deviousways

Baby ate a cockroach egg last night. At least, he tried to. C noticed and got it out. But the lil' one must have gotten a taste. Yuck, ewww! Really and truly. But then, I got thinking. He ate it because he didn't know he wasn't supposed to. He doesn't know what bad is. Or evil. Or lies. Or hate. He doesn't know, what it is, you see, to be all grown-up and knowing what is right and wrong. And who is good and bad. That's why, when he sees a white-haired gentleman, he says "Ajja". How can I tell him then, that I'm afraid not all "Ajjas" are safe to be around. That in our adultness, we've lost the capacity to trust infinitely and innocently. That we can't really, because we've corrupted ourselves too much. That's why, even if I whack him and shout at him in my pettiness, he'll screw up his face and bawl his heart out. And then hold his arms out to me. And that's when I feel miserably small and just like tha...

Read my first copy of Debonair recently. Okay, the articles are c-grade soft porn and the photographs cringe-worthy, but what struck me is that the magazine is full of letters from women, who love sex and don't mind saying so. Assuming of course, that these letters are genuine and not written by the staff themselves! But what if there really are such women around? Why don't they write to, say, Marie Claire, or Vogue or Bazaar? After all, the posher, glossier, pricier, mags are all about being liberated, free-spirited and independent-minded. About loving the way you look, knowing yourself and your style icon. And of course, about buying Jimmy Choos, wearing Chanel and Balenciaga and toting Hermes on your arm! I bet the Debonair readers don't do any such thing. So where do such women live? Not in a Mumbai high-rise, or a Bangalore gated community, or Lavasa or any "planned city". Apparently, they hail from small towns such as Ranikhet, Baner and Durgapur. And ...

When we're happy, the sun seems to shine Reflecting the joy in my eyes. Then, there's a smile on my lips My face is open, welcoming I look young, I feel young I love the wind in my hair Our child gurgling makes my heart melt A glimpse of your tall presence A look from you, and my heart races All, literally, is well with the world When we hurl words like missiles The hurt scores deep I close up, I want to curl up No I want to throw the hurt back And I do. Oh, how well I do it! I know I'm closed then My face feels tight, head aches I look a hundred years old I don't want to see you No, I don't care what happens to you. What is it we do to each other then? Do I start this? Or is it that infernal other being? Pride. Ego. Then where is love? That too takes its time to appear. And it does, but so agonisingly slowly. Meanwhile the world is what it always is It is I and you who change. It is I and you who open up sometimes Or close out each other, at others.