A Life Lived
A Life Lived gay fiction stories
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nosheetstogive
nosheetstogive Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   4 months ago
Short stories scraped from the walls and corners of my heart.

A Life Lived

2. rishi

rishi hums along with the song straining from the bar's scratchy speakers.

tum hi socho zaraa, kyun na roke tumhe jaan jaati hai jab uthke jaate ho tum

it is what he can say about a variety of things in his life, he reckons.

from the men in his past, the man because of whom he is currently sitting in a hut passing for a "bar", the glass that has been pulled from his grasp so many times (too many times) over the last couple of minutes, the alcohol that he has spilled, out of stupidity and negligence and too much alcohol in his system, the man he has let go. the boy he has been in love with and then a little too in love with.

aaj jaane ki zidd na karo

he wonders if you can tell yourself, aaj jaane ki zidd na karo. he wonders if he can put his face inside the tumbler of whiskey he is nursing, nay gulping, and drown in a literal pool of alcohol. or just drown. not in this regret and hurt and bile.

drown in anything else. he wonders where love stopped being love and started turning into an acid rain, corroding everything, polluting their hearts.

haaye mar jaaenge hum toh lut jaaenge

no more, no more. that, he thinks, has been happening all along.

ever since he entered rishi's mundane little existence, it has been a dust cloud turning into a tornado turning into a godforsaken disaster turning into his life.

he is still encouraging his degeneration, pouring a steady stream of whiskey down his throat. he laughs, amused at the sham he is. laughing at the joke he's played on himself. heads turn towards him, and he continues singing.

waqt ki kaid mein zindagi hai magar chand ghadiyaan yahin hain jo aazaad hain innko kho kar, meri jaan-e-jaan, umr bhar na taraste raho

very well said, indeed. maybe this song is written for him, for fools like him who cannot see when love burns out, who cannot generate the endless supply of love that men like...men like him... seem to have.

rishi is like people who have limited love, like limited time, like limited space in his heart where the rest of it is barricaded from the regret and hurt and scorching fire--the same ones that he is floating on right now.

there are wolf-whistles all around him as he ends his song with the one from the scratchy little speakers above.

he lays his head down on the bar counter and tilts it to the right, then left, finding a spot for his brain to catch sleep.

his eyes are shuttering close when he sees him, running up to him, planting his lips on top of his head, saying

aaj jaane ki zidd na karo

rishi smiles, crying, fumbling, mending.

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