of of raw vulnerability by your buddies.

Your mouth craves a cigarette. Just the thought of a single puff. The warm acridity. The instant electric rush. A spark of imagined cool as your face is reflected in the light of the match. After which your eyes wander. Stare. Imagine. See. Unsee. Relive. Discover. Pause. Close.

Now you're craving a taste of the lips you spend so much time thinking about. The ones you want to bite into, slowly and gently, even as your hands involuntarily clench, hungering to explore in conjunction with your tongue. The sensation of a fleeting flicker.

All the while your ears wait to hear it. The gentle breath on the lobe; the totally, totally involuntary gasp. The sound of pleasurable surrender.

Your shoulders ache dully, like a blunt knife is pressing against them. You'd kill for a hug. The kind that ends in a moment but goes on forever. You'll settle for a reassuring squeeze. A light brush of the fingertips. Anything. 

Your nose flares; tells you of many things. Musk. Sweat. The faint whiff of clean skin. Good perfume. Earthy darkness of tresses imprinting themselves on your lungs.

All of it drifts away, leaving you behind, empty and alone with your regrets.

One beer really isn't enough.

Song for the moment: Chelsea Hotel #2 - Leonard Cohen

Comments

k said…
Beautiful post!
G said…
:) Thanks man.

Popular posts from this blog

Let them talk

There is a school of thought that would quite likely be scandalised by the idea of intellectual discussions being held in a pub / bar. Impropriety and what have you. Folks like us (you know who you are) would counter with the notion that our intellectual pursuits occur only in pubs. That's when the cranial creases are watered... doused actually, & whatever is left of our neurons are firing on all cylinders, ablaze thanks to the tipple of choice. Mind you, I'm not advocating that this is the best way. It's just our way. Or my way, if any reader resents the liberty I've taken of assuming anything. Not to keep tottering around the proverbial mulberry bush (why mulberry, I ask), the latest discussion touched on the dichotomy(?) of loving your work. That is, working the week for the sake of the cheque & engaging in your passion during the weekend OR striving to make your passion, your talent or a synonym of your choice the porker from which your bacon is carved. Ri

Many the miles

Some time ago, I decided to cut down on the whining that seems to be a major theme on this blog. After having written a couple of short story posts and one interesting challenge, I found that more commentary on life, its machinations and assorted tomfoolery just did not interest me. For the moment, at least. That also thankfully means that I can't talk about the Indian cricket team's test saga. Anyway, in recent weeks, a new trend has taken root in that fragment of the 'gang' that lives in Pune. Instead of meeting up and hitting the tipple every now and then, we meet and they discuss trekking to various forts in and around Pune. Notice how I'm not in these councils-of-war. Although I've played sports in school and college, I've never been a fan of physical toil. All these talks conjure up are images of waking up at some ungodly hour before sunrise, scooting to some random hill / fort and huffing, puffing, slipping & scrabbling around in near darkness w

The baying of the hounds

Dear reader, The past few months have been punctuated by sound and fury on account of the renovations around the house. The incessant noise, rubble and dust have often led to frayed tempers and the standard indignant inquiries about the point of this whole exercise. But there's a long way to go, so we must persevere... with gritted teeth. Speaking of dust, the Lenovo laptop running Manjaro OS has been quietly gathering sackfuls of the stuff. Unfortunately (but understandably), my Macbook has become the default instrument of distraction, with the Lenovo coming into play whenever I miss USB ports. All sarcasm aside, the Mac is convenient to use and the apps 'just' work. I've praised the Linux ecosystem for years on this blog, so there's no question of indicting them now. But hear me out. I use a VPN service. In this gilded age of freedom and tolerance, I think everyone should opt for a reliable, paid service. It does not have to matter that the things you do on the in