SEX,VAGINA,BREASTS,PENIS,SEMEN,MASTRUBATION...
There is a mild thud inside me as I write these...biological terms...I still refrain from using a few more of such explicit terms - 'why?' is what this post is about.
As I was reading Suman's 'Castration' post a couple of weeks back...my younger brother came into my room and stood behind me with his arms on the head of the chair on which I sat. At first I did not realise that he was reading the post along with me...and even after I had, I did not find any reason to react instantly. A minute or half into it- we both realised what the other person was reading and we both started.
"Err…"
"What IS this..Hina!!"
Before I could convince myself that I was not entertaining myself with a frivolous unaesthetic pornographic tale that might have qualified a nervous reaction, I found myself giving my 15 year-old brother an explanation.
"Err..Its not what you think it is..."
"Well...Of course, its not. What did I say?" he said, sniggering.
"But its NOT!" I revolted.
"Sure sure..." nodding his head in feigned understanding.
It is an art. The way he irritates me. I knew I was beating a dead horse.
I felt an urge to straighten out this misapprehension immediately. It was as though I was being convicted of a crime I did not commit. I knew what part of the post was exposed to his view in that particular moment. He must have read fragments like: "two round breasts, the opened thighs, and his erect penis…" It felt very awkward at first. I had even increased the font size of the web page through pressing the Ctrl and + keys together...so he had a rather…magnified view of my....private preoccupations.
Then I thought….. he is young and immature and so probably could not construe the aforementioned terms in anything but socially verboten terms. As this realisation dawned upon me, I became less eager to clear my position in one breath. Convinced that he knew all about sex and much more, I looked at him, trying not to fall into the trap of his annoying yet infectious snigger.
If I needed to put my point across here, seriousness was a necessary pre-requisite.
I remember how in school days, it was the 8th or 9th grade, I reckon, when we had those eye-opening Biology chapters in our curriculum. It was a tough task to exude decent nonchalance while the teacher explained (referring to diagrams, not to forget) the complex sexual anatomy of the human body. And that too, in face of racy boys who having already read the chapters back home - a scholarly eagerness rarely exhibited in any other subject - were chuckling explosively underneath their desks, bent,on pretext of picking up an intentionally dropped pen/scale/eraser/pencil. It was the scare of being reprimanded by the teacher for being so utterly shameless and 'dirty-minded' that kept a check on the chuckles and the queue of delinquents outside the class.
A few significant Biology chapters were obliterated from our course back then -perhaps for the fear of turning the students' eye-opening tutorials into wide-eyed addictions; and also to save many Biology teachers the discomfiture of addressing a class of developing hormones.
It was a year later that I learnt that ninety percent of the class had dutifully read those omitted chapters, which as I later came to know, explained the 'real thing'. I happened to be part of the other ten percent who never cared for out-of-syllabus questions in exams, and thus, remained unenlightened for yet another year.
Hence, I always found myself outside the huddle of gossiping and giggling girls who shared 'Adult' humour or in the popular jargon, 'Non-Veg jokes'. Besides the fact that I always found them crude and unfunny, I could never really ‘get’ these jokes. One could say that the former was a result of the latter. But, with all due respect to pornographic jocularity, I still have a hard time searching for the 'joke' in the 'Non-Veg'.
I vividly remember that it was a bright summer’s morning. I was walking back to the classroom from the canteen, munching blissfully on a samosa, when this candid friend of mine, accidentally spilled the beans for me.(or should I say, spilled the… samosa for me…for I couldn’t really finish it after what she revealed) I was appalled apart from merely shocked to find about the act of penetration for the first time. I kept thinking about it for a few days. I had these million questions and doubts but I did not dare ask anyone, being the shy simpleton that I was. Gradually of course I conciliated myself with the concept. But I was always ill at ease at using the terminology that referred to it, and often found myself at the other end of the following exclamations: “Tch-Tch” ,“Aww…”, “Look at her..!”, “Come-On…”, “Grow-Up!”, “It’s the reality of life” especially from those who were much more denotative in their expressions than me. I knew even then that it was not purely in the vein of discussing squarely the “reality of life” that such saucy discussions used to take place. But I was never fiercely judgmental for all I could help. For I was terribly inquisitive and interested in them myself. Only, I maintained a respectable distance and deterred from an active participation.
As I entered college, I had matured, which is to say, I did not jump at hearing the word 'sex' or the likes and could bring myself to discuss ‘issues’ explicitly.
I remember reading about this racket that installation of a condom vending machine in the JNU campus attracted. A few ultra-conservative minds were of the opinion that it spread vulgarism and further westernised India. I could not grasp the head or tail of that argument. I think we use vulgarism and the ‘It’s not our culture’ argument as a facade to conceal our hypocrisy, and a deceleration of our open-mindedness and democratic impulse. Then it becomes a case of social mores impinging on freedom of expression, and rationality being compromised in honour of ‘social taboos’. Majority of the rural population of India is totally unaware of the use of contraceptives. In fact, even most educated 'modern' city people are too shy to go to a medical store and ask for a condom and would rather risk unprotected sex. So the sentience of the agrarian society is beyond pathetic.
So, when I come across the unabashed directness of the some of the creative write-ups of Aruni or Suman, I do not know where to place these people in a comparison. Two parallel worlds, aren’t they?
But within the given context of our social setting, there will always remain words that will be needed to be minced. We sure have evolved, democratised and sensitised ourselves but surely nowhere close to being enough.As I have mentioned before, I used to be the kind of person who avoided such unfastened expressions. The kind of person who would rather use the phrase 'love-making' for 'sex'. But you realise that there is a particular terminology for particular descriptions and you cannot go on biting your lip in the garb of decency or social protocol. And as i say this, I hold vulgarism and salaciousness in a totally different arena of discussion.
I recall this scene from Walker's 'The Color Purple'(the novel that I have mentioned earlier in my first post to this blog) which is probably one of the most impressing scenes in the novel, when Shug Avery hands Celie a mirror and asks her to look at her own vagina.
"What, too shame even to go off and look at yourself..?" ....."Why, Miss Celie" she says, "you still a virgin."
Celie has mothered two children..she has been been raped continually as a child by her own father, she is given to sexual commodification by her unfeeling husband...if anything, she would have the technical know-how of sex. But the sex-education that Shug Avery imparts to Celie is something more sublime. It is about knowing and loving and respecting your own body shamelessly. About having the gumption to express your fierce individualistic desires and the needs of your body. About liberating yourself from social control.
So, I looked at my brother and I told him exactly what Suman’s post was about. I told him it was about the culture-shock that this person gets on migrating from the country to the city, about the sexual needs of a man, about a man masturbating and about motleying social protocols. Visibly,my brother was caught unawares. And his face read - "THAT was uncalled for.." Then, I found him looking at the screen of the computer pensively... He turned to me...Hmmm-ed and asked, “What does 'Castration' mean?”
I was proud of the fact that he was not sniggering anymore.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
P (wet hair); Last exam
She is not exactly at the top of her class but she is pretty good. Good enough to ask questions, to attract stares outside class when she catches the professor for a two-minute chat. She doesn't wear red very often but that is simply because she doesn’t have a lot of red things, not because of any particular aversion to the chromatic aspects of that colour. I used to think of you every time I saw her.
Now I think of you both. You are, like she is, fragments of me. I tell myself that I am going to remember you while walking up the stairs to the department. But then again, the very idea of female beauty is so naïve and unqualified. I am aware of the biological behind the visual (and the imaginary), and it doesn’t stop me from appreciating the beauty of both the biological and the visual.
But I still cannot explain what happened a few days ago, right after the exams got over. I was sitting outside class, listening to people declare how badly they’d done their papers, and suddenly I saw her walking toward me. I looked away, to pretend that I hadn’t noticed her, so I could be surprised when she actually stopped near me. She was wearing a magenta kurta, and it had flowers printed all over it. When she stopped next to me I smiled, and couldn’t do anything else. I told her that I’d written a decent paper, and she asked me what were my plans for the two-month break, now that the exams were over.
I don’t know why, but I can’t quite explain what happened next. I haven’t cried for eight years now. I never cry. I have felt physical and emotional pain, but the carapace of masculinity never allowed me the tears, the liquefaction of dejection.
As the first tear rolled down she pretended not to notice. She began to get slightly embarrassed as the drop grew to a steady flow. She looked away from me, either because she was uncomfortable or because she thought I would feel better this way, if she didnt look at me. At that point, I hadn’t started to hate myself for crying before her. I was really, just crying. I had dreamt of that moment for so long. I couldn’t believe it would really amount to nothing.
-Uh-oh...are you alright?
-Ya, Im fine..
She smiled. I couldn’t look her in the eye, caught as I was, between hating myself and trying to explain myself to myself. Crying unmans you somewhat. It really does.
-Nothing… Just this really stupid thing. You know, I’ve had dreams of this day, this moment, of how good it would feel to be done with the exams. Its… its like the past six weeks someone was choking me, forcibly holding my head under water, and now I have finally surfaced… but I cant see myself gasping for breath… I imagined doing things after the exams got over, and I cant think of anything now.
-Maybe your lungs have got used to breathing under-water. Maybe its not so bad anymore.
-Like the way your stomach shrinks if you don’t eat a lot of food for days together?
-Ya, something like that.
-Okay.
-Okay.
I wiped the tears from my face. More like smeared it across my cheeks. She began to walk towards the main gate. I followed, making it look like a mutual decision.
-I have to have lunch with a professor. Actually, its we. Four of us are having lunch with her.
-Okay. I would have asked to have lunch with me otherwise.
I fixed my gaze on the embroidery on the sleeve of her kurta. I hoped she’d notice it and not think I was looking at her arm. It had tiny flowers, eace with a mirror at the centre and four thin petals surrounding it. The flowers were dark green, and were stitched on a black strip that ran along the edge of the sleeve. The bed sheet in my room has flowers like that, though the flowers are much bigger and without the mirrors.
She saw me looking at her sleeve. I didn’t move my eyes, though after a while she moved hers.
-You actually cried… Aww.
-Don’t have to remind me, embarrass me…
-No, its cute…I think I’m going to tell my friends.
We walked into her friends at the gate, they reacted with a similar aww… and I told them it was nothing. I spoke with them for two minutes and left. I walked back to the building because I had to use the urinal. As I stepped outside the loo I saw her waiting for me. She was standing near the water cooler at the corner. Between smiling at her and walking toward her I took my water bottle out of my bag, thinking of filling it up. Before I could ask her why she hadn’t left for lunch she raised herself on tiptoes, leaned into me, supported herself with her hands on my shoulders and pressed her lips to mine. I closed my eyes at the moment of contact, and I knew she was waiting for me to make some sort of movement, to give a sign because our lips stayed like that for quite a while. I moved. I puckered my lips, held her in mine briefly, and released her. She did the same. I wanted her to use her tongue but she didn’t. She pulled away in less than a minute. Her eyes were half-asleep, unwilling to get up, and the dream of a smile slowly painted itself on their watery canvas. I preferred to look rather than to speak.
-Wow.
-Thanks.
-I should be thanking you. I half expected you to push me away.
-Really? I was a bit shocked, honestly, if you ask me, but I’d never have pushed you away. Even if I didn't like you kissing me... I mean, its not everyday that I have people kissing me as I fill my bottle at the cooler, you know…
She laughed.
-Ya, I thought so. I have to leave.
-Oh yes. Of course, I mean. See you in a couple of months, I guess?
-Yes, I don’t think I’ll see you before that. Don’t think I can.
-Have a nice lunch.
-Sure. You too.
-Whatever they give in the canteen…where are you going, Nirula’s?
-Yes, I think.
I nodded and waved. She walked down the stairs. I followed her head till it all but disappeared under the staircase and I shouted.
-Thanks a lot. I don’t think anyone saw us.
She looked up, smiled, winked. Time slowed down, enough to let me notice her sleeve again.
The following day as I moved my things I was hating myself. I hated myself for settling down in one place such that it was so difficult to shift. Carrying the books from the room to the cab, and then from the cab to my flat in Gurgaon reminded me of my own complacency. I sickened myself with the way I had settled down in my room in North Campus, with everything from books to toiletries to clothes and a computer. How much better if I just had a big canvas bag that I could carry on my back to college everyday, and if I could just dump all my stuff into it and move out of or in to any place I wanted to. A couple of shirts, a couple of t-shirts, a couple of trousers, sets of underwear, some books, a bedsheet and a toothbrush. That’s all one needs, really. But I’ve got a taxi full of stuff. Around two hundred and fifty seven books. And a computer. I was shaking my head in despair as the taxi moved out. The taxi-driver took a long hard look at my books and asked me if I had bought them all, and if I had started a laboratory (I think he meant 'library') in my room. He leafed through one book and said he couldn’t understand a word of what was written. It was DM Thomas’s The White Hotel.
Everytime I came down with my hands full of books he’d raise his eye-brows and ask me if that was it, and I would shake my head and go back up. I couldn’t help thinking of a line from Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass: they settle down as if they’re never going to leave.
Now I think of you both. You are, like she is, fragments of me. I tell myself that I am going to remember you while walking up the stairs to the department. But then again, the very idea of female beauty is so naïve and unqualified. I am aware of the biological behind the visual (and the imaginary), and it doesn’t stop me from appreciating the beauty of both the biological and the visual.
But I still cannot explain what happened a few days ago, right after the exams got over. I was sitting outside class, listening to people declare how badly they’d done their papers, and suddenly I saw her walking toward me. I looked away, to pretend that I hadn’t noticed her, so I could be surprised when she actually stopped near me. She was wearing a magenta kurta, and it had flowers printed all over it. When she stopped next to me I smiled, and couldn’t do anything else. I told her that I’d written a decent paper, and she asked me what were my plans for the two-month break, now that the exams were over.
I don’t know why, but I can’t quite explain what happened next. I haven’t cried for eight years now. I never cry. I have felt physical and emotional pain, but the carapace of masculinity never allowed me the tears, the liquefaction of dejection.
As the first tear rolled down she pretended not to notice. She began to get slightly embarrassed as the drop grew to a steady flow. She looked away from me, either because she was uncomfortable or because she thought I would feel better this way, if she didnt look at me. At that point, I hadn’t started to hate myself for crying before her. I was really, just crying. I had dreamt of that moment for so long. I couldn’t believe it would really amount to nothing.
-Uh-oh...are you alright?
-Ya, Im fine..
She smiled. I couldn’t look her in the eye, caught as I was, between hating myself and trying to explain myself to myself. Crying unmans you somewhat. It really does.
-Nothing… Just this really stupid thing. You know, I’ve had dreams of this day, this moment, of how good it would feel to be done with the exams. Its… its like the past six weeks someone was choking me, forcibly holding my head under water, and now I have finally surfaced… but I cant see myself gasping for breath… I imagined doing things after the exams got over, and I cant think of anything now.
-Maybe your lungs have got used to breathing under-water. Maybe its not so bad anymore.
-Like the way your stomach shrinks if you don’t eat a lot of food for days together?
-Ya, something like that.
-Okay.
-Okay.
I wiped the tears from my face. More like smeared it across my cheeks. She began to walk towards the main gate. I followed, making it look like a mutual decision.
-I have to have lunch with a professor. Actually, its we. Four of us are having lunch with her.
-Okay. I would have asked to have lunch with me otherwise.
I fixed my gaze on the embroidery on the sleeve of her kurta. I hoped she’d notice it and not think I was looking at her arm. It had tiny flowers, eace with a mirror at the centre and four thin petals surrounding it. The flowers were dark green, and were stitched on a black strip that ran along the edge of the sleeve. The bed sheet in my room has flowers like that, though the flowers are much bigger and without the mirrors.
She saw me looking at her sleeve. I didn’t move my eyes, though after a while she moved hers.
-You actually cried… Aww.
-Don’t have to remind me, embarrass me…
-No, its cute…I think I’m going to tell my friends.
We walked into her friends at the gate, they reacted with a similar aww… and I told them it was nothing. I spoke with them for two minutes and left. I walked back to the building because I had to use the urinal. As I stepped outside the loo I saw her waiting for me. She was standing near the water cooler at the corner. Between smiling at her and walking toward her I took my water bottle out of my bag, thinking of filling it up. Before I could ask her why she hadn’t left for lunch she raised herself on tiptoes, leaned into me, supported herself with her hands on my shoulders and pressed her lips to mine. I closed my eyes at the moment of contact, and I knew she was waiting for me to make some sort of movement, to give a sign because our lips stayed like that for quite a while. I moved. I puckered my lips, held her in mine briefly, and released her. She did the same. I wanted her to use her tongue but she didn’t. She pulled away in less than a minute. Her eyes were half-asleep, unwilling to get up, and the dream of a smile slowly painted itself on their watery canvas. I preferred to look rather than to speak.
-Wow.
-Thanks.
-I should be thanking you. I half expected you to push me away.
-Really? I was a bit shocked, honestly, if you ask me, but I’d never have pushed you away. Even if I didn't like you kissing me... I mean, its not everyday that I have people kissing me as I fill my bottle at the cooler, you know…
She laughed.
-Ya, I thought so. I have to leave.
-Oh yes. Of course, I mean. See you in a couple of months, I guess?
-Yes, I don’t think I’ll see you before that. Don’t think I can.
-Have a nice lunch.
-Sure. You too.
-Whatever they give in the canteen…where are you going, Nirula’s?
-Yes, I think.
I nodded and waved. She walked down the stairs. I followed her head till it all but disappeared under the staircase and I shouted.
-Thanks a lot. I don’t think anyone saw us.
She looked up, smiled, winked. Time slowed down, enough to let me notice her sleeve again.
The following day as I moved my things I was hating myself. I hated myself for settling down in one place such that it was so difficult to shift. Carrying the books from the room to the cab, and then from the cab to my flat in Gurgaon reminded me of my own complacency. I sickened myself with the way I had settled down in my room in North Campus, with everything from books to toiletries to clothes and a computer. How much better if I just had a big canvas bag that I could carry on my back to college everyday, and if I could just dump all my stuff into it and move out of or in to any place I wanted to. A couple of shirts, a couple of t-shirts, a couple of trousers, sets of underwear, some books, a bedsheet and a toothbrush. That’s all one needs, really. But I’ve got a taxi full of stuff. Around two hundred and fifty seven books. And a computer. I was shaking my head in despair as the taxi moved out. The taxi-driver took a long hard look at my books and asked me if I had bought them all, and if I had started a laboratory (I think he meant 'library') in my room. He leafed through one book and said he couldn’t understand a word of what was written. It was DM Thomas’s The White Hotel.
Everytime I came down with my hands full of books he’d raise his eye-brows and ask me if that was it, and I would shake my head and go back up. I couldn’t help thinking of a line from Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass: they settle down as if they’re never going to leave.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
castration
CASTRATION
On a Saturday his friends decided to go and see the nearest shopping mall. Actually during the last four Sundays they took him for Delhi Darshan. They had many photographs clicked and he pretty excited about everything. Last Sunday he pointed towards some western tourists at Rajghat and shouted in disbelief-“ Angrez! Angrez!” it startled all the visitors there. His friends felt embarrassed with this boorish behaviour of their friend who had recently come from the village. They immediately silenced him and almost dragged towards Shantiban, an adjoining park sort of space. On the way, he was fed with all civilizing instructions- how people in Delhi don’t behave. He listened them with changing facial expressions, which were mostly those of guilty confession. He noticed a couple, they looked unmarried, behind a bush and looked towards his friends with questioning eyes. They made it easy for him to understand the thing with a light smile and many other bushes. They made some crude remarks and he also participated in their way which was not very unlike him now except in language. He understood the difference between Rajghat and Shantiban; Gandhi’s Samadhi and ‘behind the bushes’. He understood how his friends were acting ‘civilized’. He marveled on this art. He also understood how metro makes one. But , in spite of all these understanding, one thing he could not understand was how to feel about all these things.
He was quite excited about this mall visit. No confusion was in his mind but the different images that could be a mall. His friends described everything with smallest details. Fully AC, self-running stairs and much more. They also told him how cameras watched over all the places. And they never missed to remind him how to behave or how to move or how to look at the things. Finally, in the evening, they were in front of the mall. He followed his friends while entering the mall. Everything was awful there. He saw how his friends balanced on the escalators. He saw the way his friends liked the things and then disliked them and then bought nothing. He was just following them. He saw other people buying the same things. Were they fools? He had no idea but may be. He kept following his friends. They moved from one store to another. Every time they came out they talked about the prices of the things, how much they would costing another market and how fool the others were. “Really they are”. He thought.
After going through different stores, finally, they came to a video parlour. They saw many CDs like music, film, porn etc. first time he felt his he felt his right hand in his pocket. A steaming scene on the cover of a porn CD cassette drove his fantasy to another level. He pressed his hardened dick against his thigh. He moved away from his friends, from the stall, away from all the eyes and the only place that proved to his wish was the parking lot. In the semi-darkened space, he thought of easing his fantasy. He remembered his several adventures in his village. Sometimes in an orchard, sometimes in any cornfield, once in the back of the village school when it was dark. He eased himself against the back of a car and started moving his hand. His eyes were closed and he could hear the moaning, the cry and his triumphant movement. He felt a body moving under his pressure. He could not fix the head. Intensity of desire had outdone the choice or preference. He just felt two round breasts, the opened thighs, and his erect penis, which was complimented as big by that headless body. He thrust harder and harder and heard her yelling in pain, saying that his was just too big. He imagined her bleeding and further lubricating the passage, which was his conquered zone. He smiled when his imagination made her to beg to be a bit slower or to stop. But he kept on and her protesting voice was stifled under his chest. She held the crops or grass roots or whatever that was within her reach and uprooted it when the pain was too intense. He moved even faster. Sometimes he got slightly slow or almost stopped but renewed the same with the same vigour. “This is how a real mard does it” he mused.
But this was not his village and nor were his fields. It was an alien city with which he had still to align himself and learn to identify himself. He felt his imagination carrying him to the seventh height of pleasure as his hand was still at work. Suddenly he was surprised by them. A boy and a girl, standing hand in hand. He had felt some jerk and it was when the doors opened on the both sides of the car. Pleasure was just too absorbing to notice anything. He continued. He had heard the girl whispering something in the boy’s ear but damn them. He became faster. He was just coming to the point where it climax. But did he get it? He could have. His body was jerking with the rhythm of his hand when a voice, mixed of a male and a female, paused the world around him including himself. His eyes met theirs. He felt like hiding somewhere. the same hand smothered the same penis inside his pant in a hurried effort to minimize his shame. All the bodily sensations were lost for a moment and a mixed expression of embarrassment, anger, guilt, and surrender appeared on his face when he found those two faces still looking at him with a cynical smile and some mocking encouragements. He felt time moving thousands times slower than a snail,stopped like some etrnity, and wished only if those two faces would walk away and leave him alone. But how?
His head was bent down. A big confusion of sound was invading his ears from different angles. He did not know what those sounds were and from whom. Nor did he try to know. He was just trying to cover himself in silence with a shamefaced passivity, very unlike a tortoise in its shell. Was he really ashamed? A simple “yes” would be a simple lie. He was too much confused, confused with too many emotion, confused with too many thoughts. Angry with himself and also with the rest. He just wanted to close his eyes, lie down, and forget about everything as if nothing had happened. Traitor mind! He was still restless. He could see those two figures going away. “were not both of them fucking each other?” he thought. He felt angry. And probably envious. It was not for being an embarrassing discovery. The slowly moving hips of that girl were provocative. Strange imagination. Did not he remember what happened few moments before? He did. He was just trying to get over those moments. Always the best way to get over your present miseries is to fantasize about your future. He could have crushed her into pieces and make her feel and respect his masculinity. He put his right hand back into his pant. This time it was not for a wood picking or grass-cutting girl in his village. It was an amazing face in skirt and top. He could not imagine his field or the orchard beside the pond. But why not to imagine some unseen hotel room. Some of his friends talk about them. A HOTEL ROOM. Paid by? Even in his imagination, the question was there. “can not she pay!” he had heard about such things. All was an open-eyed dream. He grabbed his package to make a masculine gift to her passive beauty. A poor limp fool in his hand. Where was gone the erection? Could not his super masculine erection come from those village fields to that metro hotel? He tried to awake it. A poor lost thing. The lord of phallus was castrated.
On a Saturday his friends decided to go and see the nearest shopping mall. Actually during the last four Sundays they took him for Delhi Darshan. They had many photographs clicked and he pretty excited about everything. Last Sunday he pointed towards some western tourists at Rajghat and shouted in disbelief-“ Angrez! Angrez!” it startled all the visitors there. His friends felt embarrassed with this boorish behaviour of their friend who had recently come from the village. They immediately silenced him and almost dragged towards Shantiban, an adjoining park sort of space. On the way, he was fed with all civilizing instructions- how people in Delhi don’t behave. He listened them with changing facial expressions, which were mostly those of guilty confession. He noticed a couple, they looked unmarried, behind a bush and looked towards his friends with questioning eyes. They made it easy for him to understand the thing with a light smile and many other bushes. They made some crude remarks and he also participated in their way which was not very unlike him now except in language. He understood the difference between Rajghat and Shantiban; Gandhi’s Samadhi and ‘behind the bushes’. He understood how his friends were acting ‘civilized’. He marveled on this art. He also understood how metro makes one. But , in spite of all these understanding, one thing he could not understand was how to feel about all these things.
He was quite excited about this mall visit. No confusion was in his mind but the different images that could be a mall. His friends described everything with smallest details. Fully AC, self-running stairs and much more. They also told him how cameras watched over all the places. And they never missed to remind him how to behave or how to move or how to look at the things. Finally, in the evening, they were in front of the mall. He followed his friends while entering the mall. Everything was awful there. He saw how his friends balanced on the escalators. He saw the way his friends liked the things and then disliked them and then bought nothing. He was just following them. He saw other people buying the same things. Were they fools? He had no idea but may be. He kept following his friends. They moved from one store to another. Every time they came out they talked about the prices of the things, how much they would costing another market and how fool the others were. “Really they are”. He thought.
After going through different stores, finally, they came to a video parlour. They saw many CDs like music, film, porn etc. first time he felt his he felt his right hand in his pocket. A steaming scene on the cover of a porn CD cassette drove his fantasy to another level. He pressed his hardened dick against his thigh. He moved away from his friends, from the stall, away from all the eyes and the only place that proved to his wish was the parking lot. In the semi-darkened space, he thought of easing his fantasy. He remembered his several adventures in his village. Sometimes in an orchard, sometimes in any cornfield, once in the back of the village school when it was dark. He eased himself against the back of a car and started moving his hand. His eyes were closed and he could hear the moaning, the cry and his triumphant movement. He felt a body moving under his pressure. He could not fix the head. Intensity of desire had outdone the choice or preference. He just felt two round breasts, the opened thighs, and his erect penis, which was complimented as big by that headless body. He thrust harder and harder and heard her yelling in pain, saying that his was just too big. He imagined her bleeding and further lubricating the passage, which was his conquered zone. He smiled when his imagination made her to beg to be a bit slower or to stop. But he kept on and her protesting voice was stifled under his chest. She held the crops or grass roots or whatever that was within her reach and uprooted it when the pain was too intense. He moved even faster. Sometimes he got slightly slow or almost stopped but renewed the same with the same vigour. “This is how a real mard does it” he mused.
But this was not his village and nor were his fields. It was an alien city with which he had still to align himself and learn to identify himself. He felt his imagination carrying him to the seventh height of pleasure as his hand was still at work. Suddenly he was surprised by them. A boy and a girl, standing hand in hand. He had felt some jerk and it was when the doors opened on the both sides of the car. Pleasure was just too absorbing to notice anything. He continued. He had heard the girl whispering something in the boy’s ear but damn them. He became faster. He was just coming to the point where it climax. But did he get it? He could have. His body was jerking with the rhythm of his hand when a voice, mixed of a male and a female, paused the world around him including himself. His eyes met theirs. He felt like hiding somewhere. the same hand smothered the same penis inside his pant in a hurried effort to minimize his shame. All the bodily sensations were lost for a moment and a mixed expression of embarrassment, anger, guilt, and surrender appeared on his face when he found those two faces still looking at him with a cynical smile and some mocking encouragements. He felt time moving thousands times slower than a snail,stopped like some etrnity, and wished only if those two faces would walk away and leave him alone. But how?
His head was bent down. A big confusion of sound was invading his ears from different angles. He did not know what those sounds were and from whom. Nor did he try to know. He was just trying to cover himself in silence with a shamefaced passivity, very unlike a tortoise in its shell. Was he really ashamed? A simple “yes” would be a simple lie. He was too much confused, confused with too many emotion, confused with too many thoughts. Angry with himself and also with the rest. He just wanted to close his eyes, lie down, and forget about everything as if nothing had happened. Traitor mind! He was still restless. He could see those two figures going away. “were not both of them fucking each other?” he thought. He felt angry. And probably envious. It was not for being an embarrassing discovery. The slowly moving hips of that girl were provocative. Strange imagination. Did not he remember what happened few moments before? He did. He was just trying to get over those moments. Always the best way to get over your present miseries is to fantasize about your future. He could have crushed her into pieces and make her feel and respect his masculinity. He put his right hand back into his pant. This time it was not for a wood picking or grass-cutting girl in his village. It was an amazing face in skirt and top. He could not imagine his field or the orchard beside the pond. But why not to imagine some unseen hotel room. Some of his friends talk about them. A HOTEL ROOM. Paid by? Even in his imagination, the question was there. “can not she pay!” he had heard about such things. All was an open-eyed dream. He grabbed his package to make a masculine gift to her passive beauty. A poor limp fool in his hand. Where was gone the erection? Could not his super masculine erection come from those village fields to that metro hotel? He tried to awake it. A poor lost thing. The lord of phallus was castrated.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Shoes, politics and medals
I know these are hard times for us and we are undergoing the reign of Terror under the juggernaut of Swift and Pope. Let us have some respite and switch over to politics. What about the recent spate of shoe hurling episodes during the current electoral process?
Sometimes I wonder whether the whites have rightly dubbed us ‘the other’. Shoes and chappals have always been the most successful weapons in our country. But we are using it now when once it was flung at Bush by the Iraqi journalist. Are we merely apes? We should have started employing this tactic much earlier. Every now and then our parliament witnesses this melodrama. Despite that our fortune-forgers seem to be as unchangeable as Bush remained on his standpoint on the Iraq issue. Then, it gives the impression that these missiles have proved to be innocuous and utter failure.
But again your toil never goes in vain. If you follow my advice, I’ll earnestly suggest you to learn the art of shoe flinging. Believe me I’ve already started practicing it.
What! How can you accuse me of doing so in order to gain cheap popularity? How many of you can recall the name of that journalist who initiated this chain. Friends history has been an evidence of it that those who meet tragic fall survive the test of time. Troy is still more famous than Sparta. Let me be plain then and say that in the whole melodrama the leader who will bravely encounter this missile of shoes will be immortal, at least during the elections. I can foresee that very soon political parties will hire not goons but those who would be expert in hurling shoes. They will be bribed to fling the missiles at big political leaders so that they may come to the limelight. Thus very soon this will emerge as a big market, like a subculture, and hopefully as a sport it will be included in the Olympics. We will be able to win many gold medals as our political leaders are already experts in throwing shoes. This will further lead to the democratization of the whole process. Shoe companies will flock to us for advertisements. Now you could have understood why I was counseling you to cultivate this art.
For girls this skill will equip them with double advantage. Along with the above-mentioned advantage they can keep the eve-teasers at bay. The only repercussion of which I am afraid is that the rocketing price of shoes will make my already straitened circumstances more precarious, as presently I am struggling to buy a new pair of shoes.
Sometimes I wonder whether the whites have rightly dubbed us ‘the other’. Shoes and chappals have always been the most successful weapons in our country. But we are using it now when once it was flung at Bush by the Iraqi journalist. Are we merely apes? We should have started employing this tactic much earlier. Every now and then our parliament witnesses this melodrama. Despite that our fortune-forgers seem to be as unchangeable as Bush remained on his standpoint on the Iraq issue. Then, it gives the impression that these missiles have proved to be innocuous and utter failure.
But again your toil never goes in vain. If you follow my advice, I’ll earnestly suggest you to learn the art of shoe flinging. Believe me I’ve already started practicing it.
What! How can you accuse me of doing so in order to gain cheap popularity? How many of you can recall the name of that journalist who initiated this chain. Friends history has been an evidence of it that those who meet tragic fall survive the test of time. Troy is still more famous than Sparta. Let me be plain then and say that in the whole melodrama the leader who will bravely encounter this missile of shoes will be immortal, at least during the elections. I can foresee that very soon political parties will hire not goons but those who would be expert in hurling shoes. They will be bribed to fling the missiles at big political leaders so that they may come to the limelight. Thus very soon this will emerge as a big market, like a subculture, and hopefully as a sport it will be included in the Olympics. We will be able to win many gold medals as our political leaders are already experts in throwing shoes. This will further lead to the democratization of the whole process. Shoe companies will flock to us for advertisements. Now you could have understood why I was counseling you to cultivate this art.
For girls this skill will equip them with double advantage. Along with the above-mentioned advantage they can keep the eve-teasers at bay. The only repercussion of which I am afraid is that the rocketing price of shoes will make my already straitened circumstances more precarious, as presently I am struggling to buy a new pair of shoes.
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