Who fresh hoke aayi aur mere bagal me let gayi. TV dekhte dekhte unke taraf dekhne laga. Mujhe laga unhe nind lag gayi hai. But mera andaja galat nikl.... Who ankhe khol k mujhe puchne lagi tum aaye jab se alag najarose kyu dekh rahe hai. mai dar gaya aur kuch nahi bola. Tho unone force karne pe mai darthe darthe bol diya aap mujhe bahot acchi lagthi ho karke. Who hasne lagi aur boli tume mere bête jaise ho. Fir Maine unhe bola mujhe aap bahot pasand ho. who boli kya chahte ho tum. Maine kuch. But somehow I believe that love ideally won’t involve suicide, but rather ought to foster a mutual partnership for as long as is fruitful, and the tales of agape and self-sacrifice strike me as strangely cold and bloodless. You would suggest that chastity implies truer love? To hell with vaunting this notion of purity—this notion of dying from afar because one has forbidden oneself to make a move, to touch one’s beloved. I refer you to John Donne: ‘Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, / But yet. More

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