Bluetooth in our bodies

virtual you are like the ancestral homeland in the east of partitioned-Bengal now identified solely on the google maptouch-pad mitigated navigation-skills take me closer to destinations, unknowni browse the peaks and plateaus of far-off physical offeringsa speedy zoom-in breeds proximityyou keep me awake in the awareness of a touch-friendly-comain a divided state, where we shed nothing other than the burden of baggage, unwanted.***the distance between you and me… four hours from now and a few more stationssampark kranti is the name of the trailscalding sips leave a scorch footprint down the throatthe tongue cells squeak like a just butchered animal thrashing by the bladesmear and soothe them in softnesslet my savaged cells find some instant solace.***an overnight train is all it takes to backpack and reachi pick-up the shaving kitthe camerasome tissue papersa bottle of perfumeand tickets to my destinationdeep inside your cozy bedroom echoing with riverine soundsyou embrace the wrapped up physical package, just arrivedyou reach out for your dueyou appreciate that I am able, unhurt and intactyou cut the straps, pluck the vain, tear open my outer skinbe assured, the delivery meets the blueprintand adjust me subsequently in positions desiredfluids flowthroats perchelevation of the arousal is often swallowed by your pacific oral-depthsgrinding wheels on metal tracks drown the sounds of breaking tideorgasmic outcomes drench passing abundance.***fragrant with your sultry sweat, your lingerieconstantly checks you out up-closeyour repose, your slumber and the sudden urgeit witnesses the gaps, hyphens and pauses illustrated by your moist murmursit embosses its mark on your skin as you float in the limbo of post coital unfurling that I can never matchenvy forces my fingers to tear ini morph into the innermost layer that you can possibly wear.***.i walk out with nothing but fading memories in my bag.i break open a coke-can, open the cab-door i land jaded at the office desk on a Monday morning.my pockets empty, not of wallet, loose change or the cell phone but, innumerable rail tracks, overhead cables, rusting iron wheels and buried under them all a waiting-list with my mention on it.***.invitations tempt me.i revisit my city on the sly i find it shrouded in shades of fleecy cotton candy, spiced with the zest of bunked classes.infancy cloaks itself in a shroud of innocence with one nervous gulp, it takes the center-stage while the anxious youth hovers near the podium of allurement, curated well in advance.the holy river ride is stripped of devotion we float on the river blooming in rain and slip through the shivering shadows of iron bars on the water-weeds.the boatman poses on the edge a crown of dark sweat adorns his brows biceps bulge with each pull of the oar.***.after committing all the coveted crossing-overs i seek sanctuary in a small town alley, dense with the puff of burning coal.deep-fried sounds of evening snacks span-out in dingy cow-shades aroma of over-fried local-junk chokes the vicinity.nearby soccer stadium holds its breath, waiting for a maiden Messi-like-hatrik with hesitant foot-steps, right then, an 18-year-old makes her appearance near the door where dreams are sold.she dribbles her way through familiar masks. the penalty at the Dream Girl Parlor is waiting for her to score.***.i too must remain a stranger.here, a new face, sparks off a rally of questions neighbors slip, into the grip, of irreverential curiosity.you egress first, i follow at a safe distance we meet, according to the plan, on the last steps of the deserted dockyard shadowed and remote.chartbusters from recent blockbusters blare out from an unfamiliar window "nijer mukhoshe nijeke dhaki" .another aircraft in the horizon lurches a sudden landing arch. we activate the bluetooth in our bodies to make do with a minimum words.***.that the universe is made up of mysteries doubts and evidences strange beliefs and disbeliefs – is what the physicists claim.the curriculum, entirely covered by black holes of impossibility drives a million dollar empire of doubts on origin and extinction.***.i, the perpetual migrant fuelled by curiosity, constantly seeking ever-new expeditions out of expertise or experience, fire my rockets send in space navigators exploring the labyrinth of known and unknown bodies yours shake with tremors of explosive pleasure.the puritan reader avoids it with suspicion.sage parental advice borders on threat asking my language to either autocorrect or face repeated 'ctrl-z'. only you, the one among many others reach for the wonders of a universe beyond escalating on mindless cosmic pleasure.***.the shadows of hands cove closer over fruits of desire.blue-teeth-marks blemish the soft skin.parts of it are separated from its whole, and swallowed the rest follows, in small, bite-sized, pieces. likewise, in small pieces, your hesitations come off as I inflict my shadowgraphs over your bare grids.take a stroll around the deep-scar named desire and you may discover innumerable seeds of intimacy.***.we wait for the night to grow even darker.you come closer and caution "let mom put out the lights in her room, first".in dense darkness our fingers gather vision, bodies gain sight.on the edge of completion, we withhold our climaxes to stretch the visuals, longer. in silence, you swallow your passionate moans, and another i–pill and yet another secret carnal campaign.***.then the bogey of craving enters an arena of momentary pause, correct to the second and departs for the next terminal, true to the percept of non-acquisition honest to an unending intended exodus.it approaches straight ahead with a supersonic roar on parallel paths of yearning laid on the grounds of illusory apatite towards the anticipation of a new frenzy closer to another doorstep where quivering apprehension for a touch holds more thrill than the touch itself.***.the corpse stiffens, exhales rotten smell once cremated, turns to ashes.burial is a better way to deal with the memory of the disposed.read the sound of loose pebbles and memoirs showering on your coffin.clout of the firm timber shall salvage you from inevitable injuries.but I shall recur, nevertheless, to scare you in your own grave.and after I am gone, the roots of the daunting recollections will pierce through layers of your stiff resistance seeking sustenance invading private creeks of your cold assets to satiate yet another colossal craving.~ Sreedeep is the author of three poetry compilations – Shoreer Street, Premer Mini-Pack, Bhromonabhishar. He is an independent photographer whocompleted his doctoral studies in Sociology from JNU. He is currently a Fellow with the C-PACT, Shiv Nadar University..~ Sunayani Ganguly completed her masters in comparative literature from Jadavpur University. Based in Kolkata, she has been professionally involved with the translation of literary works, script-writing and copy-writing.