Epiphany

I don't push people. I just pull them. Towards me.

Yeehaaaah! :)

Wish

Oh to be born the native of a free country!

Hopeless

The apocalypse next will be of evolution of a great mass of human beings into a higher level of consciousness. And that will destroy the society as we see it now.

Society will disintegrate and individual will prevail.
Yet will the sense of emptiness and vacuum disappear? I guess not. They shall be our constant companions - in the midst of a crazy mob or in solitude.

Oog

Oog swung the stone club above his head in a neat arc. He liked the feel of it. The thought that he could clonk dangerous and edible beasts with it brought him great comfort. A splosh of glimmery wet smug fog enveloped him as he studied the smoothness of the heavy oblong of rock that he had lovingly crafted.

Oog was a handsome man. His chest, arms and back were covered with thick, black hair. Out from beneath bushy eyebrows peeped glazed eyes. Oog was a thinking man and that was what made his eyes glazed. He thought. He pondered. He meditated. At times his cogitation was so intense that he even forgot what he was thinking about. Oog was absent minded. Just as all great men are, as we know.

A spark of the forest fire that Oog had kept safe inside a hollow mud ball shone like a red flower. Red Flower – a series of strange syllables echoed against the spacious inner walls of Oog’s egg-shaped head – 'Rudyard Kipling'. He did not understand the meaning of the words that he thought. But then Oog did not understand many things that he thought about.

Reality

Fish fly in the Ocean
Birds swim in the Air

The Blind are the ones who see
this and other such truths

Words

Sometimes I have the urge to use a word just for the beauty of it.

Like ‘incessant’. Said that word out aloud several times and was quite taken by the feel of it on my tongue. Inncessssant. Hmmm. Liked the subtle nuances of its meaning – incessant touch bruising, incessant love cloying, incessant lure story of my life. All unnecessary, yet quite charming. Used it once, took it off because quite unnecessary.

Some words have not yet been used. Like absinthe. Guard it preciously. Jade velvet covered viscous word emitting dull green glow. Very precious word which I say out aloud. Also fact that its liquer. Forbidden. In the mind absinthe tends to poison. Poison. Careful.

Hubris. For obvious reasons. The image is of an Egyptian canine face. Anubis.

Tenebrae. Darkness. Grief. Self.

Lament. Inconsolable. Unadulterated beauty. In pain lies love, lies beauty.

Rant

Of the seven deadly sins, PRIDE is the one that is my very own. I’ve been told that it’s the root of all others. And I shall always wear this sin on my sleeve.

So, when pride takes a blow, it’s numbing and paralyzing. I find myself unable to move on. Yet, this pride is an animal inside me, all beaten and broken but still alive, still struggling to keep its spine ramrod straight. It is so easy to break me – I am not the wise grass that bends with the wind and bows to its awesome power. And I am broken. Crushed by the tremendous burden of this shame, my foolishness, my disgusting naiveté.

I must confess I am completely amoral. Yet I am shackled by a moral code that is more stringent than anything the society can devise.

Among other things, I believe that wanting to yield to carnal temptations is the most natural thing in the world – even when one is in a monogamous relationship. Forced monogamy, as practised by the society at large, by making divorce difficult and such assorted things, is absolute bull crap though it’s easy to see why it is necessary for the collective. On the other hand, I also believe that out of this utter nonsense that has been practised for ages there evolves something sublime and almost poetic, ridiculously so. And that is the genuine desire to give oneself completely to one person alone. No forcing, no contracts, no ratification by law, no bullshit.

Like I said, monogamy is unnatural and difficult. Has to be. Otherwise there’s no reason for all these sex hormones and oh-so-strong urges to procreate. Therefore, monogamy is the most beautiful gift one can give to a person one truly cares about. Complete, utter, blind trust, honesty, faithfulness. It is possible. It is possible.

Now, when some unlucky idjits like me do that, it inevitably backfires. Sub-humans who have not yet evolved to the level of understanding the concept do not deserve to be honoured so.

My muse has been envied. Rightly so. I would kill, steal, sell my soul for him. I would have. I was demanded that I blindly trust. I did. The more fool me.

My honest verses laugh at me. Each word, each syllable is shrill, mocking and unending. Like a pack of hyenas. I wear my shame and crouch in the corner.

I must bear this cross alone. I must lay down alone on the bathroom floor, moaning with silent pain. I can talk to no one, I must pretend normalcy when my heart threatens to stop.

The only way out of grief is through it. It’s a hell of a long walk.

Betrayal

So this is what betrayal feels like. Always thought it would gurgle up bitter, sour tastes in the throat. But it’s tasteless.

Delayed shock…

Is the only explanation. Because I loved you. A desperate, needy love. Though I was careful not to show it.

Shame

An inordinate amount of shame. Embarrassment. Like I’m naked in public, and I’m fat. Skin marred with deep pockmarks. The crowd boos. Shame. I feel ashamed.

Self Flagellation

I never learn. Never. Never. Never. I deserve this. What goes around comes back around. For all my analysis and semi intellectual rants I still walk straight into The Trap. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I hate dumb women. I’m one of them.

Worthless

I am a used tissue. Throw me away. My body is desert. The oasis is bloody. You will die of thirst. Do you drink blood?

Irony

Only yesterday, I rode the high waves of ecstasy. I needed just one whiff of his thought to get me so fucking high. Now, I am the undead. What happens when a 50 feet fall does not kill you? Look at me.

Fear

Of the truth. Of love. That I still love you. And that I always will.

Disgust

I want to puke. The thought of you cheating on me makes me want to throw up. My insides are in knots.

Hysteria

That I dreamt of carrying your child. Our child. Me. The bitch. The heartless lunatic who is all for population control.

Helpless

Inertia. My mouth is sewn shut. I can’t speak. This non-pain will tear me apart. I foresee it happening. I’m paralysed.

Lament

My love my love my love my love my love

Why have you forsaken me?

My verses have died premature. I wanted to write so much for you.

Record

This feeling. Because I will forget. I will not cry because I have no tears. The wound will close by my will alone. Because I am the strongest there is.

But I must remember this is how I felt. Feel? Do I? Not one drop of tear. Not one drop. I used to cry buckets, at the drop of a hat.

Pity me. For I hate pity.

Surprise

It was true love. Great love. Love really doesn’t matter, does it? I thought love could move mountains. I was wrong. Only I loved.

I don’t understand you. That hurts. Or maybe what hurts is that I do understand you. I see you for what you truly are. My wishful thinking has not made you a King. The sceptre and crown are to be deserved.

I am Queen. I am too good for you.

Begone, you bastard.

By the Sea (2)

It’s dark and the beach is deserted except for the few drunk ones wandering over from the shack. It isn’t Goa, and nothing exciting ever happens here. I sit with him just beneath the footpath, legs stretched out in front of me, leaning back against the cement blocks. He talks to me, of several things, I listen only to the deep hum of his voice and watch the brown of his eyes.

Suddenly, two very drunk white women run out to the beach, kicking the sand across us and proceed to divest themselves off their bikini tops. My eyes pop out and my head is suddenly clear of the fog caused by the small cocktail sips I've had. I’ve never seen live naked women before I let my uncivilized self take over. I ogle and gesture to him whispering hoarsely, “Ohmigod, look they’re taking their clothes off”. And he just keeps looking at me. Not a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, he just keeps looking at my face. He continues long after they’ve left, and the rest of the evening I am silent.

He loves me enough to miss the freak show of the year.

For whatever reason.

I am loved.

Doleful Mole

“You have a mole right on your earlobe”

“I know”

“How’s that?”

“I’ve been told”, I say.

“Hmmm”, he says.

I love the way he gets jealous at the thought of someone even looking at my earlobe closely enough to notice a mole. How cute, I think.

“And you have one right on your d***, you know”, I tell him.

“Yeah, I know”, lazy drawl.

“How’s that?”

He cocks an eye at me, ready to sprint, “I’ve been told”.

I scream bloody murder.

Baby Makers

Women are baby makers. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t know how many times this message has been driven home mostly by the sacred institution called family, nurtured and protected in turn by those wolves in sheep’s clothing - guardians of religion and morality and society and herd mentality.

It is extremely perplexing that human beings who actually have a fucking brain and who can actually use the grey cells to reason out things and understand and exult in that knowledge, are seemingly content to just remain fucking morons and feel righteous and holy about their ignorance. There is no point being upset about something I can do nothing about, but I can’t help it.

There was a movie on Z Studio called ‘Absolute Strangers’. A pregnant woman who is comatose has a better chance of recovery if the pregnancy is terminated. However, the pro-lifers appeal to the court for guardianship of the foetus and that of the comatose woman, all for the cause of saving ‘two lives’.

Doesn’t this make sense? What really is the purpose of existence of a woman? What is it that gives her the most joy, better than a 100 orgasms? A woman’s sole reason-to-be is to give birth to a child, to propagate the human race, she has to subjugate herself to the greater good of humanity and attain nirvana.

Men, as in the male species, advocating such subjugation of a woman can at least be understood in the light of them having their own personal axes to grind. But what about the women! So many, so many, so fucking many are so bloody happy to just take it and take it and even genuinely feel happy about this horrible state of affairs. The first one in the family to protest a young girl’s assertion of independence is the mother. The very same mother who must have been subjected to emotional castration as a child, who later on evidently developed a sense of loyalty to the tormentors who caused such blissful humiliation in her. She learns to associate humiliation with happiness.

All these fights for ‘Equal Rights’, EQUAL rights? What the fuck! It is not as if no one knows the answer. Everyone does. Everyone. And that’s why women are still kept under lock and key by the most powerful lobby in this world – family. And it is extremely difficult to get out of the clutches of Love. It is all such a well-knit and well-orchestrated fucking drama that goes on, especially among the mediocre middle class who have absolutely no sense of individuality, so they can neither stand for themselves nor can they blend safely into the anonymity of the masses above or below.

Financial independence will never become a reality for most women. Because they themselves don’t care. They are happy to be fussed over and pampered, they will be dogs. And have you any idea of the positive strokes that young girls receive from well meaning family members for always speaking of sacrificing self interest for others?

So many women I personally know, in the prime of their youth, when nothing but sex and comfort interest them, get married and promptly give birth to a couple of children. They stay at home to raise them. Bloat up. By the time they reach their thirties, they realize that youth is fading, nobody wants them. People who used to be scintillated earlier by their dynamism are now either tut-tutting or are seemingly unaffected by the fact that they have sacrificed their one shot to rising to their potential because let’s face it, they are women and the primary responsibility of a woman is to raise children and live for the family, cook and clean for them and wash the husband’s underwear and serve him food. And the family continues to lavish praises on her.

See, I have been told that I’ve become corrupt because the person I married ‘gave me too much freedom’. Note the choice of words, I was ‘given’ freedom. I did not deserve this much freedom, but I was granted that privilege denied to many and now I am misusing it. What a shame! I’ve also been advised by people who deeply care about me to stop working, to stop thinking of travelling alone, to start some small business at home to kill time and be a sweet, gentle woman. Oh how cute.

But I am sweet and I am gentle. And so are other women. I do not demand independence and freedom. I am. I have witnessed the transformation of so many free-willed women into doormats, and those who have sensible human beings for husbands, who understand these things, are eternally grateful for having been granted the freedom. As long as women remain grateful for whatever freedom they enjoy nothing will change. I am sure a lot of Indians were happy and content when the British ruled India. There was joy and governance not any worse than the current situation. Then why did some people feel that they are not free? Why did we not let them continue?

Because (pardon my Hindi) Sar kata sakte hain par chukka sakte nahin? And why the fuck is that applicable only to men? I like and respect men, I am no reverse chauvinist. But why the fuck can’t women understand? I am not talking about the poor uneducated women who are beaten up and who have no choice. I am talking about well educated women whose choice is to be content answering to ‘Serve me food, darling’. Shame!

Nuts about Fruits

Not really.

I mean, I am not that nutty about fruits. Or maybe. About some.

As a child I had the rare privilege of sampling exotic species of fruits. And straight from the trees, that too. Branches heavy-laden with fruits so ripe that the slightest breeze was enough to shake them free and deposit on the ground. Mornings were mostly reserved for scouring the courtyard for guavas and rose-apples. Those that bore tooth-marks of bats and other assorted nocturnal creatures were forbidden, but I’ve had those too anyway.

I had two tiny aunts, who were only about 9 and 12 years older than me, stay over at my place quite frequently. I used to envy their skill in climbing trees, especially that of the younger one. She used to lithely drape her long limbs around the tree and almost float up along trunk. She’d pluck those half-ripe guavas and drop me some, for I’d be patiently waiting beneath the tree, salivating and envying her blasted good luck to be able to gnaw at the crunchy green skin and spit out half chewed bits in a neat shower.

I’ve had my revenge too, by the time my kid brother was of the age when he tottered around the courtyard, waiting beneath trees for benevolent gifts of guavas, I was an expert tree climber. I’ve skinned my knees and half cracked my skull because I’ve fallen from almost all the big trees. I’ve known the sting of quite a few varieties of ants. I’ve observed in close quarters the symbiotic relationship between the white fungi on trees and the ant colony that raises them.

There are mainly two varieties of guava. Red and white. Red is lip-smacking good and very sweet. White is crunchy and they grow big. The trees don’t grow beyond a certain size. They are very climbable without being intimidating. One of the trees that used to be my favourite had twin branches extending to either side from the main trunk, so the tree was shaped like a catapult. A fine seating place. The higher one went up the tree the better it was, because the branches caught even the slightest wind and swayed like mad dancers. It was exhilarating to be at the mercy of the wind, all the while trusting reed thin branches to carry one’s weight.

I started young.

Subjective Opinion

I don't like Paulo Coelho. There. I said it. I liked 'Zahir' and that's about it. Extreme spirituality gives me indigestion. Besides, I don't like the whiny prose either.

Kundera is better. Only slightly. He's more objective about the whining.

I like Shashti Brata. Especially 'Confessions of an Indian Woman Eater'. Also, 'My God Died Young'. I like the irreverence.

I read Rebecca (Finally!). I didn't like the story, or the too-detailed prose.

I still like Poe. I don't like Ayn Rand. But I liked 'Anthem'.

I like Jeanette Winterson.

I don't like obscure prose merely because it's obscure.

I want to read good fiction.

Any suggestions from my random visitors?

Indoctrination -–A Handy Reference

1. You were born in sin.

2. You must live in perpetual guilt.

3. Love your parents. Feel dizzy with gratitude that they brought you into the world.

4. Your life is not yours for the taking. If it sucks, tough luck. Suck it up.

5. There is a higher power who watches over you. He is called God. His name is ___ *insert Yahweh/Vishnu/Allah/Flying Spaghetti Monster/Eris as applicable*

6. You cannot see him because he lives in Heaven. You don’t need to see him to know he lives there; you just need to think he does.

7. Be meek. The more bovine you are the more your chances of getting a ticket to Heaven.

8. Heaven is up above and Hell is down below

9. People who live up North are better

10. Listen to parents and teachers

11. Don’t talk back

12. Respect mankind (womankind optional)

13. Women must bear children.

14. Women must also devote their life to raising children

15. Don’t touch yourself there. It’s a disgusting part of your body.

16. Pleasure is sin

17. Sex? I don’t know what you are talking about

18. Men can pee standing up. So they are better

19. Men do not have wombs. So they don’t have to worry about getting knocked up. So they can walk alone in the night. So they are better

20. Women are meant to have wombs so they can reproduce. That’s the primary responsibility of a woman

21. Family is everything

22. Marry.

23. The cool ones marry only for love.

24. Stay married. Love is not a requisite

25. Make children as soon as you get married or when the marriage is about to fall apart, so you will stay married for their sake

26. A woman feels fulfilled when she is pregnant. And no, it’s not a gastric feeling of fullness.

27. If you don’t have children, your life is empty

28. Fuck for pleasure? You might as well fuck for money.

29. Whores are bad.

30. Men are tempted easily. Women’s bodies ought to be fully covered so as not to arouse unholy passions

31. All fleshly passions are unholy

32. Love your country

33. Kill for your country

34. Patriotism is a virtue. It’s like religion. Do not question.

35. Kill the enemy. Only the bravest of the brave can do that

36. Homosexuals are deviant

37. So are transvestites

38. Depending on your nationality and religious beliefs, animal excreta becomes sacred. So does an erect penis.

39. No, dildos can’t be worshipped.

40. Indulge a woman but not to the point where she gets the better of a man

41. If she does, blame it on PMS and suggest she is confused and that her thinking is muddled

42. Screw around, have fun. Just make sure you choose the right religion which either condones screwing around or which purges all sins through confession

43. People who use big words are more intelligent. They are better.

44. 36-24-36

45. Size zero

46. Size does matter

47. Give it to the sluts asking for it. They should know better than to provoke.

48. A husband is the most prized possession of a wife

49. A son is the most prized possession of a man

50. Be grateful for your life.

and so on and so forth…

Catione

Yesterday, I dreamt of this word ‘catione’. It doesn’t make sense to me, but a voice whispered it over and over and over again. It said, Kat-e-own. I tried reasoning with it that such a word does not exist. But as voices in dreams are, this one too possessed no body to call its own and therefore, presumably, no ears to listen. It was just a thin whisper that formed in my head in irritatingly short intervals.

I concluded, while still asleep, that it meant ‘Caution’, I am warning myself of some impending danger. Fascinating stuff I tell you. I can sense Freud turning over in his grave.

But then thefreedictionary.com gives me a rather insipid explanation (though the pronunciations do not match). Catione is merely ‘cation’ in French and other languages. A positively charged ion characteristically moving towards the negative electrode.

My plot for a box office hit turns out to be a really boring documentary. Sheesh!

Afraid

Afraid of what the future holds, I train myself to shed no tears. I have been training myself for quite some time now, I never thought I would succeed, but I’m afraid I have. Now I find that future tears have solidified and rain as hail into my present, and in future I forever shall be stuck in the past where it rains sharp pellets of frozen tears.

Afraid of letting go of the tenuous hold on sanity afraid to mourn to grieve a future loss that I know for sure will happen, afraid of losing you, I wander, I have nowhere to go, I wander scared and lonely and I start at the slightest sound, the smallest irritant draws ferociousness out of me, my temper is a red hot molten flower which vaporises anything in its vicinity.

I look in the mirror and draw out hatred for the tired sallowness of my skin, the stretch marks on my thighs and I shift the blame onto them, I must believe it is because of them that I cannot have you.

My sadness is a pot of raging fire that I carry in my heart, sealed in its secret chambers, I’m afraid to take it outside, if I do the heat will consume my entire universe and several lives will perish.

The water I drink is blood, I have been darkened by darkness, my sky is filled with locusts of torn memories and the fear of your power over my soul and the hate I have for the wailing anguish in my heart.

There is fire in my bones, I am desolate, I have no strength, I faint as I walk. I weep in the night, I have sinned, I have loved you with my mind, body and spirit, you possess all three, my skin is tattooed with your love your lust your touch, I shall sin again, for My Lord, you are my one true love.

My hands hurt maul helpless innocence, my hands have a life of their own, they are the hands of the devil I have locked up inside. Claw at my breastbone and let it free let me cry let me mourn let me grieve and move on.

Marcus can never be Ligeia

I cannot, upon my word, bring to mind how or when I first laid my eyes on Marcus. It has been a long time since, and my memory is not what it used to be. Perhaps, the fact is that the singular cast of Marcus’ beauty had crept upon me slowly, degree by pleasant degree and he had filled my heart without my realizing it. My recollections are not entirely accurate, but I suspect I met Marcus in a rather curious way. It was in the town centre, where I had gone to buy red bangles and bright yellow marigolds. Marcus was also there, I cannot bring to mind the exact details of our first encounter, but he quite definitely did not blend into the background. In fact I suspect he stuck out in a rather prominent fashion or else I would not have noticed him. Of his lineage, I had surmised before he told me; and that was one reason that even while Marcus consumed my thoughts with the intense heat of an inferno, I had kept a respectable distance from him, for as long as I could. Marcus! Marcus! The very appellation is indicative of all the majesty of his persona. He was an emperor. His pale skin was a fabric knitted of the sun’s rays and it set a definite contrast against my own swarthy one. By the whisper of his name alone I bring to my grey life a starburst of colour. The sibilance lives on my tongue long after the name is uttered, a whisper that lives for him who is no more, him who lay sleeping in the black coffin a few days ago, or was it months or years?

Sorry EAP. The title says it all.

IgnoRantus

Just as I reach the crescendo of fretting about gender play at work and the related dynamics I hear about the New Zealand bird called Kea. Keas are clever birds that bend rules and create their own to adapt to the constantly changing world. The strategy seems fair, but unless it is tried and tested in a particular work environment one can never tell. It’s tough being a woman at work. And an ambitious one at that. An ambitious woman is almost an oxymoron. How dare she be ambitious? Does she not care for her husband and children? Does she not know what is good for her? These are not openly proclaimed, but implied in every deed and word.

The very fact of being female closes political doors, I am completely at a loss as to decipher the hieroglyphics on the walls or to decode secret languages. I am rudely shoved into unfamiliar terrain, nobody sympathises because this is what is in store for ambitious women. A young male is equally a novice in office politics but is clued on earlier into the dynamics of male interrelationship because that is what, unfortunately for me, a present day workplace largely is.

I am picking up, though. And fast. In time I fear I will be so much an expert at playing slick smooth political games that I might end up hating myself. A large part of career progression is about histrionics. Men do that, women hesitate to do that - I think. Arse licking is something that men do discreetly, going out for a drink with the boss and doing small and big favours for him and generally getting to know him socially and collectively leching at other women, which form the cornerstone of male camaraderie and bonding. Women are denied that window of opportunity to interact thus. Those who do go out for a drink with the boys run the risk of being seen as easy and willing to sleep to the top. And though one may care two hoots about what others think, such an image is a sure fire way to career suicide. If one is serious about reaching the policy making levels, ie.

I do not know if I am ever going to reach the policy making levels. I am not happy with the trillion restrictions I place on myself, but when I try to think outside of those restrictions my mind screams at me to get a life. The very notion of being a servile, sycophantic hyena who gnaws on discarded bones to start with and just waits for an opportunity to ease into the charmed inner circle of the jungle king is anathema to my soul. Career is slavery. You are a slave to all the bosses, but you swallow your ego for the paycheque and for the sake of future opportunities, and take it out on your subordinates when it gets too much. And therefore the restrictions that cut blood flow to my normal real person life for the sake of a career seem meaningless and soul selling. I do not know if men feel this way at all. Or are men so conditioned as to ignore such things at work? Just as women are conditioned to compromise and adjust? And maybe such conditioning is good?

By the Sea (1)

The wind, with its salt precipitate, tangles tiny knots in my hair. You sit across me, no words are spoken, thoughts are lost amidst the ruckus of inebriated table mates. You are lost in polite conversation. I sit looking directly at you. Every so often you glance at me, your eyelids seem weighed down by those heavy, black lashes. When I am with you, I do not mind the taste of beer, I gulp it down and the aftertaste is like I have chewed on a mouthful of straw. Conversation drifts to your new mobile, you explain its features, all excited, your fingers fly over the keypad. “Look at the picture clarity”, you say, and pass the mobile around for inspection. At my turn I politely flick through the photographs till it stops at hers.

My face must have drained itself of blood, for you crane your neck to see what I am looking at and as your eyes meet mine I see a thousand words in them, but I am suddenly stripped of the ability to read. My hands tremble and the phone clatters down. Nobody notices. Except you. No one knows. Except you. I stay the required few moments to maintain the semblance of normalcy and then step out of the shack. The sea is black, the wind stings, there is salt on my lips.

My shoulders are slouched and my head is bent. I walk with hands in my jeans pocket to keep them from trembling. I reach the edge of the ocean and I stop, the surf dies at my feet. Tears stream down my face and my despair is absolute. I don’t wince, I don’t sob, I can’t even decide if I feel anything, yet grief wells out from my eyes as if from a spring. I don’t question why. I am just overcome by the impurity that another person’s shadow cast on us. Now, we will never be perfect, we have been sullied, we are not pure. Then my soul starts screaming your name and I picture myself running along the shore, wailing.

For a while, I do not realize you have followed me, mired deep as I am in what has transpired. You stand next to me, barefoot, arms folded across your chest, body weight balanced on your left leg. Even in the defensive stance, I notice how beautiful your profile is, and become aware of how magnetically drawn I am to the spiky bursts of energy around you, your maleness. And I have lost you, for we are no longer pure, we have been defiled by the name, the thought, the presence of another person.

That does not mean I do not love you. I do. I do love you, but I must leave. Because we have been sullied, we are no longer pure. And before I say goodbye I must ensure I cause you no misery or guilt. So I say, “I’m just being silly. It’s okay”, and stretch my mouth into a smile, taking care that it reflects in my eyes. I don’t know if I succeed. And you say, “I love you.”

I do smile a little now. My sadness is unbearable. “No, I understand. It really is okay”

“I love you”

“You don’t have to explain. It’s not meant to be anyway”

“I love you”

I giggle at that, “See! It’s okay. I am a big girl. I’m okay. Don’t worry”

“I love you”

I go on mumbling inanities and you punctuate each bit of in-between silence with an ‘I love you’. Then I stop, you take my name and say that you love me and god knows how much you want to be with me and that you love me some more.

My love, my love, my heart is a garden over which you love blows as a gentle breeze. I will come to no harm when you are with me. Every ‘I love you’ that rolls from your lips is carried by the wind. If I ever feel sad again a merciful breeze shall gently drape those words around me.

When we leave, the catamarans are motes of yellow that bob along the horizon.

Gah

At the start of his career, he was my favourite. I loved his dimples and his black eyes. I have grown out of the teenager crush, nonetheless I could still be biased when it comes to him. But I have a sneaky suspicion I could be right, for I think I saw immense compassion and understanding in his eyes. Those were the eyes of an honest man who respects and cherishes what he has, a man who can identify with and relate to the evolvement of the same spectrum of emotions in another.

Or am I still such a fool as to be taken in by the charms of a black eyed sorcerer? After all that life has taught me, after such vehement assertions as Ne humanus crede, am I still a patsy for liquid, black eyes? The thought is so depressing I might be driven to suicide. Gah!

Secret Admirer Club

I was once an active member of the said club. Though the thought of it makes me want to crawl into a ditch and never come out, I confess, yes yes, I did admire a guy once - secretly. The works. I was a bloody fool. He never knew I existed. To add insult to injury, during the course of my all consuming admiration, I had never set my eyes on him. To this day I do not know what he looks like.

I was 14 then, and driven by the need to belong to some sort of a clique, any clique, I found myself firmly entrenched in one. I must confess I was never any good at social networking. I was mostly in my own world, but painfully aware of the fact that people around me seemed to quite easily form tightly knit friend groups. I knew I was supposed to be part of one of those too, but lacked the necessary skills and sense of direction as to how to go about it. And so, when a random sisterhood evinced a keen desire to open its doors to let me in, I obliged gratefully.

They were a nice bunch of kids. Fun to be with, but not weird. So as soon as I learnt when and how to keep my mouth shut, we got along famously. We never christened our group, on hindsight I think we should have, after all how often would one have an opportunity to belong to a ‘Famous Five’ or a ‘Svelte Seven’?

S was an established member of the gang. She and I grew especially close to each other because of some special connections; both of us were from the same part of the world, we were both Christians and Catholics to boot. She was very artistic, I remember she made the most beautiful crepe paper roses. She was good with her needlework too, in the craft sessions.

There was a grotto in the school, with a huge tree providing a largish area of shade. We spent lunch breaks under the tree, playing silly hop scotch games and talking nonsense. Shared details about our family, the movies we saw, gossiped about the nuns and teachers and generally whiled away time. At the sacred grotto, one day S announced, “I’d like Ul Rt to marry you. That would make you part of my family, and we can be together forever”. Ul Rt was her cousin brother. Supposed to be quite a dude, from what she told us. Studying in St. John’s Medical College, Bangalore. Single and unattached. Quite a catch.

I was quite happy to acquiesce. Well, I had to get married someday, the sooner the better. And my parents wouldn’t have a problem getting me married to a Catholic doc, would they? How perfect it all was.

But there was one slight problem. I was only 14. And he had just joined St. Johns. We couldn’t possibly get married for another 5 years. S was too young to take a marriage proposal home for her brother. With much anguish, we all decided to stay put and wait for the required number of years to pass before any further steps were taken.

S always promised to bring snaps of Ul Rt, but she brought only one and it was a blurred image of a crowd. She pointed out a splotch of yellow and said, “That’s him. The one wearing the yellow shirt”.

Then we went our separate ways, joined our respective colleges, S and I went to different ones. She got into a place I badly wanted to be in, but I was sent to an all girls college, no undue influences from a co-ed ought to ruin a young impressionable mind as mine, non? I was this devoted almost-wife of Ul Rt, I imagined him to look like a handsome model who appeared in the cheeky Moods Condoms ad of yore. I cut out a picture of him from a magazine and stuck it inside my cupboard, lipstick mark on his cheek. Ironically the ad was of a shirt that portrayed a bohemian outlook and the caption read, “Marriage is an institution, but tell me, who in their right minds would ever want to live in an institution”.

I collected assorted junk in a shoe box, I put in the letters from S in which she proclaimed her interest in getting us married, flower petals, small handmade cards, every tiny little bit of memorabilia, which we were to nostalgically open during our romantic honeymoon. I also sent him secret admirer cards.

Ul Rt,
St. John’s College,
II year MBBS,
Bangalore.

I wonder if he ever got them. I wonder if he ever wondered who this crazy female was. But I know now that if he got those juvenile cards, he would have felt happy, he would have smiled. I know, for I have felt happy, I have also smiled when I got my share of SA cards.

I only wish I had seen him once, just once. Because I still do not know what he looks like.

Woman Pastors? Sacrilege!

This post is dedicated to you, asshole, for your very earnest attempts in cogitation. But, I’d advise, for your sake, STOP! Too much thinking and the agitation thereby might cause the few tiny, deformed grey cells to explode inside the hollow cavern propped on your neck.

Those who watch (or flick through) the GOD channel, would be familiar with Joyce Meyer, the firebrand lady, preaching the word of God towards the noble cause of proselytization. I am not in agreement with the banalities that she utters on TV, I am quite emphatically not on her side in the matters of religion and God. And according to an online article which puts forth extremely enlightened views on whether a woman should be allowed to preach the word of God, Joyce Meyer is blatantly disobeying 1 Timothy 2:12 specifically. Now look at my predicament, first of all she preaches and substantiates the pressing need for ghost worship to save my soul, and to compound that, she has encroached into the purely male territory of preaching bullshit!!! Wonly men are allowed to do that, you.. you woman!

The article in question (written by the asshole to whom the post is humbly dedicated) points out the sacred passage from 1 Timothy 2:12. “I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man”. Now what can I say to that, it being the holy word and all!

This is followed up by a woman believer who holds a direct pass to heaven.

She says “1 Timothy 2:11 Let a woman learn by listening quietly and being ready
to cooperate in everything. But I do not allow a woman to teach or to have
authority over a man, but to listen quietly, because Adam was formed first and
then eve. And Adam was not tricked, but the woman was tricked and became a
sinner. But she will be saved through having children if they continue in faith,
love and HOLINESS, with self control.

I am a woman..If God wanted woman
to preach i believe he would have made woman first to be the head of a man..but
instead we were created for mans pleasure...and men were created for GODS
pleasure...so we as women need to keep in mind GOD loves a virtuos
woman..knowing our reason we were created will not only allow us to step aside
and allow GODS work to be done, but will allow it to be done in order. God is
not the author of confusion...But gives us his wisdom”

I am truly appalled by such ignorance and lack of self worth. Even among prawn scum, guy prawn scum are better than girl prawn scum?

I have just three words to say to these losers. Shove it up!

Leash

I was brought up on a diet of all good things that contributed to the smooth running of society. Compromise. Sacrifice. Love. Faith. God. Rules. Marriage. Monogamy. Sanctity. Reputation. What will people say. Everything that a normal, middle class Indian female should ingest and digest.

I have ingested, digested and how. But those that I digested earlier, poisons me now. The others I simply cannot digest.

Isn’t there a limit to how society can fuck one up? Those attempting to get out of the fucked up mess are further drawn into it and badgered to conformity. Unfortunately, so long as establishing rules and boundaries remains the only way to ensure even a semblance of civility, badgering and torturing will also remain.

In a world that is run by Oog the caveman’s faithful descendants, what are women but prized possessions and symbols of Oog’s virility. Cattle. Women. Oil. Guns. Nuclear toys. Servile women pampered like pooches that are given manicures and salon treatments. They also wear visible symbols of ownership on them. Red on the forehead - proud display that she is a desirable woman who has been taken and fucked and since already fucked by one Oog not to be fucked by any other. Miniature handcuffs that masquerade as rings. Rings on fingers and toes and the nose. But the icing on the cake is the Leash that is worn around the neck. Just as faithful, domesticated pets sport collars around their necks – ranging from simple leather belts to diamond encrusted ones for the uber lucky – we women flaunt the symbols of our servitude. And what’s most horrifying is the sincere belief in its glory, purity and power.

Women I know worship the leash by anointing it with turmeric and vermillion. They never take it off their necks. Even educated (virtuous) women wear it proudly and get visibly nervous at the thought of not wearing it even for a day. It reminds them of their warm home, caring husband, family, children, purpose of existence and love. All it reminds me is of a dog. And I am not.

We don't need no Freedom of Expression

O Great Spotted Arses of Elected Representatives, Fart on us kindly, give us only what our tiny brains can process, for our heads are full of shit and we don’t think, receptacles for your bowel movements that we are. We are unable to distinguish between good and bad, unable to choose, so dole out all thoughts and feelings neatly packaged, and labelled in big bold letters. Then, without much ado, we may pry open a label named indignation and may bristle with it, without stooping to tax our precious few brain cells with the trivial matter of understanding the reason for it or analysing or accepting a view different from what you have benevolently labelled right, O Great Arse. Smack Smack.

Womb Poetry

Recently I came across a website called ‘Womb Poetry’ – it’s an online journal/zine (they’re not sure which), and it’s ‘poetry for everybody’, written by women (only). Why the name ‘Womb’? Because they like the word, the etymology and the figurative/connotative properties of the word.

A contributor says one such connotation is that womb is a birthing place. So it has a reference to creativity - create, nurture, which only women can do. A woman, I am made to understand, is born with the fierce and intense longing to find the right mate to create the most beautiful and meaningful thing in the universe – a life. Like the beautiful Natasha Henstridge she scours the streets for a mate who would be the ideal chromosome sharer. She fucks him merely to get his sperm firmly embedded in the womb (those who fuck just for pleasure are nymphomaniacs). I am told that women are driven by that desire (or are supposed to be) and self-actualisation for a woman is when she gives birth. She suffers the most terrible pain in the world to create a thing of beauty, a bundle of joy.

The woman has been revered through the ages as the goddess - patient, kind, benevolent goddess; she suffers in silence for the greater good of humanity. Take for example a typical household, which is run by two partners, the man – the provider, protector and the woman – the nurturer and sufferer. Without such a clear-cut distinction that so lucidly charts out boundaries and roles, the delicate equilibrium called ‘family’ would wobble precariously and plunge to sure destruction. It is the woman who holds the fort up - though the man is and forever will be the Lord and the Master – she is the one who sticks a finger in the axle of a chariot wheel, so it may not collapse. The Master exalts her for such benevolence, and even worships her (as long as she knows her place and remains there).

A woman unwilling to stick her finger in the axle and who does not attain Nirvana while giving birth is a harlot, no doubt.

I mean no disrespect to the eminently capable poets/writers who contribute to the online womb journal. But personally, it is not my cup of tea.

My point of view is that a woman calling herself a Womb or choosing to define her identity thus, is as uninspiring as a man calling himself Testicles.