Desicritics Author: IdeaSmith

The Indian Man

IdeaSmith — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 04:48:31 EDT

I remember reading a review of Honeymoon Travels which described KK Menon's character as thus:

He isn't quite a male chauvinist, just an Indian man.

I didn't quite get that at the time. Then I saw the movie and thought I understood a bit of what the reviewer was trying to say. KK Menon's Partho is a stiff-necked prude with very propah notions of behavior (for the Indian woman). He is quite unfortunately (for him) married to a vivacious Milly who tests his patience, shocks him with her uninhibitedness and generally keeps him quite jumpy. Change in the known order and spontaneity are not things that Partho symbolizing the Indian man, is comfortable with.

Recently, I was having a conversation with a friend, about the situation of 'going too far and too fast'. He shared a personal experience of that type saying,

We were on our second date and things happened. That was really too fast. But she didn't protest at all so I went ahead.

I had to stop him because I didn't think he realized what he was saying. That perhaps it wasn't 'too fast' for her. And that if it was 'too fast' for him, he didn't have to wait for her to stop; he could pull a stop sign himself. He looked at me as if the very thought had never occurred to him.

Oh well, Indian men. We deplore their ways, we roll our eyes at their habits but we love and live with them. I've resigned myself to the fact that 'Mama's boy' is not only a fitting description for every man of this species but also that most of them consider it a supreme honor higher than the President's medal.

The Indian man can be sweetly (and not so sweetly) ignorant of the female anatomy. Or he can be a regular Don Juan. But either way, he'll still be extremely startled when the woman climbs atop him and demands more. The Indian man, no matter how educated, liberated or metrosexual is completely unfamiliar with the concept of female sexuality.

A lot of Indian men are prudes. Oh right, they may make their lascivious remarks, their lecherous jokes and their elbow-nudging antics may drive us up the wall. But all of that is just bravado, a need to fit in with the peer group, no matter how old they are. At heart, it seems like they've all got issues with their own bodies which might be one reason they approach their partner's body the way a teenager might - tentatively, furtively, clumsily and quickly.

So now that I've derided the Indian man's approach to sex, let me tell you what I do find likable about him.

The Indian women is definitely the driving force even if she isn't exactly in the driver's seat. After all the feminist sirens from Bengal, the women auto-rickshaw drivers in Tamil Nadu, the demure-but-independent nurses from Kerala, the 'homely'/shrewd Gujju girls all live with Indian men. They have fathers, brothers, husbands and sons. Sometimes I think feminism and women empowerment just manifest themselves in unique ways in India, but exist they do. We've perfected the art of backseat driving in a lot of other areas of our lives.

The Indian man, he's quite green in this whole modern-world thing but he can be taught. Yes, beneath the somber pinstripes and the flashy gizmos, our desi Neanderthal man lurks but with some firm, tactful handling this man can actually be trained to be a worthwhile human being. I think I'd be right in saying that a lot of times our men hold us back. But in some ways, they are our safety valves, our terra firma. After all, they are also our papas who stay distant all through our childhood then run away to sob in silence when we get married, our protective bade-bhaiyyas who will just never learn that little sister grew up a long time back and doesn't always need a bodyguard, our mischievous but fond chote devvars and well the patis if not parmeshwar.

Quite tellingly, at the end of Honeymoon Travels, Partho in a rare bare-all moment tells Milly that he is intimidated by her, afraid of losing her to her spontaneity, afraid of letting go of terra firma. Hmm, quite touching and sweet actually.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the Indian man isn't at the forefront of his kind but maybe we, the Indian women, don't need him to be.

Fiction: I Am Jill's Last Wish

IdeaSmith — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 02:10:25 EDT

Julia labored up the dirt path, thinking, not for the first time, how long the years had been and how much had happened in them. Minute to minute, thunderstorm to typhoon, everything had kept changing. Of course, she admitted, the typhoon in those situations had almost always been her own will. There was so much to be lived in one life, after all! She had always enjoyed shaking people out of their complacency, out of their stereotyped ways of thinking. Sometimes people just needed another perspective. Or another person to show it to them.

These last few years she had not felt inclined to play rain-maker any more. Actually, Julia surmised, I suppose I never did like the discomfort it caused, these changes. But one does what one must. And the wheels had been rolling for ages now. How appropriate.

She sighed, a little out of breath. Almost near the top. The sight never failed to move her. An open sky spotted with pinpoint diamond-bright stars. And what was the colour of the sky? Orange? Brown? Black? Blue? An evening coloured sky with sepia undertones, she decided.

The grass was coming up from the ground in little clumps. She sat down with an undignified 'oof'. Anita would lecture her to doomsday about trampling on moths. What a thought! A moth would be there tomorrow and if not, another would be born. That was the way of life and the world would not end for the loss of one insignificant creature.

Anita was an environmental activist and may well be on her way to politics some day. Save the world, thought Julia, save it from Anita! She grinned to herself and added as an after-thought....they've done much to earn someone like her. Talk about a force of nature! Anita could run over a bulldozer. Good thing she had managed to channel that vitality into something that could only bode well. Julia was glad she had revised her original plans for Anita. There were enough of rats in the race, the capitalist world must not profit from yet another Anita. She was well placed caring for the real world.

There had been some trouble with Kenny initially. Julia frowned, thinking that his keen mind and sensitivity would have been well applied in creating something tangible. He would have been a wonderful architect. Or an urban planner perhaps. A perfect complement to his green-minded sister. And Anita needed a safety-valve like her gentle brother.

But Julia had realised that she could no more teach her shy son to turn gregarious any more than she could turn Anita into a dignified lady. Even Anita's fire could be tamed but it was hard to mould Kenny's uncomplaining persistence. Kenny was born to make music and teach it to children. Which he did well, gently coaxing out melody from restless, impatient young lungs.

It would have been nice to have him be the leader making sweeping changes to a difficult world. But well, there was always Anita for that. Anita, her brash, opinionated, hard-headed first-born. Quiet, unobtrusive Kenny was adding beauty to a world that his big sister was busy scouring with her acid speeches and protests. They could take care of themselves and the world. Julia was done with changing people's lives.

Feeling her breath relax back to normal, Julia sank back into the still-moist earth. A trickle of childhood memories seeped into her along with the delicious chill from the ground. Wandering off during games of hide-and-seek. It was fun to hide but she discovered shortly after how much more delightful it was to be the seeker. The trouble was people always wanted to tell you what and who to look for. And eventually they started dropping her from the games that her abrupt rambles would disrupt. Couldn't have the seeker going off after butterflies instead of her friends. It was annoying and it took a great deal of effort but she learnt to play their games.

Ah, well, time to indulge again, she thought with a faint smile on her lips. And she closed her eyes.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Jacques heaved out another box out of the tiny apartment. What a surprising load of stuff people kept in their houses! Potted plants - not the flowering variety but some sort of mini vegetables...what were they called? Sprouts? Herbs? All of them were being shipped off to that socialite-activist lady who was in the news recently. Something about aerosols and insects and the ozone layer. Whacko sort, he imagined, hoping to God that there was no bomb tucked away in any of the boxes. And then he smiled. Probably just a crazy old lady who collected strange plants the way some old ladies collected cats.

Plenty of books as well, he noted. He'd know, he had packed 8 cartons full of them! And these were going to an university down south. A will beneficiary, he supposed, probably a cherished and much-suffering nephew.

He stepped into the kitchen for a drink of water. Nice view, he thought, though it might seem lonely to someone living alone. Outside on the ledge, he noticed a slim notebook and cursed under his breath. Why did people leave their stuff in such unlikely places? A notebook on the window-ledge indeed! Like he was a bloody maid to pick up after them. Normally there was any amount of sentimental rubbish that people thought they just could not live without but left in all sorts of places. The odd thing was this crazy plant-lady had been fairly immaculate with her possessions.

He sighed and opened the book, wondering if he could just toss it into the trash. Who would notice one single missing notebook?

To go alone from a mountaintop on a twilight summer evening on an untended grassy patch...warm breeze turning just bearable, insects chirping and a distant stream flowing. Stars in a sky not black yet and the moon sliver-like. Incomplete. And then complete.

Suddenly he was interested. There was something about peeping into other people's lives and watching their silly idiosyncrasies. That was probably why he stuck to this crummy job. Packing people's stuff and lugging it around may not be the best job in the world but it did allow him to look into other people's lives without them realising it. He shook himself and read the next page.

Give me an evening
with the stars starting to shine
and an incomplete moon

Let me go with the vision of all that is perfect and complete
As well as the thought of all that still remains to be lived
Life and the universe will go on

I have done my share
May there always be water for every thirsty mouth
And a song for every melodious voice

No more lessons, no more games
No more fanfare, no more pomp

A celebration of one in a crowded world
Let that be my final bow.

Jacques shut the book gently. And then he did something he had never done before. He picked up the tiniest pot with a single baby basil plant in it and put the notebook into his pocket. As he walked out of the empty apartment, he tipped his hat to a lady he had never met.

Goodnight, Jill.

Movie Review: WALL·E - The Love Story Of A Robot

IdeaSmith — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 12:25:40 EDT

What if you could spend the rest of your life lying back in an easy-recliner chair? What if you never had to lift a finger to work again? What if everything you wanted and needed was at your beck and call, and you literally had to just...ask?

Maybe you'd read a book. Maybe you'd watch television all day. Maybe you'd eat all the goodies you ever wanted. Maybe you'd exercise, get spa treatments and beauty tips.

Maybe you'd be in bliss.

Maybe you'd forget what 'bliss' meant and even how to look up a dictionary.

And maybe, just maybe, in a world run by machines, two machines would meet, touch, fall in love and save the world. Not necessarily in that order either.

Say hello to Waste Allocation Load Lifter Earth-Class, a trash compactor robot, better known as WALL·E. Pixar brings us the delightful story of a lonely robot and his first brush with love.

WALL·E creates a future world where Earth is a gigantic deserted garbage dump and all of humankind is comfortably nestled in their individualized utopias aboard a spaceship. What is commendable is that this complicated story is told with a touching simplicity and laced with humour that appeals across age groups. In the theatre with me were a bunch of boisterous under-10s who ceased their screaming and rolling on the floor antics the minute the screen lit up and stayed put till the very end. It was helped even further by the fact that the movie has virtually no dialogue (I hate animation movies with too much dialogue!) and the story progresses neatly in action.

WALL·E's day begins with the sun shining over the wasteland of a planet as he stands at a vantage point charging his solar circuits. Solar-breakfast done, he bumpetty-bumps and clanks his way through the rubble and garbage and trash and stacks up the compacted blocks into neat fences, mountains, towers and buildings. There is a distinctly kiddie feel to this bit, reminiscent of the early computer games like Bob the Builder, except with a tad more pizzaz. The little-boy feel continues as we meet WALL·E's only living companion, a skeetering, screeching cockroach who gets run over every now and then but cheerfully shakes himself up and continues to creepy-crawl around WALL·E's dirty planet. We are then invited into WALL·E's tidy little gizmo-home, a delightfully tidied-up and neatly categorized metal container filled with racks of cutlery, wires, nuts-and-bolts and sundry other objects. After what looks like a hard day's work, WALL·E settles in to watch a TV program of human beings having fun, laughing, dancing and living. And he sighs..perceptibly. Awwww.

Along comes a snazzy, ultra-future-futuristic Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator or EVE and you guessed it - WALL·E's circuits start zooming (or whatever it is that circuits do) hundredfold. EVE is purposeful, efficient, focused and not in the mood for romance! As the sweet (and sometimes pesky) WALL·E woos his lovely robot-ess, she shrugs off his overtures in favour of more important pursuits - like saving the world.

Just as you wonder if this will be just another chickflick romance masquerading as science-fiction, the movie changes tracks. While WALL·E has been wheeling around peacefully on his planet, the rest of the human race has been upto a whole lot of living. As the podgy lumpkins that we've all turned into bump-wobble around, WALL·E and EVE join forces (or arms) to battle a runaway program. In the process, they're accused of being Rogue Robots, acquire a few friends like a green plant potted in a shoe and a cleaning fetishist called M-O. And all at once you realize that what started off as little-boy-comic, meandered into chickie-romance has grown into a fully-charged sci-fi plot with odd bits of humour.

Pixar must believe that God is in the details since every last nuance of the future, from WALL·E's wasteland littered with supermarket banners and plastic wrappers down to human beings chatting with each other online while unknowingly riding next to each other on the freeway. There are few real nuggets sprinkled through the whole movie like a robot getting a makeover, the captain whooping away into the night as he learns how to use a dictionary and a couple bracing themselves to catch a bunch of babies tumbling towards them with a "I think we're finally ready to start a family!"

So do they make it? Does the human race survive? Do we ever return to Planet Earth, filthy as it is? Does organic life ever create and re-create again? And do WALL·E and EVE finally meet?

WALL·E, a Pixar Animation Film releases in India on August 29. You should definitely watch it!

Real Women Don't Cry

IdeaSmith — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 10:17:52 EDT

They were in the same class. In my class.

She was the quintessential behenji in a hip crowd. Plaited hair, salwar-kameez and a sharp brain. In accordance to her curd-rice genes, she took copious notes, had a near-perfect attendance record and consistently high grades. She told me once that her ambition was to become like 'one of those Matunga Tamilians' meaning the kind that preened in a new kanjeevaram at every wedding, pattu-recital, arangaitram and poonal-ceremony. The ones that shopped in Matunga market and had kaapi at Madras Bhavan. The ones whose accent bespoke Tam-Bram-Americana. The ones who worked for multinational software companies in Silicon Valley. Or married someone who did. I didn't like her. I never liked wannabes and the ruthlessly ambitious ones always scared me.

He was Mr.EasyGoing. One of the many small-town boys who made it big by getting a toe-hold in Mumbai, starting with a college admission. He hated mathematics but managed it better than several of his classmates, owing to his engineering background. Engineering in something quite unfashionable like...instrumentation? Textiles? I forget, it didn't bear remembering anyway. He was dazzled by the glamour of Bollywood, the smartly dressed girls around, the flashy cars and cool clothes that his Mumbai peers owned. He had a rustic wide-eyed charm along with the sweet modesty of someone who knows he is just a moth in a crowd of butterflies. I liked him. Everyone did.

It seemed symbiotic. She was authoritative, demanding and bossy. He followed her around meekly, doing her bidding, snapping to her orders. And things always turned out well with high marks for everyone. We called him her P.A. Only because we liked him too much to call him the more realistic-but-demeaning 'puppy-dog'. He bore it in good humour, as he did everything, smiling shyly. And all was well.

An entire year later, we had moved on to more serious things than other people's admirers. Ardent admirers had metamorphosed into abusive boyfriends, cheating rogues and impossible cads. I looked across the canteen to her, a tinge of envy in my gaze. She had always had him right under her thumb and she wasn't even that nice! And he was devoted to her.

Later that evening, I wandered back into the canteen for a quick bite and to pore over my books in solitude. The library was always too crowded and charged up with nervous adolescent tension during the exam fever. The canteen, emptied of its regular raucous crowd (now frequenting the library) was the peaceful haven I needed to concentrate.

As I sipped my tea, I looked across to the few occupied tables. They were sitting at a table in the corner. I would have moved on, except he spotted me and waved. So I waved back. And shouted a HI! across to both of them. Oddly enough, neither responded.

She had her head down on the table, turned away from me. I thought I could lip-read him telling her that he was speaking to me and that she might look up any minute. She didn't. With a surge of annoyance at her impossible rudeness, I looked back into my book. Then he called out my name. I looked up to see him frantically gesturing for him to come over. What a bother.., I sighed and shut my books.

As I walked the few feet over I suddenly had a premonition that something was terribly wrong. He wasn't smiling. And she sat stone-cold in her seat, head down like she was dead. Only when I neared their table close enough to sit down did I hear the soft anguished voice. I had to force her head up from the table. She looked awful. Hair awry and eyes swollen, alarmingly red. And a voice like I had never heard before. She was murmuring,

He says he is going to leave me. He says he is leaving. I asked him why did you say you loved me? He says he was just joking. And he is leaving.

I looked up at him, frank embarrassment at being privy to a private conversation. And I was startled by something I had never seen in his face before. It was cruelty. Sheer, cold cruelty. He was cutting her up with a knife and he knew it. It was deliberate. And then, before my eyes, Mr.Nice Guy cooly got up, dusted his palms and walked out of the canteen.

For an hour I sat with her, a girl I had never liked, while she poured her heart out to me about the crimes of a guy I thought of as a jolly good fellow. The dreams, the hopes, the expectations - everything that had lain under the ruthless ambition. All her drive and zeal to do well and carry both of them out of their lower-middle class status, out of the gargantuan family expectations that they may both be able to stand up and do what they wanted one day. And just before the very end, just before the final exams, he had cut her out. He hadn't meant a word of it. It had all been a sham. And she was devastated.

The first exam was the next morning. I kept a watch on the door, wondering if she would make it. She did. Face badly puffy, she drifted in unobstrusively. And across the room he sat, laughing and joking with his friends like nothing had happened. He didn't bat an eyelid as she walked in, deeply wounded dignity intact and sat down in the seat in front of him. And then the test begun.

In the second week of the exams he was seen chatting up two girls from the other class. And by next month it was rumored that he was seeing one of them. The P.A. joke faded out and was never raked up again, even while other mortifying love-tales were dug up at every alumni meet.

But something shifted for all of us in that one month. All the boys from her "I'm a tomboy!" days seemed to be saying with their sneering glances, "It served her right."

And what about the girls? She had never had any friends among us. We never discussed it across our cliques and no one ever said anything to her. But none of us ever spoke him again.

She graduated with top marks and found her footing in a job-tough market. Marriage happened a year back, to another man of her own choice. Of him I know nothing more and have no desire to, any furthur. It's good to want something and wonderful to get what you want; just not at the cost of stepping on someone else's toes - or heart.

She once introduced herself on stage with -

When it rains, I feel the rain.
The others just get wet.

Perhaps she never knew that there were people who would hold out an umbrella for her. But then again, she probably didn't need it. Real women don't cry - they just feel the rain on their faces.

Can A Straight Woman And A Lesbian Woman Be Friends?

IdeaSmith — Tue, 8 Jul 2008 02:53:51 EDT

That's like asking if a guy and girl can have a platonic friendship, isn't it? The question is given the possibility of a sexual/romantic connection, can a relationship exist even without it?

Okay, let me get out of the pseudo-intellectualizing and go real-life. I do know some lesbians. One of them is a friend. She hasn't actually 'come out' as they call it or even 'confessed' to me, if such a revelation can be labeled a confession (as if it were a crime and one should look shamefaced about it!). Yet, I know. Don't ask me how. I'd be a terrible friend if I didn't realize it. As it is, I'm probably not as great a friend as I ought to be if she hasn't felt comfortable sharing the truth with me. Or perhaps it is just too personal, too precious to her to speak about it. Either way, I'm fine with it. After all, I don't consider friendship as a permission to sit in judgment and I also don't think that one's orientation bears judgment by others.

So that's as far as it goes regarding our conversations (or the lack of them) about her sexuality. However there are other things...undercurrents, emotions and grey areas. For example, how far do I go with my displays of affection? I'm a natural born hugger, I love hugging my family, friends and people I feel close to. Thus far the only complication has been with men, particularly the ones in my age bracket with whom there is/could be a a certain attraction. Like most other women, I've tried and tested the waters and reached a certain comfortable balance of physical proximity with the various men in my life. Now we arrive at the new complication of having to consider the same thing with another woman as well.

Personally I believe that sexuality isn't binary with a person being either homosexual or heterosexual (and how does that account for bisexuality?) ; it is more like a range of shades and all of us fall somewhere along the scale. Or perhaps we even move up and down the scale at various points in our lifetime.

Note now I'm talking about orientation not actual action so for the more conservative-minded, I'm not accusing you of doing anything that could shock you. And if you follow my belief it means that each of us is capable of feeling attraction for any other human being, male or female at any point of time in our life. I've written about my own bi-curiosity (as Desiblogging termed it) before. I'm quite unabashed in my admiration of other women. But I find it stops right there and I have no desire (physical, hormonal or otherwise) to go any furthur than that. That in my mind is what determines my orientation and keeps me in the dating pool of male partners.

How do you distinguish the affinity and closeness that like-minded women share from sexual attraction? How far do you go with someone you think there could be a spark of attraction with? How close do you get to someone you suspect might be attracted to you?

And therein I find I'm back on the same territory as I was a few years back when I discovered the opposite sex, attraction and love. Friendship is so wonderfully simple but the hormones just come and complicate them all, don't they?

To come back to the case in point, my lovely lady friend appears to be in a relationship as well. How do I know? No, she hasn't mentioned that either but it is clearly visible to anyone who knows her well. I wish I could speak up and tell her how happy I am that she has found someone special. When her eyes light up at the mention of her girlfriend, I wish I could tease her and hug her in sheer glee. But I don't.

I also wonder sometimes what her girlfriend thinks of me. Just as I wonder what the wives and girlfriends of my guy friends think of me and I walk around on eggshells until I'm totally, completely 120% sure that they have no qualms about my closeness; I wonder in this case too whether her girlfriend ever resents me or even, well, frowns a bit at our closeness. Oh well, I think not. She seems a good sort in herself and I'm guessing if I had known her before I'd have been friends with her as well.

So to answer my own question of whether it is possible for a straight and a lesbian woman to be friends. Yes, yes, I think so. After all, sexuality is physical and perhaps mental but friendship, love and loyalty come straight from the heart.

The Vagina Dialogues

IdeaSmith — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 11:20:44 EDT

Eight years after hearing about it for the first time, I finally watched The Vagina Monologues. Wish me a happy birthday since I'm being reborn. On second thoughts, don't say a word. Just listen as we speak - my vagina and I.

I hated being a woman. The restrictions, the rules, the fears of my mother, it made me angry.

I hated being a woman. Being smaller built than the boys, slower than them at games, lagging behind them on my bicycle, my scrawny legs pedalling furiously to keep up. I never could.

I hated being a woman. It took me a long time to get used to my curves. I walked like my flat-chested 12-year-old self till I was 17. Till a classmate told that it wasn't the done thing for a girl to walk with such a straight back. Till, a boy said, "You walk with your boobs thrust right out at the world." And when I did get used to them, I took them on with a vengeance and used them as lethal weapons. Bait? Hah! Call them Venus fly-traps! I loved their power and I hated them for the compromise they were.

I hated being a woman. Bleeding every month, feeling pukey and giddy-headed and sticky and smelly.

I hated being a woman. 10 years old and being told, "Boys can do whatever they like. But a girl's reputation is like glass." Twelve and my tuition teacher's voice, "What a horrible laugh, so loud and monstrous! Look at Sonya, how prettily she covers her mouth when she laughs. And she doesn't make a sound." Thirteen and being admonished, "Sit with your legs together. Only a slut sits with her legs apart." Yes, I really and truly hated being a woman.

But I didn't always. I didn't know I was a woman for some time. And then suddenly I did. Or more accurately, I suddenly knew he was a man. As he introduced me to his manhood and asked me to pat it, hold it, feel it.

Oh stop! I wanted to scream. But I didn't. I held myself back. And I held myself in. Realizing suddenly that if I didn't, everything inside me would fall out of the hole. And in that moment, I separated my vagina from me.

Sometime later, I summoned up the courage to tell my parents. I said he had tried to kiss me once. 'Tried to', not did. 'Once', not many times. 'Kiss me', not....

My classes were stopped and we didn't speak about it again. I gave up trust that day as well as faith in men. I even stopped hugging my father. I assumed a genderless identity. And later, sexuality was paraded as an accessory, not experienced from within.

As the years passed, I built armour upon armour. The strongest of them was the decision that when I was uncomfortable or hurt or unsure or unwell, no one would know, least of all the person who caused me pain. I banished the fears. I suppressed the blushing and giggles. I stifled innocence and wonder. I held back pain. I shut down tears. I sent them all to the dungeon to keep my shameful prisoner company.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
I didn't speak of it for ten years. One day a neighbor asked my mother about the guitar lessons I'd taken, since she wanted to send 8-year-old daughter for them too. When my mother told me, I asked her to tell our neighbor what had happened. She admitted that she was too embarrassed to. I said, "If someone had told us the truth a decade ago..." and I left the room. There was nothing more to say.

Four years later, I was playing a silly game with my boyfriend, slapping and giggling. Then in a dramatic flourish, he pinned me down and held my wrists. That's the last thing I remembered. The next thing I knew, he was shaking me very gently and asking, "What happened? I was only playing." I didn't say a word. Apparently I'd gone all stiff and began whimpering.

My vagina was locked away into a dungeon when I was nine and went into silence after that.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
As I watched the monologues and the vaginas of women around me sing and squeal and laugh and moan, I asked myself,

If my vagina could speak, what would she say?

And I heard her stammering, painfully shy reply so clear it made me cry.

She said,

I AM SORRY.

I'm sorry I disappointed you.
I'm sorry I hurt you.
I'm sorry you are in pain.
I'm sorry that I remind you of my existance.
I'm sorry I exist.
I'm so very sorry that I didn't make you happy.
I'm really sorry that I don't make you proud.
I'm sorry that you're ashamed of me.
I'm so, so very sorry.

And as she spoke, her fellow prisoners stepped free from two decades of confinement. I had scratched off the worst I'd seen in my life and sent them down to my vagina, keeping the best bits for the part of me on show to the world.

My poor vagina, surrounded by my shame,
my guilt,
my pain,
my bad memories,
my nightmares,
my anguish,
my betrayal,
my agony,
my frustration,
my sorrow
...and my tears.

She cried, my vagina cried. And for the first time in years, I did too, with her.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~Small wonder then that my relationships failed. Such a hellish place it had turned into that I'd only send those I wanted to banish down there. No wonder the very worst of men appealed to me and the very worst in them turned me on. And even they were petrified by what they found there.

I hated doing it in the dark.
I hated doing it on my back.
I hated doing it in bed. Or a couch. Or a car. Or in the open.
In fact I hated doing it so much that I never did.

Those who came to visit were offered a gracious cup of tea and then lulled into a battery of tests - a moat, a dragon, an army of defenses. And those that got past, walked up to the gates to find them locked. No entry into this love-lane, we're shut, you're unwelcome, go home. They did.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~My new friend calls me a child and tells me that there's a little girl he sees when he looks at me. Now I understand. At long last, I'm in the throes of an emotion nearly long-forgotten - TRUST. I banished it to my basement along with the other more tender emotions. If other people trust with their hearts, mine has gone made its home in the hovel downstairs. I trust from deep down there, like a slender creeper growing out of the ground. And what do you know? He's right after all. My vagina thinks she's only nine years old. That's the last time she breathed free. Sweet child of mine indeed.

I used to be a sweet child. Warm, affectionate, trusting and open and always getting into scrapes. All of that went away with the confinement, right down into my vagina which is everything I am not. Sweet, pure, soft and warm. And it stayed that way for twenty years despite the confinement.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~The book was wonderful. But the play brought it to life. It made me laugh (not smirk) and cry (not scowl). It gave my vagina her freedom and her voice too.

This is for Mahabanoo, Dolly Thakore, Avantika, Jayati (the moaner!) and Sonal Sachdev, the wonderful, spirited ladies who made last night come alive at Prithvi theatre. You made me whole again. You brought me back to life.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

If my vagina were to dress up, what would it wear?

Well, it's worn iron shackles for two decades. Now, if she could, she'd like something light and airy - preferably nothing at all. :grin:

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~I read Lolita when I was eighteen. It was a revelation. One more step in what turns out to be a long journey. A journey of healing. A lot of people I've discussed the book with say that it is a sick book, making excuses for paedophilic behaviour. But I think, they just don't know. Of all the people, I can hardly be an advocate for child abuse.

But reading Lolita gave me some perspective on what happened to me. I suddenly saw my abuser as a human being - a very bad and flawed human being, a sick human being but a human being nevertheless. Not a monster, but human. And human beings can be overcome, overpowered and even forgotten. Almost.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~About 5 years ago I was at a doctor's clinic when I suddenly realized that the man sitting across me was my former guitar teacher. I was shocked that it had taken me that long to recognize him. Even more shocked at what I felt - nothing at all. In my memories he was a big-built man. But in person, after all these years he just looked so tired, so small, so weak, so obscure and so old. I can't change what happened and it would a lie to say that I've forgiven. This is a wound that cut me so deep, it bled me right out of the right to be angry and seek revenge. Seeing him again was like someone smoothing over the scars of the wound.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~I didn't have the courage to put this up online immediately. I had to ask a few friends about it. Two of them told me that it was deeply moving and should be shared. One cautioned me that I should remember to ignore any weird-ass reactions. Finally two others, told me about their own personal accounts of horror. And in the end, that's really what gave me the courage to share this.

Happy birthday to my vagina. And welcome to the world of the living again.

A Woman Among Men

IdeaSmith — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 11:49:02 EDT

I went out this weekend with friends, in an age group ranging from 22 to 30. It was an evening well spent in the company of people who could be variously described as intelligent, witty, cute, silly and fun. And I was one of the only two women in the bunch.

Was I then 'one of the boys'? No, I don't think I'll ever be able to go back to that. Relationships, romance, love, flirtation and sex just make you view the opposite sex in a way that never quite leaves you.

Was I then flirting and being flirted with? Well, not exactly. I believe that there's an underlying current of sex lacing every male/female conversation, irrespective of age, geography or relationship. It is after all an awareness of how the other person is different from you, in a complementary or an opposing manner (depending on a lot of other factors). But the conversation flowed easily around the table and across it jumping from movies to technology to other topics of common interest. It's been so long since I've done this that I didn't realize just how much fun it could be.

On a date or in a relationship, anytime where the situation is charged heavily by sexual electricity, I think it's difficult to really see all aspects of a person. The attraction and all the rituals that we perform to sustain it and build it, seems to leave very little room for other things. Even in groups of people, you can tell the atmosphere is nearly crackling sparks, if its members are expressing their sexuality overtly or otherwise.

All kinds of by-plays happen that overlap and occasionally conflict with each other. Emotions ride high in all directions and it's a potentially explosive situation. Not that I'm saying that it's a bad thing. I've enjoyed being a part of these for long enough and there's much to be said for the mating dance in terms of its sheer entertainment value.

However, a different situation stands out simply because it is so different. There's no heavy flirtation happening, no competition for attention, no charades. That's probably true of the first few encounters of any group of people - at work, at school and college and even in social settings. However, those first meetings are alternately charged with an acute curiosity about each other as well as a need to fit in or 'impress' the others.

This weekend party was one that had neither, which is probably why I found it relaxing even in a noisy, smoky environment. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to be myself, not having to impress anyone. And alternately it was good to not have to keep judging various contenders for my attention, juggling them and playing them against each. Does that surprise anyone? Yes, I do it just as much as the next woman - or man for that matter. The party was great for not having to do any of those things.

All I was, was myself. A blogger, a twenty-something professional, an amusing conversationalist, a woman in the company of men.

Another step in being comfortable with your own sexuality is realizing that you need not use it all the time.

Manguide 5: Bollywood Pin-ups

IdeaSmith — Mon, 2 Jun 2008 12:22:00 EDT

We can classify men by the cities they live in, the professions they pursue, the interests they devote their time to, and the languages they speak, what's left? The women they love of course! Here's a look at what you can tell about a man by his favorite Bollywood pin-up.

Sushmita Sen: Isn't it really obvious that is this a man who likes strong personality in his woman? I'm inclined to think that he'll also be a shy sort, the still-waters-run-deep kind but also a tad laid back. He has no qualms in letting the woman run the show and what a good job she does of it, too!

Rani Mukherjee: She played a prostitute in a number of movies and yet she retains the image of a 'good girl'. She was also the glam-ma'am who settled down to matrimony, motherhood and err..mortis. I'm hardly surprised that she's one of India's top actresses since she personifies the most common Indian male fantasy - the Barbie/Behenji. If the Munch girl is on his walls, you can be sure that Mr.Munchkin ain't going to like your mini-skirts post marriage, even if he chases you only when you wear them!

Aishwarya Rai: I'm no fan of this green-eyed diva. But she sure is popular with the boys. This one appeals to the kind of man who wants a trophy partner, the kind that will be delighted to turn cartwheels for his marble princess but freezes when he realizes that she breathes, feels, talks and - horror of horrors - thinks too! Freeze in place and don't even adjust your mascara till he's out of the room, ladies. This man doesn't believe that a real woman should perspire, shed hair or do anything that a marble statue wouldn't.

Mallika Sherawat: Now I bet you won't find too many men who admit to liking her. For that matter how many men actually admit to watching porn? You know I think the lady does have quite a nice face but well, who ever looks at her face? Watch for the dude whose eyes are permanently fixed a few inches beneath your chin. That's not shyness, that's a Sherawat fan. Quite likely he's comparing you with her...down to the last millimeter. On the other hand, if he openly admits to liking her, he might be the 'I do it differently' sort. Fun boyfriend to have if you run with rebels. For all that though, a man's basic instincts don't change.

Kareena Kapoor: Now I don't actually know a single man who professes an admiration for the Kapoor babe (except Saif and he doesn't count since he doesn't know me). And yet as reigning queen in Bollywood, she must have her share of hearts. I imagine she's the kind that a lot of men fantasize about but won't talk about it since they don't think that she'll ever 'ghass-dalofy' them and what man would admit to that? The average Joe (or Janardhan, Jaani etc) who sniggers at the mention that he could have an eye on the firebrand is probably mixing some nervous laughter into that as well.

Bipasha Basu: This is one surprising one. A dusky woman who rules the roost in a country obsessed with fair skin. Raw sex appeal meets ubercool. But ooh, I'm nearly drooling. Hmm, what can I say about the man that likes her? They all do! If he doesn't, assume he's gay!

Forgiveness, actually

IdeaSmith — Sun, 25 May 2008 13:32:35 EDT

A few thoughts on others' thoughts and sayings

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
Do banished memories go to hell? I hope not, 'cos I'll only end up meeting them there again. Besides they deserve better, so much better than the darkness in my mind.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
A friend who hurts you
....is the one most likely to come back and apologize
....is the one that deserves forgiveness the least.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
If intimacy is what happens when love and hate collide,
Then seperation is when they lie together in the same bed...or grave.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
I would hold onto any scrap of you that I can get,
Even if it is only a painful memory.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
I would make sure the memory of me never fades in your mind
Even if it means having to leave only a memory of me behind with you.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
Love means never having to say you're sorry.

I take that to mean, the situation of being sorry never arises. After all, what else is love but taking the other person's happiness as one's personal responsibility? Even if that's impossible, so is love.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
Forgiveness is admitting the humaness of the other person
And divinity in oneself.

I think I can live with being just human.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Forgiveness is for the world at large, a fair exchange for our own peace of mind. But anyone who is special enough to love, is special enough to never be forgiven.

Yes, there's more.

The Archer Aims For the Heart

IdeaSmith — Tue, 20 May 2008 14:46:05 EDT

Jeffrey Archer on Landmark tour!

..proclaims a hoarding on Andheri Link Road a few feet before Infiniti Mall which houses the Landmark store. The lower two floors look fairly sane, I think to myself as far as weekdays go. Even the second floor which looms into sight as the escalator rides up looks remarkably normal. Then I notice the mountain of bags lying at the entrance. And I'm stopped by the polite but firm female guard who shakes her head almost sorrowfully and tells me that I cannot carry my battered copy of As the Crow Flies into the store.

I push my way past the jewelery counter, the New Releases rack and past the music section. Voila!! What's a celebrity without the crowd? Archer has succeeded in drawing the mob to the store on a weekday. It's so crowded that people are stepping on each other's toes even among the magazines racks that signal the start of that heaven that is Landmark's book section.

I slither through the crowd in a manner perfected by years of Mumbai train travel and end up right at the back, smushed up against Movies while Jeffrey Archer regales a crowd from a stage in what is otherwise the aisle between Maps and Language.

All around people are standing, waving cameras, cellphones, microphones and books in the air. Thank goodness for my genes, thank goodness I'm wearing heels I murmur, doing my yoga stretch of toes, torso, neck and forehead. Small wonder then that the guy next to me jerks his head around in curiosity. And from the corner of my eye, I follow his gaze zip down to my feet. I want to yell,

Yes! Heels are the only way I'll ever be on eye-level with you...on tiptoe! Now how about tearing your eyes away from my fabulous legs and towards the guest? We are in the presence of peerage after all.

But I refrain and try changing position instead. After a repeat (thrice!) I give up on the priorities of mankind and focus on the man on stage.

Archer speaks as well as he writes. White hair notwithstanding, he leaps nimbly from IPL to Bollywood to writing and politics. The last actually comes in only as an almost unconscious reference in conversation and is not touched upon again. When someone in the audience tries to steer him back to politics, he darts away so quickly he has the audience laughing with him.

The audience is hanging on to every word and even the seasoned TV anchors are laughing along with him. I pause in my live-tweeting to listen to an anecdote of his previous day's meeting with kids and when he ends with,

I must say the girls are so much smarter than the boys!

...I join in the loud applause and laughter. As I sink back to terra firma I wonder how I'll describe him in my post. Politician? Jailbird? Novelist? Firang-in-India? I settle for Charmer. And true to that description he winds off by saying that an author is someone who has access to so many minds...and is very privileged indeed. Indeed. Well-said.

Now he's telling us that he has a dinner in 40 minutes at a place 2 hours away but that he's not leaving the store until the books are all signed so we can all go have a cup of coffee and a chat if we like and he'll still be there. Only, could we relax and not trample each other?

Hah! I smirk, you've never been to India, Lord Archer...wait and watch! Sure enough, there is pandemonium in exactly 24 seconds with the Landmark staff trying frantically to get the chairs out of the way, TV crew shifting angles, journos vying for soundbites and the junta being junta. I am too far from the stage to see his reaction but what to do, we are like wonly.

The ruckus is silenced by a loud, very loud, shrill female voice airing her disapproval and screeching,

Please, I say!! There's no need to crowd around, I say!!! Let's just be civilised and queue up, I say. What is this crowding and rushing and pushing, I say?!!!

The whole floor stands stock-still. Effective, I say and the staff look almost relieved.

I hang back and walk around, watching people mill about. Chattering teenagers, young couples, older couples, people in their 40s are all walking around. Everyone is toting A Prisoner of Birth.

I run through all the Archers I've read, in my head and wonder how good this one will be. I think wistfully of my own As the Crow Flies lying on the security guard's shelf and debate on buying a new copy. I settle instead for guzzling juice and biscuits.

An hour later I'm still there, watching from the stage at the back, now free of TV cameras. The crowd has thinned out as well so I think it's time to get in line for the signature. As I near the stage, the girl in front of the table practically yanks me by the collar (except I don't have one) with a withering look. My books are then snatched out of my hand and thrust into Jeffrey Archer's face and then thrown back at me before I have a chance to react. She certainly isn't one of the Landmark staff. What is it darling, I smirk in my mind? The pretty-bimbette-swooning-over-you act? Or the in-thrall-of-goras syndrome? Or the I HAVE TO BE IN THE LIMELIGHT Page 3 habit? Well, whatever, my books are signed and that's all I care.

And as I prepare to jump off the stage, Jeffrey Archer calls out to me,

Miss? Did I sign your book?

I smile back and him and nod a yes.

Back home, I open my bag. I have bought A Prison Diary as a keepsake to be able to tell myself (since I'm probably not going to have grandkids) that I saw the author in person. In my other hand is Twelve Red Herrings and I pause, smiling.

It's the 14th July 1994. The sun is streaming in through the windows of a high-ceilinged classrooms, fans whirring loudly and drowning out the nervous chatter of a 100-odd teenagers. It's the first day of junior college. And I don't know a soul there.

She walks in cool and poised in black jeans and a tee-shirt so smoothly that all of us in the third row, mid-introduction gape. She glides into the empty seat in front of me and puts her bag down. Then she turns around and smiles and in a hesitant voice asks me my name. We are interrupted a minute later by the entry of the professor but I've just had enough to time to answer her question about my hobbies, with a monosyllable,

BOOKS.

The conversation resumes in the breaks and between lectures. Everyone is excited and nervous and wanting to know each other and ally themselves with whoever looks strongest, prettiest, smartest and coolest. I wonder why she's paying any attention to me when there are so many others vying for her attention. After class, we walk out together and stop at her bus-stop. The others disperse. Abruptly she turns around and says,

I just know we are going to be friends. I knew it the minute you said that you loved books. I do too! There's my bus, see you tomorrow!

14 years later, her voice travels echoes in my mind, whispering in math class, telling me about the book she finished last night and ending with,

My favorite is Never Stop on the Motorway. It's sooo scary!

I've learnt by then of her weird fascination with spooky thrills. I smile and pencil in on the page after Archer's signature,

For my best friend,

You were right. It was a good story. 14 years later, here's the book again just so I can prove that I do listen to you. And you can prove that I agreed you were right. :-)

And long after it's fashionable to say that I like Jeffrey Archer, I've finally met the man whose words have had such deep meaning on the most important friendship in my life. Thank you, Lord Archer, it has been a pleasure, a real pleasure.