Princess-in-exile

Scorned, she sought refuge in spirituality, and was carried away by a new-age guru with saffron clothes and caramel words. Years later, her husband won her back but by then, she was adept at walkouts, she had perfected the vanishing act.

Random access man

His voice-balloons always came out Empty as hiccupsHe was not a husband who shared his secrets. He was not a husband who shared his spoonful eitheron cold nights he played Gandhi to her waiting wifes body. Denial aroused desire and lust rolled on her breasts, lust rode her hips. Sure that he would never come she sent her dickhead husband on a wild-goose chaseGet me the testicle of a golden deer, she said, get me its musk so we can rouse your manhood. She picked herself a random man for that first night of fervour. This one was all hands and all heads and he spoke only in whispers. He taught her her tongue. First he named the word for her womb and the word for her waters and she devoured every word and within her another woman arose, hot and forever hungry. By the time she left

this strangers lap she had learnt all about love. First to last. Mamasita.

Traitress
Widowed, forsaken, and ordered to exist in erasures. With nothing on offer but love and her womans body. Flew north for foreign fare, met two men: Aman, Xman. She chose cunt over country, an awesome threesome. Learnt all about another culture by sleeping with it. Bros-in-bed, they made her wear leather, wield whips. Teased her, pleased her, for what seemed like forever. She sought a licence, a contract, fixed hours of fuck. The married man, the taller one, smelt something fishy. Bigamy and a phobia of bickering wives, made him plot. He crafted it with gags, cuffs, chains, knives, harnesses. Flattened, her protrusions tore away: ears, nose, breasts. Taken to task, they told the world she was sharp-clawed, long-nosed, big-buddha-eared, pot-bellied, cross-eyed, with a potato-peeler voice, and a neck that grew at night.