The Chasing Iamb

B is the first man I loved. B is the first man who made me think that men were a category worth loving. B is the one who mopped up the tears when my first encounter with what I has thought was epic love ended. B is the one who took me for long walks and long coffee breaks when I should have been a hard-working intern. B is the first adult who allowed me to think that your heart could really shatter inside your chest and it was not actually ennui or the lack of gainful occupation that was making me feel like that. Later B shuddered openly but let me remember fondly that bastards sometimes have long-limbed, wonderful, perfect bodies. B is the first man who told me that I was right, men were wired wrong for women.

B is the one who seemed to have had the life I wanted. Assurance of a loving family, a girlfriend who adored him and was sure of him, competence at his work and style. He was the little maniac who took me for rattling rides through markets and crowded streets screaming at people to get out of the way. B is the one who thought it was an incredibly hilarious idea for me to hand-deliver to my boyfriend's office a giant red pomegranate which read mere anarkali tere liye anar.


Last week Bent and I were talking and we realised that in a few years, three or four years perhaps, B will be 40. I don't understand how to deal with this thought. It does not make sense to me.