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.
Monday, May 31, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)