“Babu. Babu. You are mine.” She was saying. She probably had reached her peak and was panting and moaning away. I wondered who she was referring to, as she calls me ‘Babu’. As Chitoor is known for its hot weather, I was just wearing my dhoti and nothing else on top and in this attire would never go in front of the ladies. But as I wanted to know if she needed any help, I walked in and broke her reverie. She was shaken and when she saw me, she covered her face and started shaking her head in shame. And for me, the scene made me remember I am still a man! I went to her and sat next to her. “Vaani. Don’t be upset. All of us have this problem. This urge is natural in one and all. You don’t have to feel remorse for what you did. And who is this Babu that you were calling out to?” I asked. As I said this and clasped her to me, she too hugged me, surprising me. And more surprising was when she lifter her face to mine offering me her open lips. Obviously her heat had not quenched and she. ‘That’s a very nice name,’ I turned from him and set some paper down on a desk. Friendship was love, acceptance was love and love was an end. He pretended not to notice, as if his hand had not yet been extended and I had not turned. Together we turned the white sheet into a rainbow, and I ignored the screaming colours, knowing that such rainbow colour could only be fake, and traitors to the paper. Yet, I was mesmerised by the pattern of his hand. His soft, firm fingers plashed with so many worlds, even the fake ones. ‘Why do you paint?’ The words tumbled from my lips, and I could only permit them to escape. ‘Why do I paint?’ He played with the question, repeating it to himself. ‘That’s the first thing you’ve ever said to me that hasn’t been a stiff response to a question of mine, do you realize that?’ I sighed and became silent again, ‘wait, wait, wait,’ he spoke with an apologetic tone, reaching out to me, ‘I’ll answer you. Painting is… art.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But why do.
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