I am considered dusky and sensuous but not beautiful, as “beautiful” is somehow reserved for fair women. Please correct me. I am sure the guilty men will argue this and say "what rubbish!" Intelligent conversation, wine, lustful gazes and they want to take you home and you think they will pop the proverbial question. The next morning a massive headache and what stares out at you from the newspaper is Katrina Kaif looking boringly pretty and the object of your desire is staring googley eyed at her and going squint and that’s when it hits you that’s what or whom he wants to take home to mummy so his lineage is not diluted into a chocolate shake.
OMG, Yes God was doling out intelligence, sex appeal and looks to us women, he suddenly realized all he had remaining was white colour so he bestowed that on the remaining lot. The men are not complaining.
I have had conversations with intelligent men saying their ideal woman is Katrina Kaif or a few other fair dumb women, you can take a guess why, definitely not their intelligence. When you tell them that they sound hollow, they quickly come back with their ideal also being Nandita Das, can I fall over and laugh, with them trying to rescue themselves. Spare us colored women, we have enough men who appreciate us.
Am I getting defensive, no am getting aggressive as we have to prove ourselves ten times more. We dusky women should be slotted with the blacks, yellows, OBCs, dalits. There should be a reservation for us too. Men think they are doing us a favor when they make statements like, Oh but I am not with the fair woman as she is not intelligent enough for me. Wow you just made me feel wanted. So if both were equally intelligent, no prizes for guessing who would win the man’s heart.
Thanks but no thanks, we want no stupid men who do not wish to add color to their lives.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Why not ......................Us
I believe men are afraid of strong women. They may bleet about these women being the "femmes du jour et substance". They will even give in to their seductive wiley charms and be swayed by the momentary pleasures offered. Trust me, but they settle for absolute girls next door, who offer no threat. Why do I say it with such conviction? I see it all around me. Men seduced by sexy, speak-their-mind, I-know-I-will-not-take-shit, women. Look beside him, the woman who wears his ring is a tepid version of his aunt.
Just because a woman oozes appeal and strength, she's not the male version of a predator. She's just speaking for all the generations that had to be subservient, a cook, a laundromat, a suckling machine, a punching bag, a well of tears that cannot burst and of course, a hole
She's saying I am strong but I still want you to carry me across the threshold, I love making love and I don't always want to turn cartwheels just because I look like a sex kitten, I can afford the flowers and diamonds but do surprise me with them as I am a woman.
I have heard conversations of how men after a few years of marriage wish they had a woman with all the above women rolled into one. Give them one on a platter and they will find excuses why she's not his type. That's because they are afraid of losing women like these. Oh, but these are the women they fantasize a life with, well a fantasy never hurt anybody.
Just because a woman oozes appeal and strength, she's not the male version of a predator. She's just speaking for all the generations that had to be subservient, a cook, a laundromat, a suckling machine, a punching bag, a well of tears that cannot burst and of course, a hole
She's saying I am strong but I still want you to carry me across the threshold, I love making love and I don't always want to turn cartwheels just because I look like a sex kitten, I can afford the flowers and diamonds but do surprise me with them as I am a woman.
I have heard conversations of how men after a few years of marriage wish they had a woman with all the above women rolled into one. Give them one on a platter and they will find excuses why she's not his type. That's because they are afraid of losing women like these. Oh, but these are the women they fantasize a life with, well a fantasy never hurt anybody.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Where Did The Love Go?
She saw him at a party. Looking all suave and dandily dressed. There were undercurrents. They inched closer to each other in the room, the others exited from their conversation. The tension was so electric that she decided to call it a night. He called a few days later. They spoke for days and then decided to meet. The silence was initially awkward, but her flirtation and the light banter led to a kiss which led to a yearning so strong that he wanted to devour her there but better sense prevailed, Hers.
This ran into a few days until they sealed it with a night of passion. By then he had her believe she was the woman. The whispers of love made her a little girl again. Just as he came into her life, he disappeared.
Where did the love go? She thought he couldn’t live a day without her. She thought the sound of her voice made him come running home. She thought she was his every waking thought. These were all her thoughts and none shared mutually by him. So where did the love go? Was there love to begin with?
Often asked questions after the first flush has died. What do those pheromones and oxytocins get eclipsed by. Are there other chemicals lurking close on their heels, waiting to take over.
I believe the first flush is lust and once the dust has settled, or rather when the penis has flagged, the man comes to his senses quicker than the woman. He makes a quick exit for the door leaving the woman clutching her aching heart and sheet to cover her modesty, thinking the world has ended. After many a sob evening over soulful music drenched with heartbreak lyrics, she rises like a phoenix and vows never to take his calls again.
It’s roughly six to eight weeks or maybe months, the phone rings, its his voice at the other end. (May I pause here and double up with laughter). She has vowed, but hey promises are meant to be broken. She becomes putty in his hands again. Stupid woman! Can she not see the writing on the wall? RUN. Isn't this what she has read in every chick magazine. I fail to understand my sisters.
The cycle starts again. Oh, it does not end with every exit of his. It continues, as she has no soul left by now. She returns only because it’s become a challenge now more than love.
This ran into a few days until they sealed it with a night of passion. By then he had her believe she was the woman. The whispers of love made her a little girl again. Just as he came into her life, he disappeared.
Where did the love go? She thought he couldn’t live a day without her. She thought the sound of her voice made him come running home. She thought she was his every waking thought. These were all her thoughts and none shared mutually by him. So where did the love go? Was there love to begin with?
Often asked questions after the first flush has died. What do those pheromones and oxytocins get eclipsed by. Are there other chemicals lurking close on their heels, waiting to take over.
I believe the first flush is lust and once the dust has settled, or rather when the penis has flagged, the man comes to his senses quicker than the woman. He makes a quick exit for the door leaving the woman clutching her aching heart and sheet to cover her modesty, thinking the world has ended. After many a sob evening over soulful music drenched with heartbreak lyrics, she rises like a phoenix and vows never to take his calls again.
It’s roughly six to eight weeks or maybe months, the phone rings, its his voice at the other end. (May I pause here and double up with laughter). She has vowed, but hey promises are meant to be broken. She becomes putty in his hands again. Stupid woman! Can she not see the writing on the wall? RUN. Isn't this what she has read in every chick magazine. I fail to understand my sisters.
The cycle starts again. Oh, it does not end with every exit of his. It continues, as she has no soul left by now. She returns only because it’s become a challenge now more than love.
The Pain Of.................................................
Under the influence of alcohol, bawdy jokes, bollywood music and the haze of smoke, somebody suggested visiting a dance bar. The ladies interest were piqued as they wanted to see what all the brouhaha was about, the men were excited. We drove through winding alleys, stumbled through a dark structure which housed the women one only read or heard about under hushed tones. A part of me entered the dimly-lit room filled with men wearing lecherous sneers while the other part wanted to run back home right then.
I hated the women, as they represented the lot that heaved and gyrated to music and earned a not-so-decent living, living off other women’s husbands’ hard-earned money, with absolutely no qualms. Under dim lights and layers of makeup they definitely looked beautiful and enticing. Would any man out there make a decent woman out of these women? Doubt it. I doubt these women would even want that, as they earn far more every night from a few heaves of cleavage and pelvic thrusts. Trust me, women like me would look far better in these very clothes, make up and dance routines, but would our men desire us the same way. The answer is "No”. As we represent Mother, child, friend to them and not a sexual fantasy anymore. Which is what draws men to the murkier side of life, the sexual fantasy.
I have been troubled by this murky underbelly of society. Yes, my heart goes out to those girls who are forced into the flesh trade. Definitely not these women, they choose the easy way out to earn money and definitely look like they are enjoying themselves with enough flesh exposed and heaving suggestively. So if any of them give me sob stories about a tough life, they may feel my fist in their face.
I thought I was made of sterner stuff to enter this world to watch women entice men. That night a part of me died. Whatever vicarious pleasure men get from it I have yet to conclude. I have been told by men it’s nothing, if so then why visit these places.. These women are not a patch on my sort, then why visit them. We’re not having sex with them, then why visit them. We do not intend to marry them, then why visit them. They have no answer.
I hated the women, as they represented the lot that heaved and gyrated to music and earned a not-so-decent living, living off other women’s husbands’ hard-earned money, with absolutely no qualms. Under dim lights and layers of makeup they definitely looked beautiful and enticing. Would any man out there make a decent woman out of these women? Doubt it. I doubt these women would even want that, as they earn far more every night from a few heaves of cleavage and pelvic thrusts. Trust me, women like me would look far better in these very clothes, make up and dance routines, but would our men desire us the same way. The answer is "No”. As we represent Mother, child, friend to them and not a sexual fantasy anymore. Which is what draws men to the murkier side of life, the sexual fantasy.
I have been troubled by this murky underbelly of society. Yes, my heart goes out to those girls who are forced into the flesh trade. Definitely not these women, they choose the easy way out to earn money and definitely look like they are enjoying themselves with enough flesh exposed and heaving suggestively. So if any of them give me sob stories about a tough life, they may feel my fist in their face.
I thought I was made of sterner stuff to enter this world to watch women entice men. That night a part of me died. Whatever vicarious pleasure men get from it I have yet to conclude. I have been told by men it’s nothing, if so then why visit these places.. These women are not a patch on my sort, then why visit them. We’re not having sex with them, then why visit them. We do not intend to marry them, then why visit them. They have no answer.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
BOYS and MEN
It did not take me a lifetime to meet different men, it took me just one night.
All being put through a testing situation for a woman. They all responded differently, being conditioned by life. I sat on the fringes and watched the show unravel.
Broken hearts and many a glass thrown back, low lights, music, hot sultry night and what does one get but a charged evening. Boys trying to prove their predatory skills and exert their manhood under the influence. I doubt the need to exert themselves would arise in broad daylight. Guess not, as a woman just seems less appealing in the harsh daylight glare.
She was an average woman, dressed in pins from the back alleys, seduction writ large on her face when she encountered the reason for her sorrow. The only people who were seduced were others who were out on the prowl. Her crowd was a mix of boys and spinster sisters with life's lines written on their faces and even the pancake could not conceal it. One thing led to another and suddenly, the air was rent with blows and cries. What drives men to all jump into a fracas which could die a natural death if they talked like adults? But men are never adults when a woman is in question and when its at the waning hour of the day. Yes, the target for the blows was the man who supposedly crushed her dreams for a future after having tossed among the sheets with her and now wished to burp it all out. Just as men will be boys, women will be little girls, fed a diet of fairy tales of "happily-ever-after"; hence we are always searching for the elusive "Prince". By the way, girls of today have wizened up as fairy tales don't exist anymore.....
Surprisingly, each of the men in the close circle came through for their friends and stood outside the cop station till the wee hours of the morning. Charges and counter charges, lies, bruised egos, the whole lot, flying around with no end in sight. The ones who responded like "boys" were the ones whose cord had just been severed by mummy that evening. The "men" watched from the sidelines, ready to make calls to higher ups if the need arose. The "men" in the group had been through far worse. Some battling insurgents, some battling ex-wives in court, some dodging government authorities, some rising and sitting with questionable people who are the movers and shakers. All these men in one group, each with a different take on how the situation should have been handled, pleasantly and with maturity, which comes only when one has weathered life in the harshest conditions.
I had hung out with the men that evening.
All being put through a testing situation for a woman. They all responded differently, being conditioned by life. I sat on the fringes and watched the show unravel.
Broken hearts and many a glass thrown back, low lights, music, hot sultry night and what does one get but a charged evening. Boys trying to prove their predatory skills and exert their manhood under the influence. I doubt the need to exert themselves would arise in broad daylight. Guess not, as a woman just seems less appealing in the harsh daylight glare.
She was an average woman, dressed in pins from the back alleys, seduction writ large on her face when she encountered the reason for her sorrow. The only people who were seduced were others who were out on the prowl. Her crowd was a mix of boys and spinster sisters with life's lines written on their faces and even the pancake could not conceal it. One thing led to another and suddenly, the air was rent with blows and cries. What drives men to all jump into a fracas which could die a natural death if they talked like adults? But men are never adults when a woman is in question and when its at the waning hour of the day. Yes, the target for the blows was the man who supposedly crushed her dreams for a future after having tossed among the sheets with her and now wished to burp it all out. Just as men will be boys, women will be little girls, fed a diet of fairy tales of "happily-ever-after"; hence we are always searching for the elusive "Prince". By the way, girls of today have wizened up as fairy tales don't exist anymore.....
Surprisingly, each of the men in the close circle came through for their friends and stood outside the cop station till the wee hours of the morning. Charges and counter charges, lies, bruised egos, the whole lot, flying around with no end in sight. The ones who responded like "boys" were the ones whose cord had just been severed by mummy that evening. The "men" watched from the sidelines, ready to make calls to higher ups if the need arose. The "men" in the group had been through far worse. Some battling insurgents, some battling ex-wives in court, some dodging government authorities, some rising and sitting with questionable people who are the movers and shakers. All these men in one group, each with a different take on how the situation should have been handled, pleasantly and with maturity, which comes only when one has weathered life in the harshest conditions.
I had hung out with the men that evening.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Fitting In
“You think you own whatever land you land on, the earth is just a dead thing you can claim, you think the only people who are people, are people who look and think like you, but if you walk the footsteps of a stranger you will learn things you never knew, you never knew”. Very powerful lines sung by Vanessa Williams for Pocahontas. How true.
We band together with our kind. What is our kind. The ones who think and dress like us. The inner circle. The circle within the circle. How does one enter it. It’s a fortress. People stand on the outside and look in. Hoping to get a glimpse and be a part of the circle.
Do we think its our god given right to dismiss those who are not clued into life’s social mores. The whats and hows of dress, speech, walk, talk. How have we designated ourselves judge and jury. The Blue Blooded dismiss the
Nouveau Riche. The Nouveau dismiss the Middle Class, the Middle dismiss the Lower and they..... It stops there. As the poor do not feature in the sphere of living. Where did this blue blooded expression come from. Is their blood blue, or is it because all the kings and queens lived in colder countries so they turned blue during winter. Hence blue blooded.
I have been guilty of dismissing many a simpleton, because I have been crowned by the superficial world that I belong to. Yet during my brief sojourns out, I yearn to blend in with the simple folk. Understand their pain, what could possibly make them happy when they have so little. I have always sat on the periphery, afraid to enter. What fear urges me to step away, is it shame that my world will find out and look upon me too as a pariah and fear of rejection. I don’t think so, I know I am made of sterner stuff to withstand criticism. Always created my own rules.
We band together with our kind. What is our kind. The ones who think and dress like us. The inner circle. The circle within the circle. How does one enter it. It’s a fortress. People stand on the outside and look in. Hoping to get a glimpse and be a part of the circle.
Do we think its our god given right to dismiss those who are not clued into life’s social mores. The whats and hows of dress, speech, walk, talk. How have we designated ourselves judge and jury. The Blue Blooded dismiss the
Nouveau Riche. The Nouveau dismiss the Middle Class, the Middle dismiss the Lower and they..... It stops there. As the poor do not feature in the sphere of living. Where did this blue blooded expression come from. Is their blood blue, or is it because all the kings and queens lived in colder countries so they turned blue during winter. Hence blue blooded.
I have been guilty of dismissing many a simpleton, because I have been crowned by the superficial world that I belong to. Yet during my brief sojourns out, I yearn to blend in with the simple folk. Understand their pain, what could possibly make them happy when they have so little. I have always sat on the periphery, afraid to enter. What fear urges me to step away, is it shame that my world will find out and look upon me too as a pariah and fear of rejection. I don’t think so, I know I am made of sterner stuff to withstand criticism. Always created my own rules.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Starry Starry Nights
I love attending musical evenings. Must confess I do not know my sur from my taal or the octave from the tenor. I have very little patience for getting into the nuances and retention power being low. Its just that I love the Sound of Music, that's it, plain and simple to us the toneless. Music gently taps me in the gut to say forget life’s travails, they are but fleeting, lose yourself in the melody of music. Am sure if I were born during the flower child years I would have been in a constant musical trance.
I attended one such evening in a popular suburban Restobar, with a view of the sea and evening sky. The mood was magical. It strengthened my reason to retire to Goa. I saw faces that gate crashed my new years party and feigned absolute ignorance of my existence. The last time I looked in the mirror I know I looked the same, I had not enhanced anything as its recession time, the amount of makeup was the same, maybe I had changed my clothes, that could be the reason.
The singer for the evening was a once popular girl from the first disbanded all-girl band. After hearing her sing, I now understand why the group disbanded. I managed to survive one song and short of jumped off the balcony roof. I had deluded myself into believing the place would be filled with music aficionados but should have realized she is the disbanded one, so the music lovers would sit this one out. See I told you I do not know the nuances of the music world either. Behold I suddenly felt I was sitting at some Indian fashion Week show instead, as it was teeming with the model brigade and the people who don’t make it in Bollywood. They attend such evenings to get their photos clicked and pay to get it printed. The peacocks strutted with fedoras and cigars and made huge gaffes indulging in the propah sahibs language. “fructified” was “fuctified”, “all you front benchers”, “please situate yourself comfortably” and “ho r u” (which translates into “how are you”) lucky for me, I did have an interpreter who had spent a few years in Dilli and could decipher the English.
The musical evening started but the brigade was busy air kissing and swirling wine glasses, and chattering away. The music was not anything to write home about, but am writing to you. I decided to spend the evening watching the beautiful people and hoping I could strip their masks. Thought I was almost there ,but there were three layers of pancake on their faces to hide their flawed beauty. I observed two very keenly. Am sure they were found by some fashion photographer who happened to see them at Malad or Sion station because of the daddy long legs, lacking in the face department though. They stared at the glasses of wine being offered, sure they didn’t know that there are things like grape, year, vintage, breathing. They probably decided to follow suit, the Tatler magazines they had turned to, of pictures of women holding glasses. That’s how the education. They held such an animated conversation, blowing smoke rings and sipping the wine that I had to squint my eyes some more to get past the mask. I was almost going squint trying to find the beauty and the soul. The makeup and smoke clouded it. There was a certain discomfort with the whole demeanor. I doubt either was listening to the other. Everybody loved everybody and the air was electric with so much love that it was lost on me. How could I not see it. I guess I was blinded by the shutterbugs and kisses.
I've come to the conclusion most people who attend all these evenings and express undying happiness at seeing faces they would pay to kill, go home sadder. To survive in this industry you have to sell your soul to the Devil. Am glad am on the outside .
I attended one such evening in a popular suburban Restobar, with a view of the sea and evening sky. The mood was magical. It strengthened my reason to retire to Goa. I saw faces that gate crashed my new years party and feigned absolute ignorance of my existence. The last time I looked in the mirror I know I looked the same, I had not enhanced anything as its recession time, the amount of makeup was the same, maybe I had changed my clothes, that could be the reason.
The singer for the evening was a once popular girl from the first disbanded all-girl band. After hearing her sing, I now understand why the group disbanded. I managed to survive one song and short of jumped off the balcony roof. I had deluded myself into believing the place would be filled with music aficionados but should have realized she is the disbanded one, so the music lovers would sit this one out. See I told you I do not know the nuances of the music world either. Behold I suddenly felt I was sitting at some Indian fashion Week show instead, as it was teeming with the model brigade and the people who don’t make it in Bollywood. They attend such evenings to get their photos clicked and pay to get it printed. The peacocks strutted with fedoras and cigars and made huge gaffes indulging in the propah sahibs language. “fructified” was “fuctified”, “all you front benchers”, “please situate yourself comfortably” and “ho r u” (which translates into “how are you”) lucky for me, I did have an interpreter who had spent a few years in Dilli and could decipher the English.
The musical evening started but the brigade was busy air kissing and swirling wine glasses, and chattering away. The music was not anything to write home about, but am writing to you. I decided to spend the evening watching the beautiful people and hoping I could strip their masks. Thought I was almost there ,but there were three layers of pancake on their faces to hide their flawed beauty. I observed two very keenly. Am sure they were found by some fashion photographer who happened to see them at Malad or Sion station because of the daddy long legs, lacking in the face department though. They stared at the glasses of wine being offered, sure they didn’t know that there are things like grape, year, vintage, breathing. They probably decided to follow suit, the Tatler magazines they had turned to, of pictures of women holding glasses. That’s how the education. They held such an animated conversation, blowing smoke rings and sipping the wine that I had to squint my eyes some more to get past the mask. I was almost going squint trying to find the beauty and the soul. The makeup and smoke clouded it. There was a certain discomfort with the whole demeanor. I doubt either was listening to the other. Everybody loved everybody and the air was electric with so much love that it was lost on me. How could I not see it. I guess I was blinded by the shutterbugs and kisses.
I've come to the conclusion most people who attend all these evenings and express undying happiness at seeing faces they would pay to kill, go home sadder. To survive in this industry you have to sell your soul to the Devil. Am glad am on the outside .
CHANGE. Is it POSSIBLE?
Been away from ink and paper for close to a month, in this case keys and cursor. My travel(singular) has made me realize I love India. Well not for the gutters, potholes, pavement dwellers, encroachers, corrupt system, yes I can go on, its just for the sheer fact that I am surrounded by familiar faces. We will always be second class citizens in any other country. Its not a moot point its a fact, its not even up for discussion. Us being the next economic contender is utter bullshit. What is the yardstick. Based on my earlier physical description we definitely do not qualify.
It was a pleasure walking on the streets of the country I visited, no blaring horns, no beggars, no traffic chaos and they too are a country of over a billion, then why can we not get it right. Guess we have illiteracy and apathy as our signposts.
Why the diatribe though I love being an Indian- antethesis?. Oh no, its not because I applaud India as a country, its only the familiar faces that makes me want to live here. I will have people who read this say vociferously, then why does she not get out?. Trust me these are the very people who bitch about India over lunches while swirling a martini or at dinners after their brief sojourn and with their stamped passports. Lets not talk about patriotism and what my country offers me, and those should be reasons why I should live with my head held high in India. Utter bullshit, on my soil, I hang my head in shame at what India has been reduced to. Starting with the visual treat of the slums as we land, the dust, beggars, shanties on the drive from the airport to whatever destination. Lets stop here.
I actually doubt Mumbai can be rehabilitated or made over.
It was a pleasure walking on the streets of the country I visited, no blaring horns, no beggars, no traffic chaos and they too are a country of over a billion, then why can we not get it right. Guess we have illiteracy and apathy as our signposts.
Why the diatribe though I love being an Indian- antethesis?. Oh no, its not because I applaud India as a country, its only the familiar faces that makes me want to live here. I will have people who read this say vociferously, then why does she not get out?. Trust me these are the very people who bitch about India over lunches while swirling a martini or at dinners after their brief sojourn and with their stamped passports. Lets not talk about patriotism and what my country offers me, and those should be reasons why I should live with my head held high in India. Utter bullshit, on my soil, I hang my head in shame at what India has been reduced to. Starting with the visual treat of the slums as we land, the dust, beggars, shanties on the drive from the airport to whatever destination. Lets stop here.
I actually doubt Mumbai can be rehabilitated or made over.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Why Not Become The Mistress
I had a conversation with a friend. She was having trouble with her man. Hearing her pour her troubles into the coffee we had ordered I realized the perils of being a girlfriend are more or less that of a wife except the bills, nappy changing, boredom, EMI. Why bother then, is what I ask? Why not stay the girlfriend? The fear of “what if he does not pop the question”.
Yet, we pursue these defined "safe" relationships because we live in a society that frowns upon anything other than. Who makes these rules and casts aspersions. Trust me, the very ones who have many a skeleton spilling out of their spouse's closet. So we live according to the mores spelt out. Step out of the boundaries and one is labeled. Fear makes us seek refuge in “definitions”.
I have spent many a boring evening questioning the (never-to-be-spoken-in-polite company) word “mistress".
What does one get being a girlfriend, partner, soul mate. All different words for for the same “taken for granted, irritating, wish you were dead”. Yes, these are the familiar lines thrown during a fight. One never hears these during the courtship days, fights are controlled and contained with love and blooming red roses. Weeks and months into the relationship, the smiles are replaced by irritation at the sight of the person, the excuse is either “PMS” for the woman, or “I’m having a tough day at work” for the man. I’ve also come to the conclusion men are our PMS and they too suffer from PMS. Otherwise how does one explain them being irritated throughout. Basically it should be termed as Perennial Male Syndrome. That would be another chapter. Oh, we can go on about our men.
Coming back to the “mistress”. Whats wrong with being a man’s mistress?
One fulfills the same obligations, yes it becomes an obligation when you are a wife, out of fear that he may stray and since you are juggling many a chore. That’s the reason for the frequent bouts of headaches we suffer from. The mistress like the wife or girlfriend, is with one man. Though the girlfriend has greater options of playing the field or leaving him if it does not survive the test of time. Yet, the girlfriend will bind herself by trying to make it work, the forever optimist. The wife cannot leave as she is bound by law and children. The mistress is bound by money. The key? Find a Rich Daddy.
You turn cartwheels in bed, age permitting for both, or you’ll have a dead daddy on your hand and have to shop for a new one soon. It’s easier to turn cartwheels when you have to stare at the ceiling and think of the next big rock that may adorn your finger.
The mistress is always well dressed when he visits her. He gets to see her in the “one dreams of women only in” lace lingerie. The wife is between nappies, or juggling kids and a career or running the home, so he sees her in everyday boring attire. She does not have time to change out of her everyday lingerie, no the right word would be "undies" as lingerie is so much more sexy, something we women save for that special night which never happens because shhhh… the kids may wake up!
I doubt the other woman's hair is ever out of place. Naturally, while the wife is packing lunch, she’s getting a wash and her nails done!
Do they ever fight? Am sure over the stray chipped nail polish or strand of hair that covered her left breast during the act or her increasing shopping bill which she but needs to pout over and everything is alright. Does he ever fight with his wife? Of course about how she never listens - not that he talks to her anymore - how she doesn’t dress up anymore - as she is so busy looking after his brood - which she gets no credit for and balancing the home and maybe work too and how she is crabbity all the time since she is left to pick up after everybody.
The wife is a case of lust being translated into love then marriage and then all downhill thereafter. The girlfriend is a case of lust being translated into relationship which ends up getting mired in fights and tears. Mistress is a case of absolute lust each time. Isn't that what sex is about.
They say a mistress’s life is lonely, well so is a wife’s. While she waits for him till the wee hours unaware of his whereabouts, at least the mistress knows where he is headed once he steps off her porch.
I know I have convinced myself about a mistress having it a lot easier.....!
Yet, we pursue these defined "safe" relationships because we live in a society that frowns upon anything other than. Who makes these rules and casts aspersions. Trust me, the very ones who have many a skeleton spilling out of their spouse's closet. So we live according to the mores spelt out. Step out of the boundaries and one is labeled. Fear makes us seek refuge in “definitions”.
I have spent many a boring evening questioning the (never-to-be-spoken-in-polite company) word “mistress".
What does one get being a girlfriend, partner, soul mate. All different words for for the same “taken for granted, irritating, wish you were dead”. Yes, these are the familiar lines thrown during a fight. One never hears these during the courtship days, fights are controlled and contained with love and blooming red roses. Weeks and months into the relationship, the smiles are replaced by irritation at the sight of the person, the excuse is either “PMS” for the woman, or “I’m having a tough day at work” for the man. I’ve also come to the conclusion men are our PMS and they too suffer from PMS. Otherwise how does one explain them being irritated throughout. Basically it should be termed as Perennial Male Syndrome. That would be another chapter. Oh, we can go on about our men.
Coming back to the “mistress”. Whats wrong with being a man’s mistress?
One fulfills the same obligations, yes it becomes an obligation when you are a wife, out of fear that he may stray and since you are juggling many a chore. That’s the reason for the frequent bouts of headaches we suffer from. The mistress like the wife or girlfriend, is with one man. Though the girlfriend has greater options of playing the field or leaving him if it does not survive the test of time. Yet, the girlfriend will bind herself by trying to make it work, the forever optimist. The wife cannot leave as she is bound by law and children. The mistress is bound by money. The key? Find a Rich Daddy.
You turn cartwheels in bed, age permitting for both, or you’ll have a dead daddy on your hand and have to shop for a new one soon. It’s easier to turn cartwheels when you have to stare at the ceiling and think of the next big rock that may adorn your finger.
The mistress is always well dressed when he visits her. He gets to see her in the “one dreams of women only in” lace lingerie. The wife is between nappies, or juggling kids and a career or running the home, so he sees her in everyday boring attire. She does not have time to change out of her everyday lingerie, no the right word would be "undies" as lingerie is so much more sexy, something we women save for that special night which never happens because shhhh… the kids may wake up!
I doubt the other woman's hair is ever out of place. Naturally, while the wife is packing lunch, she’s getting a wash and her nails done!
Do they ever fight? Am sure over the stray chipped nail polish or strand of hair that covered her left breast during the act or her increasing shopping bill which she but needs to pout over and everything is alright. Does he ever fight with his wife? Of course about how she never listens - not that he talks to her anymore - how she doesn’t dress up anymore - as she is so busy looking after his brood - which she gets no credit for and balancing the home and maybe work too and how she is crabbity all the time since she is left to pick up after everybody.
The wife is a case of lust being translated into love then marriage and then all downhill thereafter. The girlfriend is a case of lust being translated into relationship which ends up getting mired in fights and tears. Mistress is a case of absolute lust each time. Isn't that what sex is about.
They say a mistress’s life is lonely, well so is a wife’s. While she waits for him till the wee hours unaware of his whereabouts, at least the mistress knows where he is headed once he steps off her porch.
I know I have convinced myself about a mistress having it a lot easier.....!
Sinful Indulgences
I have fallen in love at 40, yes, I still do love my husband. The laws of attraction state that “thou shalt not covet another”. This is a love that is unadulterated, sensuous to the touch and sinful when in my mouth. I had avoided this interaction for years, actually I loathed it. But when I reached out and put my tongue to it, it was such ecstasy that I knew I had sinned and there was no turning back.
I have since confessed to my husband. Initially he was reluctant but decided to be party to this. He is a silent spectator, he actually enjoys watching me in the throes when I have my fingers deep into it, when I knead the butter into the dough. Its the yellow stick. A love I have discovered since for all things with butter. Butter on hot toast, butter and sugar on the chapati or naan, corn with a huge drizzle of butter, butter in rice, butter on my roast chicken and butter on my fingers. Its pure delight to lick butter off the fingers when baking, as I did yesterday for a friend.
I do believe a woman is very attractive with a flour face, strands of hair framing her face and smelling of butter. I would not recommend this for a night out on the town or a first date unless its Gordon Ramsey. Once upon a time I ignored butter and prided myself on it, as association with it meant it went south of the border.
My time spent with my new passion have resulted in ample handles. Now I have been educated on the reason for the love handles and decided to keep mine. One has to earn these love handles. Today I would qualify as Michelangelo’s or Rembrandt’s muse with my fertile handles. All thanks to butter I have more heads turn today as I sashay past.
I wonder if it’s the fragrance of butter or the hips that don’t lie.
I have since confessed to my husband. Initially he was reluctant but decided to be party to this. He is a silent spectator, he actually enjoys watching me in the throes when I have my fingers deep into it, when I knead the butter into the dough. Its the yellow stick. A love I have discovered since for all things with butter. Butter on hot toast, butter and sugar on the chapati or naan, corn with a huge drizzle of butter, butter in rice, butter on my roast chicken and butter on my fingers. Its pure delight to lick butter off the fingers when baking, as I did yesterday for a friend.
I do believe a woman is very attractive with a flour face, strands of hair framing her face and smelling of butter. I would not recommend this for a night out on the town or a first date unless its Gordon Ramsey. Once upon a time I ignored butter and prided myself on it, as association with it meant it went south of the border.
My time spent with my new passion have resulted in ample handles. Now I have been educated on the reason for the love handles and decided to keep mine. One has to earn these love handles. Today I would qualify as Michelangelo’s or Rembrandt’s muse with my fertile handles. All thanks to butter I have more heads turn today as I sashay past.
I wonder if it’s the fragrance of butter or the hips that don’t lie.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Bitch Barbie Bimbette
Woah, a combination of the three is a man’s ultimate dream. The bitch has claws and makes her own decisions, Barbie is pretty and smart as ken is always in her shadow and the bimbette is the arm candy and she enjoys that position. Denials I hear at the table, loud denials saying utter rubbish over the sushi and sake, yea those are the lunches we attend as we are uber cool and can afford it. We don’t call our sisters sluts anymore, unless they are serious competition or we hate them enough which is more often than not. See we’re not confused, we know whom we hate and whom we like. We’ve reserved the term slut for appendages that are dipped into every pond, river, lake. And talking about sizes, we do overlook the male size as long as the size of the rock, house , car and everything else can be bigger, flashier than the shutterbugs.
Had lunched with the well heeled ladies this afternoon. The sisterhood bond over a rump steak and iced tea. Once out of the door, it frightens me if I too am the end of the gossip stick. Its amazing how lurid details about peoples sex lives flow forth over straws and paper napkins. I do believe women bitch far more than men, men discuss jock and chaddi straps and swap stories of the supposed swinging women who am sure do not even know of their existence. Bitching takes all dimensions. The afternoon’s conversation veered towards homely women, some from my very backyard who are deflowered by so many gardeners I doubt there’s any nectar left. I thought I was built of sterner stuff since I looked slightly flushed with the conversation.
Of diamond merchants, builders wives, all well named women in society who pose for the shutterbugs with the right Fendi bag matched by the wrong outfit and even more ghastly shoe. Why must they all run out and buy the same bag in the same colour. I guess the stores have figured out how many of those bags to order as they have done the census on the fashion clueless, moneyed ladies .
I question what prompts these ladies in the right societies to stay in such marriages, compromise is the word. Give up all this and move to where, Virar and do the smelly armpit local train travel. Yes I have questioned why don’t they leave, been told time and again, its part of the silent marriage contract. In the Hindu marriage contract they get nada (Spanish for nothing) if they step out of the laxman rekha, yes all they are left with is the husband’s nada( Indian pantaloon string) in their hands, which wont buy them groceries forget the Gucci.
Had lunched with the well heeled ladies this afternoon. The sisterhood bond over a rump steak and iced tea. Once out of the door, it frightens me if I too am the end of the gossip stick. Its amazing how lurid details about peoples sex lives flow forth over straws and paper napkins. I do believe women bitch far more than men, men discuss jock and chaddi straps and swap stories of the supposed swinging women who am sure do not even know of their existence. Bitching takes all dimensions. The afternoon’s conversation veered towards homely women, some from my very backyard who are deflowered by so many gardeners I doubt there’s any nectar left. I thought I was built of sterner stuff since I looked slightly flushed with the conversation.
Of diamond merchants, builders wives, all well named women in society who pose for the shutterbugs with the right Fendi bag matched by the wrong outfit and even more ghastly shoe. Why must they all run out and buy the same bag in the same colour. I guess the stores have figured out how many of those bags to order as they have done the census on the fashion clueless, moneyed ladies .
I question what prompts these ladies in the right societies to stay in such marriages, compromise is the word. Give up all this and move to where, Virar and do the smelly armpit local train travel. Yes I have questioned why don’t they leave, been told time and again, its part of the silent marriage contract. In the Hindu marriage contract they get nada (Spanish for nothing) if they step out of the laxman rekha, yes all they are left with is the husband’s nada( Indian pantaloon string) in their hands, which wont buy them groceries forget the Gucci.
Monday, March 29, 2010
SINGLE And Ready To.........
A woman is a woman's worst enemy. We have been created by nature to nurture, yet we use every ruse and wile to entice, woo and seduce the weaker sex(spelt male). The little dresses, cleavage, suggestive moves are definitely not reserved for the lovers of the art. Its for the benefit of the taken man who becomes the fallen man. Oh, the sweet taste of the forbidden fruit. The brazen moves invite the wife's ire, but that makes the vixen's resolve even stronger to win him over to the dark side where she thinks she will show him the light.
Just last night a young thing threw herself at every decent answered for man, leaving a few wives frothing. She thought her looks, her youth, exposed skin would do the trick but not this time.
If only women were more protective of their lot by sparing the much married man. I have been asked by many a married male friend, "Where were all these women when we were growing up?". The interest in the married tag is probably due to various reasons. Here goes- He's Married(reads not available and women always want what is not on the shelf), probably a monthly six pack( the monetary one and not anatomical), probably a larger house(beats the one bedroom the singles share in mummy's home), he probably knows the woman"O"zone. All these probabilities makes him a better contender than his single brothers.
I can see the claws so close to my cornea ready to gouge it screaming, does the responsibility lie only with the women. No it lies with the responsible, mature adults. It takes two to tango, so if women band together and make a pact that all married men are off limits(especially the best friend's), then there will be no tangos. Science and research has proven that man's DNA is wired for him to behave irresponsibly(I do not buy that- these scientists were all men or frustrated women). So they blame it on the much skewed out of proportion DNA, when caught with their pants down.
Just as men cannot but blame their wiring, women cannot but blame their need to attract, seduce and maime. I still maintain, can that bitch please get her claws out of our men.
Just last night a young thing threw herself at every decent answered for man, leaving a few wives frothing. She thought her looks, her youth, exposed skin would do the trick but not this time.
If only women were more protective of their lot by sparing the much married man. I have been asked by many a married male friend, "Where were all these women when we were growing up?". The interest in the married tag is probably due to various reasons. Here goes- He's Married(reads not available and women always want what is not on the shelf), probably a monthly six pack( the monetary one and not anatomical), probably a larger house(beats the one bedroom the singles share in mummy's home), he probably knows the woman"O"zone. All these probabilities makes him a better contender than his single brothers.
I can see the claws so close to my cornea ready to gouge it screaming, does the responsibility lie only with the women. No it lies with the responsible, mature adults. It takes two to tango, so if women band together and make a pact that all married men are off limits(especially the best friend's), then there will be no tangos. Science and research has proven that man's DNA is wired for him to behave irresponsibly(I do not buy that- these scientists were all men or frustrated women). So they blame it on the much skewed out of proportion DNA, when caught with their pants down.
Just as men cannot but blame their wiring, women cannot but blame their need to attract, seduce and maime. I still maintain, can that bitch please get her claws out of our men.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
THE GREAT DIVIDE
Talking about capitals, I happened to spend the weekend in Dilli. My three days were tough, the minutes dragged and I missed the wannabees. The sagging arses hugged by ill-fitting gym pants on Pali Hill which I could compare mine to and feel sexy, the young girls in their distinct style of fashion, which I must commend. The 30’s and 40’s men eyeballing every sexy woman that briskly walks past them, the “I don’t give a damn attitude” of Mumbai. I swore never to bitch about Mumbai after this. Jai Mumbai, amchi Mumbai. Yes, I do sound like a true Bambaiya, but we cannot help ourselves as there’s a clear divide between the Capital and the Slum capital
Though we have our divides in this city, one can take the person out of Mumbai but you cannot take Mumbai out of a Mumba ite when we step out of our border. The South Mumbaiites - Southies and the Burbies. Even the Burbies are further divided into Bandra, Juhu, Lokhandwala, Andheri and anything beyond is the outskirts. Even the Bandraites decide to get snooty about where they live. Is it Pali Hill or Bandstand, the often asked question. What is your PIN code? Anything not within this radius and you get the raised brow. We are so steeped in our petty complexities that we don’t realize the Mumbaiites' tax Rupees is what keeps Dilli looking like you’ve taken a trip abroad; that’s if you skirt the poorer sections. In Delhi everybody looks cloned except a few of the capital's Fashionistas.
I had a few friends from South Mumbai, no they are not dead, usage of past tense "had". Just decided to lose touch as we are from different hemispheres. For a Southie, the suburbs are far, and our fashion sense varies from theirs, so I was told when a few of my friends descended upon Bandra to shop. They squealed in delight at the finds, I honestly stepped back and took a hard look at myself and them and questioned. We are 30 minutes apart, we cannot be that different. I doubt the Southies even consider themselves as part of Mumbai. They have a certain accent which I have yet to decipher. Their nose is raised slightly higher than ours, so they have more air in their lungs and they snap up all the Louboutins and Jimmy Choos, no these are not names of their dogs but designers, so we are left to buy Nine West and Mango. No not the Happus. If a Burbie decides to dine at an up-scale restaurant in town, everybody turns to stare at the lesser mortal, and if they do decide to visit our continent then we should be honoured. I just realized the action has all moved to Bandra.
South Mumbai suddenly looks like a ghost town after eight. All that’s left are drug dealers in dark lanes and the flea -ridden white trash drifters, who seek accommodation in the decrepit, questionable motels that stand beside the great hotel which has risen like the phoenix. But their pride will not let them move down. It’s alright we have quite a population of the wannabees and upstarts from further down from Bandra to deal with. Bandra is a potpourri of people, unlike South Mumbai which offers you the blue blood, they go blue every time somebody from the neighbouring continent decides to visit.
Anything north of Mumbai has the lot who are here to dikhlao their jhalak. The ones who do make it are the ones without the jhalak but are willing to dikhlao. Yes I must not forget the Undiyon and Thepla lot who seek refuge together in the not too far flung areas though they could afford to live on Altamount road, but then our blue bloods would not allow that. Also the theplas are politely refused memberships at esteemed South Mumbai clubs under the ruse of father to son only. A diamond merchant's wife was refused membership as she didn’t speak the Gora Sahib’s language, now is it her fault that her forefathers hung out with the revolutionaries rather than go hunting egrets with the memsahibs.
Bandra is a potpourri or the melting pot. It’s a big cauldron with everything melting here, the roads with craters, the marshlands disappearing, the quaint bungalows razed, the trees hacked, Aunty Rosie and Suzie displaced, sorpotel replaced by fusion cuisines. Yes, it has all melted. Yet people seek out Bandra, as here’s where you find the trendsetters, pubs mushrooming every two weeks, and the Bandraites are far more tolerant of the less fortunate who visit us from from further north.
Though we have our divides in this city, one can take the person out of Mumbai but you cannot take Mumbai out of a Mumba ite when we step out of our border. The South Mumbaiites - Southies and the Burbies. Even the Burbies are further divided into Bandra, Juhu, Lokhandwala, Andheri and anything beyond is the outskirts. Even the Bandraites decide to get snooty about where they live. Is it Pali Hill or Bandstand, the often asked question. What is your PIN code? Anything not within this radius and you get the raised brow. We are so steeped in our petty complexities that we don’t realize the Mumbaiites' tax Rupees is what keeps Dilli looking like you’ve taken a trip abroad; that’s if you skirt the poorer sections. In Delhi everybody looks cloned except a few of the capital's Fashionistas.
I had a few friends from South Mumbai, no they are not dead, usage of past tense "had". Just decided to lose touch as we are from different hemispheres. For a Southie, the suburbs are far, and our fashion sense varies from theirs, so I was told when a few of my friends descended upon Bandra to shop. They squealed in delight at the finds, I honestly stepped back and took a hard look at myself and them and questioned. We are 30 minutes apart, we cannot be that different. I doubt the Southies even consider themselves as part of Mumbai. They have a certain accent which I have yet to decipher. Their nose is raised slightly higher than ours, so they have more air in their lungs and they snap up all the Louboutins and Jimmy Choos, no these are not names of their dogs but designers, so we are left to buy Nine West and Mango. No not the Happus. If a Burbie decides to dine at an up-scale restaurant in town, everybody turns to stare at the lesser mortal, and if they do decide to visit our continent then we should be honoured. I just realized the action has all moved to Bandra.
South Mumbai suddenly looks like a ghost town after eight. All that’s left are drug dealers in dark lanes and the flea -ridden white trash drifters, who seek accommodation in the decrepit, questionable motels that stand beside the great hotel which has risen like the phoenix. But their pride will not let them move down. It’s alright we have quite a population of the wannabees and upstarts from further down from Bandra to deal with. Bandra is a potpourri of people, unlike South Mumbai which offers you the blue blood, they go blue every time somebody from the neighbouring continent decides to visit.
Anything north of Mumbai has the lot who are here to dikhlao their jhalak. The ones who do make it are the ones without the jhalak but are willing to dikhlao. Yes I must not forget the Undiyon and Thepla lot who seek refuge together in the not too far flung areas though they could afford to live on Altamount road, but then our blue bloods would not allow that. Also the theplas are politely refused memberships at esteemed South Mumbai clubs under the ruse of father to son only. A diamond merchant's wife was refused membership as she didn’t speak the Gora Sahib’s language, now is it her fault that her forefathers hung out with the revolutionaries rather than go hunting egrets with the memsahibs.
Bandra is a potpourri or the melting pot. It’s a big cauldron with everything melting here, the roads with craters, the marshlands disappearing, the quaint bungalows razed, the trees hacked, Aunty Rosie and Suzie displaced, sorpotel replaced by fusion cuisines. Yes, it has all melted. Yet people seek out Bandra, as here’s where you find the trendsetters, pubs mushrooming every two weeks, and the Bandraites are far more tolerant of the less fortunate who visit us from from further north.
Friday, March 19, 2010
DEGREES OF SEPARATION
In the circle of life your, past deeds make you pay in full measure on Earth; that is, if you are lucky to die without that pound of flesh being extracted, there’s a God above. I am a devout Christian. My “devout” has degrees and is questionable, I am devout when I need something or lose my way, there s a strong tug from above to pull me back. I do believe in God, yes for all the questioning minds, you can sit across and discuss Darwin’s theories but it cuts no ice. My faith is without question. It’s not like the house built on sand but on rock. Enough of my ministrations.
I broke many a heart growing up. When you are in your twenties, you believe you have found the man you want to walk into the sunset with, but life takes an ugly turn and you start searching for that imaginary horizon. In your late thirties, you realize it was, but after all, imaginary. During those lonely nights of introspection, you question everything. It’s all a “Why”. It all dates back to your past life, the million people you hurt along the way, their many curses snowball into this one big hurt for you. A heart so shattered in million pieces that it would take time and a miracle to heal. I do believe in miracles. I believe you are allowed only so much pain that you can handle. Yes, I can hear the pounding on the table saying "rubbish!", from quarters that have suffered untold miseries one cannot fathom. Did they have the reserves to handle more pain that’s why theirs is far more than mine, I do not question, and have stopped questioning HIM.
How convenient for me to have stopped questioning Him. How does He decide who should suffer more, who should rummage through a dustbin and fight with the dogs in the lane for a morsel. Whose dirty, rag-torn face and little fingers should be pressed against the window pane when one stops at a street light. When innocent children are beaten, sold, raped, mutilated mercilessly by people without a conscience. Yes, where is He, I have questioned, and yet I have stopped. How come? Is it because my gilded citadel has hardened me? There has not yet been a circle of life for these little ones, then the circle of life expression is moot.
Every morning, as I sip on my coffee and stare at the trees outside, I wonder what life has in store for me. I may have done something right to be accorded miracle after miracle in my life, or blow after blow so soft that I could rise up and walk. The pain of losing somebody you love is heart-wrenching. Whether its to another, to death, or just a slow death called irreconcilable differences. It hurts.
Does this pain compare to the little grubby face pressed against your window at the street light. It has to leave you affected. You can’t help but at that moment realize your pain being far less than theirs. You can muffle your sobs into your pillow during the lonely nights and yet go out and find life and love again. How can you or me even compare our pain then. There is no such hope for these little street kids, it begins and ends here. That’s their circle of life.
As I walked along the sea front this evening, I paused to sit and enjoy the solitude the sea offers me. I watched couples lost in each other, this being their escapism from the reality of a 4x6 hole they call home, and inhabited by 10 people. I felt ashamed at all the possessions I desired and could not have. They were absolute commoners for me but looked utterly beautiful for one another. She with a gajra in her hair, the sweet fragrance equivalent to my Dior. Her crisp saree maybe a gift from last diwali. She glowed in his love, they sat there forgetting for those moments the unpaid bills and mounting debts. So what are the parallels I am trying to draw between our pain of the heart and the pain suffered by others less fortunate. Is one more than the other? Does relativity have space here? I don’t think so.
I have probably left you confused as to why am I confusing the issues. They stand on their own. The reason being relativity. People say pain is relative, I disagree. The pain of the heart eases with time, the pain of growing on the street never eases, you live and die here. Going back to the beginning what did I do to be accorded a pain far less than the child on the street who has no hope of ever picking himself up ever again, so my theory of you are allowed only so much pain you can handle, does it hold true. Honestly, I do not have the answers. Maybe somebody above thought this is all I could handle and so spared me. Was it fair for that child to be born on the street, I still have no answers. It’s a question I seek from above time and again how does “He” decide the degrees of separation in pain.
I broke many a heart growing up. When you are in your twenties, you believe you have found the man you want to walk into the sunset with, but life takes an ugly turn and you start searching for that imaginary horizon. In your late thirties, you realize it was, but after all, imaginary. During those lonely nights of introspection, you question everything. It’s all a “Why”. It all dates back to your past life, the million people you hurt along the way, their many curses snowball into this one big hurt for you. A heart so shattered in million pieces that it would take time and a miracle to heal. I do believe in miracles. I believe you are allowed only so much pain that you can handle. Yes, I can hear the pounding on the table saying "rubbish!", from quarters that have suffered untold miseries one cannot fathom. Did they have the reserves to handle more pain that’s why theirs is far more than mine, I do not question, and have stopped questioning HIM.
How convenient for me to have stopped questioning Him. How does He decide who should suffer more, who should rummage through a dustbin and fight with the dogs in the lane for a morsel. Whose dirty, rag-torn face and little fingers should be pressed against the window pane when one stops at a street light. When innocent children are beaten, sold, raped, mutilated mercilessly by people without a conscience. Yes, where is He, I have questioned, and yet I have stopped. How come? Is it because my gilded citadel has hardened me? There has not yet been a circle of life for these little ones, then the circle of life expression is moot.
Every morning, as I sip on my coffee and stare at the trees outside, I wonder what life has in store for me. I may have done something right to be accorded miracle after miracle in my life, or blow after blow so soft that I could rise up and walk. The pain of losing somebody you love is heart-wrenching. Whether its to another, to death, or just a slow death called irreconcilable differences. It hurts.
Does this pain compare to the little grubby face pressed against your window at the street light. It has to leave you affected. You can’t help but at that moment realize your pain being far less than theirs. You can muffle your sobs into your pillow during the lonely nights and yet go out and find life and love again. How can you or me even compare our pain then. There is no such hope for these little street kids, it begins and ends here. That’s their circle of life.
As I walked along the sea front this evening, I paused to sit and enjoy the solitude the sea offers me. I watched couples lost in each other, this being their escapism from the reality of a 4x6 hole they call home, and inhabited by 10 people. I felt ashamed at all the possessions I desired and could not have. They were absolute commoners for me but looked utterly beautiful for one another. She with a gajra in her hair, the sweet fragrance equivalent to my Dior. Her crisp saree maybe a gift from last diwali. She glowed in his love, they sat there forgetting for those moments the unpaid bills and mounting debts. So what are the parallels I am trying to draw between our pain of the heart and the pain suffered by others less fortunate. Is one more than the other? Does relativity have space here? I don’t think so.
I have probably left you confused as to why am I confusing the issues. They stand on their own. The reason being relativity. People say pain is relative, I disagree. The pain of the heart eases with time, the pain of growing on the street never eases, you live and die here. Going back to the beginning what did I do to be accorded a pain far less than the child on the street who has no hope of ever picking himself up ever again, so my theory of you are allowed only so much pain you can handle, does it hold true. Honestly, I do not have the answers. Maybe somebody above thought this is all I could handle and so spared me. Was it fair for that child to be born on the street, I still have no answers. It’s a question I seek from above time and again how does “He” decide the degrees of separation in pain.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
TURN WITH THE TIDE
Sweet sixteen , tease twenty, sexy thirty, what happens when a woman crosses forty. The men run for the hills. Everytime I look at myself in the mirror I see a sexy, sensuous woman, and so I am told by both genders, sorry I don’t know any from the third gender for extra validation. Yet as soon as I mention 40, they suddenly see cobwebs down south, crowsfeet which are actually perched only on trees and fat which is in my butter dish. Somebody explain the fear and paralysis men suffer from. I can be as sweet as a sixteen year old, I sure can tease with the straw and more, and teach the twenty year olds more than a thing or two. I just finished with the bad side of thirty. That apart I am bloody sexier. So why was it when I looked into the mirror this morning, it was not with joy. It was with impending doom, like the executioner had read the verdict. I had turned forty one. I had crossed over to a side where one is supposed to only exist. Forty one does not show on my face, you say the number and the horror shows on their faces.
Honestly flirty at thirty, naughty at forty is all a lie where men are concerned. Please let me burst that bubble. All the naughty forties are falling asleep in between the act, and the thirty year olds are only flirting with nappies, careers and danger, hence the long queues outside the divorce courts.
I ve realized men in their forties get a lot smarter, guess after having lost the last shirt off their back in their thirties to the scorned wife. All that’s left is brains which lies where the blood rushes to and after forty it stops rushing south, that’s when they start thinking and refuse to commit. Now they play chess with women that actually do matter. Stupid men , don’t play mental chess with an older attractive(yes looks are relative) woman who’s been through the grill, as she too is commitment phobic. Leave the games for the younger lot.
What’s with my generation, yes the 30’s and 40’s, can’t speak for the 50’s, I don’t know the games they play.
Yea, Yea Yea I may sound like a frustrated woman, sorry but I am the chick your husbands and men lust after but would not contemplate marriage. You know why?. Women like us dress in the right pins, we may sometimes forego the lingerie, adds to the excitement but it takes balls to marry women like us. Yes I have met two such men, one I married and lost, the other I am with
Is there ever a perfect relationship. I doubt it. Everytime I think Ive got it right, either I screw it up or he’s intellectally or financially broke. Men, honestly that’s what women want, a smart bank. The amount the bank has to dispense is relative, we are suckers for kindness, gentleness ,a rose, so we are willing to give up the Gucci and trips abroad as long as you don’t do a 180 degree turn with every sexy arse that passes by or lust after our friends.And please not the beefcakes spewing and spouting movie lines. Yaaawwn,
get smart. On the other hand we want no Stephen Hawking intelligence either and a relative bank does not mean the relatives bank.
I realizd the sexual power I wielded at a very early age,maybe cos I looked into the mirror a bit too much and it did’nt crack, or maybe I looked into other men’s eyes a bit too much. The combination of the two taught me to use my charms to get out of sticky situations. Not that I really got into any, but being a Gemini and the gift of the gab came naturally to me.
Cigarettes and alcohol were taboo when we were becoming sexually progressive which is so regressive by today’s standards. We enticed the boys with a shy a la sharmila tagore smile, you were lucky if you had dimples, or the coquettish Audrey Hepburn look and the long lustful gaze was reserved for the bold.
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