The 120th death.
[Text by Rajeev Roark; photo by Abhinav Chandel]
Many things can and are being said about Rajeev Roark. The epithets rain in place of the much needed clouds in the much too dry Lutyens’ Delhi. Oddly missing are the monikers of a good man and the nom de plume of a gentle soul.
Mr Roark was, for all intents, a deviant man. He had a weakness for good whiskeys, ever better coffees and books that cast effects on one’s body as well as the mind. He was quick to admit and boast his perversions and lethargic in his ability to mind anything except that would prove to him that clocks are truly a worthwhile invention.
The rabid consumer of all things naked, Mr Roark was known for his ever sparking lust for books, roads and the ability to veer any conversation towards the virtue of shamelessness.
Among his collection, titanic perverts who left their mark on lusts, such as Joyce, Miller and Rand, constantly shivered and shuddered from being held by the spine.
Mr Roark was a proponent of the undressed and the unabashed. A man who believed that want is a reason in itself and one must go beyond seeking reasons too often.
Mr Roark is survived by the women he wrote naked and photographed, masked and unmasked.
His tombstone is engraved with his quote: “I dare do all that becomes a madman, yet I did it with a sound mind and deviant heart.”
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