Cooling Glass

Manju and I had always been different. She lived for romance, while I leaned towards stark reality. Her world was filled with the dreamy haze of movie love stories, whereas I preferred films that mirrored life as it was.

“Isn’t romance a part of reality?” she would ask, teasingly.

“Of course,” I would say, “but we shouldn’t always see life through rose-colored glasses.”

Unfazed, she would slide on a pair of sunglasses—just like Kareena Kapoor in Dabangg 2—and grin. “Cooling glass is cool,” she’d declare, swaying playfully. Behind those dark lenses, I imagined a mischievous wink, as if she were challenging me: Has romance swept you off your feet yet? Then, with a lilting voice, she’d sing, “Main toh kab se hoon ready tayar, Pata le saiyan miss call se,” making the moment hers.

Despite our differences, or perhaps because of them, we found ways to meet halfway.

That didn’t mean we didn’t fight.

On an otherwise uneventful day, we argued over everything—upholstery colors, balcony plants, dinner choices. By the afternoon, we had both retreated into our corners of silence. I sulked in front of the television, while she drowned me out with loud music from the bedroom.

By evening, she emerged in a black t-shirt, wordlessly announcing her intention to go for a speed walk. I followed, neither of us speaking for the first half of the walk. Eventually, we found common ground—coconut water from a roadside vendor. A fragile truce was formed.

When we returned home, I peeled off my sweat-drenched t-shirt, gulping water. I caught her staring at me.

I lit a cigarette, leaning against the wall, waiting.

She didn’t hesitate. With a slow, deliberate motion, she slipped out of her sports pants, revealing a lacy bra and matching underwear. A silent, sensual declaration of intent.

The tension that had built throughout the day turned electric, pulling us together with an urgency we both needed. She pressed herself against me, whispering, “It’s my way or the highway.” That night, I had no protests.

Months later, a long illness tested us. I was weak, bedridden, feeling every ounce of my vulnerability. But Manju remained steadfast, refusing to leave my side. She even brought her sister over to handle household chores so she could focus entirely on me.

One night, as I lay fevered and exhausted, I noticed the glint of moisture in her eyes. While I had been too consumed by my own suffering, she had been praying—smearing holy ash on her forehead, whispering to Lord Murugan for my recovery.

When I finally regained strength, I sought her in a different way. I reached for her, desperate to reclaim something that sickness had stolen from us. She quickly searched online, ensuring intimacy wouldn’t hinder my recovery.

I smiled, touching her face. “Even if it did, I’d rather go in your arms than in this bed.”

Something shifted in her eyes then—love, devotion, and something primal all at once. She disappeared for a moment and returned with holy ash, pressing it to my forehead in quiet reverence. But as passion overtook us, she licked it away in a single, mischievous stroke. Spirituality and sensuality had never collided so perfectly.

*-*-*

The stories have a way of smoothing out the rough edges of reality. In a story, desire and devotion could coexist effortlessly. In life, they tangled, pulled, and sometimes unraveled completely.

As I stood before the editor’s desk, I could feel the weight of his disapproval. “Take this melodramatic smut and peddle it to some cheap tabloid—maybe they’ll print it next to the horoscopes and lonely hearts ads,” he sneered, flinging my manuscript across the desk like it was trash he couldn’t wait to be rid of.

I returned to my seat, trying to shake off the disappointment. The sub-editor’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Hey, aren’t you working on that article about the mid-term elections?” I forced a neutral expression, careful not to reveal my frustration.

I spent the next couple of hours going through the motions, my mind still reeling from the editor’s harsh rejection. It wasn’t until I stepped away to grab a cup of coffee in the canteen that the irony hit me: in this bizarre world, fiction wouldn’t cut it unless it was disguised as non-fiction.

A wry smile spread across my face, hidden from the world. But as I gazed out the window, my thoughts drifted back to Manju. I wondered if she’d ever read the story I’d written about her—the one where I was the one who’d fallen ill, not her. The one where I wasn’t the one left behind, staring at an empty space where her sunglasses used to hang.

(Originally Published in : Kitaab.org)