In Persuasion Of A Story.

A story. 

What exactly is a story?

Is it a lie we tell each other, in wake of a better tomorrow? Or is it, is it us? You know, you and me. Story, stories. All about just us. All of us, the particles of God. Trying very hard to look for him elsewhere, in the story. Somewhere above the ladder or below. Somewhere in the chain of chaos. Or was it that sex was all that we have of him. Here. A story, too short, then. 

Story, stories have a way about them. The way is to easily fit in our subconscious. Imagination takes us into the pensive from where we watch everything happen. And so the story finds place in the essence called life. Do we really let them then, dwindle above us subconsciously, or do we always carry the aroma of the stories we have loved along with us. Longing for some counterparts, for some more kinds of the story we love. And for those unfortunates who never love a single story, they become one. Unintentionally, Of course. They become a part. A play. A letter. An idea. They become a story to be told. 
Such story I came across once, and have been dying to write it ever since.

In the dingy and narrow lanes of sub-urban Delhi, lived Renu with her family. Renu, was a girl, of an age when mostly longing turned into deep slumbers. Of a time when touching her own skin innocently, would create an inextinguishable fire within. Looking at bare skin ,even of her own mother, would make her confused. It was an age, when everything she saw or felt, made her want to touch herself. Of course, she couldn't understand what this was all about. What was making her days and nights so miserable and full of thirst. It seemed as if her body was itching, night and day. 

She was at that age, when one becomes incompletely complete, trying to look for ways that would suffice everything once and for all. 

Renu would come home from school, and lock the door to change her clothes. She would then stare at her growing breasts in the mirror. She would touch them lightly and feel everything in that touch. She was desperate for a touch. She would use every kind of medium to touch her body, to create the touch of someone else on her. Her pillow became her toy, with which she would often caress herself. Tired of the insufficient pillow, she would sleep on it unaware of her nakedness. She would sometimes forget to open the door. Grandfather, worried, constantly banging on the door, she would wake up. Realizing she was naked. Ashamed, she would quickly get dressed and answer, reassuring that she was okay. She would go out, feeling impure, feeling as if she had committed the most desirous of sins, and that in turn would entice her. 

These were those days when everything Renu saw on the television became about sex. She would watch bare-bodied women wrestling, women walking on the ramp, with beautiful breasts. She would lust for their bodies. It was always somehow women, who made such feelings come inside her. She had no term for what she felt, for the women's bodies or her own. She just knew of its existence. She never really gave it much thought either. But, she knew it had to be a secret kept locked inside her.

In her bathroom, she would rummage, between the unwashed clothes and take her mother's bra, and try it on. To create that desirable touch, of course.  Her mother's bra was much bigger for her still growing breasts. But, wearing the bra and looking at herself in the mirror, would give her a vague satisfaction.  She would want more, every day, every night. She never touched her vagina at that age, she was all about breasts, She wanted someone to simply touch her, touch them. 

So, an afternoon came, while Renu fulfilled her fantasies inside her bedroom, she heard footsteps outside, in the backyard. She froze, thinking it was someone from the family, and had seen her in this plight. She slowly crept behind the curtains and saw from the window. It was the gardener. She watched him slyly, his dark contours, gripped her entire being. She wanted him. She wanted him to touch her. But ,she was far too week for something so bold. So, she fantasied about him. With the gardener in the backyard, it became extremely special for her to go along playing with herself, touching her body, while he was just outside. It excited her even more. 

Suddenly there was a knock on the door to the backyard, she froze. Dressed quickly and opened it.to find the gardener standing. He asked for a basket. She quickly went to the kitchen and brought it for him. He plucked the vegetables, and she, she watched him. Working in the bright sun, sweating, his body, firm and dark, was making her quiver. She now wanted to make him understand somehow that she wanted him to touch her. 

The gardener came over to her, with the basket full of leaves, she couldn't just take the basket. She needed him to touch her. So, as Renu took the basket, she made sure her hand touched his fully, and very tenderly, she caressed his hand, as if by accident. And as soon as she had touched him, she had loathed her self and cringed away from the idea that was driving this, unknowable thirst within her. 

She took the basket from him and ran to the kitchen. 

She thought she was going crazy. She imagined that she had left her home forever, and had become a prostitute to satisfy this that burnt within her. She still had no idea about sexual intercourse or how it happened. All she knew at that age, was she needed someone to touch her and she knew it would take more than one to satisfy her hunger for it. She would day and night think of herself as the prostitute with freedom and courage, to be. To be able to have as much of anyone, as she wanted, She would day dream of becoming a prostitute. Of becoming someone, who wanted to quench her thirst and enjoy it all the time. 

It became a passion of hers. Renu would often think of prostitutes as she grew out of that age which seemed unending. She would often envy their lust for life. With every age she forgot about a dream, that had possessed her mind and soul. Society made the better of her. She never became a prostitute. She never became a lesbian either. Society got the better of her. Often when she lies alone, she again feels those pangs of lustful desires. But, now she is at the age where she knows every detail and every idea related to the hunger. She touches herself in the right places now, to feel herself all over. 

But, as then, so now, she carries the secret in her heart. She still dreams of becoming a prostitute in some other life maybe. For now, the society got the better of her.