Aryaman Kakkar's Archive

  To: A Teenager, 18 From: An Old Man, 48 Received: 24th May 2020 Sent: 24th May 2050; Written: 25th April 2050  I am puttering about a one-bedroom apartment, cooking in the lilliputian kitchen and basking in the glow  of the rain splattering on the high windows. This is a decade from then this is now. This is the basement  of our parents' house in Delhi where I have carved out my piece. Nobody comes here that much, so I want  it to be mine. I have carved out one of the two bed frames to make sofas and a sitting room, and I  daydream about what it's going to be like living out of this subterranean paradise.   We always liked small places with towering ivy walls and hidden gardens didn’t we? It's a mundane life  and it's mine. I don't have to respond every time somebody calls out my name. I only have to sit in the  grass with soft music and breathe. It will come soon. You will make it soon. You will be here soon.   Then I though...

I yearn for soft kisses on the lips, on my bare neck. My lovers are all seekers of nectar and my shivering  vulnerability is best drunk heavily and in love. For easy clasps on the arms, cocooned in lovely listless  limbs, this bedchamber is a feast for my lovers who wish for slumber against my entirety, and a desert for  those who seek to claim the faux moi 8 . We shall listen to songs both mortal and earthly, only if you  whisper in my ears ways of knowing your love and your deceit, and make memories to know the difference.