Sisters look out for each other

The United Nations International Day of Women is just a few days away and predictably the debate is divided into two distinct factions. While the first faction asks women to stop treating themselves as a special interest group, the second says feminism is not only relevant but also necessary even in this day and age. One cannot deny that rights of women are violated with impunity across the world every day. Therefore, even as empowered and educated women climb out of gender-defined silos, there are millions of women whose self esteem has been crushed by either cultural conditioning or outright persecution.

This is why feminists today find themselves grappling with questions that threaten to divide them along race, colour, sexuality and caste lines. These distinctions add newer layers to an already complicated debate. Often women who are privileged on account of skin colour, wealth or caste feel alienated by those less privileged. It is true that black, dalit, lesbian and poor women face the brunt of sexual discrimination in more extreme ways. But if the underprivileged lot bands together and blocks out the so-called privileged lot, feminism loses. This is because privileged and empowered women are more likely to help their less fortunate sisters.

Take the case of 51 year old Rathi* who works as a domestic help. She was born into a land owning family of middle-income agriculturists in a village in Andhra Pradesh. She had to stop schooling after 5^th standard as the school in her village did not offer education beyond that grade. Some village boys would cycle almost two hours each way to go to another school, but Rathi’s parents were vary of sending their daughter that far away. “Mere bhai log ko iskool nahi jaane ka tha. Abhi main akele kaise jaun?”, she explained. She took to agriculture and later started a day care facility for children of agricultural labourers in her village. A few years later she entered into an arranged marriage with a man who claimed to drive cars for rich people and even had a flat in Mumbai.

When Rathi came to Mumbai after marriage nearly three decades ago, she realized her husband was a taxi driver and did not own either his vehicle or his home, a shabby shanty in a smelly slum. Rathi started working as a domestic help. Gradually she started taking up jobs as a baby sitter or care giver to old people. She learnt how to give body massages to women. She started turning the family’s financial health around. She encouraged her husband to move out of the slum and into a pucca house with its own toilet. They bought a TV, a fridge and even started eating out once a month. And then Rathi got pregnant. She had to cut back on work hours.

Her husband started blaming her for mounting expenses. He took to alcohol and gambling. Rathi hoped the baby would change everything. But fatherhood did not make her husband more responsible. By the time Rathi had delivered her second child her husband had sold of most of her share of her ancestral property in the village. He had falsified her thumb impression.

That shook her. She grabbed what remained of her savings, sold off her meager jewellery, took her little sons and moved to Thane where accommodation was cheaper than Mumbai. She once again started juggling jobs as a domestic help, baby sitter and masseur. When her sons were old enough she got them enrolled at the local school. She spent carefully and saved well.

A few years later she purchased some land in her village. She hired daily wagers to work her fields, hiring only women. She did not discriminate against women from castes lower than hers. She ran an informal aangan wadi for the children of not just her labourers, but also all other working women in the village. She personally took charge of the financial accounts of her agricultural business and made sure all her employees were paid on time.

And then one day, out of the blue, her husband returned and begged Rathi to take him back. “Usne sorry bola, roya bhi,” she explains. Rathi sold a part of her land and moved back to Thane where she comfortably slipped back into her role as the principal breadwinner for the family even as her husband struggled to hold on to odd jobs.

A few years later, Rathi brought her 12 year old niece Archana* from the village and enrolled the girl in school. But Archana dropped out after three years. But luckily by then she had picked up enough English to be able to work in the homes of expats. She started as her aunt’s assistant and today at 19, she works as a housekeeper and baby sitter. “Foreigner log jyada paise dete hain toh 6-7 jagah ki bajaaye, 2-3 kaam pakad sakte hain,” she shares. Archana contributes to household expenses, sends some of her income to her parents and is also saving money to buy agricultural land just like her aunt.

Rathi helped change the lives of other women because she was empowered and to an extent more privileged than them. Now imagine, would this success story be possible had Rathi been alienated on account of her privilege? We sisters have to stick together and help each other.  We cannot fight amongst ourselves. We cannot find a problem for each solution. It works the other way round. Modern feminists must strive for unity even as we understand and accept greater diversity.

**((Names changed on request. Both Rathi and Archana refused to be photographed for this story))

Fifty shades of aunty

Neelam was twenty three when she got married to her childhood sweetheart and moved in to our housing society. A year later she was blessed with a bouncing baby and everyone under the age of eighteen in the neighbourhood dutifully started referring to her as Neelam aunty. I’m 33 and unmarried. My children are cats. Yet everyone from toddlers to the building watchman, call me didi. Baffled, I asked the most talkative kid in the building to explain to me why he called someone a decade younger “aunty” and me “didi”. His mother, who was riding the elevator with us offered the explanation, “It is not about age, but about marriage” she said. “When you get married everybody will have to call you aunty out of respect,” she continued.

I wondered if “didi” was therefore to be construed as disrespectful. Also, was a woman’s respect linked to her marital status even in this day and age in a posh neighbourhood such as mine?

This wasn’t a one off thing. I teach a journalism course to post graduate students and some of the girls in my class are married. As many of us live within walking distance of each other’s homes, we often carpool or take the same bus. Whenever we alight at the bus stop and the girls introduce me to their children, their first instinct is to call me aunty. Given how I’m often a decade older than their moms, it makes sense. But often someone’s mother-in-law would ask me what my husband did and when I said I didn’t have one, they would dutifully ask the children, “Didi ko hello bolo”.

Back when I was in school there was this hair dye advertisement where a woman feels traumatized after being called aunty by a young man in her neighbourhood, even as her husband is called “Bhaiyya”. She gets herself some hair dye and proceeds to colour her premature grays. When she steps out with jet black locks, the same man calls her by her first name! This somehow heals her shattered self esteem.

My client, a friend’s mother and veteran theater actress, recently made her movie debut. I went to the premier and hugged and congratulated her, “You made it aunty”, I said. A film maker standing next to us looked at me in disbelief, unable to utter anything more than, “Aunty???” My client, one of the most confident and secure women I’ve ever met replied, “What else do you expect her to call me? She is my daughter’s colleague!” The film maker countered, “But you don’t look that old,” now establishing the link between age and the word “aunty”. Interestingly, her daughter who is five years younger than I, magically went from didi to aunty overnight as she got married, while I am still didi.

I reckoned I needed some alcohol in my system to process this. A cameraman friend joined me at the bar. I decided it was time to get a man’s perspective on the subject. He threw me a sly smile, men reserve for locker room conversations with other men and said, “Deborah madam, I’m surprised you don’t know what aunty really means.” An almost evil glint appeared in his eye at the end of the sentence suggesting a strong sexual dimension to my aunty conundrum. He explained how it was not polite to call someone aunty in public because that word was reserved for “Bhabhi type” women. I distinctly remember being reprimanded by my male friends when I called their wives Bhabhi. I did it to assure these women that I had no designs on their husbands and thought of them as brothers. This would prevent them from suspecting anything inappropriate when I met their husbands even if the wives were not around. But a friend had told me that the word Bhabhi was a throwback to Savita Bhabhi and was therefore inappropriate. I asked my cameraman friend if that was the case. He gave me an evil wink and disappeared into the crowd with his drink. My head ready to explode with the multiple layers of sexism I had just discovered, I ordered my second dirty martini for the evening.

This was odd. I grew up in a generation where all of us kids called each other’s mothers aunty. My mom was an exception because she taught at our school. She was always Rita Miss. At 59, she is still a “Miss”. Somehow, despite being a teacher, I never got to be “Miss”. I have always been Deborah Ma’am. Sometimes when a faculty member doesn’t know me and comes across my name in the schedule, they ask for Mr. Grey. This is probably because Deborah is not a very common name in India. As someone who doesn’t give a rat’s left testicle about the gender binary, I don’t mind being called Grey Sir as an office boy called me just last week when he came to the staff room to deliver a message from another faculty member. My three year old niece still calls me Uncle or Bhaiyya as do all her friends. It might have something to do with my short hair. My dream is to be knighted by the Queen of England as Sir Deborah, Knight of the Rainbows! And don’t tell me I can’t be Sir or Lord Deborah because I have a baby bar, a baby bag and a baby door (breasts, uterus and vagina respectively). I don’t have a single maternal bone in my body and have no desire to procreate (unless is it an alien, meta-human or a ninja-turtle).

I read The Telegraph’s headline and while it was a play on the word Anti-National, you’ve got to admit… it backfired and how! Calling Smriti Irani “aunty” is unacceptable for the same reasons as calling Hillary Clinton a “witch”. You want to take down somebody, use facts, reason and logic to blow holes into their arguments. Taking potshots at one’s age and gender just go one to show how your artillery is ineffective and that you are basically a sexist douchebag! Meanwhile, we in India, need to start calling women something more appropriate like “ji” or “madam”. Also, please stop diluting my brand value by calling me didi. I’m way too cool and sexy for didi. My last name’s Grey (Thanks to EL James, that sentence is now a pick-up line). Call me Grey, just Grey.

Angel Deborah

Doesn’t life seem a little incomplete without an impossible dream? Ever since I was a little girl, I was fascinated with the women who modeled lingerie; the more daring and risqué the piece, the more powerful and confident the model looked. The internet introduced me to Victoria’s Secret and its Angels. 

These women looked nothing like other models who came across as nutrition deprived teenagers with a perpetually constipated look. Victoria’s Secret Angels were healthy, powerful, confident and happy! These women flaunted superhero abs and muscular thighs. These women looked strong.

I longed to join their ranks and even practiced Mirnada Kerr's signature slow blink in front of the mirror.

At 157 cms, I’m vertically challenged. And while I have the exact same measurements as some of the highest paid ramp scorchers, I look curvier due to my short height. But, I’m not just into impossible dreams; I’m also shamelessly determined about making them come true. 

So my resolution for 2016 is to get myself the body of an angel proportional to my height. If this means losing a few pounds I’ll do it the healthy way. I’ve been researching the workout regime of models like Giselle Bundchen, Miranda Kerr, Adriana Lima and Candice Swanpoel and I intend to follow in their footsteps this year. I won’t crash diet and I won’t lift weights. I will achieve my dream body with free-style workouts. I know many of these models workout for as long as four hours everyday. I’ll try to clock at least two hours a day. I’ve always been a careful eater, but I will try to divide my food intake into smaller and more frequent meals to increase my metabolism.

If all goes well, I will reward myself by getting my own Victoria’s Secret lingerie for Christmas. I’ll wear and walk down the entire length of my house with happy music playing and my cat cheering for me. Yup, I got big plans for 2016!

Resting Bitch Face

I came across the term Resting Bitch Face less than half an hour ago. It is what you call a woman's facial expression when she doesn't really have any expression on her face, and is therefore presumed to be angry, upset, mean or bitchy.

The term is usually used for women, because for some odd reason, it is a woman's sacred duty to smile. We are expected to smile, irrespective of whether we feel like it. I'm not against smiling. I smile when I'm happy. I smile when I want to. I smile when something good happens. A smile is an expression of happiness and peace. It shouldn't be a social obligation.

Men take it as a personal failure when your eyes don't light up at their sight. I've lost count of how many times my dates have asked me to smile. When I ask them what's funny, they wondered if they are making me feel uncomfortable. The only thing it tells me, is that these men suffer from low self esteem and need constant validation by way of a smile. Needless to say I've been labled a 'bitch' more times than I'd care to remember.

Ever since I was a little girl, I was asked to smile more. I was expected to smile at my neighbour when she prepared breakfast (our kitchen windows overlooked each other). I was expected to smile at friends of my parents. I was expected to smile at my friends' parents. Basically I was expected to smile all the time... for no reason.

As I grew older, my smile was 'corrected'. I was advised to not show my gums. I was forced to wear braces because I had 'ugly' teeth (basically, I just have an extra canine tooth). Even today when I smile for pictures, my mother chides me for not smiling 'properly'. A 'proper' smile being one where I look like I'm smelling fart while trying hard not to pee!

When I started working, well meaning colleagues often asked me why I looked disinterested. Some wondered if I was happy with my job. Some questioned my committment, simple because I didn't smile beatifically as I walked into my office every morning. Some thought I genuinely didn't care about things, while others advised me to purge negativity from my life. That was weird, because as any of my friends would tell you, I'm a happy person. I'm as happy as a bunny in a carrot garden! But that doesn't mean I have to look like I'm on an acid trip.

I've now mastered the Bitch Smile, a fake smile that surprisingly puts people at ease. I flash that smile when people talk about their babies, husband, dog or parents, their dreams, their travel plans, their car or their new clothes. It makes people think I care, when I genuinely don't give a shit. Here, take a look:

I don't know... you call that a smile, I think THAT'S a resting bitch face.

Feeling Naked

A few weeks ago, when I stepped out to satiate my hunger for all things held in high regard by fellow intellectual snobs, I did something out of character. I wore a saree to a Shakespeare play. I was in a festive mood as going to the theater is nothing short of an evening at the opera for me. I had to turn heads and what better way to do it than follow in the footsteps of Aishwarya Rai and drape myself in six yards of the most feminine garment ever created. 


See, this is exactly where I lost the plot! I failed to realise that if you wear a saree, it changes everything about you... from your walk (I'm told I normally walk like Salman Khan from Bodyguard), to your posture (apni hi saree ki silwaton mein simti-lipti-sehmi si main) to your entire persona (I actually looked like a woman!) 


My arm candy for the evening, my Bedardi Baalam Harrish Iyer, couldn't stop teasing me. He has composed a "Debbie is a girl!" song and also choreographed a silly little dance to go with it. 


My other friend Mantra (who was playing one of the parts in the said play) was thankfully restrained and reserved any scathing comments about what could only be truthfully described as a sex change. His generosity perhaps stems from his being an actor and therefore knowing how demoralising any kind of negativity is, especially when one is doing something out of character. 


When the first appearance worked, I got bolder and did it again! I wore a saree the following day as well! This time my nearly three dozen teeth arranging themselves into a convincing smile that successfully belied the existence of half a million fluttering butterflies in my enviably flat stomach! I found the courage to upload my aurat-type pics on BBM and FB and the complements are still pouring in. 

A few years ago, I was out covering this story in a very crowded part of the city. I ended up getting pawed and molested by a mob. Being a borderline sociopath has its perks. I remained calm and focussed and made my way out of the sticky situation without losing my cool or even shedding a tear. As I was exiting the venue, I called up and told the woman on the assignment desk about my plight, hoping she would understand. She responded with, "Deborah ji aap tai kar lijiye ki aap aurat hain ya journalist! Morning bulletin mein story chalni hai, 4am tak edit kar ke bhej dijiye!" 


I disconnected the call, took one last look at the torn buttons of my shirt and the scratch marks on my chest, took a deep breath and placed another call, this time to a male colleague from a sister channel who already had necessary footage and sound-bites requesting him to share them with me. He was co-operative. I came back to the office to find my bureau chief editing a special investigative story. I told him what happened and requested no other female reporter be sent to cover the said story the next day. I also told him what the Assignment lady told me, to which he responded saying, "Theek hi toh kaha usne. Journalists should be tough. Yeh delicate darling ban-ne se kaam nahi chalega!" 


I made my decision that day. I stopped being a woman. I became a machine, devoid of all emotion. In my seven years as a journalist I have been lathi-charged, tear-gassed, nearly crushed in stampedes, been in car accidents, received death threats (people have actually tried to kill me on two occasions). 


I have three spinal injuries and have sustained multiple fractures to my wrists and ankles. I have a broken rib and a busted knee-cap. The list is long! I'm not complaining. I've earned a lot of respect. But I had to detach myself from the woman in me to achieve all this. 


Not any more... One evening at the theatre changed it all! Six yards of chiffon and two adorable friends have made me embrace my womanhood once again.

Leap of Faith

26 year old Madhuri Pandey is your quintessential girl next door. Her bubbly laughter and sing-song voice have made her a darling of millions of women who religiously follow desi soap operas. But Madhuri is far cry from the characters she has played over the last four years. She settles down for our interview in a pair of jeans and a black and white check shirt that is a polar opposite of her onscreen avatars. 

"I hate those 10 kg ghagras and the dangling earrings. My ears used to bleed and I once gave a take with my jhumka taped to my ears!" 

Madhuri is perfectly secure with her looks and had no qualms meeting us without make up. While she is opposed to cosmetic surgery, she is honest enough to admit that she doesn't quite like her nose, "Sometimes I think it is too big," she says, her eyes comically looking at her nose. That's when you wonder if this TV diva is actually nothing but a child-woman. 

She says acting happened to her by chance. Madhuri comes from a family of doctors and academics from North India and was studying for a degree in Software Engineering in Delhi when she and her sister Anjali started modelling, just for the lark. But destiny had other things in store for Madhuri. The stylish sisters moved to Mumbai when Anjali won a talent hunt. 

Madhuri decided to pursue a career in music and started performing with other singers and artists. That's when she got noticed by casting directors and offers for TV shows started pouring in. Always eager to take up new adventures, Madhuri decided to give it a shot. She soon became a darling of the viewers for her roles in Bhabhi, Dahej, Ladli and many other shows. But there was something missing. 

“Music is my passion. I did not come to Mumbai to become an actor. I came here to follow my dreams." That was when Madhuri decided to quit TV at the peak of her career and plunged headlong into music. She is quite active on the events and live music scene. She is also seen performing stand-up comedy. "It hasn't been easy. There is a lot of competition. There is also pressure from my family who would like to see me settle down. This is my make or break year", she states matter-of-factly. 

We quizzed her about Mr. Right and Maduri says she is looking for an uncomplicated man who would understand and respect the demands of her profession. "I'm a self made woman who is open to taking risks. I have been independent so far and don't like being controlled or caged. My line of work involves odd hours. My man has to accept that." 

She accepts that it is probably her straight forward-ness and fierce independence that keeps most men away. "While some get intimidated by my success, others find it unacceptable that I like taking my own decisions and live on my own terms. But my independence is not-negotiable", she asserts. "I find it hilarious that so many men expect me to be docile and covered from head to toe like my onscreen characters. Off camera I have a mind of my own and I wear what I please. If I can respect women who like wearing sarees, why can't they respect a woman who wears cocktail dresses. I have a certain lifestyle, I do party a lot with my friends. I carry myself with a lot of dignity." 

Well, we will certainly vouch for Madhuri's style quotient as the girl hardly ever has a fashion faux pas. "I know what works for me and dress accordingly. I love my pastel one piece dresses, I love my LBDs, I like single statement pieces when it comes to jewellery rather than cluttering up my look with too many unsightly accessories." Madhuri also swears by plunging necklines, but warns "Wear it only if you have the confidence to carry it off, otherwise it comes across as cheap." 

Madhuri is currently taking life a day at a time, enjoying her transition from actor to full-time singer. She claims this is the best time to get a break in her chosen field. Her years in similar industries have helped and she is taken seriously. "Being an extrovert helps. I'm not shy and I always speak my mind, but I'm also conscious of the fact that my every move is being watched closely." She says she is very image conscious and works hard to appear composed even in the most emotionally turbulent situations. “This is a price driven industry and people love to discourage you, find the smallest fault, just so they can force you to reduce your price. It is important to act professional and stay focused in such situations, lest you get branded as a cry baby or a whiner." 


Well, we like that she is grounded, goal oriented and honest. Here's to young women like Madhuri Pandey who are not afraid of taking a huge career risk to fulfil their dreams.

The Cleanest Picture

While the uproar over I&B Ministry’s high-handedness in cancelling the telecast of The Dirty Picture still continues, few have bothered to examine what really makes the said film ‘dirty’. There are no sex scenes, just one kissing scene, no bare back scenes… just a lot of cleavage thrust ‘shamelessly’ into the viewer’s face. 

But ask yourselves… doesn’t your friendly neighbourhood Bhalla aunty show off more when she bends to pick up the morning newspaper or your very own Sakku bai when she swabs the floor? And why is it offensive for a woman to show off her décolletage? What is wrong with acknowledging the existence of breasts? Would you ever be ashamed of having knees or fingers or a nose? What’s the harm in showing off an aesthetically packaged cleavage… 

We have all aspired at some point of time to be able to carry off a plunging neckline! (Plug! Plug! Plug!)

Haven’t we seen far greater skin show by Urmila Matondkar (“Hai Rama yeh kya hua?’) in Rangeela that has been telecast at least a hundred times on TV since its release 15 years ago? And what could possibly be dirtier than the sundry characters played by Shakti Kapoor? Haven’t Juhi Chawla and Anil Kapoor gyrated to, “Main maal gaadi tu dhakka laga” and “Khada hai khada hai khada hai” from Andaaz? I clearly remember watching Mamta Kulkarni and Mithun Chakravarty’s now legendary “Button meri kurti ka” being played on DD Metro’s Superhit Mukabala (now isn’t that a Sarkari channel?) And don’t even get me started on Madhuri in Beta and Khalnayak!

The Dirty Picture is perhaps one of the cleanest movies ever made… It’s not about sex… It’s about insecurity, politics and jealousy coming together in a wild orgy of hopelessness… and one woman who used her body to pull the right strings till she too was swept away by hubris and loneliness…

Safedi ki Chamkaar

While Julia Roberts is busy winning well deserved accolades for her evil queen act in Mirror Mirror, I'm left wondering when (in the name of the Lord!) will we, Bharatiya Naaris, stop setting such a huge store by "Who is the fairest of them all?"

A recent advertisement, offering women a fairness creme for their privates, made me almost throw up in revulsion! It appeared to say that pati dev will not love you unless you are white... down under too! Then of course there are those 'sunscreen' ads that promise to 'correct' dark spots and tanning. Er... since when does Hindustani chamdi get dark spots??? Unless you are Kareena's twin, you will not break out into freckles or 'suffer' any other 'harmful effect' of Sun exposure as long as you keep your system well hydrated! And what does tanning do exactly... make you a little browner? We have more melanin in our skin than the vilaayatees. Melanin is a pigment, the quantity of which determines the shade of your skin. Fair skinned people have less melanin, darker skinned people have more. It's not some evil curse... it's just a freakin' pigment! That's why we are brown... and brown isn't ugly!!!

In my seven years as a journalist covering crime and politics, I've spent weeks on stake-outs... Boom mic in hand, my video-journalist and I would stand outside police stations, courthouses, jails, hospitals, government offices, political party offices etc. for hours together... waiting for the crook/news-maker of the day (or his lawyer/spokesperson) to step out and give us the all important sound-bite that would be played in a loop across various television news networks. As a result, my skin has come to resemble an Apcolyte shade card (mera wala Brown!). 


My ex was a 'Safedi ki Chamkaar' (jo andhere mein bhi saaf nazar aaye!!!) and once asked me if I could lend him some sunscreen as it was way too sunny to step out without 'adequate protection'. I looked at him lovingly, slowly undressed myself till there wasn't a thread on me and asked, "Baby... What part of me looks like I'm familiar with the concept of Sunscreen?!" Before you ask... yes we spent the remainder of the day indoors ;-) And yes, my privates are as brown as the rest of me!

Ek Akeli Jawaan Ladki

It's tough being a single 29 year old in a city like Mumbai... Try finding a house (bigger than a 1BHK) on rent, saying you want it all to yourself, and everyone from the broker, to the home owner, to the neighbours would 'advise' you to share the apartment. Do they fail to understand the concept of personal space? Is it inconceivable to them that a young single woman would be willing and able to spend that kind of money? Or is it something more sinister... the presumption that a well paid single woman, who is unwilling to share her personal space... is a hooker? They will either refuse to give you the house saying they are looking for a family, or in the unlikelihood that they do rent out their house to you... notice how each watchman, liftman, newspaper boy, domestic help, neighbour and sundry auntyjis will keep a hawk's eye on your male visitors.

I live in a luxurious 2BHK in an upmarket neighbourhood. Given that my house is on a higher floor with a breath-taking view, and that the resident demographic appears to consist mainly of young, well educated, urban, rich couples with small or no kids, I thought they would be open minded. I have my own business and on most days, I work from home. I have clients, friends and other sundry visitors coming in throughout the day and most of them are men.

Given that I am newly single and have a healthy sex life, I also have male visitors after daylight hours. One of my male visitors, Mr. Hotness, who was a permanent fixture in my bedroom in my previous home, visited me for the first time in my new home this weekend. He was not only going to spend the night, but also drop in frequently and at all kinds of un-Godly hours. I had to prep the building security guys about this. So I decided to go down to greet him at the reception desk in the lobby.

"Aaj sign kar raha hai, aage se jab bhi aaye aane dena... Mera bhai hai," I lied with a straight face. Thank God, Mr. Hotness did not raise an eyebrow or do anything to blow his cover. After all, it was already well past 10pm. Two auntyjis shared the elevator with us on the ride up to my floor. I could almost hear their thoughts, "Shakal se toh bhai nahi lagta... Raat ke 10 baje ke baad, paraaya mard ghar aaya!" Luckily they did not ask me anything.

Once inside the house, Mr. Hotness burst into peals of laughter as he hastily took off his pants. "You think anybody would buy that I'm your brother? Honey, we look NOTHING like each other!", he said with a characteristic twinkle in his eye that never failed to melt my insides. I promptly shut him off with a bar of sinful dark chocolate and went about fixing his drink. I led him into my bedroom, where we spent the rest of the night in a whirlwind of sexual fantasies, dirty talk and alcohol. Exhausted we both fell into a dreamless sleep.

The morning after is always tricky... We had to maintain a distance in front of the domestic help and this was going to be tough as we both woke up only when she rang the door bell. There was no time to set up a sleeping arrangement in the living room to make it look like Mr. Hotness had spent the night on the couch in the living room. Plus he is usually a little lost and disoriented in the morning, so he just stood in my bedroom, blissfully pant-less, scratching his head and stretching his limbs in all his glory in full view of my maid who I quickly led first into the kitchen under the pretext of first washing the utensils. She usually first sweeps and cleans the entire house. I quickly poked my head into the bedroom and hissed menacingly at Mr. Hotness asking him to wear his pants! I popped back quickly into the kitchen and guided my domestic help to the washing area insisting that she wash the clothes first. As she got to work with her back towards me, Mr. Hotness and I quickly transferred a mattress, a bedsheet and a pillow into the living room. He then parked himself in the balcony with a cup of coffee while I went about fixing his hair to make it look a little less like he had fallen out of bed. He wanted to go out and ring the doorbell and enter the house officially, but I knew that the maid had seen his nangi-pungi angdaai!

The maid finally 'officially' saw him when I asked her to leave without sweeping or cleaning, saying I was expecting some students who would anyway dirty the apartment. She gave Mr. Hotness one last questioning look and left without a word. We then promptly went back to the bedroom and stayed there for most part of the day, except when he followed me into the kitchen and looked lovingly at me while I cooked his breakfast. (What can I say, woh mere andar ki aurat ko jaga deta hai!)

There was no dearth of verbal and non verbal communication. He is quite an intellectual and can hold his own in controversial debates. We talked a lot that day... about how sex should be about pleasure, about why even hookers deserve respect, about how we looked great together... almost like a husband and wife... We even talked about having children!

I finally forced him into the shower and went about fixing his lunch. We ate quietly, with the measured serenity of two people who have spent a lifetime together. I urged him to spend another night with me... there was so much more we could do together... But he left saying he had a family waiting for him at home. He promised to return soon.

As I look at his still wet towel hanging nonchalantly from the arm of a wrought iron garden chair in my balcony, I can't but help myself from picking up the phone, calling him and telling him, "Harrish Iyer... Kabhi toh cheezein sahi jagah par rakh diya kar!"

Yup, my 'after dark male visitor' was none other than BEDARDI BAALAM (a.k.a Harrish Iyer), an Equal Rights Activist who is best known for his quirky campaigns for the rights of Homosexuals. He has also campaigned for the rights of Children, Animals, Homeless People and even Hetrosexuals! The visit was to ideate on and build the website for his campaign for Women's rights. Watch this space for more. What can I say... I'm happy, and he's gay!

And today, April 16th, is his Birthday... Big kiss!

Mardon wali Baat!

One of my favourite writers of all time, Ravindranath Tagore, had the unique ability to delve deep into the heart and mind of women and was therefore able to give us complex, multi-layered, strong yet vulnerable, determined yet confused female characters like Binodini, Chitrangoda, Sucharitra, Mrinal, Kalyani... and many more.
This inspired me to try and get into the male mind, think like a man, challenge my long held belief that men cannot feel romantic love the way women do, that they only care about two things sex and ego... So long as she is good in bed and adds value as a head-turning arm candy... But there have been some men in my life who have challenged this notion, forced me to accept that men too are capable of love, sacrifice, tenderness and devotion.
The following poem is an experiment. I have, for the first time, attempted to write about a man's love for a woman from the point of view of a man. I would welcome feedback from all my male readers:

Kuchh der tumhare seene par sar rakh kar sona chaahta tha,
"Baalon mein ungliyaan mat phero, irritating lagta hai!"... Yeh kehna chaahta tha...
Suti saadi ki silwaton mein reshmi badan ki narmi ko chhoonaa chaahta tha...
Par yeh ho na saka...

Roti banate waqt, gori kalaaiyon ki rangeen choodiyon ki chhan-chhan sun-na chaahta tha,
Balcony mein kapde sukhaate waqt koi dhun gungunaati tum, woh dhun sun-na chaahta tha...
Shaam ko kahin bahar jaane se pehle tumhe singaar karte dekhna chaahta tha...
Par yeh ho na saka...

Sardi ki dhoop mein Maa ke saath chhat par papad sukhate hue tumhari tasveer kheenchna chaahta tha,
Phir chori chhupe, jab woh naa dekh rahi hon, gaal hi par sahi tumhe ek baar choomna chaahta tha...
Pyaar karta hoon tumse, bas ek baar tumhe yeh kehna chaahta tha...
Par yeh ho na saka...

The above poem is the registered intellectual property of Deborah Grey and will soon be published. I strongly discourage any attempt at plagiarising/churaoing my work. Also boys... agar ladki patani ho toh original maal use karo!