Your nudity

And the vision of your monochrome skin, still rests, nestled in my eyes, flashing by as long as I breathe.

And while I question the countless needs and desires springing in my mind, all I do, is sit with my camera, staring at your well carved out arms,and the chest, that’s generous in its movement. Your ordeal, carefully juggling between that of comfort and the astute sense of nudity, pleases the mediocrity in me. You and I are sailing on the same boat. That of insecurity with our greatest passion. In a parallel world, I am showing a chutzpah that enigmatises you, spiralling you to such crazy senses of unawareness of everything but my fixed gaze on you, which surprisingly puts you in an easy comfort. And as the sheets scream out for our presence, we are lost in a crazy world of you and I.

But that would be a parallel world. Nonetheless. None-the-less.

And conversations wouldn't hang in the air.

"Could you turn yourself towards the light a bit more, a little to the right, and tuck your stomach in a wee bit", i would ask.

You would reply by taking me in your arms, and unravelling all those unsaid words. Pictures will be taken. But the eyes will be the lens and the mind the camera. They will desperately try to take in every detail of your body, whatever the sparse room light would allow, anyway, registering your bones and yur curves, so generously chiseled. As the tongue will look for hidden answers to the countless doubts presented, the mind will make countless images, that can be said in words and that alone.

Images and words have a very sanctitious relationship. The words alone can mention the emotion behind every bland image.

And you are no bland image of mine.

And there shall exist another parallel world. No judgements passed on me spending all my nights with you, and no questions raised as to our definition. We shall survive by our own meagre means, and I shall be a scandalous wild beast with my camera acting as my sexual aide and my ukulele playing its own ugly tune, the story of my life, and you shall approve of it all with no questions raised. In some corner of the world, i shall still capture your nudity, celebrate its rawness, with you sprawled in front of me, to give me your all. The bedsheets will have us, eventually, alright. And the camera will sing its own story. You and I will make sense of Simon & Garfunkel songs, feast on their wilderness, and often run away from maddening eyes, into the wild that awaits our primal need to be asocial and uncivilised, thrive in dirt and bodily need.

The camera shall always follow in tow, with its sinking battery signalling the stress to get back to anomaly, to the city, that reeks of death and hypocrisy.

And under the glaring morning light, that silences even the wildest beast of them all, I shall proudly show you, you, through my camera. Your appreciation comes as a gentle caress on my nipple, and we run again, deeper into the forest, desperate to never get back, scared of losing our way, and gleeful for having lost our way, momentarily. And as your chest heaves with childlike adventurous pleasure, I start touching your body without giving you a moment’s rest. There is no camera this time, and the light, rushing through the narrow openings in the great dome of greenery, acts as a beautiful source of illumination, beautifying little specks of your skin, revealing, just what I want to see.  And a globe that makes the world look upside down is your prop, and your nudity is that erstwhile strength that binds our souls. And as star light slowly tries to fight for its presence, we realise it’s time to let our souls free, and dwell over the beauty of our own little life, that exists in our head.

In reality, we’re a job, you and I. We might just be coming with a termination letter. Or we might just stick around.

P. S. An image clicked by me. Not re-usable. 

Retort.

As I sit, every morning, carefully consuming every piece of article talking of regressively sexist assaults on women, I cannot help, but feel powerless and angry at the same time. The debate on which is the safer city can be put to rest, because the country, that so prides itself on respecting women is not safe for them, anymore.
While the government will fight over reservations and cartoons, and accuse abused women of political agendas, you may lose hope thinking that India's slowly shrinking to be a highly chauvinistic land of lost ideals.
So what do you do?
Must you sit back and let people trample you over?
So, must you look pained, when people accidentally brush past your breasts, or accidentally touch your ass, and look at you from top to bottom, as if you were a displayed mannequin? Or when they see you with a man, they give you the lewdest stares possible?
No, you fight back. Scream if you must, gather a crowd, hurl abuses. There is no need to be a lady when you aren't treated as one. Raise your hand. Have him arrested.
Retort.

Join the Wilson TYBMM campaign against eve-teasing.
Find the facebook page here!