How not to, humour

How NOT to get off a crowded Indian Train

I am stuck in the narrow passageway of a general bogie reserved for ladies and my whole life is flashing in front of my eyes. Well, this would have been completely true, had it not been for the woman standing in front of me, whose acute politeness has me, distracted. Her voice has staggering intensity; my ears are barely managing to protect my eardrums from crumbling to the symphony of her cuss words. I am stuck. She is stuck. Behind me is a long queue (as long as the tiny bogie permits) and behind the meek woman, I am busy listening to, are the wild bison cramming their way into the coach that’s already filled till the brim. “Let us out first!” Another woman behind me screams. And I, both leading and blocking the queue of angry goddesses who want to get off the god damned train, am stuck with my bag engaged in an unbreakable embrace with the luggage of the other woman whose symphony has me hypnotized. All around me are people telling me to move! Move woman! Move! But then I can’t. Funny, I think sometimes that’s how life works as well.

I try to recall how I got into this situation in the first place. Well, it all began with  my decision to board a crowded general bogie. And I guess that’s the end of it. The tiny ladies’ coach is an objectified sexism in itself but of course I am not going to get into that debate. I am probably going to get old here, amidst this friendly crowd and feminism is not something I would like to ponder about right now. Paying my special gratitude to the size of this bogie, my mind wanders to the immediate reason that had caused this chaos – The woman who was sitting on the floor (because obviously we don’t have enough seats), blocking the way to the door and absolutely refusing to apply what’s called the common sense, that is, to get up when a train halts at a station. Ultimately when others tell her to stand and make way, she takes eternity to do the same. And by the time she clears the way for us to move ahead, the passengers on the other side have already started to rush in. And the result of her stupidity? Chaos. Victim? Me.

Move! Woman! Move!
Well I can’t. My bag is stuck. I am stuck. Can’t you see?

The polite woman finally stops shouting and decides to apply her brain. She lifts her bag and I am able to step ahead and also drift my bag forward. But there’s still a long way to freedom. There are too many people inside and now it’s my suitcase that’s creating havoc. As I push myself (and the bag, the god damned bag) forward, I accidentally hurt a small kid who was standing on the way. Her mouth turns into a gigantic O, her cheeks turn blood red and river and its tributaries start flowing from her eyes. I want to apologize. I obviously didn’t mean to slam my bag into her foot but there’s this major part of me who just wants her to shut up. She is a kid and I shouldn’t bear such thoughts but I am never going to be able to get off this train and these women and this noise and this wailing child are turning this place into a hell and I haven’t sinned enough to deserve this (Or so I thought!). I have already started formulating alternate plans. I realize I am never getting off here. So, I start thinking what the next stop of this train would be and how will I get back from there.

Move! Woman! Move!
Woman can’t move. CAN’T YOU SEE!
Woman is stuck in between all these people and shouting doesn’t help.
And amidst this greatest struggle I have ever endured to get off a train, comes a helping hand. But the helping hand isn’t polite either. Helping hand is angry and is shouting too, “Why are you coming out so late? So rahe the kya? (Were you sleeping all this while?)” I lose my temper at this. Now is not a good time for the glare and the taunts. If I just knew how to punch, I would have punched you right across your face. In fact in this moment, I can punch god himself. But I settle for glaring back at my Messiah, the red shirted coolie who is lifting my bag. But he doesn’t shut up. Then something rare happens, “Would you stop shouting?”-  I shout (ironically). I scream so hard, in fact, that my voice breaks like the light splits through a prism. Damn. I immediately regret it but at least the coolie is silent now. When I finally get to get off the train, I feel like I have been reborn. The coolie has placed my bag on the platform and has disappeared. Good, I wasn’t going to thank him anyway. There are still significant traces of anger left inside me. I avoid thinking about the near-fatal swarm of the women. I avoid thinking about the crying child. I avoid thinking about the cuss words I had been showered with. Obviously, I fail. I notice that my breathing has become erratic and I am still a bit dizzy. So, I sit on a nearby bench, take a few deep breaths and make myself believe that I really am alive and safe. Get off the train! That’s all I had to do! Realize how powerful chaos is? Realize how hazardous a heavy and huge suitcase is? Don’t carry a bag that weighs more than you do. Or join a gym and set major weightlifting goals. And yes don’t underestimate the stupidity of your fellow passengers. Avoid crowd! Avoid crowd! Avoid crowd! (This suggestion is, in reality, a sham because there’s nothing in India that’s not crowded.) And that’s how you get off a train in India safely.

***

humour, Musings from the coffee shop

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 has 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.”

***

food for thought, Poetry, The Bullshit Trilogy

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.
food for thought, Poetry, The Bullshit Trilogy

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.
food for thought, Poetry, The Bullshit Trilogy

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.
food for thought, The Bullshit Trilogy

The Blood Stain

The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— Let me conceal it with the pillow or the blanket or my bag or anything before it catches your attention, before you look at it and look away in an unintentional acknowledgement OR in your rare stupidity or blissful ignorance or surreal broad-mindedness ask me about it. I don’t want to but I am going to lie and tell you that maybe I slapped an obese mosquito in sleep or maybe I spilled over paint or tea or something. Why am I lying though? Is it so hard to admit that this could be something those absorbents failed to absorb? Is it so hard to accept the curse (or one of the curses) of womanhood? But isn’t it what I am supposed to carry around with pride? How come it has succumbed to being one shameful act on which I don’t even have any conscious control? Forget about tampons or pads, why is this issue something that you can’t absorb? Forget about you, why is it something I can’t absorb in my head? Why can’t I accept that it indeed is okay and has always been. That it is okay if I step into the temple. That it is okay that I take leave over menstrual cramps. That it is okay to be how we are. That it is okay to talk about it and it is okay if I refuse to hide the fact that I might be menstruating.

The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— It takes an interesting shape if lately, you have spotted me smiling too much on my own and if you have snapped me out of my daydreams quite frequently. It doesn’t require you to be a rocket scientist to deduce what might be going on here. So maybe you can infer that I might have had an interesting night recently. The blood stain on my bed-sheet; a gentle reminder of how my hymen broke, how I lost my purity, how I broke the unsaid rules. Or maybe it can also remind you of the fact that how a woman’s vagina is not simply a socket to plug into. Maybe it can remind you of her reluctance or her pain. But of course, you are not supposed to mind or even pay attention to my disrespectful and shameless language here. And if possible, I request you to please overrule my objection as many times as you wish.

The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— A very simple tool for the comfortable passage for your judgement. A silently unnecessary reason for my panic. I must give this cloth for laundry or else I will be sentenced to lifetime embarrassment. I am still serving for the time when I miscalculated the onset of my periods, when I was told through actions and suppressed words the state of my destroyed uterine wall and how the evidence of destruction laid projected on my white skirt. How disgusting is this blood that is meant to harbor a life! How disgusting is this blood that is meant to guard my health! How disgusting is this blood that gives me capability to bear a child! How disgusting and impure is this blood indeed! The bloodstain on my bed-sheet; let’s cover it up immediately before anyone sees.

***

Author’s little note: This article has been written in continuation to another article named The Bra Strap as a part of The Bullshit trilogy.
humour

Eve Teasers; The noble people.

Let’s not get started with women and woman empowerment stuff. That is not important.

You know what is important? What is simply indispensable?  These people; the ones I am going to talk about. The noble people. The sons of gods. The extra-ordinary. The cosmic. The colossal. Let me uncover the invisible pieces of their exquisite non-existent mind before you;

 

Part-1: Delayed image processing.

It’s not like that we like to stare. We don’t. There are other things in our lives too. Like–

…..

…..

…..

Okay, we don’t. But that is not the point, the point is that the main culprit here is the image processing system in our heads.

See, how can you expect us to make sense out of the images we see with our exceptionally dysfunctional brains? We have to feed the information in our impeccably slow brains for long long time and then and only then the meaning is decoded and delivered to us. We are not able to make sense out of this delivered message even but that is not we are talking about here. Our point is; We stare because we don’t have any other choice. We are handicapped. Please understand that.

Secondly, since we were raised in sewers we never got to know who females were.So, when we came to the ground it was unbelievable!There is something called  woman? What? Since when?

 

Part-2: Limited vocabulary.

The reason that we stick to whistling or “Hey! sweetie!” or “Hi! darling!”  is that we don’t know any other words. For having a good vocabulary in any language, you gotta be smart or average or even a little below average. But there is no scope for null IQ anywhere.

It doesn’t matter though. Why do you need a vocabulary? Why do you need any kind of IQ? Or education for that matter? It’s useless! It’s just absurd!

Given a chance we would bring the literacy rate of the country down to zero. There is no use. All the guys in the world need to go out on the streets with their bikes and have fun with girls walking around. Come on! Man! THAT IS LIFE! THAT IS ADVENTURE!

 

Part-3; Who are females?

Err… The thing with the hair and the breasts and the butts, we guess?

wearethealiens

Part-4: The eternal entertaining element.

This bollywood, TV serials, Novels ( Wait. What are novels?)etc, etc is not entertainment. It’s nothing compare to what we do.

When we whistle at the girl passing by or throw chits at her or call her names or comment on her, follow her and make her life a living hell , that is the moment when we feel that ultimate thrill.  That irritated look on her face and Oh! What it does to us! Amazing! Man! Amazing!

We will tell you a secret- We know from the empty head of ours that behind that irritation and anger , she is blushing. That tears in her eyes are of joy. Inside she is going stark raven mad with happiness.  It’s so obvious. Our dysfunctional brains are never wrong in detecting these inner truths.

 

Part-5; Stalking.

You are in love with this girl! You have got to know her don’t you? Yes, she doesn’t love you  ( or so she says). She has yelled at you, spat at you and told you to just fuck off but does that mean anything?

Absolutely fucking not.

That, my friend, is the beginning of the chase. That is the beginning of your love story!

 

Part-6; Handling criticism.

Yeah, well, people are just jealous.

You know how they get.

Roaming on bikes on the street all day and ‘entertaining’ our selves- that is our purpose. We- Doing any sensible work that could help in building the economy of the country? GOD FORBID!

We are not going to waste our precious time on anything like that.

What we do is a high profile life. Even Harvard graduates dream of that.

People can say whatever fuck they want but we are no ordinary people. We are assholes. The assholes. And they are just, like we said, jealous.

 

Part-7; The fears and insecurity.

We express our selfless love to them and they just reject us. Outright. Just like that. That is rude.

That’s depressing.

It’s an insult. A blow to our self respect.

Gotcha! Self respect?  What the hell is that? Screw “self” what the hell is Respect?

Never mind. We are not interested in knowing anyway.

 

Part-8; Future plans.

We plan to have some kids though we have been strongly advised not to procreate. Why you ask?

Our genes are so exceptional, so explosive, so good that world might be in a threat of too much goodness. Our progeny will carry this threat with them. So we have a choice of to be or not to be a hero.

We don’t know. We are still confused. We want some kids but then we need a wife for that.

Even though  we are one of a kind, our proposals have been turned down over and over. Finding a wife is difficult. These women, we treat them with dignity and this is how they pay us back!

As of now, we don’t have any future plans, We might end up being the hero, who knows?

Part-9; How does it feel to be a huge liability.

What’s liability?

 

Well, in the end, I have to mention that people I am ….

proud

And you guys are worth some applause.

proud

 

proud2