summarily,

The night fattens and so do our truths. They have been arranged to be served to me à la carte. By the card, all the cards. And, no garnishes. No dressings. Just the plain raw meat. 

—kaazi hove turat milau ik pal ki he talaash mein. What does it mean? S says, all guitar and grin and grit.

—turat?

—jaldi.

—Okay, first complete the line

—kahe Kabir suno bhyii sadhu mai to hun vishwas mein

My eyes license agreement. 

—I’ll interpret it in my own way.

Yes, please. I’d like to know what do you follow when I sing.

I repeat the lines like a prayer. He picks at the keyword this time. 

Who do you think a kaazi is

Who is a kaazi?

Kaazi means king.

—King?

—A judge.

—C’mon. Grab a dictionary. Learn some vyaakaran…

—You tell me, I snort.

—Shall I?

—Please go on. Needle away my ignorance.

—Kaazi is someone who respects a thing and loves it enough to pursue it pressedly and blessedly.

—A yearner. I say, filling our cups.

—A learner.

—A civil judge. In Arabic, Persian, or Turkish countries. Is what Google says. I say.

—So here kaazi must be like, decreeing a life to be a certain way and then staying with the sentence. 

—Like when you believe enough in something and make a conscious choice, it gets determined on existence.

—Something like the law of attraction? I caress my way in.

—Quite like it.

I write it down, evidencing my lessons. He carries on with his guitar for another hour, sounding all instructional like the rear of an autorickshaw. Proud and pledging. I disregard keeping distance.

We lounge long into the dawn, mixing into each other like Rockford in water. This is a hermitage for have-tos. The day has stripped away its elaborate baroque blouse. The hour is as frank and bare as a teal sharara. Everything flows loose, in silk pleats. After a prosy day, a poetic night. Completely homespun. 

Though this thread will run over. The new morning will find itself pre-embroidered. And I’ll be unable to slide away its snug hold off my shoulders. The memories sequinned into it by last night’s handiwork will tingle me. Its grand little mirrors will feel blinding. The sun will be an embarrassment. I will try to poke open the seams and stitch new ones but the hangover will feel more overwhelming than the blank page. I’ll show up at its gates nevertheless. Hey, I am here and I am unsure if I got the correct doorbell. Did I? Now try folding a fat gown inside a small plastic bag. This notebook will not be enough for such sainted nights and tainted days. Here’s what I have managed thus far: “Sedately, I excavate away my inhibitions and nuzzle my way in, into the warmth of his waist, into the cavern of his consciousness. Accident prone area, it quite is. I go slow and I go regardless. I’ll quarry out my quartz. I’ll polish my night. I rummage in like a rabbit eager for wonders and blunders.” 

What he means is, there are mountains of musts to cross and if we believe, we will.  What I believe in are the valleys and violins I hunger for, before the day arrives with its caution and concussion. Tomorrow I’ll clear out the mustard and mould from my drawers. Years of laundry in waiting. Packed tight and away in ziplock. Ticking to be scrubbed and sunned. Tomorrow I’ll pick at yesterdays. Try to skin them out like an orange plucked clean out of its peel. Pull them apart slice-by-slice with my own fingers and indulge. Nom. Nom. Click. Click. Most suffocated shelves are the most liberating too. But today I am good, tracing meridians through his music and misconduct. Today, I elect tonight. And I feel, real turat, it has come to meet me at my doors.

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