The Triangle Between Her Legs

 
A long time ago I read an interview given by one of the kapoor's who recalled that Rishi kapoor was so fat as a kid that "his thighs used to rub together". I found that very odd. No not the fact that his thighs rubbed together, but the fact that it was considered "fat".

I'll tell you why. For the bulk of the stereotypical Indian women, that's a fact. No matter how thin you are, if you are heavier on the bottom compared to your upper body, your-thighs-will-rub-together. There shall be no space between them. It is but natural. You can't get that voluptuous curve of the hip without your thighs curving both ways. Do you ever see a chicken leg curved on one side and straight on the other? It's usually perfectly rounded isn't it? So the same principle applies (there are always exceptions) in the case of curvy Indian women. For those having trouble picturing this. Think Kajol. Think Madhuri Dixit. Think Tabu. Remember Ruk Ruk Ruk? How Tabu's jiggly thighs shook over Karnataka's state assembly house?

Nevertheless, after I read that I have been quite fascinated with the body types with "space" between legs. In those days jeans weren't so skinny and tight, and there weren't many opportunities for observation, but now a decade later when skinny jeans are the norm, subjects for study are endless. 6/10 women seem to have it tightly stacked, but some Indian women are naturally endowed with that perfect long rectangle that lets air, light, and whatever else pass through. The insanely skinny pre-marital Gujju girls, all the North-eastern in general, except the Assamese - they have curvy hips - , village belles of uttar Karnataka, and xyzs scaterred all about. But of course no Indian woman can beat the Russian girl. The Russian rectangle is so wide, you could clamp a couple of wickets there. Not just Russians, but also Ethopians, Swedes, Dutch ....etc etc. Possessors of that perfect rectangle that begins at the top of the legs and ends at the ground.

Well, I have seen one wicket rectangles. I have seen two wicket rectangles. But I had never seen a TRIANGLE until a few weeks ago. No, not that triangle. This was a triangle below.

Unusually, this girl’s thighs started their curve much little lower than most and the result was a big triangle shaped cavity right ...well I think you get the picture. There are some bodies where there is a triangle and a thin rectangle that continues post curvy obstacle. But this one, the rest of her was literally air tight below that big perfect triangle. And get this - this triangle was emitting light!!

I'll tell you how.

I spotted this girl at the Sky lounge. A friend and I decided to kill some time there before heading for dinner. As the evening progressed it got more and more crowded and of course being a rooftop, it got darker and darker, but the entrance was well lit. Right behind our table we noticed a bunch had walked in. They were hanging around in the hopes of a table. One of the girls in the bunch was wearing an electric blue mostly-lycra strapless one piece. Poor thing was clearly uncomfortable - she didn't know what to do with her arms, didn't know what to do with her legs. And she was attracting a lot of attention. Because her dress was so sheer, the floor was so dark, and the back-light was so strong - IT PASSED RIGHT THROUGH HER LEGS .. errr rather THE TRIANGLE between her legs. So if you simply looked at her, you would just see her silhoutte, and a triangle of light emitting from you-know-where! And it was INSANE!! That beam of light moved as she shifted position – almost like a searchlight on the move .. scanning faces in the room! And some of them clearly wanted to reciprocate! I had half an urge to go up to that poor thing and tell her that since she didn't know what to do with her arms, she might as well fold them in front of her demurely.

But I didn't because I didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable. Ok Ok, I was actually fascinated. I couldn't take my eyes off. And nor could many others! I had to be almost dragged out of there to make it to that dinner reservation. I regretted having left. Ah that electric blue dress and that triangle of light! I needed to examine it from some more angles. But alas the light seems to shine triangularly only once in a 'blue' moon.

My space classifications have expanded since. No wicket. One wicket. Two wickets.

Onion samosa.

Which one are you?

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Crouching tiger. Kicking kitten (aka) Rajnikanthabai

I have fantasies.

Rich fantasies.

Every part of me comes alive. All my emotions burst forth.

Yes, yes - I have fantasies.

Ricchh fantasies. Flesh meeting flesh fantasies.

In my fantasies --- There’s a massive rush of blood to the head.


I jump in the air in slow motion. Crouching tiger. Hidden dragon. --- KHAAAAIIIIYAAAAAA.
There is ferocity on my face. My teeth are bared.

As I KHAIIIIYAAAAA through the air --- my arm is stretched out. Outer. Outer.  Like in the movie bees saal baad.

And finally as the gongs clang in unison there I go ------ THAPAADDDDDDDDDDDDD!!

With the might of Brutus and the roar of Bheema - flesh meets flesh. In a resounding - One. Tight. Slap.

Yes. Those are my fantasies. The one fricking tight slap to those who rightly deserve it. But alas the moralistic brain waves and stupid inbred decency clamp down on my limbs. One on this end, the other on this end.

Crouching tiger is kicking kitten. Sounds of khaiya turn into high pitched wheezing Khaaiiiiiiiii......khaiiiiiiiiii..... LET ME GO. LET ME GO. LET ME AT LEAST PULL MY HAIR OUT. Khaiiiiiiiiii.

So I fantasise. I have Ally McBeal moments. My lips turn up in the sweetest smile ever. But in my head I am khaiyaing through the air. One kick for the b@$%@$* and one slicing chop for the b!#%^. They rotate through the air and fall on their backs. I swoop down one foot on each, and then my beautifully short arms whoosh through the air in a crossing motion and land a THAAPAAAAAAAAADDDD on each cheek! Rajnikanth style.

Wait it’s not over yet. I am in serial mode now. My flying hair braids itself in a super sharp plait that whips through the air – swings before the backup social goon behind me, hypnotizing him. His eyes zip
ping left-right to my superfastly swinging braid, and then in quick slow motion recoil and accelerated action it’s THAPADPADPADPADPAD!

Another one rushes from the front. My braid

splits into two, swings to the front and superfast crisscross dances before his eyes. His eyes go crazy. No need for thappaad. Goon faints.

Zoom into to me. Pause. I rub my palms together and blow a kiss – “Edhu eppadi irruku?”
Na per kanthabai. Rajnikanthabai.

Panga nai lena ka. Kya?

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Over The Hillock - Baaaaby Aunty

"When I was in college".

When I was in college, the was was enough for me to write somebody off. My big round eyes would roll rounder at the 25 year old aunty who started off reminiscing with that very sentence.

Really didn't even 25 seem super old in those days? And really wasn't it super irritating when some baby aunty started off talking about her college days and ended it with what seemed to be a patronizing "Enjoy these days. These days are the best days of life. They will never come back." And my instant response would be OKAY OKAY that's enough AUNTY.

But you know Karma? The dude who has been stalking you all your life and who springs up right before your eyes once in a while? Yea, that Karma. Karma has gotten quite hyper these days. And he's starting to bother me. Because he won't let me forget the aunty dismissals. As I am walking past that omnipresent Jyothi Nivas college near my office and shake my head at the wannabe adult - size zero nothings, he hisses in my ear "auntttttyyyy". When I request the music to be lowered at a thumping coffee shop, he taps me on my head and boos me in my face "AUUNNTTTTYYYYYY". And there - can you see him? Can you see him outside my lovely cottage for the weekend with its fluffy bed and room service (that I deserve after all these years of hard work!)? Can you see him - upright in his sleeping bag that spent most of the night on the hard rocky ground - chicken dancing at me "AUNTY ^ AUNTY ^ AUNTY".

I run out - (breathless from the bed to the door) - swing my apple at him and scream "I AM STILL HOT. I AM STILL COOL..STOP CALLING ME AUNTY YOU BLOODY FOOL!!".

He caught the zooming apple in his young palm, blew a kiss towards me and sweetly cajoled "Okay, no more aunty baby, just 'baaaaaby aunty'..."! Crunch.

Baby aunty.

Guess I can deal with that. Because it's the truth. We ain't as young as we used to be (even if it's still the good side of 30), and if our elders are to be believed we are just now entering the real youth of our lives. So baby aunty seems to be apt.

As a self-proclaimed baby aunty, I tell ya - can't stay up man. Really. Can't do the all-nighters anymore. Body needs its sleep. Body likes to stay at home and snuggle. Body switches off as the clock strikes twelve (ok ok I lied, eleven. Ok Ok, ten okay?). Body can't do late night outs - even if just lounging. Body likes cushiony beds. Body likes silence. Body likes hair tied back. Body prefers practical to sense-tickle. Body burps more often. Body sizzles on night pakoda heartburn. Body just can't eat as it would like to.

And body almost gives the ONE TIGHTT SLAP to high-pitched over-confident early twenty somethings. Just wait chicklets. Just wait for that first existential crisis.

Sometimes I try and fool myself. Forcing my 2 kg eyes to stay open and watch that movie. 2 kg eyes sometimes start sinking and Karma sings through my pillow "aaaunntyyy......rock-a-bye-aunttyyyy".

NAHIIIIIIIIIIII. Aunty mat kaho na. The anti-ageing gene in me yells: "WATCH THAT MOVIE, WATCH THAT MOVIE, WATCH-THAT-MOVIE. WATCH. WATCH. COME ONNNN. YOU CAN DO IT".

Blink rapidly. Eyes WIDE OPEN. Rapid Yawns. Increase volume. Shake head and let loose lips go "bubububububububub." Come on once-upon-a-time head-banger. You can do this.

But the truth is - I can't. Body wants what it wants.

Snuggle into the pillow and whisper to Karma "say my name karma....say it".

And there comes the sweet whisper of love. "Auntyyyyy.....baaaaaby aunty..."

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God can speak English you know!

I have always found it rather amusing that most fervent of all prayers is in the most effusive of urdus. The man considered best to lead a prayer is the man who can speak to God in God's own language - urdu....

Moslem. No no muslim. No no no no musalmaan. There that's the right way to say it. Otherwise we are not muslim.

whispers: But God can speak English you know .....

I have always found it rather amusing that most fervent of all prayers is in the most effusive of urdus. The man considered best to lead a prayer is the man who can speak to God in God's own language - urdu. And the most soul-lifting of prayers is intensely urdu. An urdu so incomprehensible that it's arabic. It's filled with the "aats" and "qus" and "deeds" and words start getting hypenated and eventually everything sounds like the name of a Mughal monument or the title of a persian saint.

That's how it works in our India. The most religious man has the longest beard and even longer kurta. But most of all, he prays in the most incomprehensible speech possible. The less you understand - the more beautiful it is and more knowleadgable he is!

whispers: But God can speak English you know ... and is not so unfond of T-shirts either! 

So let's take our typical gathering. A fatiha. A Quranic reading. At the end of it all comes our group prayer. We all stand around. One hand on the other. Eyes crinkling close in concentration. The more seasoned ones glaze away their gaze. And here's the funny thing - the more irreligious people are -- the more they will pour all their mind and soul into this final prayer. Hanging on to every word being utterred by the prayer man or woman. Some don't even understand most of what is being said -- but they will be waiting for that lilt of wavy God's language to halt so that they can solemnly utter -- aaaaaameeeeen. One will even turn to the other with "there, i knew when to say it and you didnt!" looks.

"Ya Allah, hamare jo bagal me amal hai, unke talaffuz me tabdiliyan la, unki aulaad ki bebunyaad faryaad ko qubool farma. Unki nasl ki fasl betalab muftajab qutbak, ajab gajabe ajabe azeem o shaan shehensha"

aaaaaameeen.

errr...whoooa ... what? Whisper to khala: "what is talaffuz?"  "what is muftasub?"

Ammi: "Shhhh.....bas your guftaghu, beadab, namakool, shahfool khanum"

ok ok. cool cool.

Utters aloud: BUT GOD CAN SPEAK ENGLISH YOU KNOW

And so do potential in-laws!!

My mom - man her urdu starts sprouting when a marriage proposal comes along. "Ji, aapke shohar kya mulaazimat me the?" "Ji aapke farzan ki taalim kahan se hui hai" "Ji meri beti qabil mukammil naseebo wale azeemo shane shahensha. Talafuz, mulasuf, guftagub.

Khoob khoob.

But in-laws can speak English you know!

And so can God.

SHOUTS: GOD SPEAKS ENGLISH YOU KNOW.

Aaaamennnnnnnn.

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Dear Mr. Solipsistic

Dear Mr. Solipsistic

What a wonderfully interesting dilemma you pose to me. If that cute little cartoon hadn't hinted at your intentions, I would have probably found you rather interesting - which you probably are, but with that dash of consciously geeky brashy charm that geeks tend to throw about as an offensive but in reality is just defensive. Hey, don't get me wrong but I love my geeks. Take me out of a geek setting and I start having geek withdrawal pangs. Give me a hygienic, smart-haired geek and I'll pick him anyday over the Nivea-smooth Raoul clad biz dude. Geeks have depth, geeks are solipsistic, and frankly I think a smart geek understands life a lot better through a metaphysical perspective that eludes many the average man.

But then what's my dilemma? My dilemma stems from your assumptions, presumptions, and summations in the very interesting note that landed in my feedback box (a long time ago, but I just happened to see it!).

Saw you at work today, thought never seen her before; she looks interesting. Turns out you're from the Internets as well (endangered species in India).

Social engineering 101 brought me here. You write pretty well for a non-writer non-blogger or whatever :D.

What else, meh. Ohh and people from the Internets are usually friendly hence thy message.

http://xkcd.com/642/

Now the dilemma, to include contact info or not ? Hmm. Let's make it more interesting. Send out a tweet or blog post with the word "solipsistic", if interested.

take care.

So where do I begin? "Saw you at work today". Could you be one of those always loitering around, up to nothing much (or waiting for inspiration to strike), and puffing away to glory? Nothing so wrong with that (except that - not quite my thing). Nothing wrong either in finding me interesting - in fact I'm flattered. Actually what the hell. You know that I know that I'm interesting :P. And for appreciating my writing - I'm truly thankful. So back to here -- my outburst is coloured by the fact that some of the dudes around this building are well-known for their overtures and what not and majority of the dudes in our country (flourishing species) are usually striking up franships with the unknowns with one objective only. Rare species are the mens who wants to be friends truly for the sake of intellectual friendships. You can try arguing with me about that, but this is tried and tested. And I know how this works. You know how this works, and most of the ladies who walk the same turf as I do know it too. And if it's not the case, well then - you just have to bear the cross of the majority.

So let's just get one thing straight. I don't make friends with strange men. You might be the next Steve Jobs, but the fact remains - I don't make friends with strange men. Call me stuck up, call me prudish, call me hypocritical. But for the most part I live in the real world and frankly don't have the patience for such foreign film/orkuty nonsense.

"People from the Internets are usually friendly hence thy message" . Now how do I respond to that? Friendly in which sense? My woman's intuition tells me you are thinking "orkut friendly". And if it weren't for the total package you have presented (including the "if interested" -- err interested in what?... and the creepy fact that you've only seen me in person and found me online!), I wouldn't have thought twice about having some online dialogue because like I said you really do seem interesting and smarter than the average geek. And truly it's always a pleasure to connect with smart people.

Having said that I think I appreciate the outright "Do you want franship" a lot more than the cheeky geeky approach. At least you know the intentions upfront. But it's easy to fall into the geek trap of intelligent observations and philosophical discussions which eventually anyway spiral right down to "frannnship" and then you have to extract yourself from it rather callously or messily.

And by the by people from the internets are also to be living in the real worlds. And so given the fact that your real world and my real world collides --- here's my polite thanks but no thanks.

That comic. That's actually quite funny and I get your point with that, but somehow I am not convinced entirely. And so if you thought your preemption of my predictable reaction or the allusion ---- to the idea that I am a lonely girl pining for attention from cute (or otherwise) guys on trains, busses, malls, loitering building stairs, nice fancy F & B places, or even a serious suit and tie convention --- would charm me witless, please rearrange your perspective.

So it's my sincere plea on behalf of the breed that I represent. You know the breed. Apart from the pavam, the khatti-mitthi innocent, the bitch, the easy, the cool, the hot, the total desi, the total videsi, the party, the arty, the mathsy, the wholesome pakkade mane dove, or the serious intellectual -- there is yet another thriving breed in our country. The fun intellectual who is a little bit of the above all and not all of any of it. You know the breed. And as part of that breed, it is my sincere request to stop misinterpreting us. And that's all, just a request. I am not going to take out a morcha or some mistimed misplaced slut walk to make my point.

And now at the end of my nice little knee-jerk outburst targeted not really at you per se, but the general junta (I have decided conveniently) that you represent, let me say that we are both probably guilty of perceiving each other through our view of the majority. And if you really were just interested in exchanging ideas and if you turn out to be a woman (lol!!) then hey, I'm all eyes and keypad!

And hey Mr. Solipsistic -

- peace :)

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Raaga Kalyan of The Blue Caterpillar

She leaned forward and pressed her face to her window shield. Cloned tufts of clouds scatterred above - slightly curved ... a psychedelic reflection on the glass. The face curves in unision and it seemed like she was one with the sky. A slight dusk chill blew through the open windows - settling on one arm and slipping into her hair. The heater blowed warm air on her ankles and hands. It was a beautiful combination. A reminder of what life is all about. Thoda chill, thoda garm, and thoda ...... magic. All together. This was nirvana in a way, right there. She glazed her eyes a little bit - pretending the traffic stop was actually a concert hall. Pandit jasraj letting out his raaga kalyan like letting go of bales of silk.... bales of soft cottony silk .....

It just takes a moment to sense life. To float out of that body that pins us down, and spin around like a feathery soul. She imagined herself sometimes a mermaid of the sky. Bending that tail to simply glide over the dusky city. To merge with the purple sunset. To silenty swoop down and settle calmly on the roof of a skyscraper - staring at the dotted sky. Seeing stars. At night. At day. Seeing diamonds twinkle through day-time skies. Put your hand up and part your fingers. Do you see the diamonds glisten through the Vs? Can you imagine if just a couple were studded inside your palm? And only shined when you looked at them?

Palm clenced with the whispers of the hookah. Mushrooms from the blue caterpillar.

Sa. re. ma. dha. ni. sa.. Niii sa. Niii sa...

There's hot sun baking down. Hot and white. It's all white. And a mustard dupatta. and a mustard lehenga. a mustard dupatta billowing around. A red one joins it. Both billowing in unision. Each trying to outdo the other.

Like playfully warring kites. Faster and faster. One tires. the other slows. And then the gust bursts again...and so do they....And milky hot dusky desert heat settles them down..... cool.....baked in the days heat ..... giving in to the nightly coolness .... and the diamonds smile again ......

Saaaa......aaaaa............jab

see...maii......haa.....ri..i..i................

Mai haa..ari ....

Mai haa....ari .....

Mai ha...aa--aa---rii........

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Adult Diapers and Arab Smocks

...male cooks. That’s literally a hair-raising experience if any. Ugh, so hard to swallow down even a morsel when a hairy man in a half tied lungi serves you your poriyal. Can’t ward off the thought that one or more of the fibery strands in that curry are not of the french bean origin.

You guys need adult diapers. Cos apparently you can’t control your stuff. Cos apparently the urge is so urgent, you gotta go right now. Right now when you are talking to me on the phone. And by by the – do not think it necessary to inform me until I hear that horrifying sound of the toilet flushing.

Didn’t your mommy tell you it’s poor manners to pee before others? Oh well, out of sight is out of mind right?

But God help me, I have a million bruises on my mind from horrifying flushes. I have permanent disabilities from the running sound of pee trickling down your wee wee. “These are the stuff that nightmares are made of and our little life is rounded with a tinkle” – Shakespeare from the Tempests of Rabia .

And you know the funny part – EVERYONE does it. And apparently I am the only wierdo who has a problem with it!!! And it totally beats me! I don’t even take a call if I am undressed, or in states in which I would ordinarily not appear before you. Why? Cos well, I got your voice pouring down my ears. There’s barely any distance between you and I. You are in fact very close to me. Physically. Because your sound is converting into physical waves. But you won’t get it na. You will jiggle your wiggle and slap your crap at ease. If there are no eyes there are no spies. Right?

Ugh.

Don’t bother talking to me. Any of you. I know you’ve all done it. I know all of you feel rather empowered and superior when on the pot. I can hear your silent “Let me show ya what I got”s. Show me what you got? I am going to come over right now and dunk your head in that pot and flush it all around.

Grossed out? But it didn’t happen right? Hmmmm. Remember a thing called the power of imagination?

Some people don’t even want to leave it to the imagination. I saw a well-groomed floor manager at an upmarket store – digging his nose away in glory … then go right up to a customer and shake his hand.

There’s a reason I don’t like shaking men’s hands. And it’s got nothing to do with my sense of modesty. It’s got everything to do with theirs. I don’t know why men think that when they scratch their nether-regions, nobody sees it. Hello yes, I may have modest eyes that turn away when you actually do that. But I know what’s going on. The same way I know that you don’t even wipe your hands after having publicly peed or privately for that matter. There’s a reason male hands have that slimy look. 

I tend to believe that men suffer the rather impractical male clothing essential – the pants, for one sole reason only. Ease of urinating at any publicly available spot. If they had the control women did, the would happily opt for a lungi or a smock like those rather smug Arabs. And you could actually hold my attention without me obsessing over all the items of mine that you have had the chance to lay your slimy hands on.

And male cooks. That’s literally a hair-raising experience if any. Ugh, so hard to swallow down even a morsel when a hairy man in a half tied lungi serves you your poriyal. Can’t ward off the thought that one or more of the fibery strands in that curry are not of the french bean origin. Ugh. Ugh. Yugh.

So are you all disgusted enough now?

Good.

Now dontchya ever ever ever call me when on the pot and dontchya never never never try to show me whatchya got.

Pssssst: Ladies, I am actually referring to you. You know that you are the ones who do it the most -- some wierd sense of female bonding going one too far I think!!

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