Eve* in Maxim, India June 2007 issue

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Princess Loona: The Sacred Dance & the Waters of Wisdom

With Grand Vizier’s hands safely inside his flowing robe’s pockets and Princess Loona’s luscious breasts safely ensconced in the platinabra, they set out for the Meeting. It was no ordinary meeting: it was the meeting to decide a case.
Read further: The Sacred Dance & Waters of Wisdom

Earlier:
Chapter 1: The Chastity Belt

PS: Just as I was sitting down to write the next installment of Loona’s adventures, ND sent me this painting. And strangely, She fit right in. The part about the Waters of Wisdom and the Sacred Dance are inspired by ‘Elements’ (as the pic is named by the artist). Loona has dark hair though.

Loonacity.

Princess Loona.

Sat down to write the next chapter and made this instead. No criticism please! I know this is vague and she's kinda disproportionate, but hell! I wanted to. :)

Let's talk breasts...

All women reading this: How many times have you really felt your breast? Or touched it, all surfaces? Or seen it properly in the mirror? You need to. If you notice that your breasts have a different shape, or one is really different from the other, or the colour of your nipples is changing… you need to get yourself to a doctor.

So there I was on Sunday afternoon, reading some magazine and after a particularly motivating story on how we need to love ourselves, decided to give myself a self-breast check-up. Other than the idea of feeling myself up, I also gave myself that check because I realized that I had never really FELT my breasts. And it’s not just breasts, how many times have you really checked out any body part? So, as I checked myself on Sunday afternoon, I discovered that my right breast has a lump in it. I’ve been to the doctor now. She says it’s not cancer but an accumulation of the fibrous tissue in the breast. Why has the bloody tissue decided to accumulate? In the doctor’s words, “Your breasts have no fat in them. In fact your body has zero percent fat.” And that is NOT good news. Since the weight loss was drastic, the fibrous tissue decided to get to one side, stick together and form a lump. Now she has given me medicines that are supposed to dissolve the lump. I wonder if that would further reduce their size... then they'd become booblings.

What if it was not just tissue? Or... comes back as something else. I also realised - without ever having consciously thought of it - that I am scared of, cancer. Disturbing, not going to think.

Please do give yourself a check. There are umpteen sites on the web that tell you how to do it. Also, if you have had sudden weight gain or loss, doctor says you should get your thyroid checked every 6 months. Gentlemen, I don't know the comfort level you guys share with the women in your life -- like suggesting a breast check to your mom -- but if you can, please ask them to get a gynae to check for them.

Eve* introduces: Princess Loona (drumroll please)

Princess Loona and the Fight To Keep Her Mouth Shut

Chapter 1: Loona and the Chastity Belt

As it caught the first morning rays, the dew drop settled in Princess Loona's belly button glistened while the wind tickled her bare midriff. She smiled in her sleep and woke up as the tickling intensified… Princess Loona realized that it was not the wind that was tickling, but a mosquito, tap dancing on her taut stomach, deciding which spot it wanted to prick into first. There was no sign of lethargy or recent slumber as Princess Loona’s left hand swiftly rose from the pillow it hand been lying on and THWACKED the mosquito to death. Shreds of squished mosquito entrails and her blood splattered on her cappuccino skin. Princess Loona wiped the mush off with her hand and wiping it on the bedsheet got off the bed in one lithe swing. Since she slept naked, there was no gathering the clothes involved. Princess Loona stretched like a cat – arms raised, back arched, butt squeezed in, breasts thrust out and moaned as she stretched.

Then she went to her bedside table and started putting on her Armour: special bra made of woven together fine platinum threads that could mould according to the breast size of the wearer. Magnetic Man Repulsor waist chain, which could change colour according to the type of man near. Princess Loona had however, lost the colour decoder. The Crucial Cigarette Case Cum Cellphone Case. The cigarette case was very important: one side of it contained cigarettes that kept Princess Loona as the responsible, Model Princess that she was supposed to be. The other side contained cigarettes that brought out the dreaded Loonacity Curse: it was the curse where Princess Loona had been cursed that she would NOT be able to keep her mouth shut. Be it her personal life or whatever else, she WOULD have to open her mouth and speak. Now things would have been simple if the curse had been JUST that – all Loona had to do was say whatever she had to say either silently or hidden to anonymously – but the curse had not been JUST that!

The curse was that she would ALWAYS have an audience so her ‘truths’ would be heard far and wide…and the more people would hear, the more they would laugh at her. Because whenever she would speak, others would just hear gibberish. They would see her gesticulating, arguing, debating, but would hear gibberish. And she would become the laughing stock of all. THAT was the curse. So now to save the Kingdom that Princess Loona had created and to protect the citizens of the palace, the Grand Vizier had advised her to Keep Her Mouth Shut. And for that purpose, had devised the magic Shutup cigarettes.

Next Princess Loona wore her Dangerous Danglers, which with a mere twist of the dangling part could change into a smoke bomb, a highly skilled key to get anywhere if you could straighten it out properly and an excellent man-poke in crowded places. What many people didn’t know, was that the Dangerous Danglers were also earplugs that Princess Loona often left here and there to eavesdrop later. She was currently cajoling the R&R department to make special danglers that had earplugs with inbuilt, remote-operated grenades as well. Who knows when you might need to blow up wherever those danglers were last left behind?
Princess Loona looked at herself in the mirror. Satisfied with what she saw, she added kajal to her eyes for the final effect and stepped outside her room to go meet the citizens who, well, wanted to meet her. As she walked out, her trusted maid ran after her and said, “Princess Loona! You have forgotten your pants!”

Unfazed that she was naked – there was actually no one to see her – she walked back to her bedside and realized she had forgotten to wear the most important part of her eArmour: the chastity belt. THAT was the part Princess Loona REALLY hated because it was all a scam. The chastity belt had a very strategic loophole. But Princess Loona was not supposed to talk about it and was STILL supposed to wear the damn thing. It endangered her life and they wouldn’t hear of it. And the weight, of the weight!

As she wore her jeans over the chastity belt, Princess Loona realized she was wearing the wrong breasts for the occasion: she was going to meet lots of couple friends and she did not want the men looking at her too much or the women hating her. As a sign of her curse, Princess Loona now had shapeshifting breasts. On good days, she could have big boobs, small boobs, pert boobs, pendulous boobs, whatever she wanted. However, due to some intrinsic malfunction – boobs changing shape has a lot of hormonal ups and down involved and something short circuited – her boobs had become moody. So they could behave weird. Like right now. Princess Loona needed her boobs to be Just Enough, to declare they were there, she was a woman but not draw too much attention. However, her boobs were having a moody fit and were merrily, rather healthily jiggling at a 36 C, being all bouncy and the type of breasts that every tee shirt looks too small for, particularly a body fitting one. And to add to her troubles the platinabra had decided to do justice to the boobs and had given them a wonderpush as well. So now she had a cleavage deeper than the Grand Canyon inviting further exploration.

“I cant go to the meeting like this,” said Princess Loona to the Grand Vizier who was busy advising Another Young Girl. His eyes lighting up, the Vizier sent the girl away and looked at Loona, “They look luscious,” said the Vizier… while his face remained the same, his body had started shivering, and of their own volition, the Vizier’s hands started moving towards Princess Loona’s Squeeze Me Now boobs.

“Don’t touch them!” threatened Princess Loona, “Vizier, don’t behave like a man, behave like the trusted advisor you are supposed to be! It’s not the boobs, it’s the curse that is making you want to touch them. Look at me Vizier, look at my face, the spell will break for now…” the Princess implored the Vizier, but to no avail. She tried another tactic, “I have set them to self-explode if molested!” The Vizier’s hands were now on Princess Loona’s boobs, but before he could do further damage – no one knew what happened to shapeshifting boobs if damaged – Loona threw her final cards on the table, “If you touch my boobs I will BLOG about you!”

The Vizier woke up, as if, from an evil spell and reminded Loona, “You are NOT to talk about blogging or discussing things. You are to Keep Your Mouth Shut.”
Moral of the story: Every chastity belt has a loophole but you have to keep your mouth shut about it.

From Eve* aka Clit Chatting: Hmmm. I have been honest on my blog so far. But the honesty does not seem to be going down too well. So HELL! I am bored writing what I have been and even more bored trying to explain. Arre yaar, think what you people have to. In fact, here, I shall make it even better.
So now, meet Princess Loona… and well, this is it! Eve* or me, will write the 'regular' posts, but more so this will be Eve*'s narration of what's up in Princess Loona's life. Is Loona’s life parallel to Eve*s? Shrug. Might just be. Let's draw conclusions here and not draw swords, okay?

PS: I am dramatic, but then, what to do, I am like this. Only.

to Kyaerie...

There was once a little princess who lived in shades of ink
Of all the many colours it was red that tickled her pink
And as she grew
The thoughts she drew!
Surreal-so real, they border on the brink.

And says very softly...

...fuck those who call this a sex blog.

Uh-oh, it's an I-want-to-write night!

I hate reading medical sites. They always convince me that I have ALL symptoms for the worst kind of diseases. Current afflictions I am convinced of: uterine cancer, suspicious lumps in the breasts -- or possibly the last of the adipose tissue left that make my booblets -- and perhaps tuberculosis of the bone, thanks to the horrid little tail bone I have sticking out. It seems bigger everyday. And since I seem to believe in all the signs, I could be a borderline hypochondriac as well. And let's not forget the weight loss...

What bothers me more than the illness itself is: who will look after me and how will I pay? Because I need to work to pay and if I am ill and not working, where's the money going to come from? My parents are there for me and there are no two doubts about that. However, I cannot be a burden on them...or anyone. They of course don't see it like that, but I cannot explain it. I have done things my way and I have ensured that if anyone has had to pay or suffer, it is me for as far as possible. I have tried that my actions don't reflect on my parents or don't hurt them. Like I was very clear that if I wanted to live on my own -- which Papa was against -- it would be on my own money. Being able to 'earn' was all about being responsible for your own self.

And then, Papa had said on my 18th birthday, "Legally now, you can do anything. But not under this roof." Those two years were the worst between him and me... dating the boys he expressedly pointed out as 'bad' boys, not consulting him on ANYTHING, announced the college I had joined, announced the first job I took, announced I would be coming late, announced I wouldn't stay with any relatives... And we fought. I think I have been angry since. But not at him anymore. It was never his fault.

Are we what our parents make us? Do we somewhere choose what we want and conveniently blame them? Are they who they really are... or what their parents made them? Mine did not teach me to smoke or skip meals or walk out on a marriage (no, am not guilty about it) or use bad language... wait till he sees this. Once he sees the use of 'fuck', dad won't be seeing much else in my blog. Like the first time he discovered that not only did I know the word 'fuck', but my vocabulary also included 'horny'. And ALL that because even then, I liked to write. The scene goes thus:

Eve*, 19, typing on a Word document in her 2-year-old computer. It's early-on in second year of college and she's writing her diary entry, a la Doogie Howser, M.D. (well yes, and loved Wonder Years too, preferred it actually) And it's a sensitive post: happily writing about this "new dude at her new and first-ever summer job who's really 'fucking' cute and how the other girls say he is always 'horny' and".... (Hears door open and sees intimidating father figure walking inside room in her peripheral vision) (turns out the father figure is indeed the father)
(Acting quickly, and in blind panic, Eve* quickly switches off the monitor. Unfortunately, a) she's not swift enough b) the act in itself is too loud an announcement of I-was-doing-something-you-won't-like)
Dad: What were you doing?
Eve*: Finished a college project, now going to help Ma in the kitchen
Dad: What project?
Eve*: Since when did we start discussing my projects? (In hindsight, now, 10 years later, I think THAT sentence should have been avoided)
Dad: Hmm. Show me.
(Sh!t) (Eve* of course instantly switches the monitor on, she's always one to take the bull-y by the horns. )
Dad: (reading, eyes moving up and down, pupils constricting at offending words, then becoming pin-points in anger) Hmmm. What trashy language is this? We need to talk. Come out.
(we go to the 'court': that's the outside verandah in our ground floor house, there's a cane hammock-swing and he is sitting in it, in his pin-striped, tweed housecoat and white, cotton pyjamas, looking every bit the army man he is... )

Dad: What do you mean by 'fucking'? And what are you writing?
Eve*: 'very' and fiction story
Dad: what?
eve*: It means 'very': he's 'fucking' cute means he's 'very' cute and it's write fiction project
Dad: (left brow raised, looking very threatening, he directs look at Ma, who's standing behind Eve*, trying to put in a word) --> "and what do you mean by horny?"
Eve*: It means stupid.
Dad: WHAT? Who told you that?
Eve*: The seniors in college. They use both the words frequently, so one day I asked, they laughed at the fact that I didn't know the words at 19 and told me the meaning."
Dad: And that's what they told you?
Eve*: Yes, fucking means very and horny means stupid.

And that was it. He let me go. I still don't know why. There's no way in hell he could have believed that... but WHY did he let me go?

Like I really want to know: Are they disappointed in me? In the way things turned out? Because if they spent their entire life wanting good things for their kid and just when said kid is supposed to take hold of the reins, she keeps doing things that are worrying and downright freaking out... WHAT do they think? I asked Ma and she said, "Dont ask stupid questions, we are your parents. We will always love you and be by you." And well, there's no point asking Dad because he will say, "Dont get melodramatic on me, go ask your mother, " and when (obviously) irritated I will remind him that I am 30 and an adult and we need to have a conversation, he would say, "You are 28, not 30, dont teach me your age; and even though you ARE 28, I am still your father." That would be the end of the conversation with me really angry.

And yet, even though he doesn't even know the brand I wear, he would say: "Baba, do you want a new pair of jeans? Let me buy you a TV, birthday present, eh?" And I would have to politely find a way out - so he sends gift cheques instead - and ma would still call every alternate day - because I yell if she calls everyday -- to ask the same questions. They really dont seem to care about the shit that I keep doing, or the things I should be doing and don't do, or the trouble I get into or me just being stubborn. I wonder: if this is Love, do I have it in me?

Fairy Tale aka What I Want List

Performance anxiety and the Fairy Tale

“Just watch that it doesn’t thus happen that you are left without anything.”
“So what is it that you want? Do you know exactly what you want?”
“What the fuck is your Fairy Tale?”
“The one I am looking for, she’s not here in this city. Yahan nahi milegi.”
“I think you are looking for Mr Perfect. Why don’t you stop thinking for once and just go and have a good time?”

So, what do we want? What do I want? What is the fucking Fairy Tale, and let’s not call it a ‘fairy tale’ because then, it becomes fiction. Funny, that subconsciously, a fairy tale it is that I have called Him/ It/ Us/ Whatever. It cannot also be a fairy tale because I am 28. You are a clinically delusional idiot if you believe in fairy tales at 28. And since am neither clinical nor an idiot, this is not a fairy tale. By now, my mom had a four-year-old and would conceive another in six months… And me? Hah-ha, let’s not even go there. I used to have a recurring dream – not too sure whether it was a bona fide ‘dream’ or a vision of wishful-thinking – this picture of me and my, well, daughter, driving down the curves of Kalimpong in an open car. Dangris, cap, music, laugher, talking and the two of us going for a drive, little freezer with chocolates, laptop, books, stopping and clicking pictures and I will take her through all the places I really enjoyed. Big eyes, long hair, killer smile. Now I look at that ‘dream’ and think that it was very clichéd. I am also smoking a doobie in the dream, but I am not too sure if that’s advisable around a kid of four. And she’d have her own small camera and can join every fucking hobby class she wants to and we shall see about the marks. But anyway. It’s June 21st, five days away from June 26th. A year. A simple thing as a decision can be the difference between dreams and reality and cowardice and having the balls to carry your own dream through. Now, the dream’s barren. Now I can’t handle children, particularly babies. I can’t breathe around infants and there’s an intense sense of being choked.

So, the fairy tale. Ah, the What I Want list… I want to laugh a lot, clap my hands, wink, throw my head back and let out laughter from deep within me. Since childhood my laughter has well, sort of been heard above all. I am small in size, but you don’t know the laugh that can come out of me. So whenever I had to accompany my parents to official parties, I was warned at home: “You will control your laughter.” I don’t blame my parents. An Army major’s daughter laughing “like a rickshaw wala” as my dad said it, was indeed improper behavior. I have never been able to laugh ‘like a girl’. It’s definitely not a laughter anyone will write poetry to. And then my laughter has been called the Pirate Laugh by a love interest in adult life, which was quite damaging to the self esteem etc. He also called it ugly. To be honest, on clicking myself laughing I have realized that perhaps my smile doesn’t even look perfect, can’t help it though, it’s 100 per cent natural! And I didn’t start thinking about HOW my smile looked till that comment. I had learnt how to moderate the volume since childhood though.

If I start explaining each “want” -- like above -- it’s going to get very boring writing it. I really want to travel, within my country, outside. I want to stop looking for motives each time someone is being nice to me. I want someone(s) to be nice to me without any motive. I want to create and grow and build and collaborate and develop… I want to make friends. I want to have friends! And no, given the platform where I am writing, that does not mean friend requests. I don’t want my parents to take any more loans…because I am there. I want to be sure of my health. I want to understand taxation, shares, bonds, whatever, etc so that I can save money and make it ‘grow’. I want to stop feeling hollow. I want to care for someone, look after someone, cook for someone, have people depend on me, want me around, worry about me being around… I want my family. It’s not about independence, feminism, etc. I want my family, even if it has a dysfunctional before it. A family to do things with, share things with, talk to… Yes, it does mean a man, but I don’t want to talk about that yet. And sorry to disappoint those who were expecting to read “I want to attain nirvana.” I don’t know it, my nirvana won’t help my parents or anyone else. I am sorry I am not very spiritually bright or intellectually inclined etc, but that’s the way it is. I want to do good work, different work, be able to LIVE my ideas, because what’s the point of having ideas if you cannot do something with them. I want people to stop coming in my way (wishful). I want to utilize my time better. I want to eat better. I sincerely don’t want anything to happen to anyone I love. I don’t want to be fired

I want to be held close my a pair of strong arms that engulf me, and he stands straight and has beautiful eyes (I always respond to men to have a confident body language, alpha to alpha), has to be able to handle attention, both that comes to him and to me, we should be able to talk without boring either, or keep silent without either wondering, be possessive yet not the clinger type, should be able to keep me on my toes, should not be embarrassed by the fact that I can be confrontational, should have the spine and the balls to stand by me, should not be a bitch, should love his body, educated abuse is fine… more than anything else, someone who can prevent me getting bored..

And once he wraps his arms around me, he kisses me and when I get a little, erm, squirmy, he leaves me gently, smiles and goes to the loo, he knows he cant give in to my whims each time or I will wrap him around my li’l finger. But then, when hurt, I follow him into the room and try and kiss him, he does kiss me back…else he knows I would brood over why-didn’t-he-want-to-kiss-me for hours. Then he would demand coffee and shove me out and while I make the coffee would come into the kitchen to make the sandwiches. We’d chill together for a while, perhaps make out. Then he’d go watch the F1 followed by an X-box night with the guys… where some of the guys will get some girls – someone’s girlfriend and friends – and he would flirt with one of them or all. And I would go out to a party where I am meeting my friends… who’d have some interesting guy friends, and I’d flirt with one of them or all. And we’d come back home, sloshed, make out, sleep. In our respective rooms if we want to. Go to work, crack respective projects, plan the vacation…together, separately, who knows. Etc. I want to KNOW what love is and not doubt it. I want to believe that perhaps, some men don't cheat on their women. And I want to trust.

Hmmmm. Too many things. Hmm. All the above things are there in me, but then, I am thinking from ‘my’ point of view. Maybe men don’t hold those things dear?
PS: 'He' is not nice, but he is not nasty with me. I dont like good boys. I am not a good girl either, but am I bad to you?

Welcome to the freak show

It takes all types of people to make this world, and sometimes, you realize that you too are part of the freak show called Life. The past few days – and the subsequent week – has been one strange one. And even if I had tried to script it better, I wouldn’t have managed so. No, still no sex. And I really don’t know anymore whether it’s because of the lack of trying (on mine or anyone else’s part) or the lack of opportunity or the lack of interest when the opportunity presented itself. Or maybe it’s just a lack of passion.

It doesn’t turn me on to know that a man wants me. So what? You’d give me an orgasm, or perhaps two. I can do five at a go by myself. Shrug. But no, that’s just trying to be blasé about something that’s not actually that light an issue or am not that flippant about it. Sex and me have become strange bedmates…or well, given the no-bedding status, just mates – I don’t understand WHY I am behaving like this. I don’t want it. I shrink if anyone comes closer than I am comfortable with. I cringe if an arm brushes past me. And I cannot even tell you just how much I want to barf if another tries to kiss me. But I am behaving so abnormally around men that I have become very self-conscious of it.

The other day someone tried to kiss me… and I’ll be honest here. Some part of me wanted to respond, thought of it too, but the other part just plain panicked. It said, oh you bitch, you cannot keep your tongue inside your mouth. And I hated myself. And then I gagged and I couldn’t control and I started sobbing. I was so embarrassed. I could not stop. But I could not kiss him. I so wanted to … just so that this would be over, this strange, strange abhorrence at the idea of another man touching me. Without passion. Without a thought to who I am or can be or might feel or might grow into or am capable of… Kissing someone who would tomorrow turn and walk away without a backward glance or leave me ill and near-passing out at home while he went and partied.

Why do people do this? If you and I are not in love with someone, why don’t we let them go? Why do we torture them daily? Why do we hurt them, knowingly, intentionally, toying with them, with their minds, their self-esteem, their emotions, their sense of being? And why do we, in the first place, give so much importance to another to be able to DO so much to us? Hmmm, in fact, no one does it to anyone. We all do it to ourselves. For while we moon and mope, the other is merrymaking elsewhere.

I was told recently – at 12 o clock at night in my house by a man I had never met before – that I will never have a fulfilling personal life. According to this person, if I can learn to use my mind, I will always get whatever I want but I will also, always get the exact antithesis of it as well. This person also said that I was a vishkanya. Poison girl, literally. Now according to ancient Mauryan history or legend, vishkanyas were young girls raised on calculated doses of poison in such a manner that these girls became ‘venomous’ themselves. Even a mere kiss was supposed to be lethal. These women were used as political assassins etc. Now some offshoot of Indian astrology, also mentions something called the Vishkanya dosh.. some sort of a malefic planetary formation (woink!!!!) that basically makes a woman unsuitable for marriage. So basically a vishkanya is someone no man can marry. Yea baby, I am poisonous. (Does snake dance)

First no sex. Then, weird problem with sex that refuses to sort out. Third, I am some vishkanya. I don’t know which part should I be most worried about.

PS: I just re-read the post and am adding this bit 10 minute after publishing the original. Wanting to kiss someone only when there's passion involved does not mean falling in love with every person you kiss. Contrary to popular belief, women do not always fall for men they sleep with. You'd be surprised. But the thing is, that I cannot sleep with someone or kiss someone for the heck of it or because there;s a biological need for it. There has to be something more... some shared chemistry, some shared moments, something... It's just too vague and too personal to just share it for anything lesser. Even if it means possible celibacy for a long long time...
Hmmm...fuckin a!
And I posted this li'l bit because I felt I was sounding really whiny about love somewhere in the original post. And while I am whiny about sex, am not whining about love.
And then a friend of mine asked me, "If you so don't care about love and you so don't want it? Why does it bother you, that you don't have it?"

No. No!

Anonymity has its advantages. And not because you want to do or say things that you are ashamed of or want to say hiding behind an alias. It's more because when you do say things with your face and your name and your identity on it, the Bastards won't let you be.

And I mean even the ones who declare "I love you." Did I ask for love? Is LOVE being a fucking constant pest, HOUNDING me across myspace, blogger and wherever else possible? Oh fuck off. So you empathise with me so fucking much that you insist I respond to every email? And when I don't, you try and BUST my identity etc? Or you want to BEFRIEND me so badly that when I don't respond, you paste my profile on porn sites?

I am so angry that I refuse to step out of my house. No, I KNOW the world is not ideal and more than those who would understand a different point of view or try, there would be those who would not and would perhaps doubt it. However, what I don't understand, neither am I willing to nor am I going to give any concessions for; is vilifying someone just because they happen to think and write apart from the way you do. The seeking out such a person and trying every other underhanded technique in the book.

So that's it. It's pissing me off. And. Something's gotta give. Or someone's got to pay.

NEWS: But you cannot rape the press!

So, we have yet another Rape Report, and this time, the purported felon is a designer fellow by the name of Anand Jon. He is a man Newsweek magazine had declared one had to "watch out for" in 2007. Sure. Counting as of today, Jon has pleaded not guilty to 13 of 46 counts - involving 18 victims, between the ages of 14 and 27 - of sexual misconduct towards women... and kids.

I don't know what is going to happen to Jon: He is out on bail and there are allegations that some of the charges might be cases of disgruntled, aspiring models getting back at him. However, what I do know; is that I am sick of reading Rape Report after Rape Report. And it really doesn't matter if it's a Jon, 'Jahnny', Janardhan and whether it's New York or New Delhi. Despite being an almost-30, tax-paying and apparently independent citizen living in the capital city of a country that is supposedly democratic and supposedly has a legal and judiciary system too... I don't know where to look, run, ask for help, or hide.

When I had read about the girl raped at knifepoint behind a medical college in broad daylight, I decided never to walk alone in any alleyway and definitely not behind medical colleges. Then I read that a Swiss diplomat had been raped inside her own car in the Siri Fort auditorium parking lot. It was scary because two hours before she had been raped, I had left the same auditorium after watching two films. I was alone. I have never been to Siri Fort since.

For those living alone, food is either self-prepared, care-of-fast-food or courtesy the area dhaba. But since the day I read about the girl picked up near a dhaba by men in a car; I'd rather go hungry or have instant noodles every night. So perhaps I can avoid the Mobile Rapist -men in cars who kidnap women and rape them - by not going to a dhaba. But how do I avoid traveling alone? Autorickshaws are the most common mode of transportation - buses mean crotches pressing into your bottom - for many a car-less single woman in the city. And yet, autos are open from both sides... and the Mobile Rapists have been known to pull out women from autos. I come to Noida everyday, in an auto. The other day a dead body of a woman was found in her car, on the Expressway.

The other day at a red light, a motorcycle stopped next to my auto and the man riding it, winks and blows me a kiss. It was a policeman in civilian clothes; his number plate said Delhi Police. I got out and asked him what did he think he was doing and if he had ANY shame being a policeman and all... He got off the bike, stood his full height - about five feet eight, I am five feet small - and said, "Stay quiet, as a woman you should know when to speak. And do what you have to do about it, let me see." Before I could call 100, he zooms off, threatening to BEAT me if I opened my mouth. Right.

I narrated my angst to Mishraji, my rather apathetic, water-stealing, neighbour. He said, "Madam, you are getting unnecessarily bothered, you are not model, so you will not get raped; and that apart, you have press card, just flash it and tell them they cannot rape the press." And they will stop?

I want my f*****g fairy tale

Once upon a time, not too long ago, I was mortified of the idea of being alone. Of coming back to a house that was empty, of spending the evening by myself, of trying to figure what to do if I had time on my hands… A friend once said to another, “Keep an eye on her, I always get the feeling that if left alone, she will wither away and die.” Well, withered, died, blew away in the wind, planted feet elsewhere…and now slowly, rising. Like a lovely, green, new leaf.

I have never seen THAT exact green replicated anywhere. They can give you an emerald on canvas, but not that newborn green that looks so delicate, so fragile and so, so, inspiring. There’s the people-killing, strong, Delhi sun beating down on my fourth floor terrace (erm, I am ON the terrace) and a howling, dusty, hot wind (we call it loo) threatening to uproot even concrete; and there’s this little, new leaf, with it’s single pointed ear, curiously, defiantly upright. Looking up, I don’t think hopefully, because there is nothing hopeful around it…but determined nonetheless. Hmm. Determined for Life herself. That’s the leaf’s motivation… I love growing plants. And the biggest torture for me right now is the fact that I don’t have any plants right now… the water situation is so uncertain I cannot bear to bring home plants and then watch them die. Except for this aloe vera plant that refuses to leave my side or die. The baby from the aloe plant one of my exe’s mom had.

From having a terrace full of ALL hand-planted, self-nurtured plants and being mortified of living alone, to a single cactus and an eerie sense of serenity in being alone. There is no uncertainty in loneliness! I am so SURE I am by me. No what ifs, no does he, no waiting, no panic, no comparison, no forever matching up, no pushing away, no berating… n.o.t.h.i.n.g, touches me. Some time back, I did something ABSOLUTELY out of character. Or the character I can (could?) be sometimes.

I have been called “obsessive excessive” by an ex, because I wanted to cuddle. In hindsight, I don’t blame him anymore, you CAN have sex with someone you don’t care for, but you cannot cuddle. And. It still hurts to think that you behaved like an absolute dog, wanting to be petted and were kicked off…because the other didn’t care. The upside of loneliness, you fucking ALWAYS care about what happens to you. Yea! (sic) And since you CAN have sex with someone you don’t care for, you cuddle only when you want to have sex. I am going to stop thinking this. Anyway.

So, I have been called ‘obsessive excessive’ and used to sleep snuggled into Dude. Well, naturally too, I sort of sleep either snuggled into something or balled-up. Shrug. I am compact I guess. In the Glorious Dude Giving Me Attention Days, also known as, days-when-he-wanted-to-be-the-best-man-you-could-get-on-earth, Dude loved the snuggling. Even said so, “Love the way you completely hide behind me and sleep, you feel small, snug and warm,” he had said. To the days it became too hot, or why can’t you sleep on that side of the bed, or do you HAVE to stick to me and sleep, to immediately giving me his back when I’d come to bed… and when I would ask, he’d say, “Talk to my arse, haha, kidding baby,” and give me the arse anyway. Haha. Funny line though, I should try it. Except that I wonder if I would EVER be with anyone I would need to use that line on. For any reason. If I don’t care, I am not there. Why did I take it and why am I writing it here and making a complete jackass of myself? To prevent myself from puking all over me when I visualize Me, Then. So that I remember, each, every, single, humiliating, “loveless” moment, and NEVER let that happen to me again. If I have to shoot Love in the head for it, I will do it, but I am not doing that again. THAT cannot be love. Can it? It can’t… because then there is nothing to hope for. Sh!t. I am not going there.

Speaking of doing something totally out of character – which was the original point three paras back – I did not cuddle the last time. I could not snuggle, I could not sleep with my arm around him, taking in his all-man scent. I went to the other room and slept, VERY peacefully without a single thought of snuggling, cuddling etc. It was only later that I realized and thought about it and freaked out.

I feel I have lost the ability to FEEL for a man. Somewhere, I go cold. In fact, that’s towards people I guess. I am SO touchy about being misquoted, or slandered, or used, or betrayed, or treated as ‘time-pass’, that I have now begun doing weird things. Like hiding from company. The moment I find myself coming close to anyone, and that’s Anyone, I run so fast, it’s almost as if you put a shot of nitro up my, erm, down my throat (wink, moderation, Eve*?) I push people away, stop responding, vanish off the scene, behave weird and generally bite all. Like three nights I will party alone, say my hellos, retreat into my corner (or right before the DJ console), dance alone and run back home (unless waiting to be dropped). But on the fourth night, I’d end up actually talking and laughing and getting to know people…and when I would come back home, I would be like, ‘shit, why did you open your mouth again? Now wait to see trouble unfold.’ Because it does.

Hmm. I better get to bed now, lest I match the word count of the entire blog in one night. Marathon post!

PS: I think Could Be Trouble (CBT) knows I have a crush on him. Yeah, he still seems to be around, but I don’t know why, I have a feeling, not for long. But duuuude, I have like, a MEGA crush on him. Siiiiiiiiiigh. And all I can do – and am gonna do – is blog about it. Siiiiiiiigh. It’s absolute idiocy to behave like a teenager, but what to do, it feels bloody good… the knowledge that I CAN, STILL have a crush.

Eve*, going recap, flashback or what you will

Many people, and I mean many people have been asking---> "What's with CLIT chatting?"
Well, I don't suppose those who come on to the blog necessarily go to the first post... but here's the reason all over again.

My Vagina Monologues

After having heard about Eve Ensler's celebrated play, The Vagina Monologues, I finally got to see it -- performed by Mahabanoo Modi Kotwani and her team of actors. Four women talking about other women and their stories from the world over. Did I like it? Yes, it was well presented. Did I love it? Pause.

I could understand the story about the rape of Bosnian women. I could understand the story about the 72-year-old Parsi woman. But what about the women of TODAY? The apparently sexually liberated, knowing-her-mind, ball-breaking, board-moving, 21st century woman of today.

I am one. Supposedly all of the above. Or I was. Break-ups, child loss and physical abuse later: I really don't know. Am I emancipated? Finding myself, finding my Eve, finding my vagina. Literally and figuratively. Go figure.

I am, therefore I start...

I see couples e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e.

Relationships, they are tricky, and I am constantly amazed at the variety I see around me all the time. The bickering couple makes me wonder if they ever talk sweetly with each other or why they talk at all...and are still together . The physically undemonstrative couple make me wonder if they are really that cold towards each other or if I am sensing things wrong or if maybe it's me who's wrong in thinking that you can 'sense' a certain intimacy between people and similarly the coldness too...and the lack of touch is the first sign. The see-each-other-on-holidays long distance couple make me marvel at how people can sustain each other and them despite distances (and how do they keep temptation away? And fear? Because I don't think it's only about trust these days...and then it completely depends on two people how much they are comfortable when their partner perhaps is not physical but is 'intimate' with someone else... Then the highly talented twosome amaze me that they do not have ego clashes or artistic differences or are handling it all very well.

And when I see all this, I realise somewhere that the ability to compromise to another, to bend a little to allow a lot more... is perhaps not an innate thing, you need to work at it. However, the INABILITY to compromise is pretty much inborn. We would all love it if we could have our way all the time, to some people that idea is positively scary simply because they wouldnt know what to do if they DID have their way. And then compromise is also about the little things.
Like I find the idea of sheer curtains very liberating, I love the way the look when the sway in the wind, they keep out excess light but let in enough to enjoy natural light... and they just give a sense of openness. (That's the door that leads to the drawing room balcony). But then the other could like dark curtains, the heavy, drape variety, because they keep all light out, because he likes the way they fall. He cannot sleep in light. You argue that there are no lights at night. He argues the street light gets into his eyes. You suggest two sets, one to let you enjoy the light in the morning, another for him to enjoy the dark at night. But by now, it's already an argument. You versus me. Light versus dark. Perhaps some couples would amicably discuss it, go for the dual option and live happily after. It takes two to tango... to compromise, or not to compromise is also a two way deal. Hmmmm.

PS: So, did I not compromise or was the other (were the others you mean --> to self) not willing to? Rational self to blogging-self --> DO you see a pattern lady? Keep off the species. You suck at judging them.

PS 2: Now men are turning around and TELLING me that I have met the wrong guys. Perhaps. I also think I have the amazing KNACK of bringing out the devil in god. And I dont take it as a complimet. Sh!t.

Eve* = To Let

Wait
Hesitate
Frustrate
Negotiate
Mitigate

Patient
Vacant
Errant
Repentant
Reluctant

Me.

Wait
Hesitate...
(And repeat take)

Going where's the dance?

There are releases and then there are releases. Some do it through exercise, others meditate, more sleep and still other trip on acid. I dance. I dance at home, music on, doors shut, floors free and me just dancing my whatever away.

The last week, I was a little off... more worrying because I couldn't dance... not the way where I feel every bone creak later and every shred of energy taken out of me... It was not the music either... went and checked out both Ibn Batuta (Baci) and DJ Jayant (Smoke House Grill), gave Tabula a miss (nothing against DJ Iggy, bad timing!) And well, dunno... something, I didn't dance as much. I missed it.


Realised also that I have six pairs of footwear -- far lesser than most women I know. Two pair of flat slippers - red and white, three boots : one standard Army ones, another calf-high and spiked heels and yet another that are really comfortable, been wearing them for almost two years now. I love boots, unfortunately for the heat in India, they aren't really conducive the year round. And well, call it a fetish or whatever, but buying things that I like IS therapeutic for me. It does not have to be too much shopping as such... but say getting home a coffee mug I really like also helps. And clean feet....HOW I dig clean feet, mine have the strangest ability to get REALLY dirty, REALLY fast. Hmm, maybe because I like walking bare feet.

Golu Dawg, me thinks, is missing the old home, he hasnt eaten anything since yesterday. Except of course when I sit next to him or follow him around the house, trying to feed him. He can be SUCH a human, it's not even funny anymore. Like in this picture, after 20 minutes of trying to get him to sit and pose, he just sat, looked at me and gave me the shot. Nothing great, but then, Golu Dawg does NOT sit still! In the background, you see a Sikkimese prayer table that is a family heirloom of sorts. My 'heirlooms' go back to what my father has got for us... those are the only things I am ever taking from anyone. This table was carved from one tree trunk by a monk in Kalimpong, West Bengal. I love it. And of course, most of my house in bundles. I can pack in two hours flat, and it shows. ;)

And this is the first continuous night leading into the first morning! All bare essentials listed. So that's been that..will write soon. Once things and thoughts are a bit more settled.

...and now it's Click Chatting!

Ah. The mobile phone camera is mankind's greatest invention since the wheel. And while the rest of the world might be over it, I have discovered the sheer sadistic (and narcissistic) pleasure of being the only one to click yourself continually, along with the added incentive of capturing ennui in snapshots. And isn't it fun, that first you and I, sit and click the boredom and then we relay it to the world.

So, well, nothing concrete to share here. In all honesty, a statement like that usually means that either nothing's happening or the happenings cannot be written about. (wink) It's far easier writing a miserable post than a happy one, no? :D And then again, each time I sat down to write, the phone kept coming into my hand and I kept clicking.

Here goes Click-Chatting, randomly.... (dunno how this will look though, first time photo upload on the blog):


5.45 am in new house, from the fourth floor balcony, after having kept up the previous night of course.

Golu Dawg in his full ferocity..well, we both like to believe he is ferocious. :D In fact he is so ferocious, we need special effects.

And that would be.... Hmm.

Why did Cinderella stay?

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?

Why did Snow White bite into that apple?
When there were choices out there, in ample?

Or Sita who chose to walk on fire,
Despite sitting through situations, many dire?

I am not Sita, 'ella or White,
But am a woman in every right.

I could be all that you want me to be,
But you would still want more, and not just me.

So I sit up and watch and look and wonder
And hear the whisper in the distant thunder…

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?