Emasculation

 

20.5x28.5 inches; Watercolour, pen and ink over graphite pencil on handmade paper (Click on image to enlarge)

I am not a masculine man.

I deny to fit into that notion of a man.

I recoil from what I must become

To prove that I am enough of a man.

 

Many tried to make a man

Of what they found in me of a man!

Between my legs lay, for some,

Proof enough to define me as a man.

 

Once I was told by a proud macho man,

“Either you grow into a manly man

Or you must a man’s victim become!”

I wilted and curled into a wimpy man.

 

Teased for being the sissy man,

Bullied for not being a tough man,

I grew up to remain, for some,

A complete disgrace to the name of man.

 

I don’t care to be accepted as a man

Because that which confines every man,

I defied; to breathe my freedom,

I embody the fear of emasculation in each man.

Mohini

 

20.5x28.5 inches; Watercolour, pen and ink over graphite pencil on handmade paper (Click on image to enlarge)

I dress up for the night. I have washed myself in a bucket of water. A necessity that feels more like a luxury as water is precious. The municipal tap flows for two hours every day. We are a home of eight. That bucket of water was the ocean to me. I rose from it to become Mohini from Mohan.

I put on my makeup. The face powder, I bought with my money. A gift to myself for my last birthday. The kajal pencil, now a 2 inch stub, was generously donated by Padma. The red lipstick I stole from a shop that has pretty ladies working as sales girls. I wish I could get a job like that. Yes, I do earn a living, being a bride for one night to strange lovers, but the money is barely enough for rent, clothes and food.

I look at myself in the mirror. I admire the illusion of beauty I see there. The light from one naked bulb bathes my form in bright light and deep shadows. Like a solar eclipse when Raahu tries to devour the sun. I pluck a stray hair on my upper lip and a wayward eyelash with a pair of tweezers. I place a black dot on the left, over my upper lip, mid-way between the corner of my lip and nostril. Perfect.

I take a band of long soft cloth, cut from an old cotton saree and wrap it around the lower part of my chest. A little tightly, not tight enough to cause trouble breathing. Then I push the soft fleshy upper part of my chest from both sides near the armpits, upwards and inwards towards the centre of my chest. I feel a shiver as I see my cleavage take shape where my chest hair used to be. I adjust the tightness of the band of cloth to keep the cleavage in position.

I wear a sleeveless white blouse with a deep neckline. Deep enough to reveal the cleavage I created but not the means holding it in place. I have a pair of balloons filled with water, something Bobby had taught me. I insert them each in the two empty tents in my blouse which were meant to house soft breasts. The water filled balloons create a bounce that mimics real breasts better than sponge pads. It has its risk too if the balloons burst, but I still prefer it. I roll my shoulder and adjust the strap of the blouse checking the bounce.  

I drape a pearly white chiffon saree with conch shell design embroidered with sequins, the latest fashion popularized by the actress Bhanumati, over my bleached white petticoat. Bleach to keep the spots and germs away. I wish I could bleach away the germs inside me too but that is another story. I look at my reflection in the mirror again. I put on my beaded dangler earrings and a matching bead necklace, stolen from my elder sister, many years ago. The only heirloom I possess to remind me of the family I was born to. I begin to recognize myself now. “Me Mohini!” I whisper.

Now, to complete the transformation I pick up the wig Lakshmi lent me yesterday. She is not going out to meet clients for the next few days. She is not well. High fever with a nasty cough. So, I borrowed her wig; silky and shiny black hair styled in waves like the dark ocean raging inside me. I put it on and flip my head back to feel the hair cascade around my neck. I tilt my head, my eyes half closed as if I am drunk on the nectar of life and I blow a kiss at my reflection.

I pick up my handbag and check if I have the condoms and sachets of lube. A social worker keeps giving us these things for free. Keeps us safe from diseases, she says. There are many dangers other than diseases that come with the territory in the line of my work. I feel far from safe but at least she is trying to keep me safe from one villain. I throw in my comb, lipstick and an antiseptic ointment. I wear my flat slip-on sandals. No heels for me. You never know when you need to run. I switch off the light and I shout “I am going out!” and I step out into the night humming a song to myself.

“I am a bride for a night, every night!

A flickering flame for willing lovers

Who drink from my pot of eternal life,

Turning to dust on the bed covers

At the end of every night, every night!”

Firdaus

 

20.5x28.5 inches; Watercolour, pen and ink over graphite pencil on handmade paper (Click on image to enlarge)

“Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.” - Amir Khusrau

My paradise is lost. Was it mine, to begin with? If it was mine, was it paradise?

It was a safe haven for me - Not just a piece of land, not just a garden and an abode I called home,

To make sense of where I belonged. It was my solace, my peace of mind where I carefully hoarded

The fragmented pieces of my mind.

Where the wind blew melodies of the forest and the seas and the lullabies of the starry nights,

Songs that breathed my existence and gave me the reason to call everything mine!

It was the fountain of mirth where the tears of joy sparkled.

It was the cave of sorrow where shadows dried my tears.

A nest that cradled my life calming all my fears, feeding me, clothing me, satiating all my desires…

Then I lost it all!

So violently torn, so bitingly violated that I questioned the verity of my memories.

To become a tumble weed in the desert, a paper boat in the flood, a lump of meat in the feast,

A compass without North!

The beasts come in hoards to eat the leftovers, stripping the meat from the bones,

To gorge on what scraps are left of my humanity in an arena full of spectators who debate;

Shall it be a thumbs up or a thumbs down?

And yet I want to live, I want my love to live, I want my hope to live, I want my tribe to live,

I want to live to find my paradise one more time!

I want to live for our songs of paradise to stay alive.

Propaganda

 

28.5x20.5 inches; Pen and ink over graphite pencil on coloured drawing paper (Click on image to enlarge)

I look perfectly charismatic
While my innards are swarming with worms
Festering from corruption and bile,
An immaculate Dorian Gray in the vilest norms!

I can conjure up godly avatars
While orchestrating the most demonic of deeds
Knowing, you shall find me innocent
Disregarding what your faculty of reason heeds!

I will stalk you like a predator
While promising you the world of your dream,
Bending the rules to trap the prey
Leaving you crumbs and stealing all the cream!

I can gradually poison your being
While you thank me for being the saintly messiah!
You will imagine you have free will
As I turn you into slavish mobs taming the pariah!

I will rape and plunder with my power
While you stay drugged with hatred and deceit,
No victim shall receive justice or closure
But in turn will be deemed guilty by moral conceit!

I am quite a scoundrel, I know
While you remain confident of my holy character!
Why else try to control public opinion
If not to lead, unchecked, my fattened lambs to slaughter?

Salvation

 

20.5x28.5 inches; Pen and ink over graphite pencil on textured drawing paper (Click on image to enlarge)

You peddle salvation

As if, you own an infinite source

To supply the instant high!

Have you inherited it as an heirloom?

Always promising a recourse

To the lost soul in distress,

As if, you have the precious road map

With the only route clearly marked

To lead them out of this mess.

What gives you such confidence?

Who appointed you the guide?

I wonder…

Does a particle of dust find salvation

Just by clinging to your hide?

Yes, I know,

We are gullible

Marinating in our sins,

Fermenting with guilt

We are fallible,

Easily herded like sheep

Seeking safety from imagined wolves,

Settling down meekly

For a life of servitude.

No, you are beyond reproach

For we are to blame!

We put you on a pedestal

With our fears and our faith,

To avoid being responsible for

Our own lives and deeds,

To find shortcuts to repentance

And forgiveness for being bad seeds.

If a dip in the Ganges

Can wash away my sin,

Why bother mending my ways?

Let the waters bear the poison

While I remain conveniently pure and clean!