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.

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.

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.

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.