The perfect Indian girl

I am the perfect Indian girl
With sun burnt ripe hay for hair
And caviar streaks in the air
With orange peaches for cheeks
Reflecting the gory yellow of my noons
I feel heroic with each pigment of tan
When i keep jumping man holes
And fall asleep in buses
My scalp produces a modest proof
I bathe the best on sundays
And my bag may stain with oil
My college dreams are television borne
I can pretend Napoleon never existed
When I nod furiously at my grandma's commentary
I can neither be a capitalist ('cos I don't have the money)
Nor a communist in wanting (by default I have to budget)
I am lauded with the parent pride anthem
And I tend to be 35mm wide and loud in love.
I am loud, you can count my teeth.
But that is how I justify all erratica

Tragic plight

Yeah, this is about this restaurant I went to. It is an integral part of a mini villa. They hire fol musicians and dancers to perform for the people who come and eat. Of course there is no bar but there is dance and offering of money by fat men and modern women dressed in fancy clothes. I was one of them. The tragic plight is not because of this. There is a deadlock here. These musicians have no other way of gaining a bread based on their talent anymore and on the other hand it feels shameful that they have to get their daughters and wives to dance like animals in a cage and get applause and money while their children are huddled behind the stage half hungry half sleepy. I just imagined myself as one of those young girls dancing and making moves to lure and appease numerous pairs of eyes. Every moment she can feel so many eyes watching different curves and moves of her body with unaffected desire or a notion of superiority. I did not feel right.

If you are wanting heaven, you only are dying

This is like a random thought after what will decidedly follow in the next post. I was feeling extremely low and cry-ey last night. I wanted to desperately shout aloud and tell people what I feel, the bouts of being unloved, unfed on attention and the lack of work to do drives me crazy. So, I was wondering why I feel so pulled and tugged. It is because I leave unfinished dialogues in every place, because I want to return or exist in all those places. Then, I realised that I can appreciate work done only by a few people. The rest, I cannot trust to do it the way I expect. That is why I end up doing it all and feel so tired. Twenty hours of sleep is not enough then. And thus came the title which is a gujarati proverb actually, roughly conveying that unless you yourself do the work, you cannot get the experiential pleasure of it. This is what I kept on thinking the whole time in the rickshaw back home. I love rickshaws. Until an oldie from a wagon-R kept staring and following my rick. Back to work, stare, howl, or just close eyes and ignore... I am too tired to protest.

Same holds true on my contemplations on culture studies and other critical theory on society. I realise that most of them who engage too much end up being miserable because: a) they efface the personal naivete or glint of prejudices/preferences in the race to be politically correct and b) they get nicely trained into problematising everything in life. So, what happens is, happiness becomes an illusion(not that illusion is bad) and sadistic pleasure by digging into others' research papers becomes primary. Prize? Plagiarized paper!!! Hence, after all I may not sacrifice my life to academic conquests and revert to public relations(=psychology)because if you are wanting heaven, you only have to die! :)

When you fall for the morning microphone

Mornings of paranoia and sudden conscious smiles.
Jubilant when you get little niches to dive in for secure unwatched blushing. Almost wading with the mainstream current and nodding furiously because I hardly even can hear what is being spoken. It is not awe, trust me. It is true love progressing through various stages of all three components: intimacy, passion and committment, except that all this is not mutual and is a fragment of my white board only. Gosh, he is here again, skin swelling and expressions as fluid as flagellum suddenly crystallized. Fake jubilant smile again. Agent M, all clear sir!(What am I, Lizzy Mcguire or some pink shoe? Slap me someone!) Then gradually the shutter fly releases little clothbags of of exalt, all buttoned up. Again radar sense proximity. Please tell me, what is this unidentified walking microphone doing to me since four years, off and on? Then, the villain, all pink bubble gum and agent is all tight again. Victim of inside jokes, heart fluttering like a shaken aspen leaf. Remind oneself, silence is golden. Act grumpy. Don't think of demanding attention...

Why I think women can't attain Nirvana:

Because they menstruate
Because they have maternal instincts (basic instincts!)
Because they tend to confuse sex with love
Because they have a penchant to carefully document every gaze and stare
Because they yearn to make an even better "aloo ki sabji" every single night
Because 1)either they are obsessed with male acceptance or 2) they can hardly take earnest male attention on face
Because they too, like men, believe that a woman should have less hair

Disclaimer:
More to come... Please add if you want. This is not a stereotyping competition, it is (as the label suggests,a a mere rant because this woman here knows all of this and can still not get over it)