I’m anxiously tapping the enter key of my computer; lest I forget the nuances of the experience I just had an hour back. The partner is in the bathroom relieving himself and the kid has gone to school. The mother is snoring in the other room to compensate for the sleep she lost to prepare the tiffin for the kid. Ah! This is the solitude, a writer craves for, to pen the deepest notes arising from her soul, her heart. I don’t know how anyone can become a writer at a young age. Experiences make you a writer and age is necessary to that journey. I for one have traversed half the age of my lifeline, standing right at the mid junction (assuming I live for 70 odd years). But a pitfall of becoming a writer in one’s mid-thirties is that memory does not support you, all the time.

So in order to beat the fading memory, I open my laptop and it starts with a groaning ache. The machine has turned old, and so are my plastic slippers. I adore the worn out things in my house; this bed on which I’m sitting cross-legged is gifted by father after the birth of my first kid. Back then, we had a small charpoy which barely accommodated 2 bodies, and now with a new addition, one of us has to sleep on the floor mattress. My father salvaged us from that ignominy by purchasing a giant mahogany double bed. It has since then turned old and the paint has discolored. I love it still.

So this morning, on the same bed, the partner shaved my pubic hair. The fluffy blanket lay crumpled on the bed and I can be found inside one of its cold layers. After the kid has been dropped to school, he came inside the room and locked it. This is our time. The maid is still to arrive and no one is there to disturb us. Before the day picks up, we cuddle and talk.

The partner gave me light pecks on my eyes, my fluttering eyelids, nose, cheeks, and at the join of the lips. He gently stroked my bedraggled hair with his long fingers. In touching each other, both our brass rings clinked. The shine of brass emitted the warmth of love. He cupped my face with both his hands and tried to suck my lips with his. Oh! Be slow! I complained. Don’t you remember I had a toothache last night from eating brittle golgappas ☹ He smiled and caressed my left jaw with his right hand. He then slid his hands down under my pants and felt me. And then he quickly stood up.

Oh! Be slow! Don’t lift the blanket in one go. The cold air in the room shivers me.

He descended from our bed and reached to the table to open his grooming box, a black cloth bag with umpteen small pockets. From it, he pulled out his razor with the ivory handle and tore a piece of paper from the old notebook. And then he trotted back to the bed. I looked at him puzzled and he muttered.

‘I will shave you today.’

What followed was a banter of gooey words between the 2 lovers; knowledge exchanged on sex from what I knew and what he. Both of us reading about sex, of late a lot. I told him.

‘Do you know that if a woman has a mole on her cheek, it’s likely that she will have one in her vulva too? And now that you have been sleeping with me for so long. (I counted the years on my fingers 1,2,3…) Tell me where all in my body, do I have moles? Spot all of them.’

The crucial test of love! The treasure hunt of the lover on the body of his beloved. Can he pass it? He conceded!

He: I think you have got one in the inside of your left thigh, near your buttock. This one?

Me: No! That’s not a mole, it’s a brown patch. You don’t know the difference between a mole and patch.

But he made up for this by immersing me in the paradise of shaving ritual. He gently trimmed the dark, thick hair of my pubis. The handle of the razor held elegantly between his forefingers and thumb, he made neat, clean swipes on his beloved’s seat of passion. Slowly and steadily, taking each moment to pause and fastidiously monitor if the area is clean or still a strand of hair is left. Time stilled and I went into a trance. It felt as if someone is rubbing butter soaked sandpaper on my pubis. It felt gritty, it felt like a chocolate mousse. His fine efforts made the razor seem like a peacock feather, cajoling me, teasing me. He cleaned all of it but left a goatee at the rear of mons pubis. He said a small stubble is necessary to arouse men. This he had learned in his foreplay session. But I protested:

I want it all clean. There is one strand of hair still left just above my anus.

He shaved the remaining of the hair. I relished in the ritual so much that I kept feeling my pubis; the inside of my vulva and the area around the anus to check for a left strand of hair. And I would be joyous if I find any. But at the end of 15 minutes, it was all clean. No strands of hair left. The partner again left the bed and got an almond moisturizer from his black, grooming bag. He came back in the blanket and dropped an ounce of the lotion on his palm and then rubbed it on my pubis and the under of my thighs. He gave me a gentle massage and the skin now looked moist. He then lay near me under the warm blanket and whispered in my ear as if unraveling a secret.

‘No man other than me will care to know that your groin area is too dry.’