Anniversary. In other words, De-mystifying Bhumika’s Boudoir

So I have completed four years on WordPress, today, it seems. And sometime in the December of 2007, I had first started this blog on BlogSpot.

Imagine.

When I first started, it was a blog about angst and fun and general risqué things that happened in my life that made me who I am. Today, not so much. I already am. And since I am older and have been to four shrinks so far in life for counselling, and was definitely helped by only one of them because shrinks are useless fucks mostly, I see no need to share who I am really and what I am really thinking about with any damn body.

I no longer have the desire to share my life.

Also, there isn’t all that much that’s happening beyond business; earning a living half-heartedly, almost belatedly; illness; parties that are veering increasingly towards mild than the erstwhile wild; men who say yes and then no, men to whom I say yes and then no, men to whom I say no and block; girlfriends who are family, and girlfriends who are bitches and whom I don’t respect and so don’t talk to too much (if at all); cousins and relatives I stay the fuck away from because they don’t deserve me but who are regular readers of this quasi-confessional tabloid of my life; casting spells for sunny weather; meditating for good health; refusing to do proper exercise and waiting to lose weight, and all that sort of thing. All very routine.

So I don’t share my life anymore.

But, my times, o yes, that I want to share because that is fun.

I am a struggling-with-writer’s-block, and a perfection-complexed, unpublished writer who runs a writing workshop, no, the only writing workshop in Bangalore, but has no novel to her name. Except for a few published stories (google them and torture yourself), a little fandom here, here, here, and there in newspapers, public performances of my work, and a mean of 9 as a Facilitator in feedback forms, I have little else to qualify this useless passion of mine.

Can you imagine the pressure? The angst?

Enough to give me material (that will naturally go unpublished because the half-wit world wants half-girlfriends) to last my entire life.

So I started Intoxication Induced because on any given day, I am on heavy duty drugs. Refer my health issues here. Since I am on medication, I needn’t take responsibility for any useless work of mine. Of course, I doubt I will ever share my genius on a public platform. So I publish it here because unlike others, I am not crazy about getting my work published. It’s seriously not a big deal. As in everything, you need to know your audience and make the pitch accordingly, and that’s easy enough.

But I do want people I know and love, and a few whom I could know and love or at least mock gently, to read what I write. And this exercise has been richly rewarding. I can write short pieces, flash, rambling long stories, sick, demented poems that only I will understand, and not edit, because hello, it’s been published.

Self.

We have published it and no one can do anything about it.

Tough titties, what?

Except, dear readers, some of you are baa-lambs. Real darlings. Some of you believe that I am still sharing my life. And are concerned and so you send me notes and emails full of love and support and wellness wishes and tips. And some of you ask about me to people who know me, “Is she better now? Is that husband of hers talking to her again?”

So utterly sweet, I almost have no words to thank you. And it will be a gross disservice and entirely dishonest if I let you believe that I am sharing my life here all the time, still. I apologise. Hence this post to de-mystify the boudoir, to burst the bubble on the boudoir practices. I am not sharing my life anymore. Not until I have slayed some of my own personal dragons and gotten all Game of Thrones about it. Not unless big and drastic and stormily emotional happens.

I do weave some of what happens in my life in my stories — of course, we will never know (because I rarely kiss and tell) which is what — and so I love it when you believe me and my stories.  That you would believe these things of me. That I am divorced. That I have a daughter. That I am a shit mother. That I married a Chinki next. That I call him Chinki. That I met with an accident in Indiranagar. That sometimes I am a man who dates girls. Young girls with fresh skin and zero taste in books. That I am in a fucked-up, stalkery relationship. That I serial date and have shagged at least a dozen men. That I am all the characters I create in half-baked interest when insomnia demands I do something to kill time because otherwise I will have to uh-uh-uh, no, that would be too much information.
😉

So.

I write.

So I publish on my blog and hope that one of you will be moved enough to leave me a comment or send me a love note. One of you will laugh and chuckle and say, “Damn right.” Or curse me for the bitch you wrongly believe I am and share it on social media so your friends and you can host the Troll Party of Day.

All of this makes my day. All of this brings some sunshine and drama to my non-happening, un-buzzing, extremely normal life with unending work hours, and debilitating insomnia.

And when some of you constantly keep typing ‘Bhumika Sex’, ‘Bhumikasexboudoir’, ‘Bhumikafucksinboudo’, ‘sexybhumikainKannadiga’ and visiting my blog, or should I say coming to my blog? Why, that’s the best thing ever, isn’t it? Who needs to strip naked and maintain hourglass photoshopped figure and pour champagne into precariously placed glasses when you can write prosaic, angsty things, and voila become sex goddess?
Thank you ever so much.

For all this, I am so grateful. Thank you.

This is, really, your anniversary. Your tenth. Your tin. Your diamonds waiting to be worn. Your daffodils waving in the wind for you.

Your decade of living with me strictly on my terms.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Of course, I could have done the Math all wrong like I am wont to do, in which case, let’s all just shrug the number aside. A name, foreskin, tonsils, appendix, numbers, ratios, Modi, religious fundamentalists, and anti-gay people, why, who needs them, anyway?

And because I am addicted finally to Pakistani telenovels as they are called, I attempted some nonsense tonight inspired by them, especially the language — Urdu, Masha Allah, is so great — and my conversation with Philip John who is a BWW facilitator, a fun friend, and my personal prophet.

In the next post (and hopefully, one among the many fun stories you will read here) I give you Ali and the Laughing Noor.

Come in to my parlour, sweetie darlings. And stay. Linger. Whisper to me. Happy anniversary. Cheers, darlings. Blessed be.