June 26, 2007 § 10 Comments
Over time I’ve read a decent measure of Indian writing in English. And there’s this one literary item that invariably figures in most [and with the kind of frequency it does, and the excitement and enthusiasm it generates, I’m too rickety to not write about it] – a most ornamental description of Indian woman’s anatomical form and figure, amounting to emphasize her sacrosanct place in civilization. A lot of times it edges around erotica, a very thin line between what could offend you and what could possibly interest you if read in the right spirit, just that the writer slyly obscures the immediate tantalizing effect in the grammar of foxy literary genius. And sex almost always promotes the woman partner to some strangely divine grade: a most revered object of male desire, with infinite capacity to give pleasure, a must-have entity of life, every man’s life. I’ve read the most fascinating portrayals of women’s breasts, and often attempted to sketch the same in my superego, at least trying to translate the interpretations of a proven genius for my limited mental ability. Of women lying on crumpled beds, the sari rippled next to her, her long bare back in a beautiful curve, hair messed up and perspiring and panting after making love to a Hercules male, the bindi and the sindur as the only garment on her body. Of gray-black vaginas characteristic to Asian women and filament of hair that connect the pinnacle of male obsession, the origin of all life, to the navel. Of a kiss being told as keeping her lips on his and soon after, feeling his hard on herself. Of him taking her blouse off and releasing to free space the lumps, and him finding them larger than his hands can hold, and the large areole, and the black nipples.
A lot of times, yes, this reading has left me flushed, blood running to all corners and edges of the body. But it’s not the regular titillation, say the kind when you read or watch qualified erotica. Physically I am yes, but the stimulation is partial. The major arousal has a queer intellectual stimulus! A written interpretation of what you’ve observed and touched and experienced and felt or at least imagined, is so much of a different turn-on! And our writers are maestros in the art of this teasing evaluation of the female form and being, particularly in the Indian context. Theirs is the kind of subtle writing that, if read and understood well, speaks loudly of female worship, irrespective of the dominantly male chauvinist order.
I’m just loving all this study of female construction, prose or verse, as long as it continues to present women in a different shade altogether from the general notion. Serves me to estimate them better each day. I’m not trying to understand why and if at all men are from Mars and women from Venus. In order to love ‘em, you ought to know ‘em. And since we’re like the only two sexes in the world, I must love both. It’s a short life, and it can only get shorter.
June 6, 2007 § 5 Comments
In my university days I visited Montreal once with some friends. It fell to me to order pizzas one night. I couldn’t bear to have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, so when the man on the phone asked, “Can I ‘ave your name?” I said, “I am who I am.” Half an hour later two pizzas arrived for “Ian Hoolihan” – Life of Pi
I’m trying very hard to let go of the curse of using texting lingo in all sorts of conversations. Readers are encouraged to follow suit! There’s nothing more elegant then well writing well-formed language. Thank you.
June 4, 2007 § 20 Comments
- I just did the most terrible things to my Orkut profile. I’m more than a hundred friends less, scissored the communities page, and surprising myself, I don’t mind losing fan(s) in the process.
- It’s raining here presently, and till yesterday I wanted to soak myself when it would rain next. Today, I loathe the idea.
- Off late, if I don’t want to sleep, I can’t.
- I’ve laughed/talked very little in the last one month.
- My cell phone’s not used to such excess of inactivity.
- One moment, I think I have everything. Another, I’m a loveless pauper.
- I might be doing things that defy my own definition of sanity/practicality.
- I think I’m on a road to self-discovery.
- I think I worry too much. Left to myself, I could be outrageously moody. And living alone, alone as in alone alone, seems like a lot of character building.
May be I’m just growing old. I could be on the verge of a fundamental change to my being.
C’est la vie ..such is life