Too little, too late?

I haven’t got my passport with me.

That is the first thought that springs into my mind while reading the news restricting the entry of students from Handique College, Assam in the Taj Mahal premises.

However, reading the complete news snippet calms my mind to a certain degree because I’ve always been told that I look like a Bengali, sometimes even a Punjabi and not at all Mongoloid, which is obviously my saving grace. Such a little tweak of DNA could save someone so much trouble. 

Obviously, whenever I have tried pointing it out to people that I am not an exception but the North-East is a mixture of many races, Mongoloid, Aryan, you name it; I have been met with a vehement opposition based on some forgotten vacation they took ages ago. My entire life and experiences of twenty three years undoubtedly pale in light of their culturally savvy vacation.

The next thing I did, after putting my mind to rest about the passport issue and making a mental note to carry a map of India whenever I go anywhere that is not a vegetable market, is to search for the news coverage in other newspapers. Google dismally showed me two links, The Assam Tribune and E-Pao ( a Manipuri site). (The last time I checked, Deccan Chronicle and Asian Age had also covered it.)  The bile rose up my throat and I bent double to collect myself.

A physical reaction is unlike me. Why are my non-mongoloid features protesting against such gross violation of fundamental rights? But wait, the fundamental right of travelling anywhere within the country is only for its citizens. And by citizens we mean a uniform batch of human beings descended from the same race and having the same features. Huxley’s Brave New World is swimming before my eyes.

A group of students from Handique Girls College, a seventy five year old institution named after a noted Assamese philantrophist, travelling from a part of the country unknown for its freedom fighters like Rani Gaidinliu, Maniram Dewan, Kanaklata Barua, Mairembam Koireng Singh, to visit a monument built by an invader of glorious Hindustan for one of his wives who succumbed to death while giving birth to her fourteenth child. The irony of the situation ceases to escape me.

As one of my friends pointed out, maybe subtlety is not the need of the hour. Maybe, instead of having full page newspaper advertisements of brain numbing books, or movie scripts whichever you prefer, we should have the Indian map, a full page version, front page, one day for each month. Maybe we can just grill our way into their heads just like they have been grilling oil from us. Maybe we will just reach a blank stony surface but it is worth a try. At least the inclusion of north-east India in the maps might suddenly shock them out of the reverie and make them call the newspapers offices demanding the removal of such un-nationalistic propaganda just the way they did for the removal of the Arunachali women from the Republic Day parade. Maybe they will be patiently explained by the publishing houses that, unfortunately, their superior Aryan minds failed them and the north-east has always been a part of India.

Maybe they will reach out for a cup of premium Assam tea while trying to deal with this life-changing piece of information.

The ignorance, however, is not one sided. News glorifying a district in Kerala as the country’s First dowry free zone when the north-east itself has been prominently dowry free adds hurt to the humiliation. Bride-burning, dowry, female infanticides are relatively unheard phenomena in that part of the country. But all I ever hear when north-east is brought up is Naxalism. It takes a measure of patience I thought I wasn’t capable of to explain to people that Naxalism is spreading its roots in recent times due to the already destabilized atmosphere of the states of Manipur, Nagaland and Assam primarily. Naxalism, however, was born in Naxalbari, West Bengal. Again the same tirade of nonsense and ignorance greets me as I fruitlessly argue. The Indian Prime Minister being asked to request permission to visit Arunachal Pradesh by the Chinese Premier did not raise as many eyebrows as Narendra Modi’s fashion choices. The ruthless murder of Adivasis in Bodoland saw lesser sympathy than the Sydney Siege. The Bangladeshi illegal migration problem draws slighter attention every year while people are losing out on livelihoods. And stories of AFSPA and encounter killings are missing from our mainstream lives while we routinely condemn Sohrabuddin encounter case.

I am not comparing tragedies but merely pointing out that tragedies shrouded in dust, ignorance and darkness pierce hearts and minds in a way that no later consolation can mend.

In an era when knowledge is no longer a luxury, I cannot find an excuse for mass ignorance.

And more importantly, I am not even searching for one.

Of Songs and Stories

At the cost of sounding supremely mushy, let me get it this clear: I am going to sound extremely mushy.

Writers, apparently, perform under pressure. Since I do fancy myself a teensy-weensy bit as a writer (ahem, *cough*), less than 36 hours for mid-sems to start and I sit here typing on the laptop.

My intentions were completely pure. I decided to sit down with books, notepad, pen and my very colourful marker and was merely scrolling through my playlist, deciding on the mood for the evening. And BAM! Out of nowhere, this unquenchable thirst for Michelle Branch!

One hour ten minutes later, Hotel Paper has been on the loop.

One hour ten minutes later, thirteen year old me is back.

It is a generally accepted fact that a song can release all the floodgates and can transport you to a different time. And I, in all my twenty-three year old wisdom, put the entire album on play. Uh-uh.

Thirteen year old me, I have realized, was an infinitely cooler person than I usually gave her credit for. Michelle Branch, Alanis Morissette, Natalie Imbruglia, Suzanne Vega were on her morning playlist. And by morning, I mean the crack of dawn. Although I never admitted it to most people, for the risk of sounding uncool, I remember a time when I used to wake up at around four in the AM. Since I slept on the only bedroom on the first floor and had all the floor to myself, my morning consisted of throwing wide open my bedroom window and letting the cool crisp morning air wash all over my teenage self as I stood by the window clutching my first tea of the day and yes, you guessed it right, music flowing from the silver tape recorder that my sister got as a present when she passed her boards with flying colours.

I don’t know what feels worse. The fact that I have no idea where my cassettes are, or that Boomon Ba and I no longer fight over the silver tape recorder or that we all live in different houses now. At that time, I did everything I could to be alone, for a variety of reasons. I spent so much time alone, in my books and music. But even in that bedroom alone for hours, I was not lonely.

Thirteen year old me had so much shit to deal with. Parents were busy in fighting out the battle in court for the hospital, family feud, menstruation hell, first boyfriend, what not. And all throughout, these ladies kept me company like a clichéd blanket on a cold wet morning.

And that’s exactly the feeling coursing through me right now.

I can feel exactly the misplaced anger against my parents for not spending enough time with us and of course the question that haunted me through most of my teenage years, “how could you not see?” what was going wrong in your child’s life. A decade later I got my answer. Because I never told them. I never told them my problems, never discussed my anger because in my own way, I wanted to shield them. I convinced myself they had enough problems so they needn’t listen to mine. And then I got majorly pissed when they didn’t see through my apparent glassy eyes and half-hearted smile.  Classic double-edged sword, anyone?

Of course menstruation is a different story altogether. I think for the first five years of my menstruating cycle, every bedsheet, skirt, trouser, blanket cover has been marked with my blood. Yeah, it was that bad. And yeah, I was that bad in dealing with it. Most of the time, my period appeared like the surprise test after the holidays. Least expected, least prepared. I gave my parents major PCOS scare and till this day ma-deta keep on asking about my period in that weird voice you employ for a thirteen year old. And I maintain in my very grown up voice that, umm….uh, I still haven’t maintained that period diary which I honestly have been trying to maintain for the past decade. Sheeeesh.

First boyfriend. On and off for the next four years. Bad breakup. Made my peace in the last few years. Now we talk occasionally. Still can be a MAJOR jerk. If you’re reading this, sorry for not returning your call that day!

Thirteen year old me also dealt with her own unique set of problems in her own unique way. A little clumsily, a little drama on the side and a lot of unspoken commitment and caring from her two absolute gem of siblings.

Of all the times I have berated myself for making the wrong decision, dealing badly with a situation and what not, I can always go back to 2004 and think of how I decided to change the course of my life. To stop being an object of pity and helplessness in my own eyes to someone who took control. And who has never let go.

Except maybe a few times. 

A-ok?

It’s the 4^th of June, 2014 and by mentioning the date I mean to make it absolutely clear that we are well into the twenty-first century.

And now for some real-time updates on Misogyny.

As a feminist and because I had too much time on my hands, I read the entire 138 page manifesto that the infamous Elliot Rodgers wrote before he went and killed six people and himself. As a human being, I was appalled to read his views and thoughts, more so because he mentioned that he had found groups on the internet who shared his views on women. (Some have been taken down since then.)

I actually had to watch the new X-Men movie to get my mind off Mr. Rodgers. But then again, two hours of Professor Charles  Xavier and Magneto trying to mould (or kill) Mystique into following their beliefs, because Mystique is one dumb female baying for the blood of the tormentor and murderer of her fellow companions (duh!), left me a little tired. Jennifer Lawrence, I still love you, but I need a little bit of Katniss now.

Since X-Men proved absolutely futile in diverting my attention, I ended up obsessively following the #YesAllWomen trend in Twitter. My partner probably heard innumerable tweets as I rattled off one after the other, through memories etched by experiences rather than really good brain cells.

But this is not real-time update. This all happened around a week back, before today happened. And why is today important you ask?

Because I’m on the verge of giving up.

Maybe it doesn’t matter to the billion plus population but it matters to me. Because, since childhood I’ve been protesting against inherent sexism. I have had fights with men on the roads, at restaurants, with certain members of family calling out on behavior that keeps on reinforcing certain prejudiced beliefs. I have always claimed my own sexuality, and am unforgiving and unwilling to put up with people who transgress that boundary. Over a period of time, I’ve learnt to be tolerant, listen to other people’s view, counter them with rational explanations and coexist peacefully.

I have had horrible experiences with men and I’ve had wonderful experiences with men. Just like I’ve had with women. So I kept on trudging on, hopeful that I’ve touched some people’s lives at least. (A belief that my partner keeps on emphasizing.)

So for me to feel that there is no flickering light at the end of the tunnel is a BIG deal.

Because today, I read THIS joke on Facebook:

If sex without wife's consent is rape...
.
.

Then by this logic :-

spending husband's money by the wife without his consent is a breach of trust-406.

Taking money from his wallet is a theft-379.

Forcefully taking out money with assault, from his possession is a -robbery-392.

Taking out money With a threat to do somthing is a extortion-382 & 506..

Phir bhi ye masoom aur mazloom AADMI kuch nahi kehta bas SEHTA hai.

Hats of to all MEN.....

Posted by a college professor.

With 93+ fucking likes. And two shares.

His comments thread were full of people congratulating him on his ‘brilliant’ wit with one lone comment standing out. My partner, being the completely lovable feminist man that he is, told him in exact terms that there was no humor in a rape joke and not to compare rape with stealing money. Obviously, telling this guy about the vast universe of difference between forcing sex on your wife and taking money from your husband will be an utter waste of time. Because, hellloooo, he does OWN his wife. Just like he owns his television set or car or his pea-sized brain. And if he can fuck them without consent, why ask the wife, eh?

Shout-out to Feminist Men around the globe, we love you!

Enough for one day, I think. Real World Thinks: HELL no!

So after this jarring episode, I try to push it off my mind, albeit unsuccessfully, and return home from work in a relatively empty metro. Bastille’s ‘Pompeii’ is on repeat mode as I squish onto the tiny two-seaters that are placed at the end of the Ladies Compartment. After almost an hour of travelling and changing the Metro at Rajiv Chowk (personal nightmare every day), I glance gratefully at the blinking lights denoting I’m three stations away from my destination.

As I near my station, I hear people yelling in the background. At first, too tired to react, I concentrate on the blank screen of my phone but then I see almost all the women in the Ladies compartment peering down to the next compartment. Curiosity got me and I glanced back to see a young girl and a man shouting at each other. I took off one of my earphones but by then they were just grudgingly murmuring at each other.

I casually asked the girl sitting next to me, “What happened?” She looked a little shocked as she told me, 

“That man asked the girl to vacate the seat and go and sit in the Ladies Compartment. He screamed at her because she refused to do so.”

“Sorry, WHAT?”

“Yeah, he was telling her that you women take all the seats or something”, she confirmed.

Ok, before anybody gets too excited and starts countering that women keep on demanding seats in the metro, let me make this clear. Yes, there are women who demand the seats reserved for ladies. And there are men who sometimes offer free seats to the ladies first. I have seen women refusing such seats and asking the man to sit. I have been one of those women too. I have also seen men refusing to give up their seats for elderly gentlemen, pregnant women, women with babies, etc. So yes, there are all kinds of ‘people’ travelling on the metro.

But asking a woman to vacate a seat in the general compartment while every single man around her watches the drama mutely? Whoa!

And why? Because according to this man’s logic, out of the six coaches in the metro, since one in reserved for women, all women should be packed into it. So if I’m reading it right, the acceptable sex ratio for him is 1:6.

Aaah, little pat on the back for our India for maintaining a slightly better sex ratio than that!

And for those people who would come running to counter the validity of having a women’s compartment against the backdrop of feminism, I desperately want to use a certain amount of profanity. But let me just act ladylike and explain it to you in a motherly way.

Ladies compartment is needed because EVERY single time I get on a crowded general compartment, I have been groped.  And since it is too difficult to see who did it, nowadays I just catch hold of his hand and dig my nails into my unknown assailants flesh. You scar me mentally, I’ll scar you physically.

But not all women stand up to it. I have friends who have cried after such an ordeal or who panic the moment any man brushes past them in the metro station.

And it makes my heart break. Not just for this women but also for the men who do so much to make women comfortable. I’m still friends on Facebook with a guy who once helped me reach Rajiv Chowk metro station from Malviya Nagar at 9.30 pm when the yellow line was closed unexpectedly due to Anna Hazare’s fast. I still remember that day. It was the 18^th of August, 2011. And every time someone says that all Delhi men are desperate lechers, I always always talk of this guy.

These men and women get victimized daily for the misogyny which has pervaded our lives to such an extent that we fail to register it most of the time.

But not today.

Because today, I felt that part of me slowly withering away as I stepped out of the metro. I mechanically buzzed myself out of the station. It was too late to go back and confront the man.

But more importantly, today I did not want to. A small part of me conceded defeat. An even smaller part accepted that I was tired. 

I reached home, made myself a strong cup of tea and steeled myself. I decided to do what I believe I do best: Write. 

Because it is not A-ok.

Tin Trunk and I

A black tin trunk is more than just a tin trunk amateurishly coated in black paint. The romanticism of just knowing and looking at it, lying conspicuously under the bed or in a corner neatly stacked away, has the power to warm a cold heart, even on days when the city’s gloomy monsoon envelops more than just the weather and the rain no longer pitter-patters at the window. It’s a full fledged storm. The one in the mind stronger than the one lashing outside.

In my not-so-impressive studio apartment in the middle of a bustling city plagued with an abundance of noise and a discernible lack of privacy, times like these seem to be flying by like the smooth sand of an hour glass, never missing a beat. Times like these give me the almost deliciously tangible feeling of being cocooned in a small stone cottage, on some long forgotten hill, with the kettle put on boil for hours on end. The tea cup never really gets to know what it is to be empty. It is filled to the brim before it be properly cleared of the last dregs of the previous cup. However, that doesn't bother me. The moment the searing hot liquid touches the tip of my tongue, I know of a happiness that eludes me on otherwise happy sunny days. And on those days I don’t even write. I sit down to do so, nonetheless. And then I go on imagining the utter happiness of writing on days like these.

I decide to clear the dust of my trunk. The reassuring clink with which it unravels under my loving fingers, giving into the moment of opening the joyous treasures within to its mistress’s eyes and touch. It belongs to me. A possession solely mine whose entire being came into existence because I decided so. Power tempered with heartache.

The black paint has started to peel off in certain places. Places where it had been hurt while being unceremoniously shifted from one state to another, one house to another. I take off bits of flaky paint and decide to cover up the exposed bits myself. My name however, in thick white paint on the lower left corner, remains as it was the day it had been painted on. The inherent part of its being, I smile.

Materialism is somewhat more comforting than dealing with an abstract of tangled emotions and evolving humans. You give in to it without inhibitions and without having to tiptoe around it. Sometimes, I have caught myself wondering if the sentiments I have attached to a single piece of painted bent tin is acceptable. I assume those were my weak moments. I have seen my father carefully preserving his trunk from his college days. I am not alone. On second thoughts, even if I was I would have still loved you in the same hopeless way, tin trunk.

You think I’m behaving like a mushy fool? I’ll tell you what it is. It is a Pensieve. Not just of your memories, though. Of your thoughts, of links to a life you once had, of days you once spent making a card for a friend and forgetting to post it, of scented candles you once burnt on a night you wished had never ended.

And of course, the books. A half read War and Peace jostles for space with The Code of Criminal Procedure, 1973. Books that have faithfully been trundled from my childhood home to hostel, from a place I once shared with my sister to a place I live alone now.Books that I bought when I was 15 and which I religiously carry everywhere. Books I ordered when I first discovered the joys of FlipKart. Books I bought from second hand stores because I convinced myself the book was more important than the smell of fresh unopened pages. I still have doubts over my judgment though.There is little wear and tear to account for their journey, however. Tin trunk took the brunt of my restlessness.

Tin trunk is a little house. I take out a bottle of now-dry nail paint. A piece of unused white ribbon. A pink stapler which has a plastic heart stuck on it. The Winnie the Pooh pencil box from primary school. The silver Chinese Hero pen, which always merits a special mention because it is the first pen I owned. Don’t confuse it for a house of collectibles. It is just a house for a single person. The only non living entity that brings a smell of home and love and laughter in the slightly musty scent of remembrance.

The rain stops, the tea cup is cleaned and the dust is off. From tin trunk as well as memory. Happiness snuck away in a nondescript tin trunk with flaky black paint.

Tin trunk, I even love the way you sound in my head.

Matters of Home and Heart

The rooms are new. The wall paint is a shade lighter of what I’m used to. My own room smells of fresh paint. The newly varnished cabinets subtly reflect the cold harsh white light. A sense of uncomfortable newness all around.

And it’s New Year’s Eve.

I play ‘Auld Lang Syne , Dougie Maclean version, and Jayanta Hazarika songs, alternatively. Auld Lang Syne as a reminder to old acquaintances and new.  Jayanta Hazarika,well, because in times of confusion, he manages to calm me down supernaturally, from beyond the grave.

All set to live alone for the first time, in a house with a lease signed by me, I resign myself to the feeling of growing old. But when I woke up today, peeking from under the double warmth of my Naga shawl and my Noddy quilt, and Deta kisses me good morning with the customary brushing of his moustache, all resolve of acting matured crumble down.

And tomorrow, all I’ve to look forward to is a new year and a good bye to Ma-Deta. And come back to a cold unfamiliar house. A house, not yet a home.

Love is not an unfamiliar emotion in the room. Ma is incessantly teasing everyone just because she’s in a good mood, Deta is hell-bent on making sure that this time he outsmarts his phone list and sends them New Year wishes before it is officially the new year and what exactly my siblings are upto is not easily discernible except that everyone is talking at the same time. The typical family evening.  Sans the typical drama, though. New Year’s Eve does have some corollary benefits.

Of course, that also means I’m robbed of the very lazed out evening I had in mind. A pot of tea and my Murakami. Kafka on the Shore awaits me patiently, more patiently than a lover, lesser than an adoring father.

He peers concernedly at me, then at the screen of the laptop. Not knowing how to deal with grown up tragedies of his grown up daughter. In his little world, Pandora’s box never opened and I’m still five years old. Trappings of reality, I tell you.

Dinner was a subdued affair. A mix-up in the order resulted in a quarter of a Kali Mirch chicken, to be divided amongst six people. The two pieces of gravy-ied chicken bore searing looks of hatred. Which eventually spilled out onto the phone, as a flustered manager tried to soothe my seething sister.

And as the Noida skyline lighted up with aerial expressions of joy, Ma and my brother started debating if the clock had actually struck twelve. Deta woke up from his cat-nap while my sister pranced about with her phone. And then the ringer on my phone went off. It was officially 2013!

Ma started singing in a markedly off key tone, I tried, quite unsuccessfully, to talk on the phone, while someone tried to hug me, and then kiss me, and someone else tried to pull me in another direction. But Ma continued with her bad singing and all I saw in that moment was clean white smiles, the smell of Deta’s Jacolivol around me and the feeling of happiness no longer as a string of solitary moments but as an intrinsic part of my DNA. A living breathing part of me.

My first house became a home today. My walls are no longer a cold white but a warm shade of ivory. And there is an overpowering smell of familiarity.

Serrated Subtlety

She could hear her own footsteps clicking through the din enveloping her, unknown faces and throbbing music. Or maybe all she could feel was the pressure that was exerted on her heel every time the stilettos were placed firmly on the smooth glassy floor beneath her. The fascination of a cracked glass floor, with the jaggedly patterns emanating from the sharp pointed heels of her stilettos, continued to amuse her.

She did not feel lost anymore. The disco balls with its minuscule pieces of reflecting light dispersed the electric colors of the night in random symmetry. She felt the sound being reflected off the sweaty people on the dance floor, bathed in monochromes of royal blue and blood red. She felt the cheek muscles tauten as a half smile crept her features. The discernable need not to hear or to be heard. The bliss of ignorance settled slowly, but surely over her.

She walked out. She walked out of a life she had known the intricacies of and which she assumed held the comforts of a stale yet definite future. She walked out of the arms of the man she had loved and made love to in the unearthly hours of the still night and the startling hours of the chaotic days. She walked out of the memories that still nestled in the warmth of her heart and whose resonance is unfailingly felt through the cells of her ever changing body. She walked out of the room, with the silence and a glass of whiskey in her hands.

The cold night air stung her face to a pretty shade of pink.

I sat on the edge of the grassy steps that lined the porch on the far west side. The smoke mingled with the cold night air as it travelled through the smooth passage of my nostrils. The sound of her heels, in the quiet solitude of the open porch, broke the stoic silence I was reveling in.

She stood leaning against one of the pillars with the mesmerizing carvings on it, a deception of antiquity. My gaze descended on the tips of her sea green stilettos, and travelled upwards through the long tough muscles of her claves. The snug midnight black dress she wore skimmed up against her thigh as she put her left foot forward, crossing her legs, in an attempt to make herself more comfortable. The electricity of the movement of fabric and her smooth skin was palpable.

And then my eyes found her neck. Her porcelain, creamy, long, swan-like neck. The sharp curve where her chin ended and her neck began to the depths of their closure between her two lovely handful of breasts. The veins that did not rear their heads but merged in the sheath of her skin. The bones that proudly flaunted their existence, in a attempt to claim for the beauty it was encased in. I stared. Stared at the way her neck found her shoulders in a perfect strutting curve. The dress that clung ever so slightly at the ends of her bare shoulders before it plunged to be united again in her now sweaty cleavage.

She turned to look at me.

I smiled the smile that always brought me luck.

She smiled feebly, not her best smile I presumed.

I stood up. Crushed the cigarette butt with the foot of my white peep-toes. Adjusted the hem of my olive green dress. Ran my fingers through my long brown tousled hair. And walked purposefully towards her.

She did not seem to welcome my presence. Nor did she display her displeasure.

I smiled more eagerly than I should have.

She complimented on my dusky legs. I was taken aback. Men liked chocolate skin. Fair women tend to be prejudiced.

I complimented on her beautiful dress. Women begin conversations by erecting frail pedestals.

The conversation soon swayed towards the lives we led, after the niceties were over. The cold purity of the night air in the deserted porch presented an opportunity to let both of us breathe and not just stifle our presence. She talked mostly. All I could do, apart from making it apparent that I listened to her, was to gaze at the features of her neck. From so close quarters.

She continually kept on adjusting her dress at the shoulders. I put a reassuring arm around her to convince her of the futility of the actions. Letting go seemed to be the theme of the night.

I noticed her need for stretching out. And mine too. Five inch heels are not your wonder drug in the midst of a heartbreaking conversation. So we moved to the grass cut steps. The castigating sandals lay in a heap next to us as we stretched our aching calf muscles. As she made round motions with her toes. As her feet lay well rested in the soft dewy grass.

The party was starting to break up. People stumbled out in a state of utter derision. Or in droves of a mockery of their unfulfilled lives.

The look of utter helplessness on her face was luminous even in the dark. The fidgety movement of her feet were a further testament. I casually asked her if she would like to leave.

She said yes. Without even knowing if I had a car or a place to crash in. The desperateness of her acquiescence made things easier.

No music played on the stereo as I drove through the quiet yet haunted streets of a city that pretends to sleep. She looked listlessly out of the window, trying to find a foothold in this maze of electric lights and undeciphered emotions.

The lock clicked and I turned to her. She smiled with renewed energy and walked inside my modest studio.

The kitchen was clean. The bed was made. A few of my books were lying around. The laptop was still hibernating. The only glitch was the cup of half-drunk stale tea from the previous morning.

She walked into the bathroom. I followed.

She stood in front of my huge mirror that reflects back till your waistline. Her hands were resting on the edge of the wash basin stands. For support or not, I’m yet to fathom.

I looked at her. Her face in the pale yellow light that hung above the mirror that reflected her image to me, as I stood leaning against the bathroom door. And how it threw shadows over her immaculate neck.

How a single horizontal slit would make it even more painfully beautiful. The creaminess of her skin that forms a perfect background for thick red blood to slowly drip down.

And I twisted the blade slightly between my fingers.

The Nun With The Shaved Cunt

I bit my tongue. That was the involuntary action that I could muster in the little fraction of the second when the voice that made its way through the tunnels of my left ear sent my nerves into a murderous frenzy. It left behind a gentle tingling sensation on the tips of my fingers.

The voice of that certain Mr. X (for reasons of conditional anonymity) had certainly produced no such effect before. And highly unlikely to stimulate such extravagant demonstration of feelings in the future either. The careless juvenile selection of words was the grave he dug so tragically, in the valley of respect.

Later, when I could still taste the mild saltiness of blood that just coursed through my mouth sometime back, I experienced what could only be termed as a placid form of depression. Not because of Mr. X, with his gentlemanly yet sexist front, but just the sad reminder of the times we still live in. Not so very nice you see, dear Sir.

And somehow in some perfectly inexplicable way, I thought of how so many of our sexist beliefs pertaining to women, all stem from the big wide world of Pornography. And mind you, when I say ‘our beliefs’ I meant both men AND women. So we come back to the question of porn again. How many of us women admit to seeing it at some point of time or the other? How many would actually admit it to another man? Or maybe just admit the fact that you liked it? I cannot lay claim to a sea of experience when it comes to interaction but whenever I have seen or felt in the various social circles I’ve had the good fortune to acquaint myself with, all I can deduce is ZILCH! Not so much in the homosexual circles though but then again the poor darlings have been themselves straitjacketed to the end of the judgmental spectrum themselves, way too much and way too many times!

But let’s not just diverge from the main focus of my today’s rant against the sexist, bigoted mentality that I’ve had the misfortune of being cohorted with in sporadic bursts of time. So men, in a huge majority sadly, like to believe that women don’t watch porn. But funnily, if their girlfriends admit to it, I have witnessed behavior akin to almost rushing to the nearest departmental store and buying a perfectly packaged bunch of the brightest red cherries to decorate the top of their mentally (and sexually) stimulating cake! For lack of better judgment or just the fact that I’ve never personally experienced such perverseness, the only conclusion I can safely draw is that they suddenly expect their girlfriends (virgin, non-virgin whatsoever) will become these absolute Domina’s in bed who :

a.       Love to blow for hours on end without any such visible needs of their own.

b.      Possess assholes wide enough for a bottle of wine to go up there and stay put till the time she has to accommodate her ‘other’ anal functions, without the slightest hint of discomfort.

c.       Will be writhing in bed in the throes of a wild orgasm by the sight of an unduly large male organ, or maybe just a teensy bit of fucking.

d.      Are absolutely rid of inhibitions about getting down to business with the mailman/ milkman/ postman/ their kid’s friends/…. You get my gist.

e.       And finally the pièce de résistance, women DO NOT have hair on their bodies! (Except the head of course, because lustrous tresses are to be worshipped according to popular culture.)

This brings me into the realm of reality check. Trust me, I am hardly the abusive type and hurling unladylike profanity is pretty unlikely for me. Not because I insist on behaving like a ‘propah’ young lady but I have always cradled the belief that it is quite possible to communicate the torturous murderous feeling running in your veins by just the few right words with a little bit of punch! But never before has my mind gone into an overdrive so furiously fast that the status in my head hardly needs to be elucidated here for the voyeuristic benefit of another.

After I had reasonable time to calm down and think rather than blow fire through my flared nostrils, all I could intensely feel was a strong putrid taste of disgust. Back in my high school days, I once casually happened to go through the “Bridget Jones Diary” by Helen Fielding. I do not remember the exact lines so I dare not quote, but the basic premise of it was that women have to work harder than farmers to please men what with all the waxing, shaving, threading, bleaching, dyeing, and what not my fellow women subject themselves too. At that time, being quite naïve, I dismissed the view as one belonging to the era the book was written in rather than the era of adulthood I would be stepping into soon. Well, talk about a resounding slap in the face!

But still, the hypocritical status of our modern mindsets hardly gives me any respite. Sexual desires, however phenomenally strong and pronounced, have to be covered under this colossal blanket of chastity. BECAUSE, somewhere somehow women have condoned such behavior. Not the women living behind colourful veils in closeted spaces but even the ones putting on the perfect fragile façade of modernity, as to baffle any normal person, with the duality of emotions and behavior. I am not claiming to be perfect but then I also don’t shave my cunt and then lay claim to my oh-so-precious virginity.

This driving need to please the not-so-weaker sex has sent me grabbing for my pen finally. I have contemplated writing this for a really long time than I would care to admit. And yes one of the major reasons was the judgment and criticism that would ensue.

But then I realized, who am I trying to please?