“Have you considered being a Model?”

Well, why not?
I am tall.
I am skinny.
Yes, I walk with a slouch,
Yes, I am not exactly photogenic,
but they can work on me, surely!
There’s always the training,
There’s always makeup,
There’s always good lighting and good photographers,
And there’s always Photoshop.
But still model?

No,
I am more qualified to be a coat-hanger,
Because…model?
Who the fucking fuck is a model?
Yes, I would like to be a model who tells you
that it’s okay if you have the talent to fall simply by standing, wearing a footwear that’s flatter than a coastline,
that it’s okay if you spend an hour searching for your lighter in your bag and find it in your pocket instead.
Yes, I would like to be a model who continuously wears the same sweater for three weeks and will continue to wear it for another three.
I can be the kind of model
who fumbles with forks and spoons,
who fumbles like a fucking cartoon,
who fumbles and tumbles
everywhere, every time.
Every step she takes
is an open invitation to all kinds of disasters;
Sudden climate change and alien invasion, all together.
Yes, I would like to be a model
who doesn’t have a sophisticated accent,
whose language doesn’t have a single trace of eloquence,
who could use a phrase like ‘fucking fuck’,
whose opinions are crude and brutal and maybe even stupid…

Maybe I could tie my hair in a french twist,
Wear suave shirts and trousers,
Wear long eyelashes and mauve lipstick,
And pronounce mauve the correct way,
Use contact lens that makes my eyes hazel,
Nails that make my hands an artist’s well-crafted miracle.
How tempting!
But how far away…
I am more likely to visit North Korea than this.
But thanks for suggesting,
Thanks for asking,
I would like to ask you back though,
“What is a model?”

Give me the centre stage
And I can’t, just can’t, greet you with a stone face
that tells you I am miles away from your wildest dreams.
I am not miles away from your wildest dreams,
I am there as the background in the most mundane ones.
Give me the centre stage
And I would pull you close,
And peel my heart,
Ask you to trace the scattered bits of self esteem
bit by bit,
tears by tears.
Together maybe we can discuss the utter misfortunes
of my privileged life,
of your privileged life,
about how bad we are,
about how worse we could be.
Peel my heart further
And if I show you my pain,
would you judge me for being ‘artificially complicated’?
And if I show you my insanity and wild happiness instead,
would you judge me for being naive and shallow?
Peel my heart
And if I show you that I am as equal as you are
would you judge me or judge yourself?

So what model?
I am the coat hanger.

*

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Sex, Orgasm, Atoms and the Universe

“I bet you get a lot of action.” I winked at her expecting her vibrant blush. Instead she replied as if it was a matter-of-fact, “True. It’s like a habit now. I can’t even remember when it all started. You know, I can’t even count my ex-boyfriends anymore,” she chuckled. “Wow. That many?” I replied.  “Yes and there are those guilty flings as well.” How could she say things like that in such a casual manner? I looked around ensuring that nobody was overhearing our conversation. The café was practically empty and the sole waiter was busy ogling at this girl who was sitting on a faraway corner. “Wow! So, with so many options what’s been your best experience so far?” I asked her teasingly.

“Sexually?”

“Uh-huh…”

“Hmm…Let me think”, she thought for a moment and resumed excitedly, “So there was this time; the best night of my life. In fact that night changed my life.  And I am not exaggerating. Ugh! That orgasm! That orgasm surpassed anything I had ever felt. It was more amazing than amazing, you know! I mean you cannot just call it amazing. It was beautiful beyond imagination.” She looked at my face and tried to ease my confusion, “Let me try to elaborate…What’s the smallest thing that you can think of? A dust particle? Now, they tell you that your smallest thing is nothing compared to atoms. In fact a dust particle houses thousands of atoms. You nod. You are like okay. But can you really imagine that? That something as small as a dust can house thousands of even smaller particles! But they don’t stop there. Atoms have further smaller particles! What the fuck! But wait, this doesn’t stop here even! Atom’s smaller particles have further smaller particles. These things blow my mind. I can’t imagine it. I can’t go beyond the bloody dust particle. For me, that is atom.”

I sat mystified by how my question about sex had her discussing about quantum physics. As if knowing exactly what I was thinking, she added, “Worry no more. Here comes the analogy. We take facts for what they are even when we can’t see it, even when we can’t imagine it. That night…that night I could finally imagine the unimaginable. I could finally magnify that scale. I could finally see beyond the dust. Until then orgasm had just been this supposedly amazing thing. Then it became the amazing thing. It stopped being the dust; it went on to become the atoms, the protons, the neutrons, the quarks.”

I was finding it a bit hard to digest the analogy but she continued anyway, “Okay, I will leave physics out of this. I will tell you the best part – that night, I laughed like a mad man. I know it’s weird and it has never happened to me before and since – but I was indeed laughing so hard and this spasm, this colossal spasm simultaneously traversed across my body. And it coupled with my laughter in such a way that the waves resonated, you know. So, the amplitude got even higher! I climaxed along with my cheek muscles, my weird chuckling voice, my lips, my stomach movements – you know, how your stomach moves when you laugh, my heart beats – my laughing heartbeats! It went on for a long time.” She paused and closed her eyes for a moment as if savoring the memory and continued, “But it wasn’t the end of it. I came again. And again. And again. And again. I exploded like a big bang. Pieces of me scattered all over me like the pieces of universe. Never before had I witnessed something so beautifully shattering. I was ready to die with that explosion and it felt as if my life was complete. And in that moment it really was. Nothing could match the emotions I felt then. Happiness, hope, love. Love – one of the rare times when I actually felt it. I cannot describe the intensity. I fell in love with myself then. It was madness! My orgasm ricocheted not just across my loins, it was the origin of it, yes, but it traveled all the way up and down; from my head to my toe. To my navel, to my chest, to my heart, to my thoughts, to my dreams, to my self-esteem. It traveled to those realms as well! Can you believe that? Those were not merely repeated convulsions! Those were much powerful than that!  I had no idea that I had the capability to feel that way. And you know how the astronomers say how there are traces of big bang still spread across our universe? Like that I have traces of that night spread across me still. Often it invokes in me a feeling of longing. And I often wonder what if I never experience something like that again. But I am okay with that. I mean I would love it if I could go a level up too and explore further but I am not going to pressurize anyone or myself. Most of the amazing things happen just once in our lives, like this day right here, that’s what makes it more special. Doesn’t it? So, I am okay with this separation and linearity as well.  The memories mostly inspire me. They tell me that I am worth being sunk in those gigantic waves. That I am worth witnessing that power. That I am worth feeling that way. I deserve nothing less. It’s ironic – this statement. But it keeps my spirit high and makes me respect myself more. Ah, that night though! That night – it was infinity. It was the circle of life. It was subatomic particle. It was the eternity of universe.”

“Boy!” I muttered as I sat enraptured imagining what I couldn’t possibly imagine. ‘Atoms’, you know, as someone would like to call it. But I kind of wished that she had explained the whole scenario from the beginning and not just the end point. So, I added quietly hoping that she’d address my remote but yet influential perverseness as well by giving a few insights on how to traverse and find the road whose destination was so magical, “The guy, the guy that you slept with that night, MUST have been really good.”

“Absolutely! Except that there wasn’t one.”

***

Feminism; The bullshit – III

I

II

III

And it hurts!
Her
And you too
Hearing about feminism again and again!
The very sound of the word is such a pain!
“You aren’t treated wrong, dear girls!
What exactly are the problems that you’re facing?
Apart from periods
And men ogling at you
And the fact you don’t get to roam a lot at night
But are all these really worth this much fight?
Sure, we understand you can’t wear everything you want
But still, hasn’t this been met with too many of your taunts?
And what about the times when you get your things done
When you break our hearts,
When you manipulate us,
Emotionally rape us
All those jokes on wives
Well, they were based on our lives!
And you! You as mothers are extolled everywhere
The one figure about whom the whole universe has always cared
And now you have reservations in all premier institutes!
And yet here you are! So destitute?”

It’s a shame how we haven’t grabbed your buttocks in a crowded bus,
And you haven’t felt the joy of simply ignoring us,
It’s a shame that you don’t make it to the headlines
If you stay at your workplace beyond deadlines,
So, women have been respected as mothers, it seems.
And yet, we’ve refrained her from pursuing her dreams
we don’t let her continue her studies
Not even till a matriculation degree
And sure job has always been out of scope
Since for independence she shouldn’t ever hope
Either that
Or she must be a superwoman
Breaking all forms of dependency
Shuttling between job and home
Handling it both with godlike proficiency
Women after all, must do it all
And men, meanwhile, can laze around
Since women are precious and women are strong
And they don’t need anyone to support them along
So, with a monthly credit in the “joint” account
We, as children should also be her priorities
We, as husbands should also be her priorities
We as her parents, We as her in-laws
We must impose on her our own set of clause,
So, she mustn’t think about herself!
No!
Never at all!
That would be absolute selfishness
It’s bullshit!
When we say women aren’t equally treated!
If not equal, we treat them better!
We worship them as goddesses for fuck sake!
We send our daughters to school,
We set on her no rules,
(Just a little fire in absence of dowry)
And yes she might have to come home a little early,
She might not do everything she desires,
But a little sacrifice
Is a part of her life!
And we have asked her to accept the world outside,
Ready to masturbate at her very first sight
That, my friend, is so acceptable
It’s just her act of exploring her basic rights that is wrong
And single women everywhere are just screaming for sex, aren’t they?
So, when you see men visiting her, she must be sleeping with them.
Hence, don’t let her find a home in a new city
The whole society will turn impure with her mere proximity
And then it’s bullshit!
The word consent.
You are not entitled for it if she is your wife
You are not entitled for it if she is NOT your wife
It pains to have a vagina
Literally
Metaphorically
But then it’s still a bullshit
The blood every month
The cramps every month
The way you have learnt and seen
How it’s right “to just stick it in”
And how she would immediately moan in ecstasy
Well, she wouldn’t!
She would scream in pain.
And you must take it for “asking for it” again.
Consent.
What does it even mean?
Why does it even matter?
It’s matter of a few minutes, right?
A small fraction of an otherwise uneventful night
Sure she can handle it!
Women after all can tolerate.
Men can’t.
SO, she better not tells you what to do
And what not to
Violation of which, by the way, is a perfectly good reason for you to insult her
To physically assault her
And during that she must adhere to silence
As a perfect wife, she must also tolerate domestic violence
And somehow it’s still always the women who must be judged
Even when she charges money for your lust
Even when she doesn’t
Even when she wants it
Even when she doesn’t
But then women are precious.
And so we always teach them to be cautious.
At the time when her breasts begin to grow
She was told to walk a bit slow
And even before the puberty embarked
She was taught to bear with the derogatory remarks
It’s just a part of her life
Ignore, don’t provoke!
You don’t know what events your protest might invoke
It’s right for the criminal to live a guilt-free life
And she,despite her innocence, may contemplate committing suicide
But then of course, women are treated well.
If not equally, then better.
They aren’t destitute, just a little bit confused
About how they have continuously been taught,
that as women, they need to tolerate a lot,
Because that’s what have got us all impressed
In any circumstance, they must always stay suppressed.
And so what if it might have got her a bit hurt,
To stay comparable to filth and dirt!
She, after all, can live with that!
Because even she knows it is indeed a fact –
The important one that keeps our misogyny intact;
The notion of women as equal beings is simply outrageous,
Because women, after all, are just too precious.

***

Author’s little note: This poem has been written as a part of The Bullshit trilogy. which contains other similar articles namely – The Bra strap & The Blood stain.

Feminism; The bullshit – II

I

II

It hurts!
Not you
Just a bit of her reputation
She must be practically illiterate
Given the fact that she is so glamorous
The fact that she may be smarter than you are
Is worth some applause
and a lot of thought
Because beauty with brains is such a rare combination
Women are not wired that way usually
Women can be conveniently stupid and conveniently “wise”
And perpetually something to objectify
She is only good at mugging up the facts
Or applying eyeliner
Or being hairless
Or gossiping
And even if she isn’t into any of these,
She is still just meant to be pretty and to please,
Because who would marry her otherwise?
So, let’s be a little more concerned about our size
And a bit cautious about how we mustn’t stay unmarried after twenty-five
Also, let’s invest some money in the parlors and the cosmetics
One, after all, must always give priority to aesthetics
Be careful though, one shouldn’t to be too attractive
Otherwise “Asking for it” will be your new adjective.
It hurts!
Not you, just a bit of her reputation,
If she asks you to help her,
Or to borrow your books or your notes,
Talks with you politely or share some anecdotes,
She is either using you
Or hitting on you
Anyway if you tell her that you love her
And if she says she doesn’t love you back
Then you must think hard
About the reason why she was even interacting with you.
Because that’s obviously not what classmates do!
Or colleagues do!
Or neighbors do!
You loved her.
But she didn’t love you back.
So, now she qualifies for an acid attack.
Might have been too harsh, mate?
But hasn’t she been the worse to you?
Sure it burns!
Her face less
And your ego more
Women, just as dumb and a show piece, are fine.
Women, at any cost, mustn’t opine.
Her smartness and intelligence should mostly be fictitious
And that kind of women are always precious.

**

III

Author’s little note: This poem has been written as a part of The Bullshit trilogy. which contains other similar articles namely – The Bra strap & The Blood stain.

Feminism; The bullshit – I

I

It hurts,
Just a bit of her reputation
When you see her socializing, it’s obviously flirtation
When you say she was seen going to the boss’s cabin too often
When she was seen laughing a little more than she should have
Some say they even saw them holding hands
And from the way she smiles, what else can one understand!
He is married,
What kind of woman is she?
He is married,
What kind of man is he?
But this is the question you wouldn’t ask,
Oh yeah! It’s a shame
On his part too
But men are entitled to be assholes!
But women?
No, they must act like women!
They must maintain their dignity.
They are precious, after all.
Haven’t we praised her to the suns and moons!
To the flowers of Spring and first rains of June
All the couplets in the world – all dedicated to her!
The smell of the flowers! The murmuring river!
Even the bouquet of stars isn’t what she deserves,
So obviously, shouldn’t she be preserved?
With a burkha?
With a ghunghat?
Who knows what that beautiful face can do to men!
Men will be men
They can’t stop doing their sinless and shameless acts
SO, it’s women who must sacrifice
Because yes, women are wise!
But only in the kitchen
Not at office
where you don’t give her the raise she deserves
since she is just a part of diversity seat she reserves
And what after she gets married?
And decides to relocate?
What if she gets pregnant?
And decides to take a break?
Giving birth is no joke
But the promotion over maternity leave is.
But this isn’t discrimination!
Just deluded incrimination!
From what I see, it’s completely fair.
That’s how it is everywhere.
So you see, we do treat her all righteous
After all, slightly less capable – women are precious.

*

II

III

Author’s little note: This poem has been written as a part of The Bullshit trilogy. which contains other similar articles namely – The Bra strap & The Blood stain.

CHEERS TO THE DEMONS

I wrote this poem under a blaze of fury three years back. I cried, I swore and I cursed how unfair this world was…

Three years and nothing has changed. Three years from now, nothing will change. In this world. In you. Or in me. Nothing at all will ever change.

I do not want to sound like a pessimist and I do not want to ramble like a mad man (though that is what exactly I am doing right now) but I just fail to understand how and why such people exist at all. I fail to understand that why do I have to pay for the fact that I am a woman? What wrong did that ever do?

Anyway…

Cheers to the race that doesn’t have a heart,
No reasons, no morals, no souls, no scruples,
But piles of lies, tons of deeds, all perfectly unabashed and splendidly aghast.
 
Cheers to their courage to walk unhesitantly in the crowd,
To stand with a stride and to converse with a pride,
And just in case their secrets revealed, to their dignified admittance clear and loud.
 
Cheers to their score that keep augmenting every day,
To their pleasures, to their amusement emerging from despair,
To their delight, to their bliss, to their ability to rejoice every time one cries in pain and dismay.
 
Cheers to their shamelessness, cheers to their sins,
Cheers to their disrespect for fellow human beings,
Cheers to the vanished humanity in their souls,
To the way their conscience has drifted in black hole,
And cheers to their skill of turning hearts into stones,
To their abhorring thoughts and to the way they never atone,
Cheers to the way, in this world, they sustain,
Cheers to those monsters, cheers to those beasts, cheers to those incredible demons again.

The whole fucking problem

Note: PUN IS INTENDED.

I was walking across the street the other day and I met an interesting fellow. The young man couldn’t resist himself from making derogatory remarks at me. I wasn’t wearing lingerie, nor was I in a swimsuit, I was just walking to my home in casual jeans and t- shirt and yet this fellow couldn’t take his eyes off of me. Boy! Was I on cloud number nine! But then to my dismay, he rode off. But just when I had begun lamenting over the end of this lovely encounter, he came back.

I enjoyed our little chit chat where he kept commenting and I kept ignoring. When our brief encounters kept happening again and again, I wanted to take my shoes off and throw them at his handsome face to express my love. But then I just thought that that would be too much display of my affection. I guess I am right in assuming that the nice fellow I had just met was so much worthy of my attention that ignoring turned out to be my best move. I didn’t want to fall head over heels for a guy I just met. Did I?

Why do I have to tolerate these fellows making nasty comments at me? I don’t roam around the streets in my pathetic rickety bike and make disgusting comments at any guy I come across. I don’t stare at them from head to toe for eternity. I don’t stop my fucking car and drive close to them honking repeatedly scaring the shit out of them. But of course, I can’t do all this but they can. It’s perfectly alright.
I spend a lot of time wondering whether what I am wearing is appropriate enough to go out in the street. I always make it a point that I don’t stay out of house too late at night. In spite of all these I happen to meet these gentlemen quite often and I make sure that I ignore them all every time. I have to do all this but they don’t and it’s perfectly alright.

Some of my rights are being violated. So what? That’s okay. Some of my freedom has been snatched. So what? That’s okay. Some of my respect and integrity had been compromised with. So what? That’s okay.
No really. That’s okay and the fact that I feel this is the saddest thing that could happen to me.
I have grown to believe that being a girl I just have to neglect some of the things. I have to learn to live with it. I have to tell myself that there is no other choice.
I have to bear it. Don’t I?
I have to be the victim of society. Don’t I?

No actually, you don’t have to do it. There’s someone inside me who is saying this on top of her voice.

I want to believe her. I want to stand by her. But what can I say? Old habits die hard.
I have spent too many years mastering the art of tolerance. It appears so normal that all those violations seem nothing.

Why do you bother girl? You know you are okay; safe and sound! Everything is alright!
So, I have to wait until I am not safe and sound? My rights can be played with and I am not going to give a single fuck?
What is wrong with me?

No, no there is nothing wrong with me. And that is the whole fucking problem. Like every normal person, I have a large limit of tolerance. And that is the fucking problem. Like every other normal person, I feel secretly stupid on not being able to do anything about my own self and yet I don’t do anything. That is the fucking problem. I avoid disrupting my imaginary peaceful life. And that is the fucking problem. I pour a glass of cold water over the burning rage inside me. And that is the fucking problem.
I know that I don’t have to live like this and to be honest no one is even stopping me.
No one except me.
And that…

Is the fucking problem.