Hugging was a gesture Awadhi people followed diligently when they greeted someone. That was a way of showing their affection and respect to others. I kind of liked that as a kid. At least, I could have hugged and squeezed Nayela in my tiny arms whenever she visited Shanbagh.

The after effect of the hug felt like drowning into a pool of whiskey. I had never drunk from a glass or a bottle but always from Nayela’s intoxicating eyes, her splendid figure, from the luster of her flowing hair.

The hug was a simple gesture. Perhaps, the end of the cold war. Perhaps, the fragile beginning of love.

Her smile was innocent and naive as if she didn’t know anything other than to love and be kind to others.

Her supple body draped in wet clothes, water dripping from the ends of her lush golden hair, a single water droplet hovering over her thin pink lips. There’s wasn’t anything great about her eyes, but they had a unique penetrating brown gaze. A challenging gaze. Gaze which melted my stone heart when I saw her today after years of distance. Gaze which compelled me to believe I still had that burning desire for her.

There was nothing as divine and pure as true love.

Kiss her, adore her, give her every ounce of you, succumb to her demands, submit to her, command her, love her, unconditionally!

Hold him tight, take away all his pain, diffuse them inside your body by osmosis, beg him to squeeze you hard, pray God not to let the moment end. and Prolong it till eternity.

Kissing Yasir was like feeling the safest soul on earth. The touch of his lips felt like he touched my soul. It took away all the pain and agony I had been enduring for the past six years.

Yeah…that’s nice. Thanks, Zareen Apa.” Mrs. Shadab Rizvi’s smile broadened flashing all of her stained teeth dyed red from years of chewing areca nuts and tobacco wrapped in betel leaves.