Black

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life,
I know you'll be a star
In somebody else's sky,
but why, why, why
Can't it be,
can't it be mine

Life, or Something Like It

Thkaa stared down at the woman curled up on the pile of skins and furs that served as her bed. She was lying still, staring at the wall calmly, her brown eyes showing no emotion as Thkaa moved around the room, gathering the things she would need. Most women who came to her were terrified, quivering with fear and constantly looking to her for reassurance. This one hadnt said a word since she first stepped in, and her face had remained expressionless throughout. Thkaa heated the potion in a corner, slowly adding the poppy that would put her to sleep, so she wouldnt feel the pain.

The sharp knife caught the light and the woman on the bed turned and stared at it, her eyes becoming colder as she watched Thkaa heat it. Feeling her gaze Thkaa looked up.

"It wont hurt", Thkaa assured her softly, "You wont feel a thing".

The womans eyes narrowed, and a small bitter smile twisted her lips.
"What of my child? Can you promise him the same?"

Thkaa flushed. Killing children before they took their first breath wasnt why she had become a healer.
"You dont have to do it. You could keep the child. He'll be healthy and strong, and you..." Thkaa's voice trailed off as the woman laughed harshly.

"No".

Their eyes met, the solid brown of hers glimmered and suddenly Thkaa understood.

"His father."

It wasnt a question. In her eyes Thkaa could see, see the oceans that the man had crossed to leave her, the way he had left and her news, the bitter words he had spat at her before he left her to do this alone. She could see the richness of the life he had left for, and it stood in stark contrast to the faded, tired colours this woman wore now.

Thkaa handed her the cup. The womans eyes turned cold again, and she swallowed the potion in one gulp. Her eyes drifted shut and her fingers caressed the swell of her stomach as the potion took hold of her. Thkaa picked up the knife, and laid her fingers on the womans skin. For a moment she could hear a child laughing. It stopped abruptly as she brought the knife down.

Come One, Come All

Promiscuity.

Did anyone think of a man?

Technically, men cant be promiscuous. They get lucky. They're studs. Theyre obvioulsy good in bed. Apart from some mild disapproval over not treating women well, its perfectly alright for men to sleep around. Its even a desirable quality.

Translate that into a woman? Slut, Whore, Easy. And the sad part is its so deeply ingrained in our minds. I have used those very words for women who I feel enjoy sex and are not ashamed to proclaim it. A woman who has multiple lovers, or decides she likes random sex and sleeps (safely) with a different man every night has no reputation very soon. Even the men she sleeps with will not see her as anything other than easy. A woman to be used for her body.

My fathers family is from the Mathur stock of Chandni Chowk. We prize good marriages above all else, and sell our daughters hymens in glass diplay cases from our lavishly decorated sitting rooms, over cups of expensive tea and pasrties from the Oberoi.

I dont have a hymen to sell. (I regret it often, sure, but not because Ive lost the chance to marry a man that couldnt see beyond my virginity). In my family Im a disgrace. My sisters have both made 'good' marriages, hymen righteously and traditionaly taken care of by their chosen husbands. A good marriage such as this is out of the question for me. Im a sexually active 21 year old, and in view of my past im sure to have numerous reltionships in the future. Can I avoid being labeled a whore?

Have you ever looked at a promiscuous woman and thought ruefully, well at least she treats the men she sleeps with well? Why do men get to be the victors in random sex? Why cant the women be the ones who use them for simple sexual gratification, and gloat in the afterglow of another conquest without being judged loose?

I know that will be my fate. It is already. In India a woman without a husband, a woman who isnt even looking for one, has no place in our society. A man I was sleeping with, one who claimed quite vehemently to love me, recently told me that his friend was seeing a decent gurl, and she was making his life miserable. A decent gurl? I queried inocently, whats that?

Oh you know, she wont have sex until she gets married.

He might in fact love me, but he thinks Im indecent. I guess he loves me despite my failings hmm?

The Six

I love this tag. Of course its more fun when people you know well write it for you, but this is ok too. The object of The Six tag, is to list six wierd things about yourself.

I know what you're thinking, JUST six? Its one of those painful dilemma's really. Should I mention my sixth toe or my distressing habit of eating chalk powder mixed with lime pickle? Well, chose carefully.

I tag mey, aaki, jerry, madhu, saattvic, saturn air jam, pig-watever his name is his week and gaimon and anyone else who wants to do it.
(gaimon you can use my comment page)

The Six

• I eat toothpaste. Yes actually. Im never without a tube of the stuff and you cant spend more than 15 minutes with me before I whip it out and slurp at it. Of course I have received so many wierd looks over the years that now I do it more surreptiously, but if you get to know me, you will see me do it often. Why you ask? Well... I dont know really. Ive always done it. I recently read an article where some scientist had done research that revealed that the fluorides in toothpaste cause a certain kind of cancer. I will die of this cancer.
  
• Im scared of cows. No let me rephrase that. Im TERRIFIED of cows. If I see a cow Ill turn tail and run, and hope to god the cow doesnt decide to chase me. I have been told that cows dont really chase anything, and the bemused, mildly surprised look most cows give me when I run away from them seems to support this theory. I, however, live in fear of meeting an espeacialy athletic cow. With a whip and trident. *gulps* Time to move on. Quickly. *looks around nervously*
  
• I assign personalities to everything. The letter 'S' for example. Its evil, its always trying to screw other letters out of their share of usage and goes into violent sulks if it doesnt get its way. It has no qulams about becoming mean and nasty to get what it wants, and J help you if it gets angry with you.
  
• I have a decided pattern with boyfriends. I didnt realise it until recently, but when i think about it its actualy painfully clear. I alternate between awful men who treat me badly that I absolutely adore and wonderful men who treat me amazingly well that Im only vaguely fond of. Im sure we've all had some of each variety, but for me they alternate exactly. Each time I get out of one, I vow to never get into that kind of thing again. So i go for the exact opposite. Only that doesnt work out so well either. So i get out of that and vow to never get into that kind of thing again. So i go for the exact opposite. Vicious fucking circle.
  
• I have wierd and terribly confusing interactions with animals. Its been happening to me all my life, and I, quite frankly, dont know what to make of it. When I was three a deer smacked me across the face for no apparent reason. When I was five a sparrow a flew into my life and lived with me for three monthes. When I was eight a bunch of monkeys accosted me in the neighbourhood park and ate my precious sketch pens. When I was ten a lizard called joe became my best friend. I dont go looking for these creatures, they just sort of turn up. Ive had pigeons and mice and snakes and moles and puppies and kittens and donkeys and crows and pigs, and yes even a cow once, (though that took some real balls on my part let me tell you. I lost a gallon of sweat that day) suddenly decide to notice me for no real reason whatsoever.
  
• Some days I wake up and think in rhyme, The whole day, All the time. People talk and I answer straight, And they dont notice a small wait. Ill struggle not to rhyme out loud, But my inner poet will not be cowed. So if, occasionally, I speak in verse, Remember please, it could be worse.

I See You. But Will You Ever See Me.

When you were a little gurl, did your father ever tell you were special?
Did you ever doubt it?
Did you ever think that maybe you wouldnt make it?
That maybe, you wouldnt be happy?

You can never be prepared for reality. It just fucking happens to you.

True Love is a Jazz song

...The very thought of you and I forget to do
The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do...

I know what love is, I heard a young woman with a voice as deep as a mountain sing it to me. You can only sing love from the bottom of your stomach, love doesnt squeek. Its deep, and primal and basic and makes you crawl on all fours, mourning for reason and logic and rationality. I felt the bass thrumm under my skin, I felt her voice sink into my soul. Jazz is the only reliable way to express that kind of suffering.

Ever heard a song that makes you remember, what it felt to be in love for the first time? You feel a rush, and then a glow. And then you have bizarre conversations inside your head, with people you forgot you knew.


*Dramatic, tragic heroine voice*

Oh lord! There is love to live for! There is bad poetry and giggling and first kisses to make the world a beautiful place!

*the appearance of a lace hanky*

Huh??

*you find yourself crushed into the eager bosom of a large matronly woman leaking tears onto your head*

Dear child, dont you see???? Your prince is out there!!! He will find you and you will be happy for ever after!

*you push away from the bosom that is trying to smother you*

But thats bullshit isnt it? There really arent any princes, just ordinary guys, that lie and go to the bathroom and forget your birthday?

*the bosom swells and you are caught in its grips once more*

NO! The perfect man exists! He will sweep you of your feet with his perfect body, lavish upon you expensive gifts with his large fortune, enthrall you in the bedchamber with his immense-

*you hurridly disentangle yourself from your maroon swathed torturess*

Rubbish!

*the bosom jiggles dangerously*

Do not argue!! Now go to your room and practise being a princess infront of the mirror with that plastic tiara and a sheet tied around your waist as a train!

--------

Perhaps it is better for all concerned if I stay away from the open bars at these concerts.

Dont' Cry to Me, If You Loved Me, You'd Be Here With me...

We met for lunch, in a little cafe. As late afternoon turned into early evening, we sat and stared at each other over our rapidly cooling coffee, smiling the soft secret smiles that only two people completely oblivious to the rest of the world knew how to smile. Our arms snaked their way through a maze of glasses and plates and napkins, so that I could rest my fingers in the palm of his hand.

The amused, indulging waiter approached our table to refill our glasses. He offered us the dessert menus, hiding a smile as we reluctantly disentangled our fingers to grip them.

We waited. Still enjoying the quiet between us, occasionally rubbing fingers or asking a random, inconsequential question. And then he said it.

{SILENCE}

The words hung in the air between us. I looked at the view, examined the tiny scratch on the glass, shifted uncomfortably in my chair. He squeezed my fingers tightly and I looked at him.

{SAY IT}

I leaned forward and touched his chest, his eyes were glimmering with hurt he wouldnt talk to me about. I licked my lips, but they wouldnt move.

{IM SORRY}

He needed a smoke he said and got up and walked out. His heart gushed blood from between my fingers, trailing arteries from where it had been ripped out, dripping into luke warm coffee. I could feel it beating sluggishly, pushing against my palm with every beat.

{LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR...}

Public Service Announcement

We here at the Famous Blue Suitcase, have chosen to endorse Blogger Beta.

It freaking ROCKS!!!!!!!

All I can do is kiss you, Through the bars of a rhyme..

I know love isnt permanent, but what about hate? I once read that the opposite of love isnt hate, its indifference. But isnt either one an absence of love? Thats whats important surely.

Hate changes you, makes you look at the world differently, (well so does love, but this is about hate). Ive always been able to let go of the love, but the hate stays with me. Its like a part of my life and my mind was dyed the vibrant shade of puke green, and no matter how hard I try I cant dye it any other shade. I can sometimes ignore the presence of the colour, but if you scratch the surface a little bit its still there. Glowering at you from under your skin, waiting to get out and Hulk-ify you.

I hate women with pierced belly buttons, because a boyfriend once told me a gurl with one was hotter than I was. I couldnt give a shit about that boy now, but every time I see a woman with one I feel a jolt. I hate trains, women with tiny waists (though these chicks I might have hated anyways, bloody bitches), the word decent, the country of Japan and everything that comes from it, fridge doors, candy floss, Sujan Singh Park and kur kure for similar reasons (there are others but I will spare you).

Is hate a stronger emotion? Does it get its roots into us deeper and more efficiently than the now hallmarkised and outmoded concept of love? Can we hate better than we can love?

For a refreshing change from todays overly sentimental societal value system, lets do something new! Sit your closest loved one down, and tell them evrything you hate about them and always will. I mean you could die unexpectedly, maybe tomorrow, and then they would never have known. Dont waste a moment. Do it now.