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.

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!

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.

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.

Some Are Too Intelligent! Really Envious

Sample 1
Frothing at the mouth like convulsing rabid dogs and neighing horses it was a race and thoughts unreined galloped and sped towards his open arms robes fluttering caught in a sudden tempest a sand storm clogged his mouth and her eyes the sand always a fine sheen of it over every surface yet in the desert troubled thoughts were tendrils of passion that sought his inert form he moved and each movement was a groan from the bowels of the desert the life that he shed like moulting skin far behind lifeless soulless sleepwalking her fervid thoughts that reached out to him in thick coils ignored one step and the next and the next yet he knew not the destination

Sample 2
Meditations - bigoted curs foaming in travail;
Vestment moulded by an impetuous khamsin;
Amative endeavours by ringlets of passion
to ingress an exanimate umbra, futile.

Sample 3
Spilttle glinted on her pearl-like teeth flanked by labial folds of cerise. She thought of his dark, sinuous movements above her prone self. Though the traction traced searing trails on her quivering tissues, the atramentous silhouette that rhythmically shifted above her would remain obdurate. Like a sumpter of moira, with no terminus.

Common comment on all of the above: Exquisite craftsmanship. Humbled by your command over the language/vocabulary. Adopt me, I am your fan, Wowowow.

GAHH!!!

:(

What's in a Name?

Online nicks say so much about a person. We start at the base of the pyramid. That is where the home_alone_with_cam's congregate. Run an eye up to see the cool_dudes and glam_chicks. Then we have the elegant versions, the queens and kings and knights, where the names are distinctly feminine or masculine, but not screaming blatant desperation. And what about the abstruse and the vague, whose only aim seem to be obfuscating the relatively simple concept of claiming an identity? Mysterious, magical, recondite, doubtful personae. Then there are the pretenders. Quite a daring bunch -- for unlike a child named Subbalakshmi who can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but who can conveniently blame her parents for inflicting the torture of having to lug around such an unlikely name on her unworthy shoulders, the pretenders have the self-imposed duty to live up to the name that they have chosen for themselves. Though the desire to be someone else is shamelessly evident in such an endeavour, admiration is due to those who are able to do justice to their nicks.

Those on top of the pyramid are those who choose to be known as who they really are. They are no night riders or street hawks or Paris Hiltons. They claim responsibility for their actions, opinions, creations. Brave enough to discard their masks and reveal themselves as they are, in this parallel universe of masquerades.

PS: Sola Vivit In Illo
because I believe that to be true, (hopeless case seems like)
and also because
Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum videtur

Young Thung Who Cares - I do, I think

“Ready to take serious action against wrinkles?”

I nod my head vigorously and look up from Vikram Seth’s ‘Collected Poems’, and Claudia Schiffer goes on to explain how L’oreal’s collagen bio-spheres (?) plump up skin from underneath to bring about ‘visible reduction in wrinkles’. It’s not that I am wrinkly and crinkly and am in dire need of a face lift. No. Yet, I am riveted by the wrinkle-reducing ads and I find myself wondering if they work or not and what would be the right age to have a laser face thingy that supposedly blasts off the surface layer of skin and brings out pink baby skin from underneath. Am I that shallow? Well, seems like it. Am I ashamed of being shallow? Well, not really.

But it sets me thinking: what marks the mental transition from young to not-so-young-anymore? I used to feel that I was an old hag when I was 25. I have grown half a decade older. I guess the moment I turned 30 I told myself that I am not young-young anymore. I have begun to really grow old. Does that bother me? A tad, I suppose, otherwise I wouldn’t be talking about it.

I once knew this person who went on and on and on and ………… on about his turning 40. He had churned out a heap of poems and blog posts about this very significant event and I remember being mildly irritated by it. Though, I hasten to add, I understood, as I do now, exactly where he was coming from. It’s his utmost concern about his bald spot and his fading youth that really opened my eyes to the fact that men are equally vain about their youth and good looks as most women are, if not more.

What is it about old age that we foolish mortals dread so? Perhaps, we are afraid of becoming less attractive. And why does it matter if we do become less attractive? Why attract? Instinctually speaking – to consummate that attraction. To procreate. Bleeeugggghh. So man lives just to create and tend to the progeny? Then what of the noble ‘purpose in life’ that us stupid lot so earnestly seek? Your purpose in life is to raise your child(ren)? Sounds very much like my mom.

Are we worried about losing our health? Being dependent on someone? But that is too far off, and what does that have to do with wrinkles anyway? Or does the (beginning of) loss of youth trigger some neurological, biological reaction in us? Are we wired to respond to it and recognize this so we can take preventive actions in time to safeguard our health, if we so desire?

Or is it just that we are so conditioned by the modern world that we live in, that there is this very real pressure to look good and be young with flawless skin and svelte body. If we did not have the media constantly bombarding us with lascivious tidbits of firm female bottoms in thongs and muscular male torsos, would we worry so much about one wrinkle that has not even made its appearance? Now, I am not berating the media for this unbearable torture. Give us more, I say, and for obvious reasons.

At the end of it all, the only person who would be concerned about my growing old is me. Those who love me would love me still; the indifferent and the haters would go on being indifferent and hateful.

And that goes for all of you as well. It doesn’t really matter if you grow old. If you want to have the wrinkles nuked, go ahead. If you want to proudly display them, do. A wrinkle or two on one’s face or the lack of it, ultimately makes no bloody difference. So, might as well NOT have any wrinkles, what? Heh!

Penis Power

A colleague narrates a story. About a woman in his previous organization who became a victim of the all too common rumour monster. The lady in question apparently had some domestic issues which she openly discussed or mentioned at work. To stay away from home, she stayed back at the office doing extra assignments that she solicited, got herself involved in cultural activities, Fun Clubs etc. And the rumours started. Loose woman, she’s going around with someone in the office, she’s available… I don’t need to explain. The situation got so bad she had to quit.

The colleague who narrated this had finally ended up helping her get a new job so she could get away from the previous office and start a blemish-free life. She would obviously walk on egg-shells, watch her step, be a recluse, and stop getting involved in Fun Clubs and cultural activities. Then she would probably go back to being the cultured Indian woman that she was supposed to be in the first place.

I am not even going to go into what-if-it-was-a-man chant. It would be pointless anyway. What would I accomplish? Who would I change? The most I can hope to gain is to get my frustrations out by talking about it in a blog that nobody even knows about, let alone read.

Maybe about a couple of hundred years later, one might be able to buy ready-made penises. Stick one on your crotch and then you are immune to rumour mills. In fact you would be lauded for your exploits. A woman with a stick on penis can stay back late at work and she would then be appreciated for her hard work, and not viewed with suspicion. If she dances or sings, she would be appreciated for partaking of the pleasures of life. She would not be suspected of having loose morals as long as the penis stays on.