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Welcome...To My Boudoir.........
"I want to be a Bacardie Girl. You know, a wanton sex Godess who's on the prowl for her next conquest!!"
Ok. This IS outrageous. I'm attempting in earnest to get your attention.
Here's the thing, I don't just WANT for you to read my blog, I NEED for you to leave me your comments.
They say nothing works like a bit of risque.
We'll See...
last modified May 28, 2004 at 23:13
Procrastination is a bad...bad word.
Like billions of frustrated and tortured mortals on this planet, I’ve been meaning to read and understand the Koran – an eponymous collection of teachings and morals as propagated by The Prophet Mohammed: The God of Small 'Things'
But I digress.
My endeavour is to assimilate my own interpretation of an allegedly religious text that has evoked an extreme of emotions amongst its followers. How can one person’s interpretation of a supposedly peaceful religion be so infamously bloody and gore-full?
Ahmed Salman Rushdie was knighted the day before by Her Majesty, joining a list of achievers from around the world in the Queen’s birthday honours roll.
And that, Dear Reader, is the tip of your iceberg this morning.
The controversial author was born to a Muslim family in Bombay but migrated to Britain where he has lived all his life. After attending Cambridge, he worked for an advertising agency before turning to writing. His first novel, ‘Grimus’, wasn’t quite the flash-in-the-pan he’d hoped for it to be. But it was his second novel, ‘Midnight’s Children’ – set in India, which catapulted him to the very echelon of literary laurels and won him the well deserved Booker prize.
But what made him a household name was the Satanic Verses which he penned in 1988. This, his fourth book, talks about a cosmic battle between good and evil which combines fantasy, philosophy and farce. And it was almost immediately condemned by the Islamic world since they thought it a blasphemous depiction of the Prophet.
So in a world that evolved from the Neanderthals and by all accounts, had progressed into the 20th century, a Fatwa was declared by none other than the saviour of Islam (ear marked for that particular year), the Moslem religious head of Iran – Ayatollah Khomeini.
The Fatwa – a religious decree calling for the bloodshed and death of anyone found guilty of trashing Islam and rubbishing the Prophet, was the reason why the author remained underground – guarded by British intelligence for over a decade. That’s how long it took for them pious-lot to plot and plan the global terrorism export to any and every part of the world. Killing one man seemed not just trivial but a gross insult to Islam and its followers when clearly, killing millions everyday seemed like a grander plan – one blessed by Gabriel himself.
In 1998, Iran declared, rather magnanimously, that it didn’t support the Fatwa (even though most Moslem fundamentalists paid little or no heed to this amoral declaration of peace). And now, Pakistan’s minister for religious affairs (duh!), Ejaz-Ul-Haq has made the impossibly unpredictable move of calling for another Fatwa (yawn...) on Sir Rushdie. In the peace loving and pious state of Pakistan, religion takes not much preference over progress, secularism, education, human rights and err..wait a minute.
That’s Denmark.
So anyway, point is, I’ve been turning a blind eye to the gore and bullshit Islamic fundamentalists seem bent on annihilating our world with. But I’m sic...physically recoiled and repulsed by this level of candour and disregard for life. How easy it is, for a Minister and a cleric to hurl blood curdling cries to Moslem brethren around the world to slaughter a man, all because he chose to exercise his right to express his opinion in what used to be a peaceful world.
Why, I ask, is Islam in perennial trouble of being trampled upon? Is it a frail religion with skewed philosophy that needs molly-coddling and looking after by slaying those who either, don’t agree with it or those who express misgivings about its teachings? Why in the name of Allah is it important to wreak havoc in every nook and cranny of the world where people choose to dissect, discuss and differ on opinions expressed by the custodians of this disturbing faith?
All good things must come to an end. And I believe that we’re living in times where the good in people, intentions, deeds and acts has well and truly, died.
I despair of progress.
She sits quietly in a corner she calls her own - watching the twilight of her life being played out on the veradah. Sepia toned images of her youth, friends and family long dead and forgotten.
Sorrounded by silence, she steps into the cacophony of the city. Braving the winter sun and the harsh winds that blow across her withered and wrinkled visage. She walks wearily into the garden - once in bloom - now abundant with the skeletal remnants of a carefully coeiffeured foliage.
This used to be her playground. Every mosaic tile, every piece of linen...you'll find her finger prints on every ebony mask that hangs from moisture laden walls with their paint peeling and falling apart like uninvited snowflakes in the Indian summer.
With wistful eyes laden with decades of anecdotes, faux pas and ocassions, she looks over to where the horizon once was. Youth, that paradoxical time in our lives we so take for granted. Here today - lost tomorrow.
You won't notice. Not because she tip-toes her way to the elevator. But because like most things rotten and fetid about this city, she's managed quite ably, to recede into the woodwork.
Not many can recall what she looks like. Some have, indeed, forgotten her name. She is but a faceless, a nameless wanderer stuck in the sands of time; biding every second with deliberate calm and resolute dignity. Insomnia brings her solace as does the forced confinement. Her macabre self loves, loathes and forgives often. Her chosen "ones" rarely aware of her longing gaze or her unfulfilled sigh. If she weren't as grotesque, she'd live again. Perhaps.
She isn't Ms.Stoneham.
A lot like the mirror is she..
Not entirely appropriate given that there's so much that has trasnpired since I last wrote here, but I wouldn't want this moment to pass without recording it.
I just held a BABY!
So I may not have cracked the Vinci code-thingummie but his was the cutest piece of "ass" I ever held! (not that I get very much of 'that' to start with).
Anyhow, I'm seated here with this Dominatrix who'd like to believe that she's angst ridden and quite 'Kafka-iesque'. (She's quite the dichotomy of logic and sense and all things that would make you and I look sane...She's so NOT it!!)
And, even as I type this, she shamelessly reads. Look AWAY WOMAN! (She says and I quote: NO!!)
Did I mention she hails from the land of the loonie tunes?
(She says, and hence, I quote: " I come from the land of Weiners..Made-to-order-Wieners"..)
So anyway, point is, I think my biological clock ticketh away. I'm CRAVING for a baby. No really I am. Don't know if I want to "deliver" one just yet. But hey, making one can't be that bad!!
Did I mention how desperately ill I am? I've got myself a custom made "spitoon" (used-coffee-cup). Maybe I'll mix it with caffiene and offer Grim-Reaper-Boss some.
So, this is nonsensical. And the irony is, so am I.
At last! It's finally come to an end. No. I don't speak of my vestigial virginity (although at my age AND the subsequent lack of any procreatory-exercise, I ought to be beatified!...But that, alas, is not to be....)
I aver to the ongoing epidemic that's afflicted a majority of the inhabitants on this planet - the FIFA....(NOT I will Fight In Fidels Allah!!..You stupid Cow!..)Federation of International Football Association - WorldCup 2006!
I write this on the eve of the final; it being a mere 3 hours away from eventuality. The Italians will play ball with the French - sounds a lot like a seedy pornographic title for "gay" enthusiasts the world over. Incidentally, our "happy" co-habiters participated in gusto at the "Gay Parade" held in NYC. It isn't about "coming out". It's about celebrating that coming. Erm...puns SO NOT intended!
But, I digress. That sigh of relief you just readheard was a long time in the making. You see, I'm the miniscule 'minority' on planet earth who....blasphemous as this may sound, DON'T follow the sport. And this past month, I've been moonlighting as an ardent fan of the game - careful not to get embroiled in long drawn out conversations that run into stacks and lead to 'name dropping' - but lingering just long enough to firmly establish my reputation as an "appreciater" of the game. I've taken this charade far nuff already (almost placed a wager on who will play the finals and I'm a RETARD for not going through with it cause I would've bloody-well-won-the-darn-thing!!
Although I will admit being interested in the game only because it was being played in Rhine-land. I'm obsessive about my fondness for Germany - having spent an idyllic fortnight last year traversing the length and breath of that absolute dichotomy of a nation. And photographs of giant televisions sailing across the Rhine only brought back achingly fond memories of our hotel that had the exact same birds-eye-view as them pictures posted on the internet.
Ironically, I lobbied manaically for the ballsy game when I discovered Mon Fattie was scheduled for a stopover there on his way to Chicago. Dad not only watched the match with thousands of other swarthy Germans, he also managed to indulge in conversation the 'ballsy' men from the Korean side (perishable...I know..), and came home with a FIFA2006 t-shirt and team CD's they magnanimously gifted Dadkins (perhaps due to his stellar effort for not minding their company since England, France, Germany and the assorted Spaniards were the only teams that anyone wanted anything to do with!)
Anyhow, I'd like to let you know that I'm not a 'protected minority' during the FIFA World Cup championship (and I really do mean 'minority' like it IS - sans the political correctness! None of the neanderthals, cute or otherwise, would want very much to do with me sans the FIFA-crazy-fan-facade! (although, men don't want very much to do with me anyway...hence the enforced celibacy...but I digress...)
So I'm glad that I can now vituperate on other issues, pressing or otherwise. Such as the fact that Paris Hilton won't eat meat, even if that meant going without the odd "sausage / wiener" in her line of work....err..play...err......Well, you know what I'm saying..
Or the fact that 200 prostitutes in Germany will be charging enormous amounts for their services this weekend since FIFA will come to an official end with Sabbath.
Or the fact that the devout Moslem gentleman who runs that brothel...erm...hotel will have funded Islamic extremists with 'Euros-cum-funds' to go about their "business" in Africa, Europe, Asia, China, the United States and indeed, Down Under. This "minority" comprising of pious 'idol-bashers' has been the source of some breaking news in my city, besides of course, the world.
In their line of fire, this time, is a police station. You see, the upholders of law & order in my city decided to set shop in an area teeming with over a "million-and-counting" of this 'minority' ridden burb. But they should've paid more attention to the needs of 'Allah' and chosen another 'resting place'. For the station under construction was within a few yards of a mosque and the adjoining burial ground.
Blasphemy I tell you!
How immoral is it for our forces to be policing this 'moral minority'? And the temerity to do it from this close a quarter? - The hub of all, and I mean ALL 'moral conduct', the holy Mosque? Infact, why police them in the first place?
These 'moral crusaders' have the Shariat (Moslem Law) to abide by. This law, dear reader, allows 'devout moslem' men to divorce their wives via e-mail or text messaging - a truly progressive sect that puts technology to convenient use.
It allows for the young girl-child to be wed to septuagenarian-God-fearing-Moslem-Grandfathers as soon as they hit puberty.
It allows for over-riding of any law of ANY land; afterall, this idol-worshipping-barbaric-world knows very little about fairness and judgement!
It allows for young women all across the world to undergo FGM as a mark of their devotion to Islam and their bigot husbands.
It allows for tutoring and 'religious schools' - breeding grounds for various Islamic "cults" around the world - spreading but of course the "word of Islam" - and what the rest of us dick-heads aver to as "terrorism".
Tch..tch..
Heck, the Shariat allows Moslem men to refuse enlistment in the forces! (I meant the boring legit ones like the army/navy/air-force). Case in question?..Casius Clay; Mohd.Ali for those born yesterday!
And now, in retaliation for constructing the police station, not only were two constables murdered - but compensation was sought for the two rioting but by-now-very-dead "civilians". Our 'politically-correct' nation governed by hippocrites and impotent men did well.
Meanwhile, idols of Hindu Gods were desecrated and broken at a popular temple in the city. Islam is in danger yet again, Ladies and Gentleman. The Moslem minority, with the average Moslem home siring anywhere between 3-7 children, is at risk again!
So really, spineless and 'politically correct' I will write this blog and watch 22 men chase one ball while Allah's messengers continue with their Holy Jihad.
That t-shirt was two sizes too small.
Rats.
For someone who's been dreadfully dormant these past few months I'm writing a frightful lot these days. Infact, I'm blasting off on all cinders available and uploading posts on all 4 blogs I maintain - even though you may well know of only this one here.
Writing comes most naturally to me when I'm caught up in the heat of the moment (puns..PUNS!!). And I really have been meaning to wrote about this for the longest time imaginable.
One of my favourite movies is a little known gem in Indian cinema. The movie depicts an awful lot of reality, in particular - the exploitation of hapless and innocent young girls at the hands of wealthy oil-rich-Arabs.
Picture this:
You're an obscenely affluent Arab who's also wrinkly and serious ancient. Given that you've exhausted vaginal opportunities in your own family, neighbourhoods, emirates - your next best option would be foreigners. And if it's women from a certain third world country you covet, then your wish won't just be granted - Allah will indeed bless it a million times over!
Hyderabad: The erstwhile silicon valley of the country is the seat of Biryani, the gorgeous Charminar. And a flesh trade blessed by Mohammed Himself.
For a paltry sum of $50, it is now possible (and has been for the last few decades) to marry young women from Hyderabad for as many hours as you'd like. These young women are often little girls, some as young as 12-14 years old. They're paraded in their finest for the octogenarian Arabs who find it hard to resist the virginal charms of these nubile maidens laid fore them. Selection made, the Quazi (the Holyman/priest for all things Moslem) conducts the fly-by-night nikaah ceremony where by the 'girl child' is betrothed to the devout and moral Moslem. The Quazi then provides the "happy couple" with their honeymoon suite; often a seedy boarding lodge run by the holymen of Islam. And the morning after, if the girl is lucky, the devout Moslem groom will either divorce the wife or the upholders of morality will help annull the marraige.
And sometimes, these "God fearing" Arabs make away with their harems of young women - waiting to be pawned and shared, paraded and bartered with the others in the holy land of Mecca.
What has really tipped this can of worms is a documentary I saw on the telly a few months ago. Ameena was 11 years old when she was rescued by an Indian Airlines stewardess, Ahluwalia, after she heard her cry in the aircraft she was working in. Ameena was seated alongside her 60-year old Arab husband. Not only did Ahluwalia succeed in stalling take-off, she brought to fore the filthiest form of prostitution. The case was investigated by police officials but the Arab fled without too much embarassment. As did the Quazi. Ameena was returned to her family and Ahluwalia set up a trust fund for the girl. Education is quite an empowerment in this country and despite Ahluwalia's best efforts, Ameena fiegned interest.
And now, for the piece-de-resistance..
Decades later, one of the evangelists on the telly sought her (Ameena) out. Much like her Afghani counterpart, Ameena had grown visibly older. A mother of two children and wife of a 60 year old rickshaw driver, she seem'd bitter. When asked about the incident that shook Hyderabad and most indians out of their comfort zones, Ameena was quick to hurl abuses and indeed insult Ahluwalia.
Cause had she (Ahluwalia) not intervened, today, Ameena could've whore'd for her clan and ensured her brothers vocations as pimps in Al Dubai or Al Riyadh.
Allah Ho Akbar!
The line of work I'm in, it's a miracle we don't have a resident shrink at the office. No really.
My colleagues and I are an eclectic bunch of morons and have bamboozled ourselves into believing that we're contstantly making that difference to peoples lives.
Working for Goliath in this indistry has it's pros (although..the Mosad, KGB, MI5...heck even the Gestapo have tried looking for em..but alas! -> not quite "On Demand" I say!!).
But baby, does it have it's Cons!!!
Have you ever / Do you :
* ...found yourself orating a list of menu items while the maitre'd is barely a few inches away?
* ...end up staring at people's mouth(s) whenever they speak for them to think you positively mad?
* ...find yourself working any/every hour of the day thinking how the world is a global village with YOU, the idiot villager?
* ...abhor associating with people who are grammatically challenged and can't tell their preps from their verbs?
* ...thought of retail therapy as your only morphine from the quicksand called work?
* ...think it unpardonable for your girlfriend to steal your vocab but not your boyfriend?
* ...found yourself rejecting offers of matrimony based on how syntactically dysfunctional the profile is?
* ...fantasized about Kill Bill at work, Bill being your boss?
* ...wondered why the tuna at Subways almost never spills out the sandwich?
....Rummie...
I'm super upset. No, make that SUPAH upset. I'll even tell you why:
* I thought (very nearly) that my life had come to an end since danchan died on us for over 72-hours. Not that this is the best shit you'll read off the internet. Point is, it's mine and I need to be able to access it whenever..WHEREVER!!
* After vascillating for the longest time imaginable, I have finally decided to move all these posts (see the rant above) to that other site I blog at (never in a million years Missy!!).
* I'm desperately ill. Does a snog work people?
* Mi10. Damn you!
* Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn!!
They are the future of our nation, and indeed the world. From the time we're born, to when we die, their omnipresence marks milestones in every man/woman's life. They're always at hand for the most important moments. Some happy..others sad. They enjoy unquestioned authority and we've learnt to trust them implicitly, always. Often with our lives.
They, are doctors.
And today, they're on fire.
For anyone who knows my country, even remotely, the one thing that stands out is its diversity. We're a land of varied culture, language, dialects, rituals, religions and people. Ours is the biggest democracy in the world - though not the oldest. The contemporary and the traditional intermingle with alacrity and often leave the foreigner slightly perplexed in the face of this dichotomy. One trip to India and you've seen it all. The jet-setters, the urbane middle class. And the erstwhile impoverished.
As is true of any other nation in the world, this cultural heritage is replete with social/class differentiation. Casteism is not only rampant; its a way of life. Centuries ago, the caste system ensured that no two sets of people belonging to different castes mingled either professionaly or socially. Its a lot like being rascist - only manifold.
The grand ol' Father of my nation and his colleagues did some to eradicate this and unite a people to fight the fascist that were the British. But even at the height of our struggle for freedom, shudras (lower caste) didn't walk the line the Brahmins (upper caste) did. And even though much has changed since, the fact remains - our population is still divided on the basis of caste, creed and religion.
To ensure the upliftment of the downtrodden, various governments in power have passed reforms and laws that not only protect but also give impetus to the development of the backward classes. Most urbane Indians have the non-chalant "I-don't-care-what-caste-you-belong-to" attitude that really helps get on in the real world. But democracy and politics have ensured that progress, that gorgeous non-countable noun, of this nation is hampered time and again by helping raise the ugly head of casteism.
The recent spate of rebellions across the nation is to protest the 54% reservation of seats in medical schools for the schedule caste/schedule tribe/other backward classes of the country. What this means roughly is that admission to some of the best insitutions in the country would be granted to certain individuals, simply on the basis of their caste as opposed to merit.
Getting through medicine is a lot like birthing a child. The monumental preparation involved in appearing for the pre-med tests not to mention high school board exams is a study in tyranny. And after all the blood, sweat and tears, its time to muscle out the country in order to win the coveted seat to wisdom and hopefully, a steady practice. The odds are ALWAYS against you. And reservation not only makes it more challenging - it makes it impossible.
The reservation quota alloted for the unfortunate is a whimsical number. Serious audit of records in med schools across the country have shown that 50% of these seats are almost always not applied for. Of those who opt for these courses, 50% either drop out mid-way through the program or fail miserably. And the 50% that does make it barely scrape through the degree course. So the question remains, why more reservation?
The fiend responsible for this is a despotic politician who makes no bones about his political ambition to perhaps, miraculously, one day become Prime Minister. Med students all across the country have taken to protesting and fasting. Daily vigils in honour of those who have only just perished are routine. They're being attacked brutally by the police - a few have succumbed to the injuries - although this could be a rumour. The media clamp down has only ensured that the country remains clueless to the plight of the torch bearers of our nation. But the movement is gathering momentum.
Students from various other institutions have joined hands and are protesting blatantly. Engineers, architects, parents, activists and concerned citizens have ensured that they keep the pressure by increasing the solidarity of their cause. Several years ago, while I was still in school, the Mandal Commission - the brainchild of Viswanath Pratap Singh, introduced the quota system for the backward classes. Medical students took to the streets of Delhi and self immolation became the acceptedharakiri.
In times like these, it seems trivial to mope about a wound that's been festering in my ankle off late.
But when I see the anguish and the pain on the faces of what are our future..
...salt water wells in my eyes..
It's Sunday morning and the temperature is soaring by the minute. If ever there was an Indian Summer, now's the time to experience it. I'm sitting here, in my boudoir, located in a cubby-hole apartment that is the endeavour of blood,sweat and tears of my progenitors. It's a day for staying home, sipping on chilled lemonade and feasting on cold yogurt soup. Yet, I prevaricate from what it is that's on my mind...
I'm in attack mode. Also in denial. The withdrawal symptoms claw away at my psyche even as I try in vain to cease and desist. I haven't stopped thinking about it and have been fantasizing about this weekend and several others in the past and those in the future. It's time to unleash the behemoth that is craving. I crave..for the smell of perfume intermingled with that of freshly brewed caffiene with a generous sprinkling of caramel and corn starch. I yearn to walk into the monstrosity that is the shopping mall.
There's no denying it. Shopping malls are the new porn. And I'm the veritable mall-slut who can't get off..no matter how long or how many times I go at it. I can't imagine how shopping became the end to all misery. I have little experience, given that my folks shopped for any and everything I've ever needed. But the virgin-shopper I used to be, was a few years ago, introduced to the pleasures of airconditioned, unhurried browsing at various bookstores dotting the city and the world. The seduction was strong..I gave in even before trying. The Da Vinci Code has nothing on this. The real problem is infact, endorphins.
I imagine a life not very different from Jacks. Jack being Ed Norton. Ed's craving for Ikea and the related are stuff that People! and GQ are made of. Poring over catalogues in copies hard and soft, I debate over how much to let go off every weekend. I haven't an inheritance, but feel quite like an Hieress to some imagined legacy...sans the title of course.
Being irrevocably ugly and holding on to the last vestiges of what can respectfully be described as my "twenties", my only pension plan seems to be the time I can spend in the mountains, any range really(as long as we have the pre-requisites of foliage, a valley, a weather to die for and clean un-polluted air...a brook or two would be that Bonus!) in a villa that has room only for me and my assorted variety of pets. I'm grounded enough to know there shan't be a man to share all this with. T'would be nice - but I've made my peace with that bit of life. I'd love to be a writer - a bestselling author that's the toast of every town and village. Someone who's reverred and reviled for her observations and humour and scathing sarcasm. Someone who's aggressive in her knowledge of the unimportant and often redundant forms of life that dotteth our planet. And someone who's utterly...faceless. I need some China white..some powerful derivative of Rushdan or Northant. Something that's going to help me release them endorphins. I need..shopping.
I hate every newspaper and supplement. I can't delete images of rattan furniture (I can't EVER afford) and Ming vases. I can't let go of thumbnail images of exotic lingerie and leather merchandise. In fact, last week I bought myself a handbag costing a little more than what we pay our chauffeur. I've spent more money on books than the average Indian (I kid you not). My outgoings are way higher than the incomings and I'm not even fetching to branch out like Elizabeth. My currrent seduction is the invention of modern Lech-nology. The Kodak Z740. I'm technophobic but fantasize about running my long-due-for-a-manicure-fingers all over it's various 'orifices'.
My bank balance is as arid as the Sahara. My mind a constant slush of mashed potatoes and Earl Grey. I need therapy. And common sense.
Heck. I'd even settle for Better.
I lead an exciting life. Most folks would tend to disagree though.
I am your average, everyday, regular Indian lasse (a sanitary towel has more personality). I'm stretchmarked and cellulit and quite well spread (puns not intended but there none-the-less).
Anyhow, my current pre-occupation with the anatomy is identifiable with the paperback I'm grinding with (more puns..tch ..tch..) The "Belle De Jour" is a lot like the Chronicles of Narnia; it features a wardrobe, a wench and a Lion. Cept that it differs-in that it's the diary of a British call girl.
Rivetting, is an ,overstatement.
I bought it at the behest of a gentleman caller, we'll call him "Mi10".
"Mi10" is a sexy malevolant-eer (haardeehaar!!) who's quite besotted with the female of the species. Not yours truly, any really. I'd heard of the Belle before and browsed a post or two (oer the erstwhile techonologically driven information superhighway). But I didn't ever think of planting one on the shelf along with the assorted Nat-Geos and Kafka. Even so, reading it connects me with "Mi10", if only in my head.
Anyhow, BDJ is a flighty monologue of a young-oestrogened-caddie. I haven't read through a frightful lot but most of it makes me gush (quit thinking about THAT verb I SAY!!). Mum and dad have seen me leaf through it and plot it to one of the many paperbacks wall-papering my boudoir. Not that they'd mind the subject matter (Dad'd probably borrow the darn thing and read it with mum. Egad, I SHAN'T go there....).
But it's got me...wondering.
I can't imagine it for a minute. But s'pose, I was the lassie Belle-ing De Jour? It's not as if I haven't thought about it. Opportunities have knocked (in terms of privacy, oodles of time and the absence of parental control and oh, raging hormones!) and if it wasn't for the omission of fancy lingerie (I AM old-fashioned!) not to mention a certain "gall", who's to tell?
I'm s'posed to initiate a bookclub at work. A certain "homie" mentioned that we need to start with the current; a book read perhaps. That'd be fun. To watch an assortment of colleagues flush, gag and choke everytime someone reads the thesis on fellatio....ah joy.
I imagine an increment of sorts already.
I've suffered from the writers block, for the longest time imaginable. I'm trying to molly coddle myself into believing that the worst is now over and behind me. But the reason I'm awake well past bedtime is because of some nocturnal doodling on the internet.
I've been reading a few blogs, courtesy a certain nymphet. And following all the links included have landed me to where I am for the present. I've only just read through the translation of an article printed in one of the inflammatory dailies in my city.
A few months ago, a young woman was raped by a policeman while she was strolling down the promenade with a few friends. The case evoked a spectrum of reactions from the public and in media. The aforementioned policeman awaits his fate (I think..). In connection with the incident, this article (the one I just read) offers a twisted explanation for the events that unfolded that fateful summer evening.
While the publication is quick to condemn the barbaric act, some onus is shifted, ever so cleverly, on to the shoulders of the young woman. You see, the clothes us women wear have done more than enough to irk the regular Joe into testosterone-driven-madness which would (but naturally!) lead to rape.
Am I missing the point?
Whilst I agree that there is a time and place for everything, the young woman in question wasn't clad in a bikini or a micromini (although neither of these would've been out of the "appropriate" given that she was strolling down the promenade that overlooks the sea..but this is Bombay and only someone seriously demented would risk the above). It's ludicrous to suggest that she "had this coming". The piece of shit that molested this young woman has quite a history as is. The dip shit would peruse through pictures of naked women at the police station where the young woman was eventually raped.
I'm not the sort of woman who would wear anything remotely provocative. Simply because I can't(I'd be doing a dis-service to "mankind" if I attempted). But wearing a certain kind of attire and holding that responsible for rape is appalling!
The temerity of a publication read by millions in my city to blame the yuppie MTV generation or even the moronic Page 3 culture for an act as heinous as this is gross mis-representation of intent. For a city that is considered the financial capital of a country on the brink of an economic explosion, we seem to be regressing by the minute. The moral upholders of my city (and indeed the state) are the very people who visit strip clubs and dance bars and fornicate with women barely legal.
Why don't they, for once, discuss the reforms needed to educate the impoverished women, an impetus that would have a ripple effect on our economy? Why can't they talk about providing opportunities and micro-finance to women keen on setting up cottage industries to support their families? Why can't they talk about implementation of systems and practices to ensure that family planning is put into practice to control the burgeoning population? Why can't they highlight cases of gross injustice so they might seek retribution if only through public outrage? Why can't they for once, talk about the insolence of the masculine of the species and bring to book those who've violated the moral code of conduct?
Prevaricating and indeed procrastinating on burning issues and laying the blame elsewhere is a national forte. I am enraged at the audacity of those with the power to sway public opinion for passing the buck while playing the "blame game".
Take it from me, if ever there is a reason to smile - it WILL be followed by immense sadness..
I feel..wasted..let down..cheated..perhaps even betrayed..(although I take complete ownership for the last two)..
It's about building castles in the air. Especially those without a plinth.
WHY..I've asked myself a zillion times already. Why do I even ALLOW myself the luxury? Inspite of claiming to be in complete control at all times, I let go so...easily. I'm ashamed. I compromised. Broke a promise.
..And now, there's only regret.
Phew!
Haven't done THIS in a while!
I'd like to let you know about the progress I've made since I last blogged. Well....
....not very much.
But I AM walking on sunshine..some of the days. Serendipity happened a few weeks ago, and now there's no looking back. Of course, "the demons of my insecurity" have caught up with me. But I persist and endure..
....This too shall pass....
Things are looking up at work. There's more mediocrity than ever. The Boss doesn't exfoliate at my sight. I don't trapeze, with him around any longer. I think maybe, that threshold has been traversed.
I'm scheduled to travel with friends on the morrow..to that cottage I now call home. Don't know how many will flake just yet....
And the Voice...it haunts me..remains with me..travels in my head..everywhere I go..
Wish I could capture a few sound bytes someday..in real time..
I look a lot like a slug. Or a mollusk. Or both actually.
I don't think there is anyone more narcissistic than my sinnewy self. Most people tend to make disparaging comments about themselves for a few reasons:
a) They're fishing
b) They're trying hard to tickle your funny bone.
c) They're hoping someone is going to rescue them from the verbal-on-slaught they seem to flagellate themselves with.
d) They're taking the lie-detector.
I belong to all of the above. Cept "d".
Not yet anyhow.
But last night while vascillating between sonorous slumber and inexplicable insomnia, I realised that I really am a monstrosity of sorts. There's really no surprise that I haven't a paramour. I want to be able to hide away to someplace...surreal.
I know now, I shan't ever find love. The kind that syphons the blood flow because of its passion and vigour. The kind that leaves one breathless. The kind that would make one smile endlessly. The kind that would pre-empt a zillion phonecalls cause somebody misses you.
I feel almost like the very embodiment of the Phantom. But atleast, he had the opera.
Oh well, slug it out I will...
I've been suffering from extreme mediocrity off late. Make that the last few years.
Things couldn't look any better, professionally speaking. Or maybe they could.Mediocrity.
See what I mean?
On the personal front, there isn't very much to dissect. I mean, fat-ugly people on our planet have little cubby holes of their own where they stow away almost everything in hope that someday we'll be more socially acceptable and (more) importantly, a viable option.
I've gotten years older since I last wrote here. There's some talk of marraige. It's depressing. Not because the sod in question isn't stellar. Come to think of it, he isn't....stellar. But what's depressing is that I don't have enough time to want to have to figure him out before we tie the proverbial-knot (....if at all).
Anyway, I've remained incommunicado since the last 3 weeks for lack of inspiration. I'm not sure what to talk to him about. I wish we'd met under different circumstances. Like acquaintances who become good friends and then one of them screws up and fucks up a perfectly platonic relationship. (How's that for oiginality Eric?)
I've also realised only a few minutes ago that I don't fancy anybody. I mean, seriously. It wasn't like that. I've almost always had people I fancied, even if they never found out about it. Whom am I kidding. They didn't even know I existed.
So the point is, I need to snap out of this boring moron I've turned into. I'm not sure how to zap out of the monotony. Porn perhaps? Or convoluted (and idiosyncratic) phone sex? And while we're thinking twisted, how about a quickie on the side?
I'm praying mum doesn't read this one.
No really.
I absolutely abhor Victorias Secret. I really do.
Lemme tell you how this cookie crumbles. Being on the wrong side of the mid-twenties and saddled with a body that resembles an amoeba, I believe I may have come to perfect the art of self flagellation. Cause, sometimes, when I'm alone and sleepy..weary yet obsinate enough to not turn out the light, I surf the internet...for stuff I'll NEVER wear. Not kinky fetish stuff (which incidentally may find space in my wardrobe..not that I know any better!). Regular girlie stuff. Like hipsters that are big enough to just about accomodate my fingers into. And yet, most women around the planet (read 99.99%!!) will actually wear them just like they're meant to be! Or miniature sized tees that actually manage to hang on the frumpiest of women walking the earth but will shrink the minute I think of trying one on for size!
Ditto for lingerie.
Maybe it's the perennial biological clock. Or (r)aging hormones. Or both. I've noticed an abnormal appetite for the above mentioned. (Appetite for Lingerie - get a load of that Axl!) Not that I hoard this particular piece of clothing given that most of the times one would have to bequeath a chunk of their inheritance in order to do so. Infact, I think they need to introduce lingerie insurance. And every parent on the planet is punishable by law if they don't set aside a lingerie-fund for their offsprings.
I don't know if you'll partake of this embarassment I've caused myself on several ocassions. Lingerie stores in the developed nations tend to border on the outrageous (we're not talking Dr.Mueller outrageous..not just yet anyhow!) and for most indians (living in their point of origin i.e, India) shopping for lingerie isn't quite the forte. Take VS for example. Not only do I stick out like a sore thumb, but I become an exhibit of sorts. For the women around me...on what they COULD become if it wasn't for Atkins and anoerexia..or pilates. And what's baffling for me..is the nerve. Mine that is. Why, do I even bother walking into a place like that..when it's pretty plain to see..I'm not walking away with a goodie bag from here..not in this lifetime anyway!
Anyway, the axe I have to grind is because of what I'm lookin at. This bodaceous nymphet in a teddy the size of my hankerchief and annoyingly gorgeous. I haven't seen a woman with as flawless skin at hers. And she seems to have perfected the art of "my-sexy-craving-naughty-look". why..Why...WHY?? I ask myself, is she so bewitching? Her and the legion of other leggy women that men across the planet can't get nuff of? Little do these women realise how difficult they make life for Frump-Girls like me. Not only do they raise the benchmark for beauty but its near impossible to look like em no matter how many yards of lingerie one may swathe themselves in!
But then Confuscious comes to my rescue and reminds me often, "Air-brushing is the new foundation darling.."
Tch tch..Little consolation that.
This talk of pillows white and soft
Filled with feathers and held aloft
Duck or Goose? – Their plumes alike
One famed puerile – the other a dyke
When pillows come alive and live to tell
Stories of strife – genuine and heartfelt
Nights of passion – a befitting backdrop
Or putrid emotions; profanity as prop
My pillow is pink and rather docile
It cradles my head and the fantasies within
Some day’s it finds space in between my legs
Or clutched to my bosom – till I cast it aside
And then there are days when the covers come off
Revealing the carcass beneath – not so soft
Stained with tears and rust off the blade
Nicked in places where deepens the shade
When beaten out of shape it does comply
Ensures blissful sleep and dreams where I fly
“Diazepam dreams there catching streams
And rays of the Phoebus quelling the sky”
Once many years ago, I supplanted my pillow
Traded in for a bolster robust and taut
The head and the cushion now strange bed-fellows
Slumber evasive with phantasms of rot
Like all gnarly impediments, learnt my lesson did I
Rummaged for the pillow and restored its pride
Cranial indentation now fits like a glove
Like orgasmic sack time of the blushing bride
It’s been a year since, began our love affair
No secrets between us – inhibitions skint and bare
No one else to share with the delights of my pillow
I wait achingly – but pretend not to care..
"...This...too, shall pass...."
- Confuscious.
CIRCA 2005.
This could very well be my "home coming".
Almost a year since I posted a letter, much less an anecdote. The page count however, increases at a steady pace. What sort of loosers would want to linger here..besides yours truly?
That apart, have made a mental note about a few things that need looking into on a regular basis.
1) Garner inspiration.
2) Earn money...or thereabouts.
3) Look up the word 'exercise'.
4) Blog regularly.
5) Improve Karma.
Nothing lofty. Manageable.
Or is it?
It's that time of the year once again. Although the temperatures have dipped, the humidity is on an all time high. One gets the feeling of wading through water everytime one walks. It's called the monsoons. And it's pouring even as I mull over what to write about next.
I wonder if you'll share in this observation of mine. It occurs to me that more people die during the monsoons than any other time of the year. No really. The crematoriums get into an overdrive. Obituaries hoard most of the print space available. These are dull and dreary times. And Sundays are the worse hit.
My day of Sabbath started in exasperation. A nightmare woke me up and I still can't help but look under my bed. It's not even noon and already, I'm exhausted. There's nothing that needs looking into. No leaks to be plugged, no bills to be paid, no deadlines to be met. No shopping to be done, no trips to the salon either (although this is due). No phonecalls to be made or acquaintances to network with. Piles of books that remain unread but Pol Pot and Khmer Rouge is all I can think of.
I'm depressed.
I feel a little abandoned. Not by mum and dad. They're ALWAYS around to catch me lest I fall. But, there's a feeling of unmistakable emptiness. Plus, I'm writing rubbish that honestly doesn't deserve to get posted in my Boudoir.
Incidentally, I got a 'high five' from a certain very-unexpected-quarter for my blog posts. Also got a few mails from random people with regards the same. Mum's a little wary of what she may read here next. She doesn't think it very polite to write about 'kissers dilemma' or my present largesse. I informed her that my next post was going to tackle a social issue. She yawned to affirm her interest.
I've run out of leaves in my cheque book. This isn't good news. It tells me that I've been on 'withdrawal'. I am now poor.
I need to shed new perspective on my financial instability. There's a little voice in my head that whispers 'This too shall pass'. Now I'm scared. This too? What else has passed? And why don't I know about it?
Yesterday, I met with a petite young girl while shopping. She was manning the Christian Dior counter and urged me to try on a new shade of nail varnish. I'm a sucker for these . Not only did I try it on, I convinced myself that paying a little over a grand for it actually made sense. And then, I remembered. I was poor.
I wonder if THIS is what my life will amount to. I'm not crazy about money, but it won't hurt to have lots of it. My pinky still has the CD nail varnish on it. It's a different shade from all the other nails, but I haven't the heart to remove it. It reminds me of the little fortune I'm in possession of.
I'm a little tired of spending weekends by myself. I'll need to find myself a neat little hobby. Maybe needlework will help.
We did a little spring cleaning in the loft in my room yesterday. And in doing so, came across a cache of soft toys that I'd sent packing the last time we spring cleaned. In mint condition, they reminded me of days of yore, when I'd play with some of them. Unlike most girls, I haven't been irrational about soft toys. But then, I was never left wanting for anything. I think you should know, I have a smashing collection of kitchen ware. And I'm on the verge of distributing them to cousins in need of fantasy 'mummie'.
I'm going to stop now. I haven't enjoyed this post. And I apologise if I've let you down. But you had better get used to it. I'm in the habit of letting people down.
Maybe it's time for novocaine.
I'll be damned if I lie about about it. And even if I did, I doubt I'd be able to hoodwink you into believing me. I've been receiving mail (in my Bulk Mail folder) from random people in cyberspace. Their domain names aren't dubious; although the addresses most certainly are alien to me. Subject lines such as "Mailer Daemon Error : mctr.ns23.org", "Re: Jobs in Kazakistan", "Re: Read Now!!", "Re: I love you" etc. , do some to arouse my curiosity. Now I'm aware of the pitfalls of emails, attatchments and virii. So while I'm certain I won't open any attatchments held within, it won't hurt to read the mail body. Which, incidentally consists of a celistene prophecy:
"Contains No Virus. Go ahead, and open this attatchment"
Source: Norton Antivirus (Symantec)
Yeah right.
As if THAT'S going to spur me into doing the obvious (I received an eckie forward once that implored me to not break the chain since the letter was in circulation since 1837 (no kidding!!) and not forwarding the same to everybody on mother earth would bring impotence since my penis would fall off - TOUGH LUCK I say!!!).
Anyway, Lucille once wrote me about this wonderful site where I could watch young lasses farming and 'horsing around'.
Paul Adams insists he can help me enlarge my penis. I'd like to write back to him explaining a slight technical impediment in his scheme of things. You see, he wouldn't have to enlarge it, he'd have to introduce one - a task I'm sure he's not quite ready to take orders for just yet!
I had a friend who used to write for 'Mans World' - an Indian magazine the publishers are hoping is actually read by a sizable number of Joes in my country. I was once online and decided to show mum and article written by him - something about why he's single and how family and friends won't let him be (I joined that club a while ago myself). And, in a stroke of genius (that comes from staying on the information highway for too long) I concurred that there may an electronic version of the same on the company's website (which wasn't known to me at the time). So I typed in mansworld.com into the address bar, hit enter and hollered for mum to join me.
The site took years to load. So mum and me tinker-tankered on Shop Rite for a bit. When I did click on the window in question, I let out the loudest sigh I'd managed thus far. For staring in our faces were a cross section of voluptous women in various stages of undress, belonging to several nationalities (Italiano, Espanol...blah..blah). Turns out THIS was porn - and I was therefore a Pornographer. And the fact that mataji was sitting right next to me made me want to melt/sublimate/evaporate into thin air. Her reaction was a tad disconcerting though, for she was laughing hysterically and her wit suddenly got the 7-o'clock-edge. In a fit of unbriddled exasperation, I quickly shut the window but to my absolute horror, twenty others opened up and for a nation where dial-up's and more a joke than convenience, these pornographic windows loaded in record time.
I can't recollect clearly, I may have hit the reboot button.
Now, I'm only human. And according to popular 'homosapien' opinion, in my prime and 'quite jawaan'. I have since been privy to some interesting photographs in human behaviour. And honestly, they scare me shitless. I'll even tell you why.
I have a theory about porn.
Most of the porn available for viewing is meant for purposes of gratification. Whatever your kink, the internet and indeed some very thoughtful, inventive, horny and enterprising people have made it their business to pander to every one of them. And I don't particularly care what the moral brigade has to say about it ; a lot of the porn available is reflective of the society that sorrounds us.
As an example, beastiality and related websites would do very well the world over (it DOES take all sorts), but Germany would most certainly tip the scales there. The Japanese, I'm told, are seriously adventurous and school-girlie-S&M sites are all the rage there. Asian porn sites seem to be popular in, well, most of Asia. Saudi Arabia and related Moslem countries are too pious and religious. They don't believe in gratification or porn (STOP LAUGHING I SAY!!). Kiddie porn does rather well in Europe and ANYTHING goes in the U.S of A.
If what we view (despite the 'NO PORN PLEASE' warnings) is what we want, then surely some of it must actually get around. And here's the part that bothers me. Expectations from partners, the opposite or same gender, are generally on the rise. Agony columns are rife with advice on how to 'spice it up'. And from whatever little I've seen, there are endless possibilities in human 'bonding'. The number of permutations and combinations of mangled bodies is not just baffling - it's downright ridiculous. I mean, we're talking about defying gravity whilst still living on 'terra firma'. I'm so sure special FX are used for a lot of these adult-entertainment-photographs. It's just not possible to get into some of those positions, nevermind how much of a yogic you may be.
But it's set me wondering - is this how people are supposed to 'make out' these days ? Or was it always like this? Is it necessary to get so revolting? Worse - will it be expected of me? Should I expect it in return?
Frankly, I think I'd sprain a lot of muscles if I tried anything they have to offer these days. Plus, I'd be breaking a lot of bones in the process.
And not just mine.
I'm reeling from exhaustion. And indigestion. Or maybe too much of digestion. Last night, we threw a BBQ partae in our cubby hole apartment (Dil vadaa hona chaidaa!!). And I suspect I packed in food that should last me atleast a week.
Last night, it was also brought to my notice that while this space(my boudoir) is funny/witty/cutting edge(hunh?) etc., it's all about me. Nevermind the fact that it IS my blog and would therefore make SENSE to be about MY life and times.
Anyhow, what I crave for right now is an Alka Seltzer. Not just because of my present excess, but because I love drinking Alka seltzer (I think it should be included as a beverage right next to tea/coffee/coke). When I was about a decade younger, I used to steal tablets of the wonder drug from the bureau that housed medication for mum, dad, me and our country. Eventually ofcourse, mum would know something was amiss when the strips dwindled. It was useless faking digestive disorders. She sired me for nine months. She knows me inside-out.
But this sets me thinking, is there an alka-seltzer-dependency-society that I don't know about? I did google for it. But as always, I digressed from the cause at hand.
Incidentally, I only just realised that I haven't received a paper card in ages. I mean AGES. Every festival/national holiday/new year/birthdays (I don't celebrate anniversaries just yet) is marked by the all-too-predictable e-card.
I'm sick of e-cards.
I've been doing some math in my head. If I started saving the amount of money I think is mandatory for a pension plan, I could retire by the time I hit 99. Although, I'm hoping that some sodding masculine of the species is going to look after my needs (I'll look after myself..thankyou very much) until I'm six feet under. Or cremated. Most certainly cremated.
Why'm I writing about substance abuse, e-cards and pension plans? I suspect it's because I'm readying the stage for something bigger, more meaningful...very EXPLOSIVE!!
Erm..and I promise to let you in on it once I know what IT is....
I have a zit the size of Brazil. Even as I write this. ESPECIALLY, as I write this. It's at the north-western frontier of my upper lip. And it looks furious. Malignant. How it got there, we'll never know. But I can tell you this, I've been getting some really strange looks from people around.
I read someplace that 'sexual deviants' often sprout unexplained zits on various parts of their anatomy. Although, THAT ,most certainly wouldn't apply in my defense. I mean, one look at me and you'll see that the only 'horizontal-action' I get is in my head. Even so, zits are an ugly monstrosity and raises all sorts of doubts with regards personal hygiene of the err.... zit-ee.
My zit is a bubonic mass of puss, and it hurts everytime I pucker up. Last evening, I met with some friends/acquaintances. From the reactions my zit invoked, some in particular baffled me. "My..we see all the signs, Luckie Lips!!" , "WooHoo!! Who's been kissin those lips?!" or even "You get around..Dontcha!!". All THAT from an ugly zit? (Oh, incase you're wondering, they weren't getting wise on me - they're just not that bright).
Which set me thinking. Is sporting a zit on the lip a natural by product of kissing? What part of sex-ed did I miss out on? Actually, I lie to you here. We didn't have sex-ed class while in school. We were, however, asked to congregate in Cruella-De-Ville's apartment (our Principal) where she made a rather stellar endeavour in elucidating us about the-birds-and-the-bees by telling us about the one COMMANDMENT we needed to follow all our lives. Which simply read - "All men are Bastards" (You don't say!?).
But I digress. My point is, aren't zits supposed to manifest when the internals of our anatomy don't quite work to their optimum levels? Something about the body's own ways of ridding itself clean of toxins. And since I live in a city that could (and should!!)most certainly be mistaken for a furnace, the weather may have some hand in 'zitting' me for the present.
Which brings me to the 'kissers dilemma' (Do you suffer from it?). Here's the thing. They say love (or raging hormones) between man-woman, woman-woman, man-man, man-beast, woman-beast, beast-beast, man-woman-and-beast, woman-beast-and-man etc. leads to intimacy. It's a 'natural progression', the way the lord meant for it to be. And the make-out-manual-for-dummies suggests that 'tonsill tennis' might be a good place to start.
So we have Adam (our specimen in the diagramme) and Eviline (she's liberated..hence) demonstrating the right way to lip-lock. We've got them both standing a few feet apart at first, the distance shortens. They're holding hands now (but not quite smiling yet...hmmm). Their mouth's are now inches apart - she's tilting her head to the right, his is to the left and BAM! Their heads are fused, their profiles obliterated into a fuzzy line of contact - a lot like Chen and Eng!
I hate this guide. I'll tell you why.
It doesn't tell me what happens with the nose. His and hers. WHERE do they go? No really. Why're the eyes always shut? I mean, I get that it'd be a tad difficult to see much else except pores when into the activity. Even so, why?
Life got a little more complicated with French kissing. Tongues were brought in to participate. Here's the thing. What if :
1. while in the throes of passion your exploratory muscle (the tongue people..Focus!) got bitten at by your partner?
2. the person you're gettin jiggy with has a cold and you can't control the flow of phlegm?
3. your accomplice suffers from turd breath?
4. your partner gets nauseus and decides to bring it all up (read : Vomit) just when the action gets steamier?
5. your partner has an inordinately long appendage (tongue..TONGUE...how many Times!!..FOCUS!!) and you begin to choke?
As Confuscious tells me often, "The truth my Deah, is out there..."
I'm deeply hypocritical. And it only just dawned on me. But it's not my fault. I can't be blamed. It's the society we live in - they need to bear this cross.
In recent times, I've gotten to know about a mammoth number of people from my city, indeed the world. Indians scattered accross the globe. These are people who've only just managed to walk out of a salon or a spa or indeed, Fortune Magazine.
They're always smiling. They all have a 'peaches and cream' complexion. They're always scantily dressed. Or not at all, as the case may be. They're always spotted wearing obscenely expensive shoes and jewellery. They're always carrying cutting-edge-gizmotic cellphones. They've all got sparkling white teeth. And collectively, they could eradicate poverty en-masse from my country, nevermind how burgeoning our population.
Welcome to the Celebrity Circuit.
Welcome, to Page 3.
To be featured in Page 3 remains the prerogative and THE aim of a lot of the monstrously elite in our country. (A certain CD from a hugely successful ad-agency that sweeps the Abbey almost every year has an entire cell in the office that works round the clock on ways in which he can be featured in the tabloid supplements of the country. I'm NOT kidding!). Getting featured there in is an instant means of fame or notoriety. It also, in local parlance, means that one has 'arrived'.
There used to be a time when one had to be either unbelievably accompolished or damned and notorious to be featured in newspapers. To be written about used to be a BIG deal. To get photographed meant prolific genius. A lot of our ancestors, those fortunate enough to be featured in the news of their time, regailed generations with their news worthy feat. Some of us are in possession of sepia toned articles and photographs of their moment of glory, a source of tremendous pride.
And then came the 90's. Enter yellow journalism. Make way for the 'tabloid'!! (I'm sure we had tabloids well before the 90's too, but I can't account for those). Anyhow, 99% of the ordinary junta that got famous over the last decade owe their infamy to a certain tabloidsie supplement that's also the highest in circulation around the world. Nope. It's not OK. It's not Hello! Nor People magazine or the National Enquirer. The choice of 'accompaniment' for most people defeacating whilst on their thrones, it's humbler in every manner possible. And it works better than a charm.
These days it's disarmingly easy to get printed, photographed, reported on and talked about. It's not important to be an achiever. It's not even important if you're mean spirited and spiteful (if anything, THAT will get you places). You only need to don a 'Page 3 attitude'.
More often than not, one can read realms of newsprint dedicated to the champagne set of the city. Their only claim to fame is that they're sons, daughters, siblings, in-laws, out-laws, rich low lifes of some poor sod who spent his entire life working his ass off only so these degenerate-upstarts can regail in those millions for posterity.
Women have been written, critiqued, dissected, applauded, admired, envied - all in print, for the lingerie/shoes/bags/belts that they own. I'm NOT kidding. Shopping sprees abroad are catalogued and detailed AND reported on.
I reckon reading this entire page about who's sporting a Prada/ Gucci/ Fendi and how much each spent on it. Another wannabe got written about simply because she travelled the Louis Vuitton way. Yet another got written for her miniscule collection of the trademark Manolo Blahniks. For most of these lotus eaters, life is a never ending soiree. They're dripping diamonds and pearls, they sport Aramanis and Versace, dine and wine in swanky restro bars, fly in hair dressers for a trim and go shopping at Melrose Ave on weekends.
It is their social obligation to throw parties for complete strangers ('loaded' being the common link), ensure that weddings are well documented, invite the elite of the world for baby showers and look picture perfect - all the time (You'll NEVER catch them perspiring, not a single 'bad-hair-day'....makes me wanna wonder if they ever take a crap). You might wonder if any of these hold regular jobs. Perish the thought. Those bodies aren't made for work, they only 'spa' - when they aren't busy boinking every other champagne-setter.
They opine on a myraid of topics. Nuggets of wisdom are dispersed on the latest firangie brand name to have hit the shelves (11:00AM - Frazer and Haws), or indeed the fashion week that was. And it's heart rending at times to read them spout about 'how normal and regular and everyday their lives are'; how they're just like everybody else - REALLY.
I've had the opportunity to do a tad more than just hob-nob with a spate of celebrities and precious few from the champagne set, the latter being waxy and full of disdain. It's a miracle they still manage to ply our roads. Or drink the same piped/filtered/ultra-violeted water that we do (although I imagine some of them flying in those ice-bergs on a routine basis).
The thing is, do I even care who's boinking whom or what set of wheels they drive? Hell No!
My only lament is that the supplement isn't soft enough to substitute for toilet paper.
There is a flourishing industry around the world that produces pain-killers. And I'm an unabashed patron of the same.
One hears loads about migranes. You know,those vulgar spasms of near-labour-pains that transpire within the confines of the cranium. Now, I'm not so sure if I'm acquainted with Mme.Migrane, but I bond rather well with a distant cousin of her's - Monsieur Headache.
A lot has been written about physiological reactions - the body's mechanical method of percieving a situation, good or bad, and reacting to it. And mine is truly fascinating. For it doesn't matter if I'm depressingly sad or ubiquitously happy, it always ends with a headache. My headaches are normally the size of Gibralter. And it's pretty safe to say that I'm not at my sunniest disposition when plagued with one of those.
Another wholesome source of 'head-malfunction' is body odour. This tiny, miniscule reality of life is the MOST dibilitating.
There's a little science that goes into the making of BO. You see, sweat on it's own is odourless. It's only when it mixes with the air around that bacteria get to work on it resulting in a fowl smell. Body Odour.
Now some of us have a more sensitive olfactory than others. And what I lack in beauty and brains, I make for in olfactory. And trust you me, it's not a blessing.
In the days of yore, when I was young and restless AND prissy (Mum insists I add this bit), I'd tinker tanker with a zillion and some toiletries that formed mums survival kit. And over the years, I'd grown accostomed to the 'rollon' a.k.a the deodorant. Mum wouldn't dream of starting her day without one. I wasn't allowed to use it then, but was duly introduced to one in the 8th grade. I think.
Awareness with regards our bodies was delayed in my case as opposed to the know-all's in the west. But it didn't take a doctorate in sex-ed to figure out BO. And it's appalling how most people spend entire lifetimes without realising the sewage they smell like.
There used to be an acquaintance I knew way back in high school. Our fathers were colleagues (her's retired,mine still badgers forth) and we'd bond over all sorts of inane teenage trends and fads prevailent at the time. A talented young girl, she was a bit of a pro with the piano and was learning to sketch, the charcoal way. And everytime she got within a 100 metres of me, I'd know instantly. She had the worse case of BO known to mankind. So overwhelming was her presence, the joke doing the rounds was to send her to POK instead of our jawaans. You may think I exaggerate. But I lie not.
An object of desire from years ago was also cursed with the obvious. I'm told he remains a bachelor to this day. One of my best mates at the univ compelled me to think of inventive ways to get her to use the stick.
Travelling in trains and buses in my city requires nerves of steel. And if you're truly blessed, common cold. More often than not, I find myself saying a silent prayer, appreciating (and indeed celebrating) pollution. Even Carbon monoxide rules!
Infact, BO is the one reason that travelling in our car is serious torture. Our chauffeur(s) have all been plagued with varying degrees of rancid-ness and runnin the aircon only makes it worse. I swear I'm not making this up - but I actually quit breathing every few minutes while being carted around.
You know what really confounds me? The fact that BO is not a 'class' problem. One can imagine the poor and destitute in my country (and perhaps yours too) not quite being well versed with a Fa or a Brute. But what of those who can well afford to not kill the rest of us (with fetid odours that eminate from under the arm and lash out like a very painful shrapnel) simply by dousing themselves with dollops of deodorant?
And personally, I find it most challenging to look these people in the eye and conduct a painfully long discourse (masquerading as small talk) without reaching for the nose or holding my breath - which mum tells me makes me go very red in the face, thereby giving the appearance of being constipated.
Gotta run now. Have to get into the city for a rendezvous with friends. Should make it in about an hour, traffic not withstanding . I think. I hope.
Wish me luck.
They're everywhere. Everyplace I go. On billboards, in pubs, the multiplexes and shopping malls. The telly, in movies, the newspapers and most certainly the magazines. They're crawling out of every nook and cranny. Like bubonic plague. The world is their's for the askance. And it pisses me off to think that I'm not a part of this in-your-face revolution.
If you haven't figured out yet, I'm elucidating on the 21-Cent-WoahMan! It's not like me to commoditify this formidable task force of sexy sirens. I guess grapes are really sour from where I'm coming from..
I think it started a little over a decade ago. Cable television had only just made it's foray into Indian homes and 'Banegie Apni Baat' was the Indian excuse, and I suspect retort, to the by now defunct Santa Barbara. The only wholesome source of eye-candy belonged to one hour of primetime programming, every Wednesday evening - Baywatch. And guess what? It gave the 'boob-tube' a whole new meaning.
I was in junior college then. I think. And nevermind how many trips one has made abroad, how many firangs you've seen sun-bathe in Anjuna, how many playboys you've secretly drooled over or how many gories you may have phiraaoed at Osho, Baywatch had much the same effect on endorphins as brandishing iron would have on cattle. It 'pulverised' the senses. And it hardly mattered what gender one was, there was something for everybody!
I can't begin to imagine what it's like to manifest in one of THOSE bodies. I'm sure I'd collapse of weight-lessness first. Plus, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking of all the boutiques I'd raid in a near hysterical frenzy of hoarding on 'tiny numbers' I've longed to wear all my sodding life. Oh, and I'd most certainly flirt OUTRAGEOUSLY.
Anyhow, we endured the mass invasion of the tummy tucked, the wash-board ab'd and the silicone implanted with glee and then, we began taking them a little too seriously.
For a lot of the women (we were still catagorized as girls back then) shaping up became the new mantra. Back then, we were on the brink of the 'grease paint' revolution and our girls began competing on international soils and winning every paegeant that there was to grab. Gymnasiums were the new temples where the trainer was GOD and a 'barbiesque' body the reward for penance - exercise.
Women/men worked up a sweat, swam, ran, jogged, barfed. It was OK to be bulimic if the goal was Erika Eleniak. Anoerexia was (is) the new 'beautiful'. Skinny lasses with gaunt features, drunken eyes, sunken cheeks and midget brains (I AM being charitable..) were (are) lusted and wanted and yearned for by a nationful of testosterone driven men only just waking up to the sexual revolution.
Necklines plunged, hemlines rose, clothes became scant, lingerie became 'outer wear', promiscuity the new religion.
Every woman on the street resembled the prototype. The fashion revolution only ensured that us pear-shaped-arses remained home, drowning our woes in vats of ice-cream.
I wasn't nearly as magnanimous in figure as I am now. But even then, one felt out of sorts and very obese when juxtaposed against 'I-eat-no-kidding' lasses.
Baywatch petered out. Indian television became home to family sagas and soap operas that boasted of some of the prettiest faces to walk the land of 'doodh, dahi and makhan'. Fastforward a dozen years to the present, and the present is what you have
Women are getting lighter. Still. Fashion gets bolder (i have to shop for clothes abroad, I'm THAT large!). Men are savvy, chic, metrosexual and gay. Ok. Some aren't. Museums of bones sashay down the ramps in the designer's never ending quest to drape the hankerchief.
Oh. And just so you should know.
I have now, a fuller bottom.
I've just peeked at todays newspaper for the 87th time. It's either that or the 89th time. So wrinkled and frayed is the papers appearance, you'd think it was sent across with the tandoorie rotis by the dhaba round the corner.
You see, todays front page has a rare mug of an extremely distinguished young man who also happens to be the scion of a political and-hence-vulgarly-rich family. So charismatic his appearance, so devilishly attractive his demeanor, it should be a crime to look so unbelievably handsome. And standing pretty alongside him is his newly wedded bride. Incidentally, she hails from a slightly-higher-in-the-rung political family and practices a faith different from his. Which is why their wedding wasn't attended by her people.
For those of you not Indian, resident or otherwise, I shall attempt in earnest to explain to you the political situation of my country. You see, we just went to polls. And there was a major upset (depending ofcourse on what side of the fence you chose to stay put). The new party that has now come to power is a coalition of itself and several other political factions that have come together only so they can form a majority at the centre - and hence the government.
As far as parties go (political....not the one you bummed at in Goa), the feeling harboured by the average indian is that of being stuck between the 'devil and the deep sea'. We're stuck with the devils now. I think.
But the one thing that the polls brought with it (amidst another lot of political bigots and MORE corruption) is an influx of young blood. A lot of the geriatric types have been replaced by descendants of the Indian blue blooded political royalty.
These young turks carry jurassic-chips on their shoulders. They've all been born into political families (a dime-a-dozen in north India). Which a lot of the times, according to Murphys Law is reason enough for them to contest elections. Though the salaries of these 'chosen representatives' are meagre, the fringe benefits of being a politician in my country (and perhaps the world) are enormous. Which is how these hot-blooded-scions are brought up in a lap of luxury.
Right from their infancy, they're provided with a retinue of aayaahs a.k.a nannies to mop after them. No expense is spared with regards schooling, nevermind if some of them are complete duds and flunk exams with unfailing regularity. A degree from Wharton, Brown or apna Oxford looks good on the resume(not that they'd have any REAL use for it) and the baba-log are dutifully packed off to saddaa Umreeka where, I imagine, they gain an insight into the world of unbriddled debauchery, gleefully unchaperoned.
Their return to the 'watan' is documented with painstaking detail. Interviews are plugged, photographs of them wearing austere expressions are published en-masse. Soirees are attended and Page3 circuits find a brand new muse. Readymade designations in blue chip companies ensures them a handsome stipend. Not that money was ever an issue.
Imported wardrobes, limited edition watches, state of the art vehicles are just some of the accessories these boys come with. And when the time is right, they're initiated into the arduous world of the Indian Democratical Facade.
It's ammusing to watch these Channel'd-globe-trotters canvass during elections. More often than not, you'll be purged with photo ops of them hob-nobing with the poor, the lame, the diseased, the destitute, the old, the dying. Their eyes are brimmin with love for our country and it's people, their smiles honest and body language unassuming. They're all also, alumni of the 'Secret-Academy-of-Oscar-Performances'.
Then ofcourse, they miraculously win with landslide majorities and cross into the political threshold. And then it comes to be that those elected make their way to the Parliament on a bright and sunny summer morning to take their oath of commitment to the nation (and it's running, I may add..)as Members of Parliament. Which is when some lucky scribe jumps into the fray to get a photograph for posteriety's sake which then gets printed in newspapers enabling hornie women across the nation to drool endlessly!
Now THAT is what I call 'The feel good factor'.... > ; p
It's the dreariest job in the world. The one that I'm at right now as I document my 'life and times' in what is the last day in the simmering month of May, 2004. I'm sitting at my neighbours; they now live in Auckland. We used to live next door to them once upon a time. Until we moved too.
I think it's the 'renovation gene' that didn't quite see it's way into me. Cos it sure as hell is pretty darn active in mama and papa saan. They've managed, in connivance with a gleeful contractor if I may add, to knock down the walls and the ceiling and the parapets of what used to be a habitable abode. A tad too habitable actually.
Until the place went under-the-hammer, so to speak, our apartment was equipped with all the trappings of a regular hindustanie ghar. If you happened to get marooned here, you'd have all sorts of canned and frozen food to last you a few weeks atleast (we have vaccum packed shaamie's in the freezer for cryin out loud!)
We may have moved the tee-vee, but we still have the hi-fi with CD's and cassettes. There's a microwave that helps in re-heating. And cooking, for the seriously adventurous. Our bedroom is replete with linen and toiletries and an air-con that still manages to give Siberia a run for it's money.
The bathroom wears an eerie look cos there's still an assortment of shampoos and bath gels and soap, like we NEVER moved out to begin with. I even found our individual loofahs and it felt just like old times. But it really is the loo that amazes the bejeezes out of me. Besides the workable flush/WC, care has been taken with regards the entertainment and 3 trashy paperbacks have been provided for the erudite! Makes me wonder if we EVER moved out!
Which is also why, despite a contractor to look into the actual spade work, somebody needs to stick around to see that they don't make an 'open-house-free-for-all' out of humaara ghar. And since I now free lance, I'm left with all the time in the world to play gurkha. Entire weekends have been spent sorrounded by cartons of nostalgia with only the smell of fresh paint to seduce the olfactory. Infact, it's gotten so bad, everywhere I go now smells of fresh paint. Including myself.
Contractors, in my not-so-humble-opinion, are the shylocks that Shakespeare was referrin to when he wrote about the Venetian Merchant. They're sharpshooters and the very embodiment of the 'dominatrix'. Mister "C" has a half a dozen men working our cubby-hole apartment round the clock (the place was never in need of the serious 'touchup' as dad put it initially). He's not very chatty with the women in the family. And at one point, he educated me about all the furniture he once made for this very home when I was a toddler (people love doing that all the frikkin time).
Our workers have unique ways of communicating. They speak in a language that's bound to be Indian in origin. But the dialect is so alien, I'm still trying to figure out the phonetics. I've often wondered though, what they would be debating about - since they yakk a lot of the time that they're working. And I've noticed how they clamp down the moment I take a walk around the premises (I know jack-shit about renovatory work but I'll always wear an all-knowing look when I go for these 'inspections'). One of them will always say something that'll make the others grin/smirk.laugh. "Here comes the idiot", " Make way for Miss.Tempertantrums!", "Help! Godzillas here!!" are just some of the lines I imagine them choking on. Unlike the workers abroad.
It's common knowledge (and for some reason accepted behaviour) that construction sites are rife with men rippling with muscles and skills, very high on testosterone (that happens a lot when they 'build' and work with 'tools') and extremely prone to whistling/teasing/commenting on women passing by. Especially if it's a beautiful and leggy lasso. A blond. A redhead. A brunette.
Me? I'm whistle proof. Tease proof. Comment proof.
This is most upsetting.
I will now leave.
Hmmph. > : (
I have just realised that I could pass off as being with child. No really I could. I don't know very much about pregnancy. But I'm thinking, I probably look 5 months into the process.
I had some wicked fun the other day. Other day being a few years ago. I was studying programming (not the tee-vee silly!) at the time and fell violently ill just before an important examination (perrenial - always happens to me). I have this doctor whom I secretly worship. For someone bordering on 'largesse', I'm actually quite deficient in vitamins. And shooting stress levels during papers does little to keep the body from protesting en-masse.
Anyhow, everytime I get a bout of septic tonsillitis, I have to shut up (I even have to breathe through a cloth). No Kidding. And if you know me well enough, you can imagine how exasperating that could be for a mostly 'thoughful' me. So after paying homage to mister-miracle-hands, I decided to take a walk down to this theatre that's round the corner from the clinic. The place is rife with actors working the tube and the stage. Ocassionaly, one can spot a movie star lurking around and sipping Irish Coffee.
Back then, the theatre had started a book-nook that stocked a lot of paper/hard backs related to the performing industry. I have a connection with bookshops that I shall elucidate on and about at a later date. Anyhow, I walked into the place, to much irritability on mum's part. But keeping in sync with the human rights commission, she exercised remarkable control and refrained from the 'what's-gonna-happen-to-your-life' spiel on a very ill (not to mention mute) me.
The gentleman behind the antiquey table had obviously mastered the farty indifference that forms the air around all theatre-wallahs (another post). You know, a carefully careless appearance with all the trappings of an intense and brooding actor thrown in for good measure. The act was replete with dollops of disdain, the kind that mocked the patron as if to say, "Do you even read?".
After browsing for a few minutes, I zeroed in on a hard back that was celebrating 60 years of Walt Disney productions and was a veritable treasure trove for anybody interested in toons. I couldn't reach it and wanted for him to help out. By some stroke of dumb luck, I caught his eye and motioned towards the book. He shifted irritably but brought the tome to me. After leafing through it, I turned it around several times to check for the price. When I couldn't find one, I simply mimed to him what I wanted. Suddenly, there was a transformation. Constipated-farthead-attitude-guy did a Mum Teresa on me and went completely mush. Not only did he rummage through Niagran paper work to fish out the price of the book, he waited on me hand and foot. It was amusing to watch this stuffy farthead bend backwards for me. By now, I'd realised what'd happened.
Since I couldn't even whisper, I had to communicate through actions. And the poor git mistook me as being mute. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I had a blast watching the effect I was having on him. I even tried to mock-sign to mum who glared at me and walked away.
I don't recall just when exactly, but there was this other time when I managed to sprain my ankle (no surprises given what I weigh) and walked with a limp. Yes, people were exceedingly kind to me. Infact, long after that healed, I continued applying 'Bengay' and swathed my ankle in crepe bandage - but couldn't manage to keep up the charade for long.
Point is, why does it take a disability to get the congeniality out in people? (actually it's either THATor drop-dead-in-your-tracks-good-looks). Agreed, there's no justification for the schmukie trick I pulled on atleast 2 ocassions in the past. In retrospect however, it's even more galling to watch people bend backwards, getting 'outlandishly caring' with the disabled. I don't recommend they go out of their way to diss them either. But hey, whatever happened to normal?
Hmmph. I've been pregnant with food for so long - it's time for me to deliver.
Please excuse.
I'd never make a good journalist. Nevermind that i don't have a degree in journalism. Most of the reporters don't either. No. The raison-de-etre I wouldn't be a stellar-tell-all-media-bum is because I never have all the facts. Plus, I have the worse memory. But some things stick well in my mind. Like FGM.
The first time I'd heard about FGM was on tee vee. On the BBC actually. A reporter was documenting the ritual in a village in Africa. She stuck out like a sore thumb, not just because of the color of her skin ; she was the only one not wearing an abaya. Plus, this was, supposedly, the first time ever that an outsider of a different faith was permitted to witness and indeed film the act. I must've been all of 13 or 14 back then. But I still recall the scream.....
Years later, I stumbled upon a tome that talked about FGM in mammoth detail. It was actually a biography of a young moslem woman from Africa. Her name was Fauzia Kissindja.
I read the book ages ago. Which is why I'm not a 100% sure how old Fauzia was when she became good and ready for the rite. Her sisters had been through it. Her mother had endured it. Out of the devout moslem women in Africa, some of them actually survived to form a part of a 'statistic'.
Fauzia's ordeal did a lot more to me than just churn my insides. I became a woman possessed to find out all there was to about the monstrosity. And if you're still wondering what it is I'm ranting about, FGM is an acronym for Female Genital Mutilation. The crudest form of infibulation known to mankind.
"Circumcision makes women clean, promotes virginity and chastity and guards young girls from sexual frustration by deadening their sexual appetite."
Mrs Njeri, a defender of female genital mutilation in Kenya
A few weeks ago, I googled for information on FGM. Turns out that Fauzia was only the tip of a very bloody-iceberg. Practitioners of FGM refuse to acknowledge this act of barbarism as mutilation. They refer to it as 'female circumsition'. Why, you may wonder, would women need/have to get circumsized? Read on.
FGM predates Islam and is not practised by the majority of Muslims, but has acquired a religious dimension. Where it is practised by Muslims, religion is frequently cited as a reason. Many of those who oppose mutilation deny that there is any link between the practise and religion, but Islamic leaders are not unanimous on the subject. The Qur'an does not contain any call for FGM, but a few hadith (sayings attributed to the Prophet Muhammad) refer to it. In one case, in answer to a question put to him by 'Um 'Attiyah (a practitioner of FGM), the Prophet is quoted as saying "reduce but do not destroy".
The ritual dates back to quite a few centuries. A certain sect of people scattered all over the planet and belonging to a particular faith, imagine themselves to be upholders of moral conduct and the following, is their belief :
A woman, betrothed to a man, has certain duties she must perform as a wife. Searing babies to keep the blood line going is one of the many. But 'making love' isn't. If I'm not making much sense here, you will be forgiven. Here's the thing. The woman must undoubtedly copulate with the man - but only for the purpose of getting pregnant. She is NOT supposed to derieve any 'pleasure' from the act of consummation. Indeed, she is NOT allowed.
"We are circumcised and insist on circumcising our daughters so that there is no mixing between male and female... An uncircumcised woman is put to shame by her husband, who calls her 'you with the clitoris'. People say she is like a man. Her organ would prick the man..."
An Egyptian woman
FGM is usually conducted when a young girl belonging to this particular ethnic group, attains puberty (although recent research has shown, FGM is now performed on girls as little as 4 years old, the age bar dipping further, thus contradicting the afore mentioned urbane belief). She is readied for the big day (her coming of age as it were) just as a bride-to-be in any other part of the world. Sometimes the event is associated with festivities and gifts. Henna motifs are applied to her hands and feet and she forms the centre of attention for relatives and friends, by and large feminine in gender.
In some cultures, girls will be told to sit beforehand in cold water, to numb the area and reduce the likelihood of bleeding. More commonly, however, no steps are taken to reduce the pain. She is pinned down forcefully to the spot where the deed is to be performed. Her legs are now widened and a crude object, usually a tin lid, broken glass, scissors, a razor blade or some cutting instrument is inserted in her vagina. This object is then worked in a manner similar to a food processor, cutting and scrapping the insides of this child-woman who either goes insane with pain or passes out entirely. Women standing around the helpless girl chat loudly, their chanting gaining crescendo as the screams get louder. Once infibulation is complete, antiseptic powder may be applied, or, more usually, pastes - containing herbs, milk, eggs, ashes or dung - which are believed to facilitate healing. Thorns or stitches are now used to hold the two sides of the labia majora together in order to form a cover over the vagina to heal. A small hole is left to allow urine and menstrual blood to escape. The legs are bound together for up to 40 days.
She is now ready for marraige.
More often than not, women undergoing mutilation die in the process. But for those who survive, there are a life-time of complications to be dealt with. At the time the mutilation is carried out, pain, shock, haemorrhage and damage to the organs can occur.
More commonly, the chronic infections, intermittent bleeding, abscesses and small benign tumours of the nerve which can result from clitoridectomy and excision cause discomfort and extreme pain.
Infibulation can have even more serious long-term effects: chronic urinary tract infections, stones in the bladder and urethra, kidney damage, reproductive tract infections resulting from obstructed menstrual flow, pelvic infections, infertility, excessive scar tissue, keloids (raised, irregularly shaped, progressively enlarging scars) and dermoid cysts.
First sexual intercourse can only take place after gradual and painful dilation of the opening left after mutilation. In some cases, cutting is necessary before intercourse can take place. In one study carried out in Sudan, 15% of women interviewed reported that cutting was necessary before penetration could be achieved. Some new wives are seriously damaged by unskilful cutting carried out by their husbands. A possible additional problem resulting from all types of female genital mutilation is that lasting damage to the genital area can increase the risk of HIV transmission during intercourse.
During childbirth, existing scar tissue on excised women may tear. Infibulated women, whose genitals have been tightly closed, have to be cut to allow the baby to emerge. If no attendant is present to do this, perineal tears or obstructed labour can occur. After giving birth, women are often reinfibulated to make them "tight" for their husbands. The constant cutting and restitching of a women's genitals with each birth can result in tough scar tissue in the genital area.
Although it is near impossible to achieve exact figures, given that the entire exercise is shrouded in secrecy and no one who partakes of it willing to talk, FGM is practiced by and large in 28 countries in Africa. It has been reported among Muslim populations in Indonesia, Sri Lanka and Malaysia, although very little is known about the practice in these countries. In India, a small Muslim sect, the Daudi Bohra, practise clitoridectomy.
In the Middle East, FGM is practised in Egypt, Oman, Yemen and the United Arab Emirates.
This is very pissing off.
You see, I KNOW that you people are logging in every so often to read up on an update here.
But what disses me is that you don't much care to leave me your sodding views!!
What's the problem with you guys??
Cat gotcha tongue?
Hmmph > : (
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