Woman

A head turner, a true beauty,
She charms men and women alike,
Graceful and supple, yes,
But she is trapped,
In a sophisticated, hostile body,
That is more a burden than a tool,
A bundle of agony coated in allure,
But all that one sees is the poise and charm,
Ostensibly weak, but built to suffer, her body is no hitch,
She marches ahead, multitasking with ease,
Her instinct beats science,
And the mysteries of the Universe,
It sprouts up in dark times,
Guiding man and illuminating his path,
Gentle, soft, but dominating when needed,
She teaches one to bear pain and to heal when wounded,
Biting her lips, holding her tears,
She slips through life as a daughter, friend, wife and mother,
An enticer, a slave, an object of lust?
She is nothing lesser than a fellow human being.

Written at around 7:15am on 29.4.2016 at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

On Sex

"Biology designed the dance. Terror timed it. Dictated the rhythm with which their bodies answered each other. As though they already knew that for each tremor of pleasure they would pay with an equal measure of pain. As though they knew that how far they went would be measured against how far they would be taken" - Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex" - Adolus Huxley

Two bodies intertwined in the dark,
Seeking pleasure they possess not,
Inflicting their desires on each other's parts,
They hold each other in a cold, tight clasp,
A carnal flame that pined to burn since each was a child,
Today blazed forth, turning them both wild,
Some are possessed by passion, lying on a private stage,
In a vengeful attempt to satisfy their lecherous rage,
And then there are the gentle ones, for whom it is usual,
To engage in something sensual,
An act that seldom misses attention,
Turning heads, causing hushed discussion,
Praised, ridiculed, sought - in books, songs and the internet,
Always extreme, seldom moderate,
It seems magical indeed to the deluded one,
Who deems it pure, exotic and fun,
While nature's beauty does overwhelm one,
Compatible bodies that entangle into one,
It still ceases not to be an act for progeny,
A fact forgotten by many,
Men, who waste their lives thirsty for flesh,
Based on misplaced ideals of relish,
"Evolved" beings of stardust,
Revelling in pointless lust,

It is the pinnacle of overrating,

So hyped that they call it something sacred,

Yes, heartlessly so, love, they call it,

When did a thing of the body meet the inner heart?

A mere moment of thrill that lasts not a second,
And takes a long time before it can be beckoned,
The acme of embellishment,
The summit of exaggeration,
With peripherals relating to forced pleasure,
And acquired taste, like liquor,
Nay, only a beast would call it pleasure,
Even animals value it lesser.
An act a dog knows, matters less than food,
But man fails to realise it does no good,
A pleasure that lasts hardly a minute,
But for which one spends months, years in pursuit,
Instinct, they call it, but is it really so?
A runaway hormone that refuses to go,
Merely a plate that is closed to attract attention
Just another act, like breathing, eating and defecation.

Written over the last few days.

The Admirer

He saw a form in the distance,
A form that stole his heart in one simple glance,
He thought of nothing but her all day,
Her talk, her eyes, of what he would say,
He dreamt of long walks,
And of lengthy talks,
A little gesture seemed so stark,
His heart skipped a beat, his eyes lit up with a spark,
A smile, a stance,
A sneeze or a dance,
She knew not that her ways had a fan,
That, worshipping her manners was a dazed man,
He pursued her, wanting to get close,
And he thought he had, but it only made it worse,

Dazzling him further, stripping him of his focus,

He followed her, altering his locus,
Like a dog trailing its master,
His mind losing its grip each day faster,
He wrote poems and letters, but locked them all away,
Hoping to give them to her some day,
He knew he could and would wait,
And he did, merely admiring her every trait,
He divinized her movements, sanctified her gait,
Fathoming not the least, that all this could make him a bait,
She was indeed beautiful, certainly a damsel,
But does beauty make one an angel?
If every woman is divine, where is the devil?
If every love is sacred, where is betrayal?
Why, if everything is extreme, where is usual?
Why does the intoxicated man ignore the normal?
Eccentric, he jumps up in the air,
His intellect flushed, he forgets to think and care,
He thinks they are close now, but slowly realises,
It was not the sex nor the talks,
That true intimacy is when her flaws,
Are seen as caricatures,
He sees her as someone new, a person he hadn't seen during his race,
Merely a flawed being with some grace,
Her traits hadn't tarnished,
His blindness had just vanished,
It takes him hurting words and inhuman deeds,
Lots of pain, and some heart bleeds,
To see her as a human, with defects like himself,
And he either accepts or rejects her for being herself,
All this learnt, he emerges a wise man washed ashore ,
Only to see that it is wisdom he had before,
All this time wasted,
Just to learn something a child could've said.

Written on 21.4.2016 at reference section, IITB Library

Random Rants

1. People write a story in England, and America wants a sequel set in their country (The Lost Symbol, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them).. Heck, we Indians read all shit that happens in Europe and America, with zero demands.. So much for tolerance..

2. Spreading awareness isn't much of a problem these days.. In fact, the real miracle will be when someone decides to do something better than "share"ing info about a problem. And then does it. We read and forget it like crap it is. Information has lost its value thanks to the internet.. And we are plagued with plagiarism.