Sunday, 23 August 2015

A lustful affair!

Through glistening eyes, he looked at her. How much ever forewarned, he couldn't lift his eyes off her translucent skin. She had that inner glow within her that called to him. Her radiance is always akin to the maid who found out how sweet passion could be. He ravaged her with his eyes. His eyes were roving over her contours. So shapely, so curvy. She had curves at the right places. Killer curves that made his eyes linger on her as she lay basking in the golden sun. 

This morning as he had set out about his routine, collecting the basket and setting off to the market, little did he know that he would be rewarded with this sight. The sight of his lady love alluringly calling out to him. She was the ultimate temptress and he knew, this temptation was fatal. He would have to dash barefoot if he yielded to her temptation, yet he couldn't help but turn a few furtive glances at her as she lay in all her glory, her skin pulling him to her like a magnet.

She was nothing but heart ache. She was going to bewitch him, he blew an exasperated breath. This one was going to be the death of him. He shut his eyes and wariness spread over him as the familiar scene of his lady yelling out to him loomed over. This one would definitely give his wife heart-ache. He was not prepared for the tears that would continuously pour from the poor woman looking at the blemish-less skin of the pink beauty. Pans and saucers would bang and fly and he was not ready for a full- fledged war at home. This better be the last time I see her, he thought to himself.

He turned his head away as he approached her as her pungent perfume wafted by, tickling his nostrils. It has been ages since he saw her at close quarters. He would have given anything to hold her, to feel her and to breathe in her special aroma. There were days when she was the only company he had, he itched to bite into her and licked his lips reminiscing those golden days when she was available. When she would come to him willingly and when he could run his fingers along her smooth, polished skin before placing her on the board.

Even as he crossed the area shutting his eyes tight, Rani ma called out to him. Shucks! How did she know I was even here, he mused as he turned to greet the vegetable vendor. As Rani ma kept on questioning him about his withdrawal, he watched his lady-love with dreary eyes.  "So fresh and lovely. Why don't you stop by?", Rani ma drawled, knowing his frustration too well. As her eyes peered cautiously at her regular customer who was now playing hide and seek with her, she was fervently wishing he would get some interest. He was one among her regulars and she wouldn't want to lose him now, that he is this close to sealing the deal. 

As the hot sun beat down mercilessly, he was gripped in a do or die situation now. Muttering under his breath and dreading what would happen if his wife gets to see the pink sheathed beauty in his arms, he grumbled, "how much?". Rani ma was so elated that she showed him her rare million-watt smile and piped in- "One hundred only, sir. Madam will enjoy it". The hell she would enjoy. She had dared him to even one glance at her direction, he would be skinned alive and here he was contemplating taking his love home. 

The seductress- he smiled triumphantly as he walked back home, slinging her over his shoulder. Walking in the hot sun made him all sweaty and miserable. Yet, she was his now.  As she grazed his back, his skin tingled. She was his now. No one can ever snatch her away from him. She was his now, pricey, but his nevertheless. His mouth watered and drooled as he thought of what he would do to her. Smacking his lips at the vision of disrobing that pink sheath, peeling off her layers he chuckled and tramped home. 

"Did I not tell you to turn away? Did I not warn you to ward off? Look at what you have done. What have you bought?", his wife wailed looking at him. He sat back relaxed on his chair, his eyes longingly devouring her as she lay on the table. His lady love- a kilo of onions ;)



p.s.: Was really happy to post this in my FB page... 
# Selfie with onion- Hamein bachao, dhaam gatao#
 
p.p.s.: Another video doing the rounds- If you die of laughter, this blogger is not responsible!
video
 
p.p.p.s: Got into  trouble with picking a dress for the daughter's birthday. Why do dresses for little girls be soooooooo revealing? Are they going to shake a leg in a flick? :(

Monday, 10 August 2015

The Cuppa!


             
Picture posted by Rupi Kaur in her Instagram that it removed saying it violated its community standards
             Imagine this- you are at a presentation. You are the star of the show and everyone focuses on you as you stand up, smooth your pants and walk to the podium. That is when you feel your legs giving away, the usual pang of pain starts as a small pin prick and radiates around your lower abdomen. You grit your teeth and hold your breath remembering your Lamaze ball…breathe in and breathe out. Or was it Kegel? Tighten, loosen. As you struggle inwardly hoping against hope that your placenta just shuts down, you put up your dazzling 100 watt smile.
            You start your presentation as the entire hall is silent and when you turn your back to the audience to start the slideshow, finding it the most opportune moment, the dam breaks loose. You continue smiling as you clench your legs tight praying that the fluid trickles slowly. No dear, Gods are against you today. As you feel your flimsy panty soak up, a cold sweat breaks up and you stand like an automaton. That is when your darling boss comes over, shakes your hand and asks you to take your seat. You walk back with grace and sit on the chair with disdain. No, God is not so sweet, girl. The meeting gets over in another half an hour and as the men file out, you sit regally like a queen, soaking in your fluid with an idiotic smile.
            Phew! That was very lucky. No one ever saw your pant soaked in red. You escaped. Thank Heavens you were not travelling in the city bus. Or you will be traveling round and round the city afraid to get up and show your stained behind to the Romeo who has followed you for the last four months. We are a strange country, strange people. We gave the world Kama Sutra, yet we never talk of sex. We worship so many Goddesses in temples and keep our women locked in the backyards. Talking of menstruation to the little girls, educating them and teaching them the use of sanitary pads, tampons and menstrual cups is easier than herding camels in the Sahara!
            Tampons- the name gives me the shudders. Imagine inserting some foreign body into yourself as you squat or hang on to dear life withstanding the heavenly scent that emanates from Indian toilets- our bleaches and cleaners smell worse than poop! Privacy for women- do we have it anywhere? You go to cinemas with elderly aunts. You go to weddings tightly guarded by your brothers and cousins who boss over you and see if you carry yourself womanly. Remember the ‘gyaan’ that these brothers have about our ‘womanly trouble’ is that women got something to do with that blue liquid that turns gel when using a napkin! Again you have a hoard of aunts with jittery teeth who ask if you still are unmarried. Or worse still, they look out if your stomach has the tell tale marks as you change into saree after saree. There will be times when you feel like climbing to the terrace and shouting at the top of your voice- “I am a virgin and I am still unmarried”.
            There is this particular problem of fishing out a sanitary napkin and taking it to the loo unaware. Every time you hide that lecherous thing in the folds of your skirt, your brother huts your head and asks if you stole his favourite chocolate from the fridge. Or worse still, your father questions how many times you walk to the loo. The sickening one will be the mother who enquires if your skirt is torn. Yes, mother, you will pull your face and show bharatanatyam abinayas and still she pokes and pokes till you reach your boiling point and grunt- “I have got my periods”. That is when she realizes your volume and says- “Hush! Why should you bellow like a mad pig?”
            If hijacking a fresh napkin to the restroom is a climb to the Everest, disposing off a used napkin is plain landing on the moon. Hiding the smelly thing, wrapping it in a carry bag, it has to be black or dark blue, mind it, covertly trashing it, you feel relieved the moment it leaves the trash bag of your house. Did I hear you laughing? No, the ordeal isn’t over folks. Our disposed napkin lands at the kitchen garden of our neighbor or straight on the car of our ground floor tenant and then starts the mother of all fights! Can this get any worse? Yes, sweet heart, it can. If your street’s stray dogs decide that they’re done with the bitches and want more fun, they shred your disposed napkin, lay it bare in broad daylight in the middle of the street as your face goes beet red. Or should I say, redder than the ‘impurity’? All for a piece of napkin!
            The novel idea of menstrual cups that are easy to insert and that can reduce environmental pollution to a great extent has to catch up in India. Looking at the tutorials on how to insert it and the various types available in the market, you are already queasy, with your head reeling and stomach somersaulting. 

             Holding onto the toilet seat, hanging on to the handle, inserting this cup may sound easy. But then you are having your periods, period! Cramps in your legs and your core feels as if mauled by a godzilla on loose and you have to 'insert' something into its course? What if you have to use a public toilet where our predecessors have left their poop for us to sit on? It is said a cup can be reused for up to five years if sterilized properly. Sterilize? Yeah. The fun is here. You have to beg your mother or mother in law for a ‘separate’ vessel, ‘separate’ stove, ‘separate’ place to dry it. Thank Heavens if you live alone.  You can wash the cup, boil the cup, cut the cup and even drink from it. To Hell with the environment.  Get us some privacy first, I say! And to all those advocates of the cup, call me blasphemous, the Cup is not for me :P

Sunday, 2 August 2015

The ever elusive time



Punctuality. Spelt 'punk'tualittty. With extra stress on the 'punk'. Time conscious. Punctual. So many adjectives that baffle the average Indians like us. Indian Standard Time and the select few people who love to stick to it like a leech on the skin suck, big time. There is this one generation of people, whom we call 'oldies' by all standards who covet the hands of the clock as their love. That one word which I have been hating right from childhood is 'time'. I have spent hours brooding about 'on time' and 'just in time'. If there is one word that we Indian women despise other than 'guests' is 'time'.

Our household work is always well-timed. Planned and executed to precision. We have the capability of using all the four burners of the stove effectively, while the washing machine churns by one side and the mother-in-law chews our head on the other. We battle with everything under the sun- doing the morning dishes, tea spilled on the kitchen counter, the kaamwaali bhai who is on leave, sulking kids who think their mother is a genie at their beck and call and finally the mother of all time bound woes- the cylinder that sputters and dies in the middle of a morning marathon at home. 

When you practically push the kids into the waiting van and heave a sigh of relief with a socks dangling from your arm, comb perched atop your head and ribbon hanging around your neck, the man of the house calls out for his chaai, with eyes glued to the newspaper and the headlines of 'memont of reckoning'. You wish you were in the Nagpur jail instead of mixing chaai. A hasty bath, quick dab of makeup, carelessly draped saree and equally hasty breakfast, you literally run to your bike and realise you forgot to fill the petrol tank. As you summon the neighborhood autowallah who is a Robinhood reincarnate, the minutes tick by and your fate that day is sealed. 
 
By the time you sprint into the sanctum of power that you longingly call your office, rushing past the pearly gates, Saint Peter aka your supervisor rocks in his high chair and looks at you in disgust. His voice rises a few octaves as he bellows, "you must come to office well in time. Do you know what is the time now?". To prove that you are late, he turns his wrist and stares hard at the antique piece that he calls a watch. As if on cue, all heads turn to your side, men click their tongues with false pity and women sharpen their ears for some gossip juice. Your day- ruined. You are never on time, you see.

If reaching office on time is a nightmare, simpler pleasures like a movie night out is a distant dream. If you have a toddler at the crook of your arm, never ever try this stunt. Packing for a movie night with a toddler can drive you crazy as you keep packing and packing. Hot water in a flask, food substitute, bowl and a spoon, milk in a flask, bib, diapers, towels, baby powder, liquid soap, the list is longer than your grocery bill. A diaper forgotten will bring you back 'pooped' memories from nowhere! If you have two kids, God bless you, lady! You can be the referee to a free-for-all instantly.
The domestic God is always invincible when it comes to getting ready. A quick shower, dress up and  a dab of perfume, he is ready and shining. Here you are, oil-dripping hair, sweat oozing face, adorned in a nighty that would have seen a hundred washes trying to figure out which attire would be comfortable for the odyssey while he eyes his watch...meaningfully. Getting ready on time- bah...never happens to the women. Forget it. 


p.s.: I hate Mondays, period. Why do we have to put ourselves to the torture that is called 'office'?
p.p.s.: Special mention to the education minister of Jharkand- Neera Yadav. Milady. Please don't garland anyone's picture, ever. 
p.p.p.s.:  Why do you always have to be the subordinate of Kim Jong Un? :P