The One

It took me a long time to believe in "The One". Always thought it was a by product of American consumerism. I mean a culture which believes in 1 god instead of 33 million has a lot to imagine, right?

But then obviously there is something in a theory which has the entire world eating into it, despite the loopholes. The face, the body and sometimes the entity of one changes completely depending on the level of Old Monk in your blood stream. The One has as many manifestations as there are Hindu Gods. 

So, how could poor hapless me not succumb to the rigmarole of being on the hunt for "The One". Trust me, it wasn't easy. There were a lot of contenders. From the absolute greek god winner of gladrags, to the bohemian long haired advertising one, to the lean mean fighting machine of the forces. 

But with age comes wisdom and it took me all of my priorities to realise that I am as shallow as the girl next door and my "The One" will not have some revolutionary ideals. 

My ‘The One’ will follow the standard movie criteria. He will be the one who completes my sentences. The one who understands what is going on inside my head. The one who knows what I like & dislike. The one who will always make time for me. The one who is happy with my satisfaction. The one who forgave me and took me back even after I cheated on him. The one who is so secure of his craft that he knows that I will always come back. And I did. And I am happier because of it.

The ultimate relationship of a girl is with her hair stylist and yes Shahbaz you are the one.

Trust me ladeez and lads, this is one prize catch and one shouldn't let him go for absolutely anything. I am more than happy to share him with the whole world. You can find him here Hairplay with Shahbaaz

Cherry Blossoms

Every spring, something grips me…makes me smile lovingly at kids, even when they are crying, wearing those squeaky shoes and making a racket…makes me call my mum more than once in a fortnight, our established arrangement of interference…makes me reach out to all my friends and enquire about their life without reminding them of the geeky school days …makes me (horror of horrors!) say hello to the neighbor’s cat without showing it the finger.

It makes me resist my urge to throw a shoe at the fish vendor, howling at the top of his voice in the morning, right before breakfast when the constitution is frail. Or using my limited vocab of the official language expletives, at the garbage truck, idling loudly right below my bedroom window. It makes me use the plant spray bottle, my version of the air gun, go a little off the mark while shushing the stray dogs below the balcony.

Telemarketers are greeted politely and even jested with a playful touch, while cab and auto rickshaw drivers get a tip and perhaps a song squeaked hoarsely and tunelessly if alcohol runs my life at that time.

I plan vacations to various places, especially Tokyo with nary a care about the bank balance. I reach out to lovers’ future past with no regard to their current emotional state. It makes me remember the pranks carried out with detailed planning, destined to fail, at the lack of basic logic with no embarrassment at all.

It makes me forget the transgressions of silly social media uproars and the voices of both Pappu and NaMo …no Kejri and the AAPtards are still not included. It doesn’t make my blood boil to see people loosely using the word ‘Rape’ or being selective over the value of human life.

Every spring, I become a monster. Every spring, I wish the monster would stay forever. Beyond spring. Beyond reality.

In our country, in Mumbai where there are only two climates - Summer & Monsoon.

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”- Pablo Neruda

Do Inorganic Orgasms Matter?

During a much heated drunken argument with my friend-philosopher-guide aka my drinking buddy, we discovered that like web traffic metrics, our sex lives need some monitoring.

Image Courtesy: Google

Since the international female orgasm day was just 2 days ago on August 8, the focus of the conversation was centered largely around the lack of orgasms for the vast majority of Indian women including Jashodaben. Jashodaben who? The spouse of our much in news, PM Modi, with the famed 56-inch chest.

The 64-year-old woman who lives a very simple life in a remote village in her native Gujrat, must never ever had an orgasm. She was married off to Narendra Modi when she was 16 and stayed with her husband all of 3 months. Now it is theoretically possible to achieve at least 1 orgasm in these 3 months, given that both husband and wife were at the raging hormonal teen phase (she was 16 & he was 18), at the time of marriage. But both parties have refuted any physical contact with each other.

While the honorable PM found his g-spot in politics, the poor Jashodaben immersed herself in teaching young kids at a primary school. Till date, she has not been with any other man and has even given up eating rice for 40 years! How does giving up rice, help, is something I don’t want to get into.  Meanwhile our PM is neither giving her a divorce nor an orgasm.

Like the majority of women who are reluctant to use self-help to get to the big O, Jashodaben wouldn’t have explored this inorganic way either.

If you plot a graph of orgasms achieved organically or inorganically, most data would lean towards inorganic just like the viral videos of today. There is a whole economy resting on supplying tools (literally) to aid this inorganic big O.  When SMM experts go gaga over engagement and time spent, imagine the predicament of the female population trying to keep tabs on number of followers & likes while boosting its reach.  

Image Courtesy: Google

Unfortunately, just like brands who insist on organic growth, our culture favors organic orgasms only. Which is why in almost all condom related surveys, “Just 48 per cent of us said that they usually orgasm” and “Globally, twice as many men (64 per cent) as women regularly have orgasms” don’t take into account all the big O’s achieved without a partner.

As the startup whiz kids find newer ways to give a collective hard on to college drop outs & IITians, the empowered women in India are leaning more to self-induced joys of ecstasy. It is to be seen if these methods sustain or the good ol’ organic way triumphs. Meanwhile, the hope that Jashodaben eats a bowl of rice, will continue to drive this author to track her agonies over her ecstasies.