Ex-girlfriends

Heavy lingering souls of those beautiful women,

who left that man "tainted for life;"

how is your heart more precious than mine?

What have you done differently,

what magic formulae do you have?

That there is a corner still in his wallet, 

that clutches on to a picture of you.

What is this reverence that you people receive,

why are you always better than I?

Love's discrimination I wasn't spared.

All I saw was the dance of dispair.

You were the one worthy of a lifetime,

I, a mere shadow from a drunken night.

You were "effortless," but I an "attempt;"

my MAs, Phds, can't compete with your life lesson.

So even though you broke his heart,

higher he holds you in his eyes.

Between us you will always lie,

an awkward little tupperware full of moonlight.

You are the story,
I the glass of wine on the side.
But in limbo no more I shall live.
So I say, "burn those wicked witches."

"Burn them, they're all alike."

And as I raise my torch up high,

the mirror cracks from side to side.

But you look just like me;

you and I are all the same,

a coin and it's two sides.

Wait, let me look at you again,
let me look at you through my own eyes;

and then let me decide.

Why women deserve to be raped

Rape is not a bad word. Oh not at all. It's just something Indian men do when they're bored. It's not really a big deal. After all, what can a poor man do if a woman dresses provocatively and goes out in the streets. It's only natural he'd want to devour her after that. Though sometimes it's important to rape them because they needs to learn a lesson. Good Indian women don't show skin when they go out. So if she oversteps, she ought to be raped.

But then, there are times when men rape women who keep covered up. But other women dress provocatively. At the end of the day they are all the same. So they all should be punished.

Sometimes the women are old and the most fascinating of all is when they are babies. These folks are raped because men want to. Now, if they want to, they want to. Who dares to deny food to the hungry Gods. Lord, how stupid to even question.

The chief beef here is, what is the big deal with rape? What's the worst that can happen? Alright, she can get killed, so what? What good is she anyway. That bitch smiled too much when she walked down the streets. What else? She could be injured, but she'd be fine. Aren't women supposed to have high endurance and stuff? Pregnancy - that's super easy. Abortion or marriage with dead sister's old husband or half dead single uncle or that man with half an eye and quarter of a heart left in his body, should do it. But mostly it's pointless marrying her because she's a dishonorable woman. She's been raped. What else, is there anything else to the aftermath of rape?

But it's important to remember that ALL kinds of women deserve to be raped. Sometimes some dumb emails go around telling women what is it that men go for and how they should be, to avoid getting raped but then that's a gross generalization. A humiliation and underestimation of all rapists. Let's see what counts for  "rape-able":

1. Provocatively dressed women (ranging from a woman in jeans and t-shirt to woman in mini skirt and tank top). Oh her jeans are too tight. That's one helluva tempting rack. Bitch.
2. Women who dress conservatively (but other women dress provocatively so all women need to learn a lesson).  Also one still can see her shape and that means she's trying to lure men. What does she expect.
3. Women in ponytails (they definitely didn't read the "protect yourself from rape email").
4. Women who leave their hair loose (Oh so they read the email and decided to not listen. How dare they).
5. Women who use their cellphones while on the street (if she's so easy to distract then it's not the mens' fault)
6. Women who don't use their cellphones while on the street (if she looks the men straight in the eyes and invites it then what else does she expect).
7. Women who walk with a serious face (what's her problem?).
8. Women who walk with a pleasant expression over their face (she's definitely asking for it).
9. Women who talk.
10. Women who argue.
11. Women who go out late in the night (characterless anyway).
12. Women who smoke (she's sure been fucked by many so why not share).
13. Women who go drinking in bars and pubs and clubs.
14. Women who wear make-up.
15. Women who drive alone.
16. Women who walk alone.
17. Women
18. Girls
19. Elderly women
20. Babies
It goes on.

The problem is, women cry too much when they're raped. Or let's just say they cry too much all the time so whatever they say is of no consequence anyway. Rape cases should not be reported. How shameless is the woman who goes and tells the world that she's been raped. And then those women who go around protesting wearing make-up and looking pretty. Whoever told them they have a mind and can speak up. God knows what's happening to this country. So much for one little rape case in Delhi this December.  Come on people let's lay back and live easy. Let's vote for politicians like the President's son and stick to English-Vinglish and all those major women's issues. Why waste time on this. Isn't it clear why women deserve to be raped?

Nothing

It was a drop. Nothing alarmingly big, nothing insignificantly small. Plump, convex, ruby red. It fell with a tinkle on the white marble tub. There was silence and stillness at the loss of that jewel but as many more of those trickled down her very very slender wrist, there was a shiver. Then that shiver made way for many. And shivers took over her entire body. Within her hand she was clutching something precious. She wouldn't let go, even while she watched the swirly red pool around the drain.
She just wouldn't let go.

She was probably used to it. She probably had already parted with each and every drop of it anyway. So there was no pain, no hurt, no horror at that moment. It was perfectly fine. It was purging in a way.

Slowly, the lights flickered, a mad array of colours and shapes took over her space. And as her tiny feet got inked crimson she indulged in her last morsel of air.

Too heavy, in a jiffy, she slumped towards the earth. A sudden sense of limpness betrayed her stubborn grip. It let loose a whiff of stench. Her last offering to this world, her secret. So that everyone could see the naked truth. Clutched within her hands, was just, a fist full of nothing.

And so she sat there as she crossed the footbridge to the other world, in a white marble tub, in a dark bathroom, in an old building, on a busy street, within an unruly world with an caring air.

Buried

How often have you felt pain, so great, so deep as Debbie felt that day? You can't count on it, that the answer is never. But the strange part about this story is, that Debbie never felt the pain that day. Not as much as she did each day, for the rest of her life.

She was running down the street, frenzied like the storm. Tears pouring out of her eyes and streaking across her face as she tears through the wind. It had been cloudy for a while, and just then thunder struck the sky. The ladies in their attires of bright colours popped open their umbrellas like a synchronized dance movement to the slight drizzle from the sky.

Everyone was so self engrossed outside, they were just looking for shade. While Debbie just ran, she ran as fast she could. Oh and did I mention she was clutching that thing, so close to her heart. It was a brown paper bag pressed within the fingers of her left hand.

Very soon, as the world began to turn into a haze behind her, she reached where she had to go. It was the canal, that was flowing through the heart of the city, dirty, murky and full of trash. She was sprinting so fast, she somehow stopped at the barricade. Thunder struck skies above enveloped her as she pulled the paper bag away from her heart. Little could she see what was inside, it was wrapped once, twice, thrice over. Her exercise had ripped the bag a little. Her hand was smeared with blood. Quiet as a rock, she parted the folds of the soiled paper bag and there it was, the fetus, a lump of flesh and blood. Then with one quick move and one brief grunt, she tossed it into canal and looked at her hands stained with blood. No it wasn't that moment when she felt the greatest pain. God had another plan for her, he showered the most torrential rain from the skies. Within seconds, her hands were clear. She looked around, there was no one. And that's how it was usually around that stretch of the canal. But Debbie whirled herself around, searched for a face but none did she find. And at that point she felt the sharpest kind of pain. For the rest of her life on secret and no one to share. Not even by accident, not even by chance, not even force was anyone there. It was buried.

Are you over this break-up?

New York has its unique ways of bringing people together. Five years ago Maya and Tara came together in their little New York apartment at 110th and Riverside Drive, Apartment 5C. Those days, Tara - six feet tall, blonde actress and fashion photographer, was struggling to find a paid gig of any kind. Maya on the other hand was a fresh arrival from India to pursue her Ph.D in Literature and Creative writing from Columbia University.

These days, Tara (29) is assisting James Black, Vogue's favourite fashion photographer. Maya (26) however, is still struggling to finish her Ph.D.

17th May 2012
Maya and Tara are chilling in Maya's room. Maya is sitting on the rug, painting her toe nails in a bright shade of "cherry tomato" while Tara is lying on her stomach, on the bed, is reading the latest issue of cosmopolitan.

"Do you think reading cosmopolitan is unintellectual?" Tara asks Maya.
"Ummm...I think you're good as long as you're reading something."
Tara clumsily turns the page.
"All right, let's do this quiz. 'Are you over your breakup', twenty glorious questions to freedom. Let's go with you since I have literally forgotten how to have a romantic relationship with the other homosapien sex."
Maya shoots her a "weird" look.
"So Maya, what's the most difficult part about life after breakup? Is it A) No one to take care of you. B) No one to make love with. C) No one to give you sweet presents or D) No one to fight with. Huh?"
Tara wriggles her eyebrows curiously.
Maya finishes painting her toenails with a master-stroke of her cherry tomato over her little toe.
"What do I say, these are ridiculous options. None of them make sense and I AM over this break up."

Tara bursts out laughing. Maya looks at her angrily.
"Oh, so you don't think I am over him?"
"Ah, yes. You are over him. But are you over this break up? Uh-ah. NOWAY."
"What's the difference? And what is,  'are you over this break-up' anyway."
"Come on Maya, what's your answer, A,B,C or D?"
"None. I mean the only thing that I find difficult about this break up is that I still find his golden hair camouflaged in my bed and that makes me sad. It makes me sad to remember that he once used to sleep in my bed. That I had someone next to me. And it keeps reminding me that it was not a bad dream, it was all real. And now he's sleeping in someone else's bed. Asshole!"

"Ok Maya, next question. Are you ready to sleep with someone else?"
"Sure. If my new thesis advisor Mr. Andrew Keller agrees to it."
Tara closes the magazine with an excited slap.
"Shut up, seriously? I thought you were kidding when you were yapping about his gorgeous brown hair that night at the bar."
"No way, I was perfectly serious. I have a major major crush on him and I have a strong feeling, now that he's my thesis advisor, I might just graduate next spring. And now I don't want to."
"You have this crazy thing for older men Maya."
"I don't know if I'd classify my "attraction tendencies" as that, but I do feel Andrew Keller and I connect in a strange, ethereal-romantic way but do I want to do anything about it - N.O. I don't think he's even thinking about it. I don't need another painful phase in my life by pushing this any further than where we are."

Tara listens carefully and then nods.
"Tara, tell me, do you like kids?"
"I would say mostly my relationship with kids of this world can be defined as peaceful." Tara smiles. "Peaceful? Seriously? Haven't you ever had a bawling baby next to you on an eight hour flight?"
" Eight hour flight? Come on, I am from New Jersey and that aside, no, kids are cool with me. I don't mess with them, they don't mess with me."
"Then why do they mess with me? Today, the entire time on the subway this kid just screamed his lungs out and his mother was pretending like she's deaf. And strangely most people even found the kid cute. I just wanted to punch him. And then I saw this ugly fourteen or something boy with like a twenty something woman kissing in the subway car. It was disturbing. Then I realized that the girl is not twenty, she's just dressed to look older. And then that was even more disturbing. I don't know, why do I have this strange relationship with kids?"

"It's all bad karma my friend." Tara speaks in a dramatic voice.
"Do you think even the break up was because of bad karma?"
 Maya looks up at Tara's face. Tara is silent.

Pages from my life

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try you don't get what you want.
Recently I may have run after things that I believed were good for me but it all turned out sour at the end of it.
I can't even say "at the end of it" because I never even got there.
Yes, there is a tremendous disjunct, a feeling of dissatisfaction, a lack of closure.
One might wonder if things so new, so embryonic in its existence could have the potential to effect someone so much.
But it's not the matter itself that is the problem, the problem is the nature of its existence, its form, its arch, its premature end.
I have made my mistakes, I know. But I never believed I could be worthy of this kind of punishment.
No one deserves to be in an emotional limbo and yet when I tried to free myself from it, why do I feel like I haven't budged an inch from where I was?

So I pacified myself by talking, by talking of good times, by talking rubbish but somewhere it didn't help.
Deep inside I am aware that it was all wrong, unworthy of probably even this blog post.

However, what makes this post worthwhile is the fact that writing has tremendous cathartic powers and with this I now have my closure.

Why

“The world is a terrible place.” She said taking a severe gulp off the clear green beer bottle dangling loosely off her hands and moving side to side between her knees.
His fingers still deeply engrossed in rubbing that delicate bit of paper filled with preciousness in the center, he looked up half way and smiled.

She assumed an offbeat crawl and went over to him. Her dark curls fell wildly over her face and she was clad in the most masculine t-shirts that revealed a sensitive shade of pink underneath, when she crawled.
“Nobody understands you.” She lit a cigarette dramatically.
He licked the rim of the paper and rolled it to ultimate perfection. The fragrant joint glowed between his lips and a vast mist of smoke covered his vision of her face. He took the cigarette from her hand and placed the joint within the soft horizon of her mouth.
“Nobody understands you.” She nestled into his strong strong chest and he wrapped his arms around her.
“But you do right?” He looked down at her face, so low that it almost looked like his eyes were closed.
“Nope!” The joint switched hands. He shook his head and let out a smile.

They swayed from side to side as the music became more pronounced in her world.
“Why is she singing so loud?” She said twitching her face to a strange contortion and putting her hands over her ears childishly.
“Who?”
She raised her eye-brows in response.
“Who?” He screamed.
“She. You know how I love her. Her voice is like silk." She paused. “Or used to be.”
“I am sure but I don’t hear her.”
She laughed wildly, throwing her head back. He traced his fingers over the smooth contours of her neck.
“Wow! I love your neck. It is so beautiful.”

She smiled, took his hand and got up from the floor. She swayed to the music and walked over to the low redwood table. She stood up on it and called him towards her. She started dancing. He walked over to her, pulled her towards him and rested his head under her heart. She held him so close. There was not a pore, not a molecule of air between them.
“Do you wanna dance?”
He had never danced on a table before. She could have, but this was her first too.

There was a haze of an earthy intoxicating scent around them. Yes, it was still glowing and taking turns between their lips.
He drew her close to him and they moved in the most lyrical dance ever.
“Do you hear the music?” She asked.
“No.”
“Do you know why you love me.
“No.”
“Do you know why I love you?
“Why?”
She leaned in and whispered into his ears, “Because…”