Love, Limps (Part Eight)


He wasn’t blinking much. He lay on the comfy bed in room number 1108 of a five-star hotel, on his back, staring at the false ceiling. When he got bored of staring above, he turned to his left, resting his head on his arm. She was in front of him, facing the cupboard, getting dressed. He felt nothing for her. Not affection, not care, not even pity or sympathy. He wasn’t even disgusted.


He didn’t love anyone, not even himself. He spent his afternoons with her, away from the girl who really loved him from the bottom of her heart. Her love, however, was useless for him, for he did not love her back. He wasn’t capable of loving anyone – or so he thought. The woman dressing in front of him was no one. She was real. She might’ve been a fantasy, a figment of his imagination for all he cared. But to the world, to the hotel receptionist sitting 11 floors below, she was a real woman. To him, she was a character – a face amongst a myriad of faces. She was a body. A pair of hands, legs, breasts. She was a toy. She was nothing – she could’ve been anything or anyone – but to him, she was nothing but an object of his desire. A nobody, an outlet for his demented fantasies, for his incessant frustration.

To her, he was a man. A man who could somewhat satisfy her. A mediocre being who was poles apart from the sea of perfection she was habitual of drowning in. He was her escape, her own outlet, just a man. A man who thought too much of himself. A man she had hired – a puppy-eyed boy desperately clinging to his day job because he had nothing else to live for. She did what she wanted to, what she had to. She did it because it gave her a sense of control. The man believed that she was submitting her mind and her body, dancing to his tune, molding to his will; but in reality, he was the one doing the dance.

Men are lost in their own little delusions, thinking that they own theirs and every other woman around.

She met Pranjal regularly. It had been quite some time now. She might’ve felt something for him, had he not been borderline psychotic. His oddity perplexed her. He had the habit of zoning out after having sex. He wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t move, or even blink. He would just stare into nothingness. His empty eyes showed no expression, and his face contorted into something ghastly. Initially, she even feared him; but she was strong and confident. A mere man couldn’t disrupt her control. It was mechanical. A chore that she had to do out of habit. She was fine with it.

He kept staring at her till she completely dressed and then averted his eyes. She left within a few minutes, leaving him alone on the comfy bed of room number 1108, in a five-star hotel of Gurgaon, sans any clothes. As she closed the door behind her, she could swear that she heard him laugh. It was a bloodcurdling sound that made her hair stand on its edges. Shivering, she left the hotel.



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