don’t seem to put the same emphasis on romantic love. Couples copulate when necessary and get on with their separate lives. In Lahore my uncle lives in one part of the house with his sons, three brothers, male friends, and anyone else who feels like staying a couple of years. My aunt, the daughters, female servants, and the children, live in another part. They meet, at times, but there is no funny business.
Perhaps it is a fine idea to have the women close but not too close. Presumably, over there they suppress their desire, but I am of a generation that believes in the necessity of satisfying oneself.
Maybe; but I have lost my relish for living. I am apathetic and most of the time want nothing, except to understand why there hasn’t been more happiness here. Is it like this for everyone? Is this all you get? Is this the most there could be?
In the morning I will be gone.
It is my yearning for more life that has done this, and we are yearning creatures, a bag of insistent wants. Sense says one needn’t follow every impulse, pursuing every woman one fancies. But one can, I guess, run after some of them, never knowing in advance what glory one might find.
Susan stirs.
Which scientist was it said bodies never meet? I stroke her back. I am convinced she can feel my thoughts, can feel me wanting her. If she wakes up, puts out her arms and says she loves me, I will sink back into the pillow and never leave. But she has never done such a thing; nor me to her. In fact, sensing my fingers on her, she moves away, pulling up the covers.
Why then don’t I shake her awake and force her to look at me? Have I tried hard enough? Why should I imagine that I am easy to get along with? Perhaps, all this time, she has been making a heroic effort to get along with a morose, over-sensitive, self-absorbed fool. She said the other day, ‘Imagine the strain of living with someone who doesn’t speak for hours, and then says vaguely, “Have you ever thought of joininga cult?”’ She has also complained about my scratching my arse almost continuously in bed so that it is a constant background noise, like the sound of crickets in a movie set in a hot place. There is no doubt that I have an aversion to shopping, housework, washing. Somehow I expect all that to be done without my having thought about it.
Nina, I remember, said I am inflexible. She called me a tyrant. Yes; my feelings are strong, my wishes imposing. Perhaps that is why I have had long periods, years in fact, of imposed indifference, as if nothing mattered. The dismissive shrug in a café was my most eloquent gesture. I was detached, having learned to be cold; intact, no one could touch me, particularly the women I let fall in love with me. I wanted them; I got them; I lost interest. I never rang back, or explained. Whenever I was with a woman, I considered leaving her. I didn’t want what I wanted. I found their passion repellent, or it amused me. How foolish they were to let themselves feel so much!
Now I can hardly bear the strength of what I feel. Some nights I could bang my head on the wall, particularly when I’ve lain here with Susan, knowing that my girlfriend – whichever one, but usually Nina –was out in the city. Perhaps she was missing me; probably she was with some young man. Aching at what I was excluded from, hating myself for my inability to live as I wanted, I have got up, dressed and left the house, walking a starlit misery until exhausted. I have returned to find that one of the kids has shit himself or vomited in his sleep.
Now, like Oliver Twist, I am asking for more.
In a few minutes I will wake her up and tell her some of these things.
How Nina tantalizes
How Nina tantalizes. She is aloof, feline, graceful. Everything she does has grace; some call it style. Others will say she knows who she is, and likes being herself. Her doubts don’t undermine her, but they do make her inaccessible at times. I must be in love with her. I have yet to find
Perhaps it is a fine idea to have the women close but not too close. Presumably, over there they suppress their desire, but I am of a generation that believes in the necessity of satisfying oneself.
Maybe; but I have lost my relish for living. I am apathetic and most of the time want nothing, except to understand why there hasn’t been more happiness here. Is it like this for everyone? Is this all you get? Is this the most there could be?
In the morning I will be gone.
It is my yearning for more life that has done this, and we are yearning creatures, a bag of insistent wants. Sense says one needn’t follow every impulse, pursuing every woman one fancies. But one can, I guess, run after some of them, never knowing in advance what glory one might find.
Susan stirs.
Which scientist was it said bodies never meet? I stroke her back. I am convinced she can feel my thoughts, can feel me wanting her. If she wakes up, puts out her arms and says she loves me, I will sink back into the pillow and never leave. But she has never done such a thing; nor me to her. In fact, sensing my fingers on her, she moves away, pulling up the covers.
Why then don’t I shake her awake and force her to look at me? Have I tried hard enough? Why should I imagine that I am easy to get along with? Perhaps, all this time, she has been making a heroic effort to get along with a morose, over-sensitive, self-absorbed fool. She said the other day, ‘Imagine the strain of living with someone who doesn’t speak for hours, and then says vaguely, “Have you ever thought of joininga cult?”’ She has also complained about my scratching my arse almost continuously in bed so that it is a constant background noise, like the sound of crickets in a movie set in a hot place. There is no doubt that I have an aversion to shopping, housework, washing. Somehow I expect all that to be done without my having thought about it.
Nina, I remember, said I am inflexible. She called me a tyrant. Yes; my feelings are strong, my wishes imposing. Perhaps that is why I have had long periods, years in fact, of imposed indifference, as if nothing mattered. The dismissive shrug in a café was my most eloquent gesture. I was detached, having learned to be cold; intact, no one could touch me, particularly the women I let fall in love with me. I wanted them; I got them; I lost interest. I never rang back, or explained. Whenever I was with a woman, I considered leaving her. I didn’t want what I wanted. I found their passion repellent, or it amused me. How foolish they were to let themselves feel so much!
Now I can hardly bear the strength of what I feel. Some nights I could bang my head on the wall, particularly when I’ve lain here with Susan, knowing that my girlfriend – whichever one, but usually Nina –was out in the city. Perhaps she was missing me; probably she was with some young man. Aching at what I was excluded from, hating myself for my inability to live as I wanted, I have got up, dressed and left the house, walking a starlit misery until exhausted. I have returned to find that one of the kids has shit himself or vomited in his sleep.
Now, like Oliver Twist, I am asking for more.
In a few minutes I will wake her up and tell her some of these things.
How Nina tantalizes
How Nina tantalizes. She is aloof, feline, graceful. Everything she does has grace; some call it style. Others will say she knows who she is, and likes being herself. Her doubts don’t undermine her, but they do make her inaccessible at times. I must be in love with her. I have yet to find
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