Can’t help. Its damn addictive. I’m back to writing at http://vertigohead.wordpress.com
The end of this blog.
And the death of the blogger.
You never know where life’s taking you, until you’ve reached.
I’m not attracted to PYT’s. And I mean it. At least not to the ones as young (old) as myself, however unbelievably pretty. And I still mean it, for the attraction described here borders on prospect of love that could be. I’m off the hook for infatuations or daily crushes. They don’t happen anymore. Without me trying hard to not allow them to.
For reasons I might not know or can’t explain, I’ve come to believe that I’m karmically destined to fall for girls (women) older to me. I’ve been in the senior territory once, and returned with memories. Good ones. Never to be lost.
A lot of people (family included), with raised eyebrows, have attempted questioning my seeming disillusionment of obsessive shopping in the older section. All my acts in defense have mostly been labelled baseless rhetoric. And I think I’ve come to like that sort of disagreement: to not be able to explain yourself to people, and still be happy and firm about it.
I feel like trying again nonetheless, to you who’s crying “whydunnit?”
She’s seen more, at least more than me.
She knows more. Or definitely equal if not more.
She wants more, and I want her to want more.
She’ll give more. And what jackass won’t want more!
Loud thinking. Narcissism. Demented sensibility.
I’m happily firm anyway!
As you know, fair ladies and gentlemen, I’m not much of a fiction writer. I mean I’m not a “writer” in the sense of it either, but unlike some bloggers, I just can’t sit down and concoct an imaginative literary recipe. And I pretty much intend to continue not doing that, unless ofcourse some day I’m able to produce a pseudo real-life story, of my own life. And unless I intend you to understand what follows as having fictional resemblance.
So basically this is about a friend, male,and close acquaintance, very very close [or atleast so I want to believe], since the last four odd years. And about this another friend [or so I want to believe again], female, and decently familiar to say the least. And about how the two got together, by I can say pure coincidence, to the extent of classifying it as ‘fated’, an oracled coming-together!
Before we quickly reach any conclusions, let me tell you that till the time of writing this, they consider each other as ‘just friends’, and hence this is not going to be a fable of the love that was, and was not. Or perhaps it will be, cuz I remember when Harry met Sally, they realised they couldn’t remain ‘just friends’. Not for long basically.
So the story of our Harry and Sally began in a typical 21st century fashion. They met online, on Harry’s blog to be precise, whereby you know that their’s wasn’t a run-of-the-mill potentially romantic meeting, but had a subtle intellectual flavour. Sally blogged too, but the expression was rather incognito. Acceptable, cuz some blogs are very personal diaries, and women can have a lot of secrets, and surreal fundas. Anyway, so our Harry is a genius, saying which by the way attaches some cliched heroicism to his disposition. But nonetheless, his status as a blogger deserves more attention. Apparently Harry was a poet, dispatching his immaculate command on the Hindi and Urdu languages in the reluctant realms of his diary: ‘apparently’ because not one person who qualified to be his friend had confirmed ideas about the poet and his secretive asylum. That was till he decided to go public with his writing. It looked a perfectly timed action to me, non-deliberate ofcourse, probably because he’d been composing like a pro circa January ’07. And then the inevitable occured – he was discovered by our Sally one day, by certain networking measures, and their was an instant liking, to his poetic flow initially, and to the person soon after. And why not, your writing reflects on your person, and more often than not one is inclined to appreciate the writing and writer together.
And suddenly Harry seemed to have found his muse, in the form of a woman who loved his words, and the words now had a beautiful reason to better themselves. If I may take the liberty to say it, then our Harry had an all new motivation with his poetry, and mind you, a very strong thrust it was. Henceforth it got more intriguing, involving, interesting. Harry’s words had a fresh direction, a novel sense, a directed approach: they made a lot more sense than ever, and one could sense a personal touch, a deeper feeling to the poetic establishment. No wonder that Sally sensed it all: she’s a woman after all, and they are the undisputable know-it-alls! Conversations began, and with what passion! They were words in motion, amazing poetic fashion. Soon they were complementing each other, and when the talks seemed to jeopardise the gender-neutral sanctity of the blog, the focus shifted to more private media of communication.
However, another inevitable happened, and this time, the friends were the ones involved. As Harry and Sally discovered mutual interest, ofcourse in a friendly manner, it was Harry’s personal space that was invaded, much to the discomfiture of his friends. Our Harry got somewhat weird, almost to the end of being carried away. And obviously, his friendships within the same sex were the first casualty! In some uncanny frenzy, friends started to be kicked out of Harry’s room. The door was kept closed, and not opened at times as well for anyone. In case you were wondering how do I fit in here, well, mine was one of the first general relationships to be sacrificed, verbally, to be followed by intended physical kicks. And that was when I completely realised mine was a sore presence in the same room when Harry and Sally conversed virtually. Well, if the change was limited to that, me, and in fact no friend would have had an issue: I mean c’mon, we all understand a girl can be pretty effectual to a guy’s life, irrespective of the degree of involvement, and our characters were like reasonably bonded in no time. But then, that was not to be.
Sally seemed to hate me.
And I’d absolutely no clue why!
Yeah, there seemed to be some sort of disliking to my person in Sally’s mind, and she would sit and talk to Harry about it. The catch here is kinda unsettling – Harry would obviously tell me about it, being friends and activity partners for long. My only association with Sally seemed to be from my own blog, which she confesses to reading without fail. And thats even more perplexing cuz I cannot remember offending her ever! I believe she felt uneasy at Harry talking her to me, and while I don’t deny that happening, I intend to make it loud and clear that I’ve no particular urge to know anything remotely related to her if she’s uncool with it. The one thing that never fails to trouble me is baseless negative opinion anyone nurtures about me, and somehow Sally managed to do precisely that! I can’t entirely blame her either, cuz my dear friend Harry didn’t venture to obliterate the hatred ever, and I made sure to express my shock and disagreement at the same – which naturally made it slightly awkward between us. But then…
…I’ve a problem, which I’ve lately recognised as potentially very disturbing. I go out of my ways to keep people happy, often getting a raw deal in the process myself, but I would still do it. And post all this alien developments in the last few weeks, I think I’m sick and tired of playing all good. No one remembers it. No one appreciates it. No one understands it. It has become a very anti-altruist world, and I’m learning to play bad at times. Misunderstanding is one thing, and to build castles of grudge on top of that is another.
Anyway, the good part is, Harry and Sally continue to have fun together, and I can’t do without saying that am glad for them🙂 Just cut me some slack, and return me my happiness!
So basically I was plain troubled with all the bad publicity coming from unexpected quarters for some time, and just had to puke it out. With all due apologies to Harry and Sally, if they read this [and find overstatements at places], but I’m a self-respecting man, and I’ll goddamn hurt back if hurt! And everyone should know, I do not spit venom unless absolutely required!
Disclaimer: Readers are kindly requested to avoid any form of opinion-making about anyone, excepting me. This was mostly about me, and Harry/Sally could well have been fictional props. Thank you!
14th of February has never been too grand for me. Yeah, the tragedy of my life is to have never had a girl when the city’s being painted red with love and lust and passion all around! Add to it the kind of “Red-Letter-Day”-dom these tabloids (which I can’t help but read vociferously) accord to the so-not Hallmarkian day, and you have a perfect recipe for suicidal frustration. Particularly influenced are the members of the singles’ brigade, of which my dear friends, I’m a bonafide member most certainly during this part of the year! To add to the obvious discomfort, whether you accept it or not, is that slew of mails and phone messages uttering that ‘proud to be single’ etc crap right in your face!
Though I’d like to share this one particular photographic e-mail I received today –
And I feel like I’m getting some sort of Valentine phobia. People have wished me a Happy Valentine’s Day, HVD in short and sweet. And somehow I’ve managed to screw it up, by seeing no better than HiV aiDs in those words! Creepy!
I’m sorry. I’m quirky. You could say no wonder I’m not taken!
Hope you guys had fun val’entwining’!
Thursday evening ..a packed auditorium ..Delhi’s elite ..mostly women ..sarees, skirts, suits, westerns ..and the lights go out.
Spotlight on a woman in her early thirties on stage ..Avantika Akerkar ..in a black slit ankle-length skirt welcomes the audience ..humbly requests for phones to be switched off ..raises a question to the audience -“How many of you are comfortable saying the word vagina?” ..some hands go up, some half-up, some undecided, some staunchly stay rooted to their seats! ..asks the ones with raised hands to softly whisper va-gi-na to the rest ..then louder ..and louder ..more ..and the whole gathering bursts out into a huge roar of VA-GI-NA, uninhibited!
Cracks a joke about the police denying the troupe entry into Chennai few months back, on the grounds of polluting local sentiments ..to which a woman quips –“why! don’t you have vaginas in Chennai?” ..the policeman fumbles ..the lady continues ..“well then perhaps Chennai is full of assholes”! Follows it up by an announcement that only things that vibrate are allowed inside the auditorium ..no its not what the dirty minds think ..its the beating hearts! A huge round of applause for her wit from the audience!
Lights off again ..three female figures seat themselves on the stage ..the vagina is introduced ..by all the names from across the world ..pussy ..cunt ..coochie snorcher ..some thirty-forty synonyms ..a young woman, mid-twenties, comes dancing on the stage, dressed in a short skirt, very short, the full beauty of her long legs visible to the naked eye in the last seat ..she goes into a soliloquy –“My short skirt is not an invitation to rape me. It is happiness, freedom, appreciation ..my short skirt, and everything under it, is mine” ..music dissolves in the background as she asserts her independence and existence ..later the same girl, Sonali Sachdev, replaces the short with a long skirt, and becomes the fourth speaker on stage.
She imitates a gujju woman, pretty old, 75-plus, who talks about her first time ..and what brilliant imitation! ..how she got turned on by an ordinary man ..how she came when he kissed her for the first time, and wetted the car seat ..how this guy loved to see womens’ vaginas ..how he would just stay there between her legs, staring at the one of the greatest enigmas of human civilazation ..of her hesitation at allowing a man such exclusive and prolonged visual access to her most private part ..how she asked him to just come over her, just do it ..how the man refused, and finally made the woman see her vagina in a different shade ..how her opinion of her vagina switched to white from gray ..how she realised that men CAN fall in love with a woman’s mysterious parting between her legs!
Jayati Bhatia ..an acclaimed TV actor ..playing this troubled woman whose husband wants her to get rid of pubic hair ..he likes it clean ..unhindered ..and who encourages her to use some fragrance to murder the smell of her vagina ..the stench he says ..they see a doctor ..the doctor says marriage is a compromise ..the woman is furious ..why me? the doctor says thats how it has been ..thats how it is ..and will be ..they come back ..only the husband comes back happy ..he has a razor ..he strips his wife ..shaves her ..it hurts ..she bleeds ..husband is ecstatic ..he does not see the blood dripping on the floor ..nor the wife’s painful moans ..it itches ..long after the grooming process ..husband is happy ..he likes it now ..clean ..squeaky clean ..he thinks it tastes better now ..the wife thinks otherwise ..she says NO ..and the vagina is never troubled again ..”love me with my hair, and thats the only choice”!
Avantika is a little girl, fourteen or fifteen [and the adapted transformation to a kid’s voice is as brilliant as it can get] ..has a barbaric mom, who catches her pleasuring herself unconsciously by stimulting her clitoris ..the girl receives a good verbal thrashing ..mom has a friend, a woman in her thirties ..she takes an instant liking to the young girl ..the mother appreciates this ..she allows the friend to take her daughter to spend some time at her place ..the girl’s kissed by the woman, on her tender lips ..she loves it ..she’s then laid on the bed, undressed, eyes closed ..she’s touched, not by her own hand ..she moans ..at the top of her voice ..the stage is gyrating with her orgasmic sounds ..its a never-before pleasure for the girl ..the clitoris has 6000 nerve endings ..the male penis has half of it ..the girl discovers clitoris as an organ present purely for sexul indulgence, and serving no other purpose ..at the end of the day, she has grown up!
Jayati continues later, as a woman who teaches other women to pleasure themselves ..who introduces them to the possibilities with their vaginas ..she makes them lie naked ..a mirror between their legs ..and to stay that way for like ages ..women start to see things ..some have never looked directly at their vaginas before ..they thought it was gross ..the lips were not to be fiddled around with ..she makes them think ..and see ..and feel ..the layers ..the pulp ..the fluff ..the pink ..the warmth ..she introduces the use of fingers ..to discover ..to love themselves!
Dolly Thakore’s [an elegant lady in her late forties] monologue is titled ‘I was there in the room’ ..she witnesses the birth of a grandchild ..the husband is at the bed post ..clutching his wife’s hand ..and counting ..1-2-3- …the nurse, in her white gloves is unperturbed ..to her its a routine ..the to-be mother is crying ..the to-be father has palpable tension in himself ..the granny to-be is right there, at the source of life, watching as it opens ..the vagina changes shape, and gives, always ..opens and its a life ..closes and its pleasure to someone ..it grows ..with the cries of the woman on the bed ..there is red ..everywhere ..its a beating heart ..there are tears ..of joy and pain together ..there is a cry ..and there is a life!
Jayati is at her best ..orgasms ..multiple orgasms ..musical orgasms ..aristocratic orgasms ..whistle orgasms ..she acts them ..all of them ..ten or fifteen types ..they make sense as she explains ..the hall and its people come alive ..men get hard ..they shift in their seats ..women are astounded ..its a perfect climax ..about the climax ..she mixes them all up in the end ..there was never a more profound vocal demonstration of multiple orgasms on stage ..or in dreams!
The auditorium is applauding ..all of them ..on their feet ..a standing ovation ..the four women take bows dressed in red and black ..the black hole ..the red world ..there’s a thrill ..an excitement ..it was vaginas all the way ..right into your faces ..sex, love, rape, menstruation, masturbation, birth, orgasm ..a kindness pleaded for women, and their vaginas ..its not just a body part ..its a symbol ..of female empowerment …of individuality!
And that my friends, was Vagina Monologues!
I’m not exactly a changed man after the show. I’m just more sane perhaps!