ABOUT THE POEM: This untitled prose-poem is a quiet antidote to the brutal transactional cynicism of “Bhaang Bhosda.” Where the earlier piece snarls that love is a paid illusion and flesh always wins, this one insists the opposite: love can be absolute surrender, given without ledger, receipt, or expectation of return. Written in the voice of someone who has already been emptied—heart poured out like monsoon rain on parched ground—it speaks from the far side of heartbreak. The speaker has learned the hardest lesson: the purest love is the one that asks for nothing, not even recognition. There is no bargaining, no bitterness, only the soft shock of discovering that even after theft and silence, the feeling refuses to leave. It has taken root inside the beloved like an uninvited guest who will never pay rent and never depart. Imagery is deliberately gentle—wind-teased waves, cloudbursts, daylight unwrapping—yet the gentleness carries steel: this love survives precisely because it needs nothing back. The closing hush is not absence but presence so complete it no longer requires words. In under 180 words, the poem flips the earlier rant on its head: if “Bhaang Bhosda” is the brothel at 3 a.m., this is the temple at dawn—same flesh, same heart, but one chooses to give everything for nothing.