La Confession

After years, today, I was back in that sick world when I thought it was all over between me and the ball-less creature I had the dubious distinction of apparently “forcing”.

Imagine waking up to a world where you are convinced no one loves you and you find you can no longer love yourself because.

In that world I was made to feel ashamed of my body, my thoughts, my behaviour, my tongue, even the way my ovaries won’t produce eggs in time for any productive mating to happen. And them being such an historic family full of legacy and antique plates to give to select, well-behaved progeny who would always nod and say “Yes, Amma.” Apparently. Today the shame was felt.  Again.

The pain is furious. I type with one hand. The mind, ah, the places the mind can take me – Jaipur, Delhi, the anniversary party where I am thinking I will get drunk. I might as well. You can only make a fool of yourself once. And that’s been done.

Then this bolt from the blue arrives when the red river won’t flow, no matter what I do, even eat papayas everyday and stuff my face with fiery hot Andhra gonghura pickle, just like my tongue by the way, which our help says can even abort a foetus — the amount of heat in it. And no, nothing works.

So I am idly chatting on Facebook about this little nephew of mine – a whippet – and waiting. My nieces and nephews are all the canine variety. We are a generation that prefer dogs to children – quite rightly so. Mini Riya puts the fear of the Lord in me the way she knows so much and her being not yet two.

Life is made up of little tragedies. Like how I woke up in pain instead of in glee today. Like how Manju, my parlour woman refused to come today, in spite of the appointment, to give me that perm that would change my life, my world, and be apt for 2013 which Smoothie insists is my year where only wonderful things will happen.

So much for that. So the friendly, well-meaning, ex-consort doesn’t read what I am asking — reassurance basically because it’s one of those days with the pain and the blood not flowing — “No, baby, of course, you are beautiful. What do you mean I don’t like the way you look. You are fabulous, you know that. I miss shagging you. You were the best. I am the world’s biggest idiot for not following through and for letting you go. Muah.” No, that doesn’t happen. These days not even in my dreams. Instead he says an innocuous and what he claims is a translation of “I am mind-fucked, don’t talk to me now, baby.” He says, “Don’t know.” So irresponsible. So uncaring. So absurdly uncaring that the fathead cannot even use the fucking pronoun and take responsibility for ruining my day and my world and my life. As if it hadn’t been done a million times before. As if I didn’t know all about that shit. As if it were anything new.

And then the world spirals out of control for the entire day. I cry. Full of self-pity. Oh God, I am in so much fucking pain. I am so fucking ugly. It all boils down to the way one looks. It’s over. I will never look good again. Jaipur is ruined. Delhi is a disaster. The party is a pain. We should cancel. Who the fuck cares about anniversaries anyway. Oh God. I look terrible in clothes. I look awful naked. While another part, the Mad Men part of me saying calmly, “Now, sweetheart, you know you are just upset. Here, drink this whiskey. No, let me light that cigarette. What is this talk about not being beautiful? Of course not.” The “not” nasalised sounding scandalously American in my proper fake British mind. And I breathe, shoot up that whiskey, and blow smoke sideways through lips stained vermillion and with my eyes staring at that wonderful, bald, intellectual writer. That genius man who flirted through the evening and was charming and was besotted with our conversation, my face, my body that was spilling onto the table, my glowing skin, my eyes that shine, and the vermillion lipstick and the matching nails, the way I smoked, and the blue lights that twinkled; with whom I was so tempted to have a one-night stand and it would have happened too except middle-class Bhumika woke up in the middle of that gay, happy soirée, that delicious French movie, and cried and said, “But, but, but I love…” and now that same pathetic bitch was bawling, saying annoyingly again, “Oh but remember what happened four or was it five years ago?” Like I would ever forget that. Like she would ever let me, the bitch.

“He’s so handsome, we didn’t want you. We don’t even like you.”
And you don’t need a genius to read the subtext there.

Then, then, “You know my cousin married this girl, she’s sweet and all but not very good-looking. He’s so handsome. Sort of like you and Bai…”

“What?”

And how my heart leaped and how the silence stretched for the next twenty days after which we reconciled over steel containers and massive bindis and ginger tea and a cigarette.

And in my happy place I am in Kerim, Goa by the beach. I am reading Junot Diaz thinking I love him and cannot love anyone anymore again. How can you not love a man who writes like that.

But I am actually working, sending all these terse mails with one hand to get work done. O please, Noidans, please be kind and for once, do your bloody job right and don’t annoy me with that half-wit arrogance of yours that allows women to get mercilessly gang-raped. Just work and go home, and let me watch Mad Men again. Who says a series must be watched only once?

And later Junot Diaz is talking about fucking and cheating. Importantly, about trying to exercise and failing because every new exercise damages a part of the body. O God, he and I must be soul-mates. He gets my pain. My acute frustration with this entire lose weight, get distracted, pump up endorphin shit. And think also about how good you will look, Madame. Yes, yes, so I swallow flax seeds and try to exercise. Everyday. The mind is willing. The body ah the body is hanging on a fucking Jesus Christ type cross. And I am carrying it all the time. Except Jesus Superstar died. A con. Such a cheater. So cheating. That’s the way to go. No relationship is meant to last. The love fades. Or the lust ends. Or they both end. Or the conversations crumble. Or the annoyances add up. Or you have spiritual differences. Or you have irreconcilable differences. Or you kill each other. Or you don’t speak because you are so bitter you have nothing to say. Or you become bipolar and drown in a bloody lake.

And now I know that it’s the only way to survive in a relationship. Open your legs to everyone and close your mouth to the man. For ever. For good. World without end. Men hate for women to speak up. That’s why they adore blowjobs that much. It shuts her up. Ah the bliss. The rapture and ecstasy of a hot mouth with its slithery venomous tongue, being kept shut. And the value for money of cuming with no effort. The men. They are always looking for a buy-one-get-two type of deal. As if women are Big fucking Bazaars or More. Bastards.

That’s why we have to cheat on our men. That’s what Taming the Shrew was all about. Of course, Shakespeare couldn’t say it outright. Those Elizabethans, they didn’t even have proper drainage, what would they know about how the plumbing would actually work. But Shakespeare has always been ahead of his times what with his “Readiness is all” and all of that. That’s positively the Bhagvad Gita in a line. And even Krishna slept around all the time. And my mom goes on and on about how I am Catherine with that tongue and the loud voice and the way I can fight endlessly. And today he said it too. “Baby, if you had only fought less and been reasonable while fighting, we would have lasted. You are not logical.” And yes, of course, it’s logical to expect people to be reasonable when they are fighting. Like I fucking want to be shut up like that but married. Like that will ever happen. Like I would even respect him if I got him that way.

And yesterday, I went on that dating site again and now I cannot get out for a week. And then those messages, some with promise but mostly ignore maadi types. And so I log off quickly, guiltily, because I am judging and not giving them a chance. And now before anything starts everyone needs a chance. Unless they cannot spell or have bad grammar and say “heyz”. That’s unforgivable. Those you delete without guilt. So I feel evil and mind-fucked. Like a shrew. Like a cold calculating predator. Like this woman who had crossed a line somehow and strayed and found that she enjoyed it.

Well, screw that. In that bad time, I cheated twice. Once because the other ex swooped in when he heard I was in a stable relationship and did the one thing that made him irresistible again. He apologized. So obviously I had to put out something. I did. And then confessed to the other. And was chastised. “You cannot try that sort of thing anymore. We are a couple. We are in a relationship.” And I slept peacefully that night. An entire night. In peace. Asleep.

And then again, the day I begged him to reconsider. Forgot all self-respect and pride. But was twisted enough to think of Plan B.

Plan B:
How do you get over rejection, baby?
By shagging someone else silly, of course.

Hot, muscled ex was waiting outside the restaurant when I was begging knowing he would say no, hating him that minute, that second, wanting to burn down his house with all its antiques. Then, there, the ex was waiting not two minutes away in the brand new red car that later drove me out of the city and then showed me the sights. And gave me a lecture. You cannot go on like this. Marry a man your parents choose for you.

So I stopped kissing him. For good. Never met him again. “You know me since I was 18 and that’s your buggering pathetic advice?”

I hate when they end things and feel righteous and act like they actually care about what becomes of you, how they want you to be happy. “That, baby, will make me so happy.” Like hell, it will. Like you even fucking care, you cabrón.

Next time, middle-class Bhumika with her morality and scruples will turn into a black widow spider and eat those daft people as soon as the sex is done. That would be better than waking up and seeing their sorry faces and the excuses to run showing clearly on their foreheads. The bastards. And it would be a good thing for womankind.

But no, they always win. Look at Lhasa. Such talent and for what? Cancer got her. Tragic. It’s either health or a lake. That’s the way out. Not mindless, ferocious sex with strangers but drowning in a smelly lake or going bald, weak, fragile, insane, and dying. Or having that rare strain of rheumatoid arthritis that really cannot be managed too well. “Sorry Madam, please to live with pain.”

And you know what they will do? They will heave a sigh of fucking relief. After all that talk about I want only what’s good for you. Fucking relief. Yes, you read that right.

P. S. Any half-wit who reads this and thinks I am asking/begging for sex/rape (in today’s time a girl has to state everything precisely), please be aware that I firmly believe in the delicate art of castration. And I believe very strongly, in letting the blood run and watching the twitching. Quietly. Peacefully. Till it’s time to call the news agencies for breaking news. Arseholes.

Ach so, in the end, a good day was had by all concerned.