So I got spurned. I had it coming. It was like one of those passive-aggressive relationships. I was passive. She was aggressive. I liked it.
She told me I was her backbone. So I became a better man: because, here it is – she needed me. Without me she would have faltered, fallen, withered, and the hounds probably would have had her. I couldn’t let that happen. No, sir, I might be a Punjabi, but I know how to treat women right.
So you think I am shallow? Am I too naïve for you? You would probably say: “Serves you right for falling for a cliché like that”. You’re probably right, Bubba, but how was I to know. She was a beacon shining over some very choppy waters : and I was a big hulking supertanker perilously at sea. How ludicrous is that? But you know, when you are growing old, you treasure whatever little amount of love coming your way, like gold dust. Listening to her constant chattering was like waking up on a summer morning and hearing a bird chirping away at your window sill. What bird? How the fuck would I know? You want what? Fucking draw you a picture? Yeah! Fuck I will. Fuck you!!!
Nothing much happened beyond the perfunctory shaking of hands the first time we met. We shook hands, sizing up each other the way strangers do: she skinny as rails, smartly dressed; me hulking supertanker, needing a fresh coat of paint. Fine, fits with my opposites attract theory. You see, when I was a kid, an uncle visiting us during the Summer Holidays, pointing to a plug and socket, explained it thus: this is male this is female – which is probably the best piece of advice I ever got from anybody during my adolescent years. So what I am saying is this: what if she was so swan like compared to hulking bear like me? I mean look around.
I know what Henry Miller must have felt when he spoke about his love for Anais Nin: “Don’t expect me to be sane anymore”; “I came away with pieces of you sticking to me”; “Don’t let’s be sensible”; “I read the papers about murders and suicide and understand it all thoroughly”; “Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc?” Henry Miller: I feel for you man. I am in a murderous mood myself…
I was like the Moor in the Shakespeare play, raging against the night, like a wolf gone rabid, with murder most foul in the heart. But try as I would the only thing I could remember was the first handshake and her hands : cold and bony and clammy. I suppose I have a fetish for hands like some people have a fetish for toenails.
Top [pick your number] lists should come with a statutory warning – “Top [pick your number] lists are bad for reader’s well being and mental health. Tests carried out at the university of XYZ show that top [Pick your number please] lists impair brain function and lead to a lazy disposition of the reader. Reader’s discretion is advised”
Now, you may say, why this grudge, why this rant, why this all-out, till the end-of-the-world, declaration of war, against something as innocuously worded as “top seven sex tricks to jazz up your love life” or even “top seven apps that will make you a model employee”. Bear with me, let me first introduce you to a top [pick your number will] writer.
Basically a top [pick your number] writer is a megalomaniac who see themselves as some sort of a modern day seer. Now you tell me, what kind of man or woman whittles down top sex positions to a mere six or seven – she/he has to be a megalomaniac, right? How can you whittle down something so important as sex to a top [pick your number] list. Obviously, it has to be some kind of God complex at play. It is like – “Ooh! My words are final. And there is no way you can ever enjoy or achieve anything in life if you’re not acquainted with one of my top [pick your number] list.”
Top [pick your number] writers are overbearingly arrogant, know- it- alls. You know the type. And you see them everywhere, spawning like the matrix – no wonder there are so many top [pick your number] lists on the big WWW. They are the kind that believe that life’s important questions and everything in between can be distilled down to top [pick your number] lists. Let me ask you – what kind of moron does that? You’re right, only those with some kind of insufferable God complex, the know-it-alls, and the top [pick your number] list writer wallahs.
You can trust them to take the joy out of your Sunday book reading sessions. Trust me, you’ll do well to stay away from their weekly reading suggestions or top [pick your number] things you need to enjoy a book. I chanced on one that recommended tea, coffee, chocolate cake to make your book reading more enjoyable. Isn’t that depressing? Tea, coffee, chocolate – really?
Here is my question – why limit yourself to only tea, coffee, chocolate cake? Why not add acid, coke, LSD, mescaline? Don’t they know that a good read is like a sustained release Dopamine capsule kicking in at regular intervals and keeping the reader on a perpetual high. Why the hell do you need stimulants?
Then there are top[pick your number] writers who see themselves at the forefront of women’s empowerment. So every article is a top [pick your number] [pick your favorite app/too/software] for the working women. It is sexist really. And it is a tad bit sad because they have taken a perfectly egalitarian thing – technology – and turned it into a male-female divide to serve their respective constituencies.
Here is the thing, top [pick your number] lists won’t make you any smarter as they are written under the impression that you are too dumb to do your research. So are you dumb? Your favorite top [pick your number] writers think so? Mad, huh? Time to shun them.