Wednesday, August 28, 2013

The Female Humpty Dumpty



"Woman woman sat on a wall,
Woman woman had a great fall.
Four-score Men and Four-score more,
Could not make woman where she was before."

After all how could they, when they are the ones who perhaps photographed the 'fall' (the first four-score) and consumed it too (four-score more and more). Or maybe not. Katrina Kaif's bikini pictures with her alleged beau Ranbir Kapur are all over the print and television media today. Why do I get a feel that her bikini has a bigger role to play than anything else- holiday in Spain or even Ranbir Kapoor? The angel-faced actress, who we easily forgave for being Sheila and Chameli (though we cheered and leered), sporting a bikini on a private holiday is surely a big thing. How could she! And if she could, we are very well within our rights to bring it to the world- thus spake the unidentified photographer and the team of Stardust and other media. 

Kaif is completely justified in being upset at the invasive nature of media. But we the people and media do not want to allow her that either. Just because she is an actor, female at that, puts her in a doubly disadvantaged position. She is not supposed to separate her public and private selves: each aspect of her life is up for consumption. She must deal with the voyeur in each of us, for she chose to be an actress. We, the voyeur, have an upper hand always and she must submit. Laura Mulvey of Visual and Other Pleasures clearly states that "Voyeurism has associations with sadism: pleasure lies in ascertaining guilt, asserting control and subjugating the guilty person through punishment or forgiveness." So yes, we may 'forgive' her, but she remains guilty. 

As a female actor in the Indian film industry, Kaif clearly is devoid of the power that another victim of this low breed of journalism the Duchess of Cambridge wields. A formal investigation has been initiated against the publishing head responsible for the French edition of Closer magazine and two photographers for Kate Middleton's topless photographs published last year. Many things are in favour of the Duchess: she is, well, a British Royal and she was holidaying with her husband and not an alleged beau. I doubt, therefore, if any such investigation or even an advisory will come the way of Kaif's photographers and publishers. Alas, Katrina Kaif, you are no queen. Not even of our hearts. You are perhaps just a female humpty dumpty. Your 'fall' makes us laugh. 

The Soul is All I have

I normally desist from posting writings of other people on my blog. In fact, I have never done that before. Twitter and Facebook are the spaces where I share what I read and like or even dislike. The following string of little poems has, however, compelled me to share somebody else's work. This deeply personal blog warmly welcomes a spontaneous poet friend of mine who wishes to remain anonymous. 
     

        I
The soul is all I have,
Nothing else.
A soul mate
Makes me feel so rich.

        II
The soul is all I have,
Nothing else.
Giving it to you
Makes me feel so rich.

        III
The soul is all I have,
Nothing else.
It turns into a butterfly
When it feels you, my mate.
Be tender , my love
It's all I have.

        IV
The soul is all I have,
Nothing else.
Your smile makes it bloom,
Your tears make it cry.
You can take it , my love
Even though
I have nothing else.

         V
The soul is all I have,
Nothing else.
It needs the wings,
Your love can give.
Love me like you did,
Once before.
Delve into me
So I can soar.
Love me like you did,
Once before.
Caress it with your breath on my brow.
It wants the wings
Your love can give.
Love me
Like you did
Once before!

  

The Red Suitcase

My red suitcase has opened up by itself, almost magically. 
Oh well, not really. 


I had left it unzipped after fishing out the toothbrush last evening.


I see my crumpled soul 
lying in a corner,
Barely covered by my peach saree's green border.


"This needs to be smoothened out," I murmur 
and stash it in the laundry corner.

Inside the vanity case, some kisses were jostling for space with lipsticks purple and pink
And they play with my memory like building blocks
or a chain's link.

In the right corner, hidden beneath the stack of unwashed T-shirts lie
The caresses and contours, the fragrances of Dunhill-Rum-Sweat-Antiseptic-Navy Cut-My Hair Oil (stolen)
And I sigh.

The suitcase needs to be emptied, the soul smoothened.

YOU

You may intoxicate, 
How will you benumb?
I may drown in you
Or to a fragrant reverie
My being will succumb. 
Droplets- big and small
Each worth a million
Each a story teller
Will grow old at the corner of my mouth.
Clouds around me 
And the rainbows in my eyes
Have a habit of fast
losing iridescence and becoming gray.
You slow it.
But that's it.

You, after all, are not that potent.