Excerpt: Half Light

As they watched the clips, the men chuckled or hooted or sighed theatrically at what was unavailable to them. Soon enough the mood in the room became more sombre. The air grew thick with unappeased desire. One after another, most of the men would leave, heading to the bathroom or some dark recess at the back of the building to find relief. The communal participation had its limits: there was a fear of going too far, seeing too much. (Page No. 39)

Pavan had never kissed anyone before. There had been fumblings in the distant past, one in the rank toilet of a bus-stand, another in an areca nut orchard, the shadows of trunks criss-crossing his face, red ants threatening to run up his legs. They were frantic moments where fear was yoked to desire, alternated and distinct rushes that in the end became indistinguishable. There had been brusque gestures, a rough grasping, the desperate grinding of flesh. But there had never been a kiss. (Page No. 55)

Ayyappan was the only god that he knew was different. His celibacy was established and unquestionable. He refused all overtures from women, demonesses and goddesses. Even men who undertook the pilgrimage to his temple in Sabarimala had to remain celibate for forty-one days before setting off. There were different ways of perceiving celibacy: penance, sacrifice, an acceptance of what could not be changed. Pavan understood them all. (Page No. 139)