The Woman's body.

"Dude ! Look at those boobs !", "What an Ass ! I could totally do her"

While men talk about a woman like this, they only see the outside. Simply what meets the eye. A"do-able" ass, a pair of boobs and a hole between the legs that is crying aloud to them, "Come fill me in" ! That's precisely how much a woman is objectified every day, everywhere. A woman's body is broken down into parts and sections and exposed to the unrestrained voyeurism of a "band of robbers" willing to grab, cup and defile. How feeble and base is the imagination of these men who think of the woman's body as simple a riddle as this that they can solve it in eleven minutes or so. A woman's body is much more than just that. When men say, "It is impossible to understand a woman", they are only referring to the complexity surfacing on the outside. Unaware of the maze of a gazillion complexities going on the inside.

When a woman says, "I love being in a woman's body!", She means it ten times more than a man will ever understand. The initiation of such a remark is generated somewhere behind the forehead that deserves a thousand years of praise, travels through the eyes that widen, look deep into the eyes of the unaware listener and immediately generate a spark, reaches and comes out through the curves of the lips and twirl of the tongue and is heard through the vibrations that are producing the sound effect. But, is that all ? Of course not ! It goes way deep.

Women are beautiful. A woman's body is a beautiful piece of art. We know. But, so are men. Have we forgotten The Dorian Gray and his enigmatic beauty, or Adonis for that matter ? Women are beautiful, their bodies are aesthetic, true. But there is a lot more than that. The body of a woman is a Byzantine when compared to that of a man's. No this isn't about menstruation or child birth, I am not even beginning to hint on menstruation or any biological process. This is about how women feel about their bodies. All women will agree with the declaration of Tiresias that a woman receives much more "pleasure" in the "act" than a man. Even then we find men lusting them and the act more ! That's similar to the insatiable appetite of those who only know half the pleasure of an experience. In this sense men are like the bourgeoisie, who in their pretentious nobility are only partly aware of how the aristocratic nobility actually "feels".

"Feels". Yes that's precisely what I want to reach. Women feel each and every movement of their body parts a lot more than men. They are always conscious. No there is no science behind this but yes , twenty two years of experience. We are always playing a role. Women are constantly acting it out. We know which side of our personality-rich selves have to be switched on and when. Also, please don't take it as a diabolical trait. Because it's not. Women feel every curve of their bodies and are far too aware while curving it than men will ever think about. Each step they take, each movement of their beautifully carved and kept hands, each toss of their head, stretch of their neck and roll of their eyes is carefully calculated. That's not because women fake it but because they know how to make use of it. It being their carefully carved bodies. If the human body was only a cover for the soul why would the Lord take so much pains in making so many different ones, all beautiful in their own way. We women understand that. And obviously we can't disappoint or waste any of our inbuilt talents. So, we use it.

When a woman walks past, people turn their heads to look at her. They appreciate the body, the walk but never the artist behind presenting it in that manner. Women are not only art but also the artists who exhibit their best forms at all times. An artist who knows her best colours, brushes, lines and curves. We enjoy being our own canvas. Men are surprisingly very naive in assuming that women use makeup, they dress and act in a certain way to receive their compliments. I sympathize with all those men who think like that. They fail to comprehend that the first and only person a woman is pleasing by doing all that is herself. Try telling a woman she is beautiful on a day she knows she is looking horrible. She will like the compliment, love you for saying so, but, at the same time know that you are lying, or are simply too much in love. She will never believe you. NEVER. 

The woman's body is as beautiful as a man's is, at least in it's unkempt bare form. They do complete each other. But, women are equipped with the wonderful art of making it much more artistic and heavenly. It's an inherent trait in our nature. We just can't help being beautiful at all times ! ;)

The Unexpected

Today let me tell you all a story of a Hindu and a Muslim. Story telling, a dying occupation ? Let's revive it.

It was a bright summer afternoon in the Capital. They were somewhere in North Delhi. She, along with a few friends came near a small tea-stall on some road near some street in some place in North Delhi. (Names of people, places, spots, roads, etc. are not important!) She, in a long colourful Pakistani kurta, long enough to touch her calves, came and stood at the tea stall, her back faced him. He looked at the beautiful shape her back was forming right in front of his eyes, he looked passingly and then turned to look again. All he could see were dense, long curls covering one of the most shapely backs he had ever seen. He wanted to look more. His eyes followed her as she passed along and finally stood with a bunch of her friends laughing. He had not heard such a ringing laugh before. The voice of a laughter that stayed with him. He wished to look at the face of this beautiful body and his wish was granted. She was so animated, in a moment she is here and now there, meanwhile he stole a glance at that, much desired face.

He saw a forehead that deserved at least a hundred years of praise and then her eyes. Her's were the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen. They were a pair of round almonds pointed at the edges as if carved by a sculptor who had  beautifully clad them with black kohl and decorated the lids with a turquoise glitter. He thought he could look at them forever. Her lips, he thought were how heaven must look like. She wore turquoise earrings. Her hands and feet looked like the clouds. They could disappear the moment you try to touch them. There was something celestial in her beauty. He thought she was magic. She looked like a hyderabadi princess. He had noticed all this about her in a minute's time and now all he wanted was to get to talk to her. But, how ? It was somewhere in the 1980's. You couldn't just go and talk to a girl then. Talking was out of the question so he made the most of his time trying to make eternity pass while he gazed at her from the corner of his eye.

But, they say somethings are meant to be. So was this. She looked towards them and waved. He stood there numb questioning reality for a second on watching her wave in his direction until he realized she knew his friend. She went across to meet the friend who introduced them. They met. She saw him, there was something magnetic. At once she had an urge to talk to him. But didn't. She did not want to seem too forward, or too interested. He was just another guy after all. Just another boy, who had the deepest eyes and the naughtiest smile. He did not look like a good boy. He was one of those who break hearts, or so his appearance said. People who don't take life too seriously, she thought. Yet, there was an inexplicable magnetism in that mischievous smile. But, just another boy. She had noticed him looking at her and being blessed with the heavenly quality of being a woman, in a moment she realized his inclination. The friend urged them to sit for coffee and they all did just that.

On a square table they sat beside each other. She thought he was a Hindu Rajput and he couldn't dare to think of her as anything other than a Hyderabadi Muslim princess. They exchanged names only to find out that all this while they were thinking the exact opposite of each other. She was a Hindu girl and he a Muslim boy. It's funny how looks deceive, they laughed. He kept her engaged in his talks and poetry, somehow everything he said seemed like a sonnet to her. Everyone else disappeared from the palace of warmth they were creating with each passing moment. She began drowning in his eyes, her mind stopped her with the fear of letting her out too soon. Even then, she was drowning and he knew he couldn't ever let her go.She seemed to him as one of those finely groomed ladies that men eye but hardly get. She was a treasure. All he wanted was to continue talking to her. He asked her out on a date for the very next day. For a second, the invitation shocked her but going completely against what her mind and morals said, she agreed.

The very next day, they met again. She saw him sitting on the boundary of the first floor of her college building looking at her, while she talked to her friends, their eyes met and she was so drawn towards him that she dodged the conversation and immediately walked to meet him. They smiled. His smile had posed the question and her smile had given the answer. He asked, "shall we?" and she said "Yes". Since then, there hasn't been a looking back. They are together and in love. Love happened the moment they saw each other and there was a connection, like they had always known each other.


Where is the Hindu Muslim drama? Not all Hindu and Muslim stories have to be tragic. Sometimes love overpowers them all.
                                       
                                           

I do.

Rings that teasingly came forth but vanished before she could say, I do.

They warn. That's all they do, warn you. Don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't go out in the night. Don't fall in love, it's a trap. Love is a lie. But, these two were thousands of galaxies away from those who warn and those who complain and all those who exist. They also say "Don't make a person the center of your universe !". But, they had created a universe of their own. A niche where the center or the corner didn't matter, they owned all of it together. They were like the first borns in the garden of Eden only without the fear of a forbidden fruit or the temptation of limitless knowledge, or anything at all. There was no fear. They merged to create the sublime. What then was left to fear ?

She was like the ocean to him, with a body that was curvaceous like the waves and her presence, an encompassing stretch so elaborate that she conquered his vision. All he could see was her limitless beauty. As far as he searched, all he could find was the depth in her eyes and the truth in her existence. She had cast her spell and he was taken. For her, he was like the sky. Where ever she looked she found him looking right back at her, gazing with eyes pouring down pearls of love. He was a poet and his poetry was the mild breeze that blew through her hair and tickled her face as she smiled.

They lay together all day, drowning in each other's eyes and falling in love each moment. Together they were art. Even lying on bed together seemed like a beautiful piece of art, where the artist has carefully placed two bodies and worked on them so religiously that their eyes make them one. He loved reading to her and she loved listening while she played with her dark deep wavy hair, he thought were like a flowing river. He leaned against the bedhead, with a book in his right hand and a cigarette in his left and read to her. She listened carefully for exactly a minute or two and then blew along with the smoke rings with each fag.

She didn't like that he smoked but was guilty of basking in the artistry that lay before her. She somehow relished watching him smoke. Each time he smoked she was so bewitched watching his bare torso resting on the bed-head and the belted jeans stuck at his hipbone taking drags of the cigarette and reading love sonnets to her that she found herself enmeshed. As he pulled at the bud with his firm lips, a dense array of smoke rings followed that commence together from the halo that his lips form and then disperse. She made castles of the smoke in her head, imagining one smoke ring to tie them forever while another would make a headband.

When the cigarette lounged between the first two fingers of his left hand, she noticed the shape his hands took. Once again she was captivated by the perfection of the carvings of his hands, she looked at them and wished to hold them between hers for the rest of her life.He tilted the cigarette on his fingers and tapped on it twice to drop the ashes that had stacked on the lit end and redid the poetry again from bringing it to his mouth to dropping the ashes in the tray as she lay with him adoring the whole act until the cigarette was pushed against the ash tray and all that remained was the residual bud, last trace of the mesmerizing art she bore in her mind but never produced. Like the wedding ring she saw coming each time but he never produced.