In these cities we had sex

Delhi wears aggression on its sleeve. Everyone knows who I am. Desire is for the taking. Or the slapping away. By dupattas, sandals, fair slender Sikhni hands, ‘Do you know who my father is?’

Chennai is a certain sly seedines. Lascivious looks are hidden by sweat soaked faces lined with vibhuti, sandal paste, vermillion and turmeric. Muttering cuss words and prayers with cinematic piety. ‘Shiva. Ranganatha. Pillayar. MGR. Poda. Mayiri Periya Pulathi.’

Cochin welcomes large breasts, rounded hips, and plump lips with bemused, seduced stares and comical fawning. Old men with one foot in the grave are overcome with desire for you. What will the younger ones do? They love sex; now they love you; won’t you do something about it too?

Calicut is the shy cousin. He will stare but with caution. You will never catch him looking, you will feel it. And then he will meet your eyes, innocent and questioning – do you want me? Is that what you are trying to tell me?

Goa is laidback and easy. What is desire in a Goan’s eyes? But there are so many Russians, Germans, loud Americans instead. All the cool people from all the hot Indian cities who are busy acting chill and laid-back at Artjuna, at Titos, at Brittos. The Goan serves xacuti and kings to the lounging crowd, eyes swollen after susegaad.

Bangalore knew desire once upon a time, in a distant past full of lakes, gardens, and trees. Butts, breasts, and thighs were routinely pinched on Brigade Road and in crowded BTS buses. Today every avenue has been dug up and roads are white-topped. Serpentine slithers across traffic give way only to a perfunctory fuck. Bangalore is always preoccupied -with IT, traffic, dreams of overseas, traffic, villa houses, traffic – it’s not with sex.