The Oomph of the Bra

Indian women are all born with this Obsessive Compulsive Disorder of straightening their bra strap all the while. They can flaunt their polished backs and heaving boobs and yet a thin black strap showing makes them the so called “vulnerable and potential targets to indecent men”. Seriously, I mean how different is a bra from a man’s undies. Isn’t it just a support system to the female anatomy?

Another ridiculous invention is the plastic strap bras. It is ok for the so called transparent straps to show. Do we honestly think that a man cannot imagine what is underneath, if a plastic shows. Or probably we are just counting on the denseness of a male brain which normally cannot figure out anything without an instruction manual. I was at a swanky pub last night. There was this hot girl wearing a little black strapless dress and she totally ruined it with the transparent bra. It looked like she was a younger nubile version of Prem Nath from the movie Bobby sporting suspender belts to keep her dress in place. Girls get a pair of strapless bra or sticks ons for heavens sakes.

I first got initiated to this “World of Bra” when I was 14. (ok alright. I was a late bloomer.). I had no clue what I was getting into. White Jockey sports bra, was the safest, modest bet. They are akin to bloomer panties for little girls. I honestly feel sports bra is another unfortunate creation. It should be banned from anywhere other than the gym or sports ground. It flattens, traps, jails these God given assets, making them look like someone sporting man boobs. Why are we always hell bent on desexualizing women?

Then came a phase of covering those little pimple sized growth on my chest with cotton granny bras. In hindsight I feel the government should pass a bill to “ de cottonise” bras along with demonetization of currency. They are totally unfeminine, unattractive, unflattering pieces of cotton available in “white, black or skin color” sold by bra wale bhaiyajis in hosiery shops. An average Indian woman invests in a good, sexy pair of bra for the first time, prior to her wedding. Normally most often than not, assisted by a raunchy aunty or an older cousin. It is as if you cannot go on a honeymoon without those laces and in that too there will be some well-meaning lady from the bride’s side busy shoving the strap showing from the choli all through the wedding ceremony.
I read somewhere that when a man seduces a woman and finds her wearing sexy underclothes, he must remember that it is she who initiated the seduction. I tend to disagree. A sexy bra, laces, padded, underwired, balconette whatever it may be, gives a woman pride in her body. It shows that she loves what she is, not just how people see her.
“Bra Burning” is a term used by feminists around the world. Whatever it may mean in the feminist dictionary, the literal meaning of the word would give me a heart attack. I can never imagine letting go of my bright, vibrant, lacy, varied lingerie collection ever. They say, when a woman dies, according to Hindu rituals, they dress her like a bride to her final journey. I wouldn’t care if they dressed me in rags when I die but I do hope they put me in my best pair of underclothes so that I enter the gates of Hell in my confident best, head held high.

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Broken and Mended

The moon on the horizon, stood lonely
Hesitant of its existence in the dark night

Just like her
She stood on the edge of the cliff
The cold wind seeping through her every pore.
The chill of the night froze her tears
As she stood alone
That night she wished for him
To hold her, to hide in his arms
Yet she stood alone
Her vibrant existence, black as the night

He found her on the cliff
Head hanging to her knees
Silent sobs causing a rhythm
Her proud shoulders totally broken, totally blue

He gathered her in his arms
Her beautiful self and all her shattered bits
He gave them form

His touch reminded her to breathe
She knew warmth was here
As she gasped to be whole again

The spiritless, thawing tears made her hit him
Scold him, scratch him.
She threw a tantrum to be broken when all she ever wanted was to be whole again

He held on as stubborn as ever
Never letting her fall
He kissed her frown
He hugged her sorrows
He unfroze her slowly

As the blue left her, she felt a rainbow begin in her heart
She was HER again – beautiful, dignified and proud

Like the moon which now lit the sky like a lone warrior smiling down at the stars

She knew she had risen
In his arms
She knew she had won

BE YOU

I made a promise to myself
I looked at me  and said, ” BE YOU”
That day on on I could smile more
I could walk with gay abandon
I could laugh my heart out
And people noticed a glow in me
Then came a day,
When people realized I was too merry.
The clouds of threat gathered around them.
They whispered
They commented
They talked amongst themselves
They stood me trial
They prosecuted me
They passed a judgement
They ripped me apart.
While I skipped around ignorant of what they said,
They pulled in everyone who loved me into the murky whirlpool of their opinions.
I was an untouchable for both friends and foes
People who claimed to love me refused to look at me in the eye.
By the time I realised the rolling of eyes behind my back
I had been stripped naked, paraded in public and shamed out of my life.

All because I dared to be me

And today as I sit in a corner
Cuddled up, drowning in my own tears
Punished for being happy

I still am in the hot pursuit of the promise – BE YOU

 

 

 

Memories

And then there are those days
When memories wash my heart
Just like the waves washing my foot at the beach

I am me, that I was in the memory

I smile at times I laugh
As I (re)listen to the joke you cracked
I feel the touch, at times I feel the look
As I remember the desire in your eyes

I am the seductress, I am the temptress
As I (re)want you as I did
I am the dreamer, building my castle
As I (re)see the dreams we saw together

I am pensive, I am sad
As I (re)miss you as you go away
I am in tears, I feel dead
As you (re)break my heart into a thousand pieces

And then there are those days
When memories wash my heart
Just like the flames lapping up my body on my pyre.

On the journey to forgetting you

I have a picture of you painted on my heart
It captures you perfectly
The smile that is sunshine
The eyes that look through my soul
Every nick, cut and scar on your face
Has a story you have told me once

The picture in my heart
Shows me all the evenings
I spent in your arms

It brings back all the laughter we shared
And all the tears we cried
It brings your touch on my curves
And makes me feel your skin on my fingertips

And yet there are these days
When the clouds of desperation
Is dark and menacing

The air is thick and I can hardly breathe
When I miss you as I miss my next breathe

A dark smog engulfs me
Suffocates me
I need to walk on
I need to move on in life

I go back to my heart
Just to see your picture
See your smile that can disperse all clouds

How ever much I try I can’t
See those eyes that could
See through my soul

How ever much I try I can’t
Feel the touch, the hug
That gave me strength to carry on

I dive back, I search my soul
The cobwebs on my memory
Are hopelessly cleaned
With desperation I try
And yet the picture I can’t find

Through my struggle I realise
I’m finally on the journey to forgetting you.

The Terminal

There is something splendidly uplifting about spending a night at the airport.
The city roads are silent with only the occasional goons decorating the roads and the occasional cop keeping them company.
But the moment u cross the threshold of the airport, a whole new world opens up.
It is an amalgamation of culture, a melting point of mankind, especially at night wen travelers wait for their next flight.
Diamond clad fingers lie
Iimp at the sides as the fat lady tries to take an uncomfortable nap on the chair.
The coffee machine brewing relentlessly, infusing caffeine into the reprocessed, recycled air of the departure lounge.
Snippets of conversations in all languages provide a subtle entertainment if u can be discreet enough to eavesdrop.
People walk around with trolley. Mother feeding her little one while she herself tries to keep tiredness at bay. Some kids swim in their dreams while lying on the airport floor while others drown themselves in the flashy screens of their tablets. Most seem without purpose and yet all have a destination.
The airline crew and airport staff work as if they have no concern with the path of the sun.
Actually at times I feel the only place where the march of the Sun across the sky doesn’t matter is the airport.
In a life where running towards our own destination means everything, a break at the airport gives you a sort of perspective about the canvas of your life.
You realise you are just a tiny character that GOD, the painter painted.
There is something splendidly uplifting about a night spent at the airport.

The curve of her waist

The curve of her waist has a thousand stories to tell
His tickle had made her double with laughter
His caress had made her scream with passion
He had devoured her when her long hair brushed her waist
The little skin peeping from her sheer sari had made his eyes blaze and heart melt
Her waist arched in abandon everytime he took her with fervour
The day he left, her waist cried a thousand tears
Missing his rough calloused palms on her bare skin
As she waits for his return
The curve of her waist has a thousand stories to tell