TO… Some Not So Dear Indian Men


 

 

 So much to be discussed about the way we dress, eh?

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What about the way you pee? Or the way you ‘expose’ yourselves on the streets, unashamed, uninhibited by the fear of getting abused?

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Yes, you? I am talking to you, right there.

Peeing behind the trees where my pet dog resorts to attend his nature’s call?  Do you really even realize that you just stole Snoopy’s favorite pee destination?

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Yeah. YOU got it right this time. That’s the name of my dog

O holy breed of Indian men!

I agree that I belong to the class of woman who prefer staying home after 8pm. But I am not the last species on earth. Am I? I have friends, sisters and aunts who love going out, living their life beyond the 8pm deadline. Now, I know how cheap you can think of us. DO NOT mistake me for an overtly simple, scared girl who insists upon being an Indian woman only by revolving around the orbit of her house. Again, stop bothering about woman preferences and start minding the way you behave in public. I do have my 8pm rule because …. “None of your business”! It’s of course only because I like being home!!

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Secondly, do we really care about the way you dress? Do we ever snap on your face for being hypocrite ‘sanskari’ (*sanskari means cultured) sons of the civilization? Have we ever cared to stalk you alone on a ghastly Indian gulley?  Not even the ghosts of a Ram Gopal Verma movie dare to think of making love to a woman on a road so stinking and dark. But you willingly land up with your folk, molesting and scathing girls as young as ten as if ‘raping ‘is your birth right.

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I wonder if you were born with pants on!

 Do you really get high or is it a feeling of eternal oblivion that you imbibe out of ideal foolery?

The women tolerate  you- the mother, the sister and the friend initially trusts you and later ignores your inhuman activities not because they are scared of the consequences that might befall upon them for having spoken against you rather, because you no longer bear the value of “being human” in their eyes.

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And please start peeing at home. The wall art isn’t striking enough to make up to the Louvre.

 Today morning even Snoopy changed his spot.

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(P.S: The above article is meant for those men who hold the opinion of women’s dress being the sole invitation for rape cases. And ‘gentlemen’ please ignore it. But for  men like you ,we women are not yet extinct)

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‘Plain’ B.A


I tilted the freshly washed ‘dekchi pot’ made of stainless steel. The few droplets of water still clinging to the lustrous skin of the steel glided down lazily like young housewives after the day’s unending chores.

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Ah! My reflection.

I observed my perfect geometrically round face; my lips- overshadowed by an outline of accumulated water along the curved base of the shiny utensil- creating the haphazard illusion of a human smile. Noticing the satire on my gloomy mood, I chose to subject myself to a few more innocent moments of playful observation- meddling with the poor inanimate thing that might have chosen to rest after a fresh bath. After a few lonely moments of self admiration, I forced my mother to take a look at my discovery of the abstract image. However I found my busy mother least interested, thus depriving me of my artistic joy harbored on the behest of idleness.

It never occurred to me why I couldn’t enslave myself to the much privileged class of study in our education system- the arithmetic. Not that I have been enough faithful to ‘ them’, both the curvaceous ‘8’ and ‘6’ nor the tall and slender ‘1’ could have their much gimmicked charm upon me.

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In fact I found the Sun, nothing else but the neighborhood guy tangled within self conflict. ‘He’ (can be otherwise read as ‘helium’) juggles within himself a million outbursts of internal commotion, failing to recognize the blinding effect it has on the entire galaxy.

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This capacity to look at ‘normal’ objects with a so-called ‘abnormal’ edge of the eye is something quite inbred in us –the students of Arts.

However, one fine evening, a well read friend of mine made a rhetorical statement to which I found my very foundation a subject to merciless scrutiny. Being an Indian, it becomes almost inevitable to break free from the bondage of spice and palate. Just like the age old reliability on ‘arranged’ marriage and ‘spicy’ item numbers , my dear friend had fallen prey to the earthly values of ‘arrangement’ of words.

The phrase ‘plain B.A’– was all that had been blurted out..

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Poor me!

I suddenly felt like a spoon full of well smoothed white batter poured on the even slimy surface of a fuming Indian tawa, just to be ignored as ‘plain’ B.A on the latest menu card of a South Indian restaurant. Gibbering with self mockery at my status compared to the ‘masala’B. Tech, ‘spicy’ B.Sc and ‘Continental ‘M.B.B.S , I suddenly felt unnoticed in the glossy menu chart of the social group.

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The question that has kept bewildering me since then is:

HOW DO I ADD ‘MASALA’ TO MY HARD EARNED DEGREE?

With due respect, after a long research on the various fields and genres of academic study, I had to accept my defeat. Here it goes:

I failed to please thee , my friend! 

The old stout neighborhood aunt finds my degree of Arts -‘plain’ (P.S she is advised low calorie intakes though) .However my Argus’ eyes have well concealed the count of ‘improvement’ papers she had to pay for her ‘engineer’ son.Image

Nataraja


Bathing in the waste like an advocate of life, reeking the air of humanity with a sarcastic wave of diligence; I observe the motionless silhouette in the early settling frost of the daylight. Like a hermit impartial to the imperfections of nature and mankind, he walks in- rummaging about in search of some great element of utmost historical significance. I stand miles away from an image which errs the interpretation of my vision. I fail to dissuade the image of the Nataraj smeared in the holy blanket of ash, unaware and undeviated by the hullabaloos of the external world.

Divinity spears down the core of existence, suddenly strangling the ego rooted deep inside me.

Air! I desperately need to breathe. But can I?

Do I deserve to share the air with him?

Forgive me, for I am a Hindu and he a Muslim. For I belong to a civilized clan whereas he is a rag picker. Does that bar me from day dreaming the image of Nataraj in him?

Well I dare to say NO.

Digging through the hills of excreta dumped away by the “have-enough” society, he drags himself everyday through the piles of stinking garbage, performing his duty without the slightest hint of agitation. For a moment I subtract the foul landscape surrounding the anatomy of this very wonder and smile at the zeal for life. Circumscribed by pests from all creed and kind, the active world around him seems to bear zero significance compared to the religious dedication he has in the dump yard. Almost every common Indian takes utmost care that not more than two of his fingers are engaged with his waste bag while attempting the javelin throw aiming at the opposite side of our houses. But his arms plunges into the rotting bag of filth for hours together as though he had found some kind of a secret potion of eternal human bliss within it.

He weeps for the squashed puppy, shuns the atrocities towards women and often likes to sip in some ‘petrol’ for dreamless sleep. Yet he keeps his occupation a secret in his circle for it would embarrass his family.

I wonder at the ego of the corrupted modern so called “civilized men”. They drink, abuse and complain in spite of being brimful with opportunities and luxury while the ragpicker creates opportunities choosing to sleep under the cloud of guilt free dreams through utmost honesty. Smothered in the ugly excreta of each gentleman’s house, the ragpicker nevertheless bears the nectar of life. Sk Aftab might have been posted by the ‘Postmaster’ into a Muslim progeny but my eyes have found the relevance of His incarnations within him- the reflection of Nataraja. Image

Take a breath


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Take a breath!

Take a breath!

Ripping off the silent sky;

Hustle bustle amongst the kin,

Lampooning the worldly human cry.

Blotting the sun,

Mottles of mud,

Skiing through the cotton balls;

Striking Him, how curious-

Seem to me the birds, of All!

Take a breath!

Take a breath!

O you flying touch of chord,

High up in the fertile bough

Imploring on the human lore.

Chirping out with deep unrest

Ancient wisely human slur;

Striking Him, how curious-

Seem to me the birds, of All!

PAST.. in Love


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Sour I am, a sullen truth,

PAST  I am, the daughter of Time;

Grating, pestling, churning all,

Human frown at me as crime.

Some command me “out you go”,

Few caress me with their smiles;

Some surface me with their thoughts,

As I stay afloat on the fluids saline.

Serene seems the sun for me,

I bathe myself in drizzling love;

Smearing Life with blooming paints,

Flying like an uncaged dove.

PRESENT! My charming prince,

Kneeling here, just by my door

Brushed away all pangs of curse,

Embracing me like never before.

Love it is, so true to me,

Curse it is, when torn apart;

Forever  We united  live,

Purging in the human heart.

Antique


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The smirking shameless rodent eyes,

Stare at me with endless awe;

Pitying at my gruesome sight,

Earing a heavy heartfelt gnaw.

Grandeur of my mansion says,

“Man you were whom I adore?”

Gnashing windows snap at me,

“Gnarled you are unwanted gore”.

Lifeless world around me tarts,

Yawning at my ruthless fate;

What was I? Reflection glees,

Shattered, shrunken is my state.

Hands that cradled little son

Left they are to rot and blaze;

Lips, they wait for days and nights,

In hope of words, old father prays.

Antique I am, chained to a grille

Tattered is my heart and soul;

as Death lingers , beckoning me

Life unfolds my empty role.

when ‘you’ finds ‘you’


lone

Subtle pangs of lonesome nights,

Gripped me once, twice and thrice;

I raced down a lane two and three,

Towards endless pavements,

Having no one to see.

I felt my breath, too cold to feel,

I begged my heart to let it conceal-

It’s banging throbs, for afraid I was-

Of a staring stalker about to crash.

I crept like a cat, I slithered like a snake

My cheeks getting warm like a hot pancake

I sneak peeped in and I sneak peeped out

As I stared at someone in the mirror in doubt.

Left I was in widening awe,

For it was me whom I saw

In the hustle and bustle of life’s marathon

I found myself, I was reborn!

Alone! Alone! I thought of the self,

As a forgotten book on a messed up shelf,

Yet to be lonely has it’s miracles to do,

It’s the sublime state when You finds You.