Alive again

I feel restless. Brainpickings says, it is best to elegantly break up. The ranting around me is now beginning to claw my insides and irk me. A constant drone hovering near my ear. Like I am a dead woman and a bee is buzzing nearby. I want to spread my legs near a rippling river and nature to fuck me hard. As the freshness enters my veins, I would be alive again.     

Sanghamitra

As the sweat trickled down your arm, it touched the Sanghamitra tattoo. I’m sorry aunty, I’d tell her if she was here, if at all I was important enough to have hurt you. To have sent those words of fury to your father. You were right, you never smell. Your being was like baby’s breath to me. It was only after you left that I got the horrible stench. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for true love, love. I’m sorry for that burden. I wasn’t thinking.     

I bite

I want to be talked about. But nobody should see me. I want to be a head turner. But, sometimes I'd rather dissapear. Be invisible, rise through my words. Conquer, vanquish and nullify. I'm what I am. And what others say I am. I am bold, big and beautiful. I am jealous, ruthless and egotistical. I value my freedom and only my freedom. Everything else, I only act to care about. I am free. A free bird.

And...

I bite!

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Okay, that's exactly how I feel. Is that too odd?

A BIIIG, Fat, Bengali Wedding!

A sweat-inducing, groan-inciting, heated affair with interjections of excited, shy squeals at a big, fat, Bengali wedding in the middle of freaking March! (where the bride and groom were fat too, but then I don't want to get into details). On a bright, exorbitantly shiny, not-so-happy morning, our rented car arrived at the door to pick us up and drive us to destination Sodepur, which little did we know, would turn out to be hell! A raging sun was put to shame as I sashayed out of my house in my exotic, flaming red silk saree, only to be put to shame a few, sweaty, frantic moments later. As the taxi cruised, (it was more of an ignited tin box) down the fiery lanes of Park Circus, I was fretting that my eternally sweet and nagging mother would almost faint from the wrath of the sexy sun, she was so quiet.

Once, we reached destination family wedding, ritualistic shenanigans like smothering and throttling each other with 'halud'/turmeric began. After, a very warm round of welcome during which I felt like a rockstar, we again had to go through a rather dismal proceeding of large, smelly feet stomping me, and an array of armpits smothering me and almost deafening, hooligan'ish 'ulu'. This done and over with, the 'Ashirbaad commenced following the animalistic pushing and shoving of rather large 'mishtis' into each other's faces. By this time, both mother and me were flushed, baby pink in the cheeks, and needless to say, exhausted. After burning my feet to reach the little 'tabu' on the terrace where lunch was being served, we bathed ourselves with the coolness of 'thanda shukto' and I merely out of vengeance on these bombastic Bengali wedding rituals, stuffed my face with greasy, thin 'aloo bhaja'. My soul was soothed for the moment.

Next, what seemed by that time a rather challenging “A minute to win it” sort of a show, came the big event of the bride dressing up. Because, the house had no A.C. I grabbed the chance to flee. The parlour, (a little too shabby for a bridal make-up gig, had A.C. so I'm not complaining). Almost 4 hours of tedious sitting-and-doing-nothing, I finally put on my heavy, velvety anarkali, smeared face with bright and clownish make-up. My sister by then, looked like a rather puffy fish, with gothic eye make-up and a funny 'shola' crown. We took leave from the tiny parlour, with my only bargain, a free hair-do.

Next up, was me and Bridezilla locked up in a worn-out Omni, jiggling towards the 'Biye Bari.' The bride started having palpitations and began speaking gibberish about how her already registered husband might just ditch her last moment since he did not message her sweet nothings that very (un)-fateful day. After having to cool her down somewhat, we managed to reach within the time of 'Mohurat' and galloped towards her throne. To our utter dismay, contrary to the rumour, this ceremony hall wasn't A.C.(the stinking, literally so, father-of-the-bride refused to shell out an extra 6 grands to access the A.C.s, which were repugnantly present at every nook-n-cranny!) So again, we were reduced to a pool of sweat and happily bore all the pain of welcoming the 'bor' and his battalion, smiling relentlessly for the hapless photographers and ducking to touch the feet of blabbering, baboon'ish, withered old relatives.

This dealt with, food stuffed unwillingly in an even hotter environ, we waved goodbye to the bride, groom and parents, double now and believe me, it was rather a happy ending, rather orgasmic! Okay, wait, just the fact that we were leaving, ha? Ask me, if I want to get married? Hell yeah, in a cave, wearing 'bagher chhal' were I shall literally roast my relatives with prior notice and make a grand wedding ceremony surrounding it. Take that, bitch!

The feet finds ground but the wings refuse to fly.

The sorrow grips you but the eyes can easily dry.

All is well when the end is swell, and the road to harmony is murder,

It is but fatal when the body indulges but the soul yearns to cry.

“I need you like body to blood and mind to oxygen”

“You are not love”

“Not at least mine”. 

~me

Yes, That!

It’s the case of the runaway penis, the case of the runaway penis, the case of runaway penis, oooh yeah!

It’s sloppy, it’s droopy, it’s floppy and flimsy and crimp'y, and my oh my, its smells so sad…

Lets chop it, or flop it or even better let’s just drop it, it’s the runaway penis after all!

Don’t let’s talk it, or discuss, just cuss it, or bust it….oh it has to be that bad…..

It’s the case of the runaway penis, the case of the runaway penis, the case of runaway penis, oooh yeah!