Lusting After Lahore

Her blood red saree playing peekaboo with her henna dyed feet, her feet in motion. Your eyes in a trance. She keeps moving, her naked torso emerging like a cone tree out of the hills. You’re on a train and the hills are in motion, moving past you, swaying. And just as you think you have finally caught hold of her pallu, it slips through your fingers. She’s always in motion, you’re always in tow. Lahore’s  the kind of lady you can only dream of conquering…

She’ll never be yours. She’ll never be mine. But dream we can. And dream we will.

Perhaps one day the pallu will be in our hands, ready to be pealed away from her figure. Till then we dream, you and I. And she moves…

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