The Scent

I saw his cunning eye movement, like that of a pussycat that is engaging in a deceptive task and quickly checks its master—just as a pickpocket checks the surroundings before snatching, or like a teenage couple kissing in a dark dead-end corner. I treat this as an adorable expression. This eye contact tells nothing essentially, yet it is a continuum of a connection that is reinforced each time he does this, probably not with an intent—just a habit.

I had a dream where he appeared. Not long ago, when I was in a plausible relationship with Shyama. It is raining today. I have not made it to my office. I have not had any meal. I took a heavy bath and scented myself with my Invictus and Prada. And his eyes appear in my imagination, reminding me of my dream. A dream where I was adoring Shyama and he just entered, of course not intentionally, and found us being intimate. My mind made the tough-call decision. I was cool. I was always cool. Coolness is the other name of mine. I invited him; I wished to invite him. He is strong, and so am I. I wished to adore Shyama in a threesome moment. I wished to enjoy his adorable pussycat’s eye movement.

I shared this dream with Nijam, who is a writer. I shared this dream because I know someday this dream will appear in his story, not directly but with a convolution of complex fictions. But would Murad understand this?

I entitled him Sultan.

The Train

I wonder why Nijam is so eccentric about eroticism. He is so self-obsessed and arrogant that he consumes himself, and so am I. But my obsession is different. I don’t deny or defy sweethearts. I adore or worship them.

Whatever.
Fuck Nijam.

I want to talk about Sultan, and when I use the title, the real Murad transcends into Sultan, who can consume things of beauty with me.

A train is moving. Both of them are on board. Life fucks both of them.

Nijam is consumed and Murad is going to be consumed. I wish Sultan would sustain, with me.

Morshed

Nijam discovers Morshed. He is liberating and is the epitome of a character turning into an individual. Eccentric, a little inclined to the left but not radical; nevertheless, influence can radicalize him; intelligent, but not yet mature.

We are all immature to some scale. Maturity is a hoax mostly used by people having no other cards except age.

I try to listen to Morshed these days. However, it’s very difficult for me to keep complete focus on anybody. Attention is my highest currency, and I spend it only on my friends.

But my friendship is not cheap. It’s expensive.

Yes, of course, lately, I spent it on Shyama. When Shyama comes, Sultan comes, and everyone vanishes into the background.

The long road, the metro, the Bazar, the Rickshaw, and Morshed, who doesn’t know his future but is optimistic in every way—but who knows his future, honey?

The Epilogue

It’s fantastic that Nijam creates spaces where I close all the windows.

I am very difficult to work with. I am impossible.

Only Sultan, so far, has turned the curtains and discovered me by me in my dream, written in a story by Nijam, read by Morshed, and to be told to me.