men, women, sex and emotions

When we say men want sex and women want emotions from and in the relationship, and thats the tradeoff on which men women relationships stand, it doesnt really mean that men dont want emotional satisfaction or that women dont want sex at all!

Its only the that the required portions are inversely proportional.

Men are trained not to be emotionally overwhelmed cause where they are generous with emotional display, they cant find balance and thus find themselves totally weak and not in control, a state of mind, they instinctively are loathe to be in.

Women on the other hand never think of emotional bonding as losing control.

The real Problem starts when both feel they are giving more than they get!

And both think they arent asking for much!

Men wonder whats so big a deal and why such reluctance about having orgasmic bliss through the cheap wholesome way of a sexual act,
Whereas the women just cant understand why the man cant give her emotional support ( read that as time) even if he knows it makes her more receptive to the physical aspects of the relationship like sex.( i do think women love to receive gifts cause in a way it makes them feel valued... I wonder why men hate gifting? Is it the money part or is it the emotional display that gifting involves?)

Both think the other is selfish, cause they cant comply with such a simple demand, without acting pricy.

Maybe they need to take classes (joint classes) to drill into each other the art of giving sex and emotions in order to get emotions and sex.

Maybe then there will be more smooth sailing in man women relationships than there is at present!

love....

Love....

A half composed song
that oft dies
a well begun
but  incompletely sung

In the eternal quest of gold!

of memories

You want to know why
Unblinkingly i stare

When you walk into my room,
With that lithe animal grace
As you wipe your feet on my mat,
And bend down to untie your shoe lace,
And then lazily take your seat besides me
( just before you play with my hair)

Or When you talk your heart out,
About your starry eyed dreams and ideals,
(Ah, i feel so privileged!)
Or share your life's mundane fears

When you sip your beer
And break the simple bread,
Or When you look into the mirror
To pat your unruly hair,

As you dress to go away yet again,
And my time i bide,
Yes, I'm hoarding your million images
To keep me later occupied !

conflicts

conflicts

This is a topic that has always interested me. Maybe because perhaps they seem to affect me more than most normal people I know. I seem to be part of a tiny crowd, that seems to get extremely worked up over issues that most people I know, wouldnt waste more than a single minute on, before moving on.

In fact, today morning, while i was ruminating over the same subject, staring out of my 'window seat', ironically a part of me, was in anxiety. I had got a seat, right at the beginning of the bus, and the bus conductor simply seemed to not want to come to my place and issue me the ticket, the more he delayed, the anxious i got, all ill at ease, till he issued me the ticket and absolved me of the responsibility of having to buy it.

So what do we mean by conflict? For me the definition is very simple.. Anything, that adversely effects my peace of mind is a conflict. Anything that mars the stillness of a calm mind, that creates unintentional ripples, that makes me feel less than well, ie affects my sense of wellness,is conflict.

some conflicts are temporary...like the aforesaid conflict.it ended when the ticket was issued to me, tranquility restored instantly. On the other hand there are other conflicts that are not temporary. they keep reoccurring at regular intervals.

The ones that keep my mind ticking at an alarming rate. whenever there is yet another conflict, over a similar issue, with the same person, my mind is in disarray..I am so put off by the person, i wish to avoid the situations.by going to any lengths, that keep making us take the same road of squabbles and disagreements again and again.

while most people find it silly to keep prodding the brain, to keep harping at the same issue over and over, and prefer to ignore such present and potentially future occurrences as a tiny necessary evil, i am unable to let go,sometimes even for days on end, till ive ran each and every word uttered on both sides through my head, each expression, each hidden agenda, each cue 'missed at first,but flashed later in the head' till something clicks .. some new understanding of the situation,or the person, that had been missed the first time, in the jigsaw puzzle, so as to say!.

However, even conflicts can have different concoctions.

Often, it happens taht even if you are in conflict with the same person,over the same issue at regular intervals, yet the goodwill is not lost, and communication is restarted, after the fight, is as if on a clean slate. There are others areas of past, present, and future communication that still inspires a sense of being connected.

Other times, it just doesnt work. its such conflicts that i find most difficult, even impossible to bear.... conflicts with people, whose infinite unending capacity to harm, my peace of mind. There is simply no other shared good memories, to bring about clean slates, (or perhaps, our value systems are so different) any amount of goodwill cannot wipe the dread.
Recently, i had blocked (stopped communicating completely with) a few people from both, the virtual as well the real world.

The reason, I realize as an afterthought, is not that i have no inherent love for them, but because i have become unable to trust their capacity, not to topple the equilibrium of my mind anymore. They are in my minds eye,people still capable of harm. and as long as they are capable of harm, im unable to communicate even at a minimum social level with them.

Such conflicts can end only, either when one of the two sides is dead, or if both sides are ready to keep open all channels of communication, twenty four seven, time after time, without fail. This is a near impossible task, for if either side, knew how to do it, the situation wouldnt have reached this far, this low, in the first place.

lies

A box of tiny lies
Mean to protect,
Cause suffocation...
Truth steadily dies
Ill effects,
Of selfish fearful,
ineffective communication....

Verdict of Reigning dark silence
Thunderous roars ejecting
Each one us
Into dull lonely boxes
Of our brand of worldly lies

L

favours

Just Like u left,
Favour me, And Make
the memories go too...

Swiftly!

expectations

Goals, Dreams,
Ideals strewn around!

Invariably fulfilling
somebody else's expectations.

a stray wind

The stray wind
Scatters and blows
Sometimes hot,
sometimes cold

Wandering alone
In all loneliness
Not un cheery
Though restless

Now away from the pack,
Nothing to do
Nowhere to sway
Wanna go back?

nothing there either
the answer is a nay!

The affair

The affair

He had always loved money. Even as a very small child. One of the main reasons he had always wanted to grow up as soon as possible. was to be able to hold those crisp currency notes in his hands just like he had seen his father and uncles do umpteen times. It had always seemed such a cool gesture to a five year old to see his father flash the greens before it exchanged hands.

The amazing power of money had never been missed by him even then.

And just like an ardent lover, as soon as he entered his teens, he began to woo wealth goddess relentlessly.

Tentatively at first, then openly and then even shamelessly. Rights and wrongs ceased to have any meaning in the ruthless pursuit.

On her part, it must be mentioned that though She initially played the coy un trustable cottique, she eventually did give into his dogged persistence.

Soon, she was his to enjoy. Explore, Exploit. The surrender was dramatic.he was her god and she worshipped him with a devotion that only a woman in love could muster.

And yet as with all love affairs, things began to slow down

She eventually settled into playing the disgruntled, ever demanding wife. A wife who no longer gave pleasure as easily as before, and who made her price well known.

There were times when he felt he was holding on to the proverbial tigers tail, which he could not let go.

holding on to her was becoming even more weary some ,and he was not getting any younger. Yet his love for her never abated.he feared losing her.

More than that he feared a loss of face explaining the chinks in their once torrid affair. And yet Dissatisfaction did not stop him from wanting her and he his peace

When the end came it was sudden.

She left him one day just like that. Tricked by a much younger (at least in her eyes) and a more deserving man. Who could revive the spark he could no longer provide try as he might.

He never got to say goodbye either.

unbroken silences

They ask me
To break
my stony silence
Unburden
myself of buried pain

I think they mean well.

How does one
make them understand?

I scare not
Of not being understood,
For i face not,
a mind closed to love or reason

What i fear
Is being misunderstood
By the vast heartlessly undeserving!

unburdening the soul

so, the soul,
unburdens,
more and more

as it fears losses
less and less!

forgiveness is the key.

stalker

The unrelenting snake,
stealthily it follows eve
spewing lethal venom
filling eden with noxious poison,

oh! eva's sorrowed folly
the devil so rallies
over her ancient fallen temptation
of lusting for an apple forbidden!

illusions

I wait carelessly
For the tiptoe
Of a new set
of your empty promises

Who says
One cannot bask
In our fond illusions?

unforgetting sands

Aaaaah!

Such a disfavour,
my dearest,
Your fickle love has gifted....
an indelible
mark on this proud unbendable body

Even waves
Of tears
Unable
To wash away
The footprints
Carelessly left by you
on the unforgetting sands of my time!

ego

Ego
at play says...
Im nothing,
And while im nothing
im still better than you!

lips..

My lips....
Eager Petals in bloom,

Whenever they hear of you!

city life

City life!

It was Just yesterday,
That we parted

Minute,
minuscule,
Unimportant,
busy, regular,
mundane routine 

million numerous
moments
in between

It all now Seems
like an another different world,
Another life!

memories

Heap full
Of garbled memories..

Awaiting detangling,
sorting, rearranging, classifying,
Weeding out, preserving!

Should be time well spent!

life

Potential lives of endless possibilities
ever reduced to seeking occupation ..mundane routines
each pushing time to grave!.

L

all in a day's work

If only all of life's trials were as (challenging ) welcome as these..

.i.e. sprint for the morning bus and train and GET them,

alight at your designated railway station, without mishaps, even if your dupatta did get stuck is somebody else's neck,

the umbrella is lying available snug in the bag,even after two days of careless weekend holidays, to handle the sudden drizzle that has inexplicably started, when u just got off your local,

the wind which tries its hardest to upturn your umbrella, but u bravely hold on to your umbrella and your senses, as u cover the walk to your workplace, umbrella and senses intact!

Ah, that's what i call universe's way of giving you your day's sense of achievement!

Lik

circle of creation

circle of creation!

should,
creation born of a creator,
be indebted to its lofty maker,
or
is it the originator
who must feel
obligated to the opus
for a chance
at being born some more?

in a circle of creation
who creates whom?

often unexpected is thankfulness,
yet, ingratitude surely hurts!

L

The magical lamp

The magical lamp

The knock on the door on Saturday mornings is irritating..cause its usually the neighbourhood children asking for water...the bane of groundfloor house owners..and it does get tiring being the good Samaritan, when you have been at it for years and years!

Anyway back to my story, so when i opened the door, it was with a irritated frown, which didnt fade when i saw that it was a young, strange, bald 'Shakal' of Kulbhushan Kharbanda 'Shan' fametwentyfiveish North Indian man, whose uniform was more grubbier than his hands that rang my door bell.

"Im the gas meter man" he nastily sneered into my own snooty face,"im have to read your gas meter".

The first thought was "why do such creepy characters always come when im alone at home?" , but of course, i let him into the house without any word except the snarl in my eyes.

i kept a sharp look out for my mobile which was charging away, and to the other expensive disposables lying around carelessly,( a habit learnt from my father's way of functioning, which was never to keep anything under lock and key) while i guided him to my kitchen.

I had long ago, dispensed with the courteous offering of a glass of water and later Tea to any stranger who landed home,( a habit i learnt from my mother), especially the TV , washing machine or refrigerator repairers, as totally unnecessary in cities like Mumbai.

He climbed the platform with my permission, to check the gas meter, while i stood hawk eyed close by, when he suddenly exclaimed, "who uses this?"
I looked up to stare at a glass lantern, which i had purchased in Vasai years ago, and immediately old memories made me give a guttral laugh.

The lamp had been a gift by me to my husband in the initial blush of marriage, he had happened to mention to somebody of how he found such lamps adorable, which are totally made of glass, as opposed to the iron metal that most lamps have at the bottom, and so when i found it with a street hawker in a Vasai market, i immediately brought it.

Though, we never used it.as power cuts in Mumbai are rare( and getting kerosene is rarer, i dont even know where they are being sold), so the lamp lay on a shelf next to the gas meter, still treasured, but sadly forgotten.

"We dont use it any more" i grinned at him.

"Thats what i thought", he smiled back, you usually find such lanterns only in the villages."

Where are you from? I ask.

Uttar Pradesh. He answers.

Ok, I smile.

His work over, he turns to leave, and then suddenly thanks me for the lamp. Its years since ive seen one. It brought back my childhood memories, he sighed.

He leaves. I shut the door.

Both of us are smiling, warm smiles.

Though the magic of a simple village lamp, we both managed to cut through the 'akdu memsaab' and 'uncouth labourer' labels we had unconsciously given each other, and connected as human beings.

Like

I, me and my self

I, me and myself

the more
i want to empty me,
from myself,
the more
i am filled up
with me.

the more
i want to write
in sand,
the more
deeper i get carved
in stone.

it seems never ending
this battle,
of me with myself.

price of worth

price of worth.

what price
is worth measured,
that which is never forgotten,
or that which is forever treasured?

the sorrows that are bound
to follow joys again
worth are they more, or less,
that gains brought about by pain ?

choose if i have to, between
bliss after conscious brewing,
and reckless euphoric pleasure trailed
with dread of indefinite ruin.

Alas,for me, there is no choice!.
whatever the world says, there are no two ways,
tomorrows are for the wise,
imprudent me, Ive always lived for my todays!

Lik

beauty and the beast

the story of beauty and the beast is more about ACCEPTANCE of the beast by beauty, than about the beast transforming into a handsome prince

L

tea - a - tea

Tea a Tea

(This particular story has been lying in the head for more than three years now, but its only today that it has happened to get a life)

Almost three years ago, I was in caught in a circumstance, where i was spending most of my day time, for almost a continuous month, in a nursing home, not as a patient, but a watchdog for a relative, who was stuck between life and death, to the ventilator in the ICU( till he got better).

Of course , initially, we weren't very sure whether he would pull through, so the constant vigil was not so much, the hard work of nursing a sick man, as much as loitering the hospital grounds, and keeping fingers crossed, while waiting for 'some' progress.

And during most of the time that i waited, my best ' stress free' time was my tea time.

Just outside the nursing home was this small tea shop which was called Lucky. The owner was a young bright eyed boy of about twenty something, who also prepared the tea most of the time.

Normally any transaction between a tea seller and his caffine strapped customer in Mumbai is only of the ordering of the 'cutting' or 'full' chai, sometimes pre-brewed in kettles, and sometimes brewed right in front of you(especially if you order 'without sugar') ,expertly poured into tumblers, and mechanically handed over to you, small change collected and glasses handed back, and you go about your business, hardly noticing the hand or the person behind the gas stove.

But somehow this lad immediately entered my awareness, for
there was some certain amount of concern in his look.... a kind of sympathy, which surprisingly coexisted even with the lithe agile look in his eyes. I realised that he was constantly aware of the fact that his tea shop was close to the nursing home, and that most of his customers would be anxious relatives waiting for some ill person/patient , each person lost in his own troubles sorrows, of his near one lying on some bed and financial/or other worries. He always seemed to remember this while handling his customers, though he never used words. The look itself was enough to communicate his support.

The lad had a gaze that went way beyond the call of his job. (The tea was wonderful too.)

The second time i went to have a tea, the place was swarming with men and since I was the only woman around, he, assuming that i would be uncomfortable, thoughtfully told me that i could, if I wanted, wait at the bench in the nursing home, and he would deliver me my tea there(even if it was a bit of a hassle for him).

On my subsequent visits, i noticed that he had a bench or bakda as its called in Mumbiya language, outside his shop,where i could sit and have the tea, and munch small chaklis, tiny motichoor laddus, and biscuits in glass jars, which his shop had........things i had seen years ago, in tiny kirana shops near my school..... things I had always wanted during my school days, but never had enough money to indulge in, things which i thought had died out with time.

Soon we got to talking, i learnt his name was Salim, he took over from his dad's shop after his death, he was married and had a son who was almost two( he even introduced me to his wife and son one evening), and we always exchanged small pleasantries while i waited for my tea to be brewed.

Like i said the tea a tea used to be the best part of my days,during that month.
I never saw the boy again, afterwards, but i often wondered about him, and his little kid and his beautiful wife.

Lots of people before me, and many after me would have come and gone from the tea shop,paying for the tea, and at the same time being gifted with his rare semi literate sensitivity, some like me befriending him for a brief period and then disappearing from his life for ever, while he must be continuing to sell tea to his customers with his own tiny brand of human warmth.

I wouldn't be exaggerating if i say, that it is people like him who make our world a likable place.

Lik

butterflies

Broken wings

long long ago,there was a butterfly,
who lived all his life alone
this tiny wonderful creature
had nobody to call his own.

his fragile multi coloured wings one day
he frayed by his numerous attempts to fly,
and he stood lonely beaten subdued
by his continual unsuccessful tries.

The butterfly sad, sulky, morose
wistful about his body incomplete,.
unlike the beautiful fragrant rose
whose nectar he did daily seek.

day after day, his partially broken wings
he inspected, wondering, hoping
of some miracle cure
to make him whole again

and thus days went by,
till this sad lonely butterfly,
with his partially tattered wings,
glimpsed, on a sparkling spring day,

a host of other butterflies
all with their wings clipped too
some by cruel callous human hands,
others by nature's furious blows.

hordes of them, just like him,
unfinished, flawed, fragmented
all lonely souls,
by their imperfections tormented.

but they held together
their rent broken wings
helping each other fly higher
singing sweet songs, with the soothing winds

then the butterfly thought,
ah, i'm not unique, in my sorrow,
the whole world is just like me,
pain hits all, today or tomorrow.

he now learnt how to smile,
how to feel whole once again,
together, broken wings holding broken wings,
that is how to feel perfectly full again.

L