Friends, Bromance, Bhaktmen, We're here

Yaahuu has embraced HotMale. No, the other way round. HotMale has embraced Yaahuu. Actually, in point of fact, the embrace is the shape of such symmetric unison, it's tough to say who embraced who. But, in point of another fact, it can be accurately said that Yaahuu and HotMale have embraced. Or, to put it another way to be on the safe side - and you do want to be on the safe side in these times, ByGodPromise - HotMale and Yaahuu have embraced.

By Lazy Eye-Sankarshan Thakur
  • Published 21.01.18
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Yaahuu has embraced HotMale. No, the other way round. HotMale has embraced Yaahuu. Actually, in point of fact, the embrace is the shape of such symmetric unison, it's tough to say who embraced who. But, in point of another fact, it can be accurately said that Yaahuu and HotMale have embraced. Or, to put it another way to be on the safe side - and you do want to be on the safe side in these times, ByGodPromise - HotMale and Yaahuu have embraced.

But before you begin to frantically Gospel - that's the NewSpeak verb for Google, wake up, what world do you live in? - be reliably informed that nobody here is talking about an earth-shaking corporate merger that will change the way you've done everything including your constitutionals, before. Rest easy, your most prized things, your passwords, are the same, and they are safe. (Unless, of course, you linked them to NirAadhaar in some fit of compliant patriotism). This is not about a corporate merger that'll turn the WWW upside down, as in make it look like MMM. Gospel it if you still require convincing.

But do so on your own time and at your own loss, don't blame me for pushing you to the virtual while the real has come and come to quickly pass and is no longer there. Strangely, more happens than happens on Gospel.

The mist does descend but it no longer lingers in embrace; it descends and flies off, ion upon ion, a trillion ions and infinite multiples of those trillions vanish, leaving you no more than a believing fool. Did you really convince yourself there was mist about? Well then, what's there to show for it? It's gone. It was never for you to catch or keep. If it was there at all. Winter's folding her wares, done with the chimera of her arrival, re-enacting the treachery of departure.

She's peeling away, like the scab she always was, wafery and brittle, always a false and fleeting poultice on scars; ahead lies the reopening of everything to the scorching of summer. If Mahadeb were here, he'd soon require no more than his lungi to wear, ridden though it is with the holes of absence. But he isn't, and now the winter will be gone, and the stove will no longer be a thing to curse for how frigid it has lain all season.

But we digress, and how we digress. How far we'd have come if we had walked straight on and not digressed, not allowed distraction to snare us into unnecessary alleys along the journey. When HotMale and Yaahuu embrace, corrections begin to happen to those distractions. Or so they hope, to the exclusion of those they together will not countenance, and will, indeed, be entirely done with if it were in their power to do so. There, those sprites and leprechauns that crawl all about the place like termites defying extermination!

Imagine two men besieged by the baggage of respective histories, both about as long as the other - Mirkash and Lepenstine - sibling discords thin as lines but no less troublesome for that. Lines drawn across hot climes on cartographers' parchments in cold faraway rooms by creatures of an empire on which the sun was coming to set - last dark rites before the darkness. Upon those lines came fences. And around those fences erupted quarrels. And the quarrels brought on militias and militaries. And they brought along arms and arsenals, overt and covert. Those were messy lines they drew and departed for others to keep messing about.

When they hug each other, Yaahuu and HotMale, they can probably sense in the lingering sense of each other the sense of those nettled lines and how they pinch and hurt and how much they wish they'd be able to obliterate them. Whatever it takes. The Final Solution. Oops! But that's sacrilege, mention of the Unmentionable! The plague of stray minds. A tishoo! A tishoo!! You deserve to all fall down!!! Sorry, but sorry for that. Let's give it another name. Let's think about it.

There's time. The day we are done, the day the termites are all gone, smoked out and pulverised, that day we shall divine a fitting name for it and make a laurel wreath of it. Meantime, one last time this winter, let's meet and again fall into embrace. With open arms.

And so I tell you, my dear bro

It's about time, we've had enough

Let not this pestilence any more grow

Let's rub each other and give them the rough.