Popagandhi

Cramped together with you in the lower bunk, I was an intruder in your space. Yet with the curtains drawn, that our backpacks occupied the same space I was supposed to, didn’t loook any bit out of place. Your lips on my cheeks, at first still, deliberating and pondering - jolted as the train jolted - transforming into the figure of one full-fledged kiss. Full-bodied and luscious, as your lips always seem to be. And in that space designed for one, we cruised through northern Malaysia. As with many nights before this one, I’ve found myself restless while half asleep; my fiddling fingers find yours, which firmly lock them in place. And only then do I sleep soundly, as a child assured.

If first class is designed with comfort and exclusivity in mind, second class is meant to provide the illusions of semi-privacy and comfort. With the curtains drawn over our berth it is still bright, the makciks outside still speaking loudly way beyond their bedtime. We huddle together not unlike dizzy schoolgirls beyond their curfew. Everything you say makes me giggle, and everything we do causes my heart to warm.

We lay still holding each other like that first time you grabbed me in Arab Street, tightly and uncompromising. I lay still feeling the shape of my longing taking root, tracing the outline of your hand and its imprint on mine.