Needless to say, in the true spirit of man-bashing, I really do not care HOW many nice men are out there. As far as my vision – peripheral and all included – goes, the men I see around me and those dating chicks I know, are all the arsehole variety, stinky ones.
And for god’s f**king sake, I don’t know WHY does MS Word have to underline the word arsehole; it does not even recognize arse for that matter. Grr. Am I angry? Bah, not even remotely so. Am just trying to get into the spirit of things. I want to laugh. It is all so f**king so, so ridiculous. The entire fall in love-cry about it-fall out of love, cry about it situation. Because strangely, nothing seems to change the Cry About It status.
When in love, you are crying about whether he loves you enough, whether he’s about to cheat on you, whether you can match up to his expectations, or whether you are expecting too much and therefore pressurizing him. Or why he doesn’t call enough when once-upon-a-time he wanted you to call him even when you stepped out onto your balcony. Poor fellow used to be worried that his baby might fall off or something. Aww baby.
Or from remembering your favourite dress to opining on what nail paint suits you, he suddenly goes colour-blind or says blanket-decision things like, “Everything looks the same on you.” The somewhat kinder ones – who perhaps want you to stick around a bit longer before you expire your Utility Factor – will modify that statement to say, “Everything looks the same on you… I mean, looks good. Don’t ask each time… baby.”
And Doubt is a deadly thing; because strangely, you never are sure. Unless you find a loaded condom in the dustbin. (haha, cracks up at the memory)
If your man first gives you a blanket-statement and then adds a ‘baby’ after that statement, mark my words, the f**ker is up to no good. No, it does not necessarily mean he’s sleeping with another woman. It could be a man. Technicalities apart, it DEFINITELY means he is not interested. When the situation is rocky and the guy senses it, ‘Baby’ is often used as a Female Core Softener by him.
My Ex would use it each time to soften an argument, or ask for food, after an argument. It was always the same strategy. Fight, bitch, fight and just when I am about to explode or he wants to watch TV, “Baby, later.” It wasn’t the ‘later’, I would go all kachoo-machoo on the ‘baby’ and would ‘behave’. He would also use The Baby when I wondered aloud if the female colleague sending him shady song lyrics at 2.30 am (something to the tune of I-will-follow-you-wherever) meant anything specific…
(Kachoo-machoo is when you feel embarrassed for ever having opened your mouth and having questioned the intentions and motives of Such A Worthy person. You start believing that it is ALL your fault and every doubt is a figment of your imagination and that YOU were the reason the fight started in the first place. So you want to crawl and assure Such A Worthy person that it won’t ever happen again and so you keep your mouth shut and go on pretending that everything is okay while inside… You stew. And the bile, when it stews, just gets thicker. So while you want to scream out the allegations, demand a face-to-face talk and WANT clearance, you keep feeling guilty for having those thoughts. And nauseous. You feel like a doormat but you keep asking yourself, “But isn’t Love supposed to be about letting the small things pass and loving another despite everything? The good and the bad?” etc. So, you take MORE shit. Anyone ever felt kachoo-machoo?)
The good and the bad. Then there is Rotten. The Rotten should be dumped instantly. Beware though, Rotten comes in varied interesting packages. And always, as a RULE, he will SEEM to be the answer to ALL your prayers. Darlings, God is on vacation. So who the f**k is answering ALL your prayers? The dude is probably spam. Rotten. The trick to recognizing the Rotten from the Bad, is recognizing the kachoo-machoo. The INSTANT you begin to justify some horrendous behaviour or start questioning your Own sanity, STOP. Don’t do it.
If a man cannot make you feel happy, WHY the f**k are you with him?
If a man makes you cry once, he WILL make you cry again.
If a man hits you once, he WILL hit you again.
If a man is lying to you, nothing will make it stop and the lies will only grow.
If a man is not moved by your tears, he will not care even if you die. It’s harsh, it’s true.
If a man says, “Baby I am not sure,” don’t wait around for him to be.
If and when he is sure, he will seek you out. But DON’T wait. There was this girl who waited for this dude to be sure for eight years, they got engaged too; and a week before the wedding, he called it off. Sure, there are women who do such things to men too, but hey! This is called EVE Emancipation; the Adams can go f**k each other. And well, they are anyway.
And most importantly, for WHATEVER reason that your man turned nasty on you, it is NOT your fault. You don’t have to have a perfect figure. Or know every f**ker who ever sang just because your dude is interested in music. He reads and you don’t, great! Don’t kill yourself over it. What is the worst that can happen? That you will be alone? It’s far tougher managing to stay single than you can imagine! However, if at all you do end up staying alone, it is definitely better than living for and a with a man who hurts you.
If and when you meet a man who can love you, make you laugh, hug you, care for you and generally be what the man you want – assuming you are being the woman he wants too – give him all, love him to your heart’s content, have no shame in apologizing and don’t keep credit points when you do something for him. Be ready to stand by him, give him your support, your caress, the warmth of your body. Be his strength, vociferously, or silently. But WHEN he does the EXACT things for you.
If he does not, get out and get out fast. You are a human being who deserves to be treated right. If you cannot love yourself yet – for whatever reasons – start by NOT letting another abuse or unlove you.
And remember ALWAYS; the moment a man says, “I am not sure”, get out. A relationship is about taking the not-so-sure things in stride and WORKING around those. Not making a list of the workables and the non-workables and THEN deciding to get into things. Shrug. Perhaps, some people call that taking your time etc; but hey! If the Dude can hang with you and do pretty much everything else BUT “give” his heart. Ha ha. The arsehole is making an ASS out of you.
Get out. Stop crying. Go have sex. If you see his face when sleeping with another man, shut your f**king eyes (and think of what’s happening in the groin). FIRST, get out and THEN we shall figure what to do next. Rest assured, life does NOT end at a break-up. No madam, that makes it easy and rather boring. Life continues and it’s up to you to make it rather boring pining for the jerk that treated you like sewage in the first place… or doing whatever else with it. Shrug.
PS: This is for all of You, who are having a hard time breaking up and are wondering whether you will get over, or where did it go wrong, or why did he do it, or what was lacking in me or oh-my-god how will I survive.
(The boys can change much of the above to women as well. Rotten is genderless)
22.9.07
27.8.07
Just two more minutes please...
Mayuri stood there, in an orange printed saree and a green polka dot blouse that was tied between her breasts. Even through the small-white-flower print, the chiffon was transparent. She had worn her saree haphazardly, almost, as if in a hurry. Her face suffused with a strange warmth. She was pleasantly plump. Her hair, down to her waist, was open and she was standing at the window, smiling at someone in the distance. She and Arjun had made love for the first time last night. Arjun was 11 years younger than her. He was blind.
There was a knock on the door and four boys entered the room. “Where is Arjun?” they asked of Mayuri. She turned around sharply and upon seeing them, seemed pleased. “He just left for school…” she replied; and as she did, a very loud crash could be heard.
Everything went dark as screams of “Arjun has been hit!” “The truck ran him over!” “Someone take him to the hospital” “Call an ambulance” were heard. Mayuri just stood there, rooted to the spot. The one man who had loved her for what she was. Who had seen the softness in her despite her hard exterior. The one man who understood…a mere boy. Was dead. On the morning they had almost said they loved each other. And he had asked to stay for just two more minutes… and she had sent him away.
Mayuri stood there, rooted to the spot. Then her lip quivered, her chin, her eyes watered and as the tears rolled down her cheeks there was a wail….Mayuri, the prostitute, crumpled to the floor.
There was about silence for a split second… and then they had clapped. All of them. I was still curled on the floor, crying. The tears wouldn’t stop. But they were clapping. Some were crying. Before that, they had laughed with me as I had joked from the stage. THAT feeling. THAT sound. To have people move with you, believe what you are enacting. Sheer, sheer bliss. That was my debut on stage… September, 2004. The story of a 29-year-old GB road prostitute who falls in love with a 19-year-old, blind college boy. I loved every bit of it. One of my happiest memories.
And funny that she was there too… She who betrayed me and who I will never, ever write for again. OK. This is HAPPY post. Before I spoil it… ta.
There was a knock on the door and four boys entered the room. “Where is Arjun?” they asked of Mayuri. She turned around sharply and upon seeing them, seemed pleased. “He just left for school…” she replied; and as she did, a very loud crash could be heard.
Everything went dark as screams of “Arjun has been hit!” “The truck ran him over!” “Someone take him to the hospital” “Call an ambulance” were heard. Mayuri just stood there, rooted to the spot. The one man who had loved her for what she was. Who had seen the softness in her despite her hard exterior. The one man who understood…a mere boy. Was dead. On the morning they had almost said they loved each other. And he had asked to stay for just two more minutes… and she had sent him away.
Mayuri stood there, rooted to the spot. Then her lip quivered, her chin, her eyes watered and as the tears rolled down her cheeks there was a wail….Mayuri, the prostitute, crumpled to the floor.
There was about silence for a split second… and then they had clapped. All of them. I was still curled on the floor, crying. The tears wouldn’t stop. But they were clapping. Some were crying. Before that, they had laughed with me as I had joked from the stage. THAT feeling. THAT sound. To have people move with you, believe what you are enacting. Sheer, sheer bliss. That was my debut on stage… September, 2004. The story of a 29-year-old GB road prostitute who falls in love with a 19-year-old, blind college boy. I loved every bit of it. One of my happiest memories.
And funny that she was there too… She who betrayed me and who I will never, ever write for again. OK. This is HAPPY post. Before I spoil it… ta.
21.6.07
Uh-oh, it's an I-want-to-write night!
I hate reading medical sites. They always convince me that I have ALL symptoms for the worst kind of diseases. Current afflictions I am convinced of: uterine cancer, suspicious lumps in the breasts -- or possibly the last of the adipose tissue left that make my booblets -- and perhaps tuberculosis of the bone, thanks to the horrid little tail bone I have sticking out. It seems bigger everyday. And since I seem to believe in all the signs, I could be a borderline hypochondriac as well. And let's not forget the weight loss...
What bothers me more than the illness itself is: who will look after me and how will I pay? Because I need to work to pay and if I am ill and not working, where's the money going to come from? My parents are there for me and there are no two doubts about that. However, I cannot be a burden on them...or anyone. They of course don't see it like that, but I cannot explain it. I have done things my way and I have ensured that if anyone has had to pay or suffer, it is me for as far as possible. I have tried that my actions don't reflect on my parents or don't hurt them. Like I was very clear that if I wanted to live on my own -- which Papa was against -- it would be on my own money. Being able to 'earn' was all about being responsible for your own self.
And then, Papa had said on my 18th birthday, "Legally now, you can do anything. But not under this roof." Those two years were the worst between him and me... dating the boys he expressedly pointed out as 'bad' boys, not consulting him on ANYTHING, announced the college I had joined, announced the first job I took, announced I would be coming late, announced I wouldn't stay with any relatives... And we fought. I think I have been angry since. But not at him anymore. It was never his fault.
Are we what our parents make us? Do we somewhere choose what we want and conveniently blame them? Are they who they really are or what their parents made them? Mine did not teach me to smoke or skip meals or use bad language... Wait till he sees this. Once he sees the use of f*ck, dad won't be seeing much else in my blog. Like the first time he discovered that not only did I know the word f*ck, but my vocabulary also included 'horny'. And ALL that because even then, I liked to write. The scene goes thus:
Eve*, 19, typing on a Word document in her 2-year-old computer. It's early-on in second year of college and she's writing her diary entry, a la Doogie Howser, M.D. (well yes, and loved Wonder Years too, preferred it actually) And it's a sensitive post: happily writing about this "new dude at her new and first-ever summer job who's really 'f*cking' cute and how the other girls say he is always 'horny' and".... (Hears door open and sees intimidating father figure walking inside room in her peripheral vision) (turns out the father figure is indeed the father)
(Acting quickly, and in blind panic, Eve* quickly switches off the monitor. Unfortunately, a) she's not swift enough b) the act in itself is too loud an announcement of I-was-doing-something-you-won't-like)
Dad: What were you doing?
Eve*: Finished a college project, now going to help Ma in the kitchen
Dad: What project?
Eve*: Since when did we start discussing my projects? (In hindsight, now, 10 years later, I think THAT sentence should have been avoided)
Dad: Hmm. Show me.
(Sh!t) (Eve* of course instantly switches the monitor on, she's always one to take the bull-y by the horns. )
Dad: (reading, eyes moving up and down, pupils constricting at offending words, then becoming pin-points in anger) Hmmm. What trashy language is this? We need to talk. Come out.
(we go to the 'court': that's the outside verandah in our ground floor house, there's a cane hammock-swing and he is sitting in it, in his pin-striped, tweed housecoat and white, cotton pyjamas, looking every bit the army man he is... )
Dad: What do you mean by 'fucking'? And what are you writing?
Eve*: 'very' and fiction story
Dad: what?
eve*: It means 'very': he's 'fucking' cute means he's 'very' cute and it's write fiction project
Dad: (left brow raised, looking very threatening, he directs look at Ma, who's standing behind Eve*, trying to put in a word) --> "and what do you mean by horny?"
Eve*: It means stupid.
Dad: WHAT? Who told you that?
Eve*: The seniors in college. They use both the words frequently, so one day I asked, they laughed at the fact that I didn't know the words at 19 and told me the meaning."
Dad: And that's what they told you?
Eve*: Yes, fucking means very and horny means stupid.
And that was it. He let me go. I still don't know why. There's no way in hell he could have believed that... but WHY did he let me go?
Like I really want to know: Are they disappointed in me? In the way things turned out? Because if they spent their entire life wanting good things for their kid and just when said kid is supposed to take hold of the reins, she keeps doing things that are worrying and downright freaking out... WHAT do they think? I asked Ma and she said, "Dont ask stupid questions, we are your parents. We will always love you and be by you." And well, there's no point asking Dad because he will say, "Dont get melodramatic on me, go ask your mother, " and when (obviously) irritated I will remind him that I am 30 and an adult and we need to have a conversation, he would say, "You are 28, not 30, dont teach me your age; and even though you ARE 28, I am still your father." That would be the end of the conversation with me really angry.
And yet, even though he doesn't even know the brand I wear, he would say: "Baba, do you want a new pair of jeans? Let me buy you a TV, birthday present, eh?" And I would have to politely find a way out - so he sends gift cheques instead - and ma would still call every alternate day - because I yell if she calls everyday -- to ask the same questions. They really dont seem to care about the shit that I keep doing, or the things I should be doing and don't do, or the trouble I get into or me just being stubborn. I wonder: if this is Love, do I have it in me?
What bothers me more than the illness itself is: who will look after me and how will I pay? Because I need to work to pay and if I am ill and not working, where's the money going to come from? My parents are there for me and there are no two doubts about that. However, I cannot be a burden on them...or anyone. They of course don't see it like that, but I cannot explain it. I have done things my way and I have ensured that if anyone has had to pay or suffer, it is me for as far as possible. I have tried that my actions don't reflect on my parents or don't hurt them. Like I was very clear that if I wanted to live on my own -- which Papa was against -- it would be on my own money. Being able to 'earn' was all about being responsible for your own self.
And then, Papa had said on my 18th birthday, "Legally now, you can do anything. But not under this roof." Those two years were the worst between him and me... dating the boys he expressedly pointed out as 'bad' boys, not consulting him on ANYTHING, announced the college I had joined, announced the first job I took, announced I would be coming late, announced I wouldn't stay with any relatives... And we fought. I think I have been angry since. But not at him anymore. It was never his fault.
Are we what our parents make us? Do we somewhere choose what we want and conveniently blame them? Are they who they really are or what their parents made them? Mine did not teach me to smoke or skip meals or use bad language... Wait till he sees this. Once he sees the use of f*ck, dad won't be seeing much else in my blog. Like the first time he discovered that not only did I know the word f*ck, but my vocabulary also included 'horny'. And ALL that because even then, I liked to write. The scene goes thus:
Eve*, 19, typing on a Word document in her 2-year-old computer. It's early-on in second year of college and she's writing her diary entry, a la Doogie Howser, M.D. (well yes, and loved Wonder Years too, preferred it actually) And it's a sensitive post: happily writing about this "new dude at her new and first-ever summer job who's really 'f*cking' cute and how the other girls say he is always 'horny' and".... (Hears door open and sees intimidating father figure walking inside room in her peripheral vision) (turns out the father figure is indeed the father)
(Acting quickly, and in blind panic, Eve* quickly switches off the monitor. Unfortunately, a) she's not swift enough b) the act in itself is too loud an announcement of I-was-doing-something-you-won't-like)
Dad: What were you doing?
Eve*: Finished a college project, now going to help Ma in the kitchen
Dad: What project?
Eve*: Since when did we start discussing my projects? (In hindsight, now, 10 years later, I think THAT sentence should have been avoided)
Dad: Hmm. Show me.
(Sh!t) (Eve* of course instantly switches the monitor on, she's always one to take the bull-y by the horns. )
Dad: (reading, eyes moving up and down, pupils constricting at offending words, then becoming pin-points in anger) Hmmm. What trashy language is this? We need to talk. Come out.
(we go to the 'court': that's the outside verandah in our ground floor house, there's a cane hammock-swing and he is sitting in it, in his pin-striped, tweed housecoat and white, cotton pyjamas, looking every bit the army man he is... )
Dad: What do you mean by 'fucking'? And what are you writing?
Eve*: 'very' and fiction story
Dad: what?
eve*: It means 'very': he's 'fucking' cute means he's 'very' cute and it's write fiction project
Dad: (left brow raised, looking very threatening, he directs look at Ma, who's standing behind Eve*, trying to put in a word) --> "and what do you mean by horny?"
Eve*: It means stupid.
Dad: WHAT? Who told you that?
Eve*: The seniors in college. They use both the words frequently, so one day I asked, they laughed at the fact that I didn't know the words at 19 and told me the meaning."
Dad: And that's what they told you?
Eve*: Yes, fucking means very and horny means stupid.
And that was it. He let me go. I still don't know why. There's no way in hell he could have believed that... but WHY did he let me go?
Like I really want to know: Are they disappointed in me? In the way things turned out? Because if they spent their entire life wanting good things for their kid and just when said kid is supposed to take hold of the reins, she keeps doing things that are worrying and downright freaking out... WHAT do they think? I asked Ma and she said, "Dont ask stupid questions, we are your parents. We will always love you and be by you." And well, there's no point asking Dad because he will say, "Dont get melodramatic on me, go ask your mother, " and when (obviously) irritated I will remind him that I am 30 and an adult and we need to have a conversation, he would say, "You are 28, not 30, dont teach me your age; and even though you ARE 28, I am still your father." That would be the end of the conversation with me really angry.
And yet, even though he doesn't even know the brand I wear, he would say: "Baba, do you want a new pair of jeans? Let me buy you a TV, birthday present, eh?" And I would have to politely find a way out - so he sends gift cheques instead - and ma would still call every alternate day - because I yell if she calls everyday -- to ask the same questions. They really dont seem to care about the shit that I keep doing, or the things I should be doing and don't do, or the trouble I get into or me just being stubborn. I wonder: if this is Love, do I have it in me?
11.6.07
Recap
Many people, and I mean many people have been asking---> "What's with clit-chatting?"
Well, I don't suppose those who come on to the blog necessarily go to the first post... but here's the reason all over again.
Well, I don't suppose those who come on to the blog necessarily go to the first post... but here's the reason all over again.
My Vagina Monologues
After having heard about Eve Ensler's celebrated play, The Vagina Monologues, I finally got to see it -- performed by Mahabanoo Modi Kotwani and her team of actors. Four women talking about other women and their stories from the world over. Did I like it? Yes, it was well presented. Did I love it? Pause.
I could understand the story about the rape of Bosnian women. I could understand the story about the 72-year-old Parsi woman. But what about the women of TODAY? The apparently sexually liberated, knowing-her-mind, ball-breaking, board-moving, 21st century woman of today.
I am one. Supposedly all of the above. Or I was. Break-ups, child loss and physical abuse later: I really don't know. Am I emancipated? Finding myself, finding my Eve, finding my vagina. Literally and figuratively. Go figure.
I am, therefore I start...
I could understand the story about the rape of Bosnian women. I could understand the story about the 72-year-old Parsi woman. But what about the women of TODAY? The apparently sexually liberated, knowing-her-mind, ball-breaking, board-moving, 21st century woman of today.
I am one. Supposedly all of the above. Or I was. Break-ups, child loss and physical abuse later: I really don't know. Am I emancipated? Finding myself, finding my Eve, finding my vagina. Literally and figuratively. Go figure.
I am, therefore I start...
2.6.07
Why did Cinderella stay?
Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?
Why did Snow White bite into that apple?
When there were choices out there, in ample?
Or Sita who chose to walk on fire,
Despite sitting through situations, many dire?
I am not Sita, 'ella or White,
But am a woman in every right.
I could be all that you want me to be,
But you would still want more, and not just me.
So I sit up and watch and look and wonder
And hear the whisper in the distant thunder…
Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?
When she could've held the world at her sway?
Why did Snow White bite into that apple?
When there were choices out there, in ample?
Or Sita who chose to walk on fire,
Despite sitting through situations, many dire?
I am not Sita, 'ella or White,
But am a woman in every right.
I could be all that you want me to be,
But you would still want more, and not just me.
So I sit up and watch and look and wonder
And hear the whisper in the distant thunder…
Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?
15.5.07
All women are Jews
"Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine". The most iconic opening line ever... says Whitelight in response to the previous post.
Funny that Jesus should be mentioned, am currently reading Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint and this is what he has to say:
"They worship a Jew, do you know that Alex? Their whole big-deal religion is based on worshipping someone who was an established Jew at that time. Now how do you like that for stupidity? How do you like that for pulling the wool over the eyes of the public? Jesus Christ, who they go around telling everybody was God, was actually a Jew! And this fact, that absolutely kills me when I have to think about it, nobody else pays attention to. That he was a Jew, like you and me, and that they took a Jew and turned him into some kind of God after he is already dead, and then -- and this is what can make you absolutely crazy -- then the dirty bastards turn around afterwards, and who is the first one on their list to persecute? who haven't they left their hands off of to murder and to hate for two thousand years? The Jews! who gave them their beloved Jesus to begin with!"
I swear.... all women, regardless of where they are, are Jews. In West Bengal, they take the mud from a prostitute's compound to make the idols (some of the mud is mixed) of Goddess Durga. A whore and a goddess. They worship Kaali for strength and sacrifice new born girls. They call a cow a "mother" and then beat their own mothers. They are born out of vaginas and they call it a cunt. Yes, you cunt born, feels nice, doesn't it?
AGAIN, I repeat, when I talk of men, I do NOT generalise. There are nasty bastards around and a few good men. Request the Few Good Men to NOT be offended. Thanks to you, some women like me - crazy or whatever I might be - can write. And yet, thanks to some dicks, all men get labelled bastards. Shrug. Deified, vilified, loved, abused, murdered, sluttified, bitchified....sounds like a Jew and every other minority out there. Funny, no women, no world and they are a minority.
Funny that Jesus should be mentioned, am currently reading Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint and this is what he has to say:
"They worship a Jew, do you know that Alex? Their whole big-deal religion is based on worshipping someone who was an established Jew at that time. Now how do you like that for stupidity? How do you like that for pulling the wool over the eyes of the public? Jesus Christ, who they go around telling everybody was God, was actually a Jew! And this fact, that absolutely kills me when I have to think about it, nobody else pays attention to. That he was a Jew, like you and me, and that they took a Jew and turned him into some kind of God after he is already dead, and then -- and this is what can make you absolutely crazy -- then the dirty bastards turn around afterwards, and who is the first one on their list to persecute? who haven't they left their hands off of to murder and to hate for two thousand years? The Jews! who gave them their beloved Jesus to begin with!"
I swear.... all women, regardless of where they are, are Jews. In West Bengal, they take the mud from a prostitute's compound to make the idols (some of the mud is mixed) of Goddess Durga. A whore and a goddess. They worship Kaali for strength and sacrifice new born girls. They call a cow a "mother" and then beat their own mothers. They are born out of vaginas and they call it a cunt. Yes, you cunt born, feels nice, doesn't it?
AGAIN, I repeat, when I talk of men, I do NOT generalise. There are nasty bastards around and a few good men. Request the Few Good Men to NOT be offended. Thanks to you, some women like me - crazy or whatever I might be - can write. And yet, thanks to some dicks, all men get labelled bastards. Shrug. Deified, vilified, loved, abused, murdered, sluttified, bitchified....sounds like a Jew and every other minority out there. Funny, no women, no world and they are a minority.
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