Bs Murthy
‘When she was as receptive to my caress at her seat,’ he always thought in puzzlement, ‘why was it that she found my hand on her breast so offensive? But how could she have expected me to envisage the borders of her sensitivity in my state of excitation? True, she would have felt that I transgressed; yet she couldn’t have failed to feel the pulse of my love in the nuances of my touch. Didn’t my heart descend on my hand to vent its love on her frame! And how it rushed to my mouth seeing her disjointed! Why did she choose to punish me with banishment for the failings of my love inspired by her own persona? How she thought I deserved the deserts! Why didn’t she pardon me, finding me repentant?’ He racked his brains for an answer that he never got but was sunken whenever he recalled that episode, ‘Had she pardoned me, how rejoicing it would have been for both of us! Seeing me ecstatic, she should’ve been deliriously joyous, and what a triumph of love that could have been! But that wasn’t to be. What should’ve been a fairy tale romance ended as an unmitigated disaster for both of us.’ ‘What could be her name? What a pity that the most ardent love I’d ever experienced should remain a nameless memory!’ he often thought in despair.
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