Men

Carol Ann Duffy is quickly turning out to be my latest favourite poet. I've been researching her poems for my students and while doing so, I came across almost all of her "World's Wife" poems, which are absolutely hilarious! In this particular collection of her's, she has presented the points of view of the wives of famous male personalities. (barring Elvis Presley, whose sister's point of view has been presented.)

And as a woman, sometimes, these stories just click so well and I can relate to them so perfectly. Today, when 3 women who are very close to me have narrated similar stories to me, just like the one in this poem, I feel the need to put it up.. Not only is this something that men often do and women often suffer, it is also a sentiment perfectly captured and subverted to achieve the right effect.

Pygmalion's Bride

Cold, I was, like snow, like ivory.

I thought He will not touch me,

But he did 

He kissed my stone-cool lips.

I lay still

As though I’d died.

He stayed.

He thumbed my marble eyes.

He spoke – 

Blunt endearments, what he’d do and how.

His words were terrible.

My ears were sculpture

Stone-deaf, shells.

I heard the sea.

I drowned him out.

I heard him shout.

He brought me presents, polished pebbles, 

little bells.

I didn’t blink,

Was dumb.

He brought me pearls and necklaces and rings.

He called them girly things.

He ran his clammy hands along my limbs.

I didn’t shrink,

Played statue, shtum.

He let his fingers sink into my flesh, 

He squeezed, he pressed.

I would not bruise.

He looked for marks, 

For purple hearts,

For inky stars, for smudgy clues.

His nails were claws.

I showed no scratch, no scrape, no scar.

He propped me up on pillows,

Jawed all night.

My heart was ice, was glass.

His voice was gravel, hoarse.

He talked white black. 

So I changed tack,

Grew warm, like candle wax,

Kissed back,

Was soft, was pliable, 

Began to moan,

Got hot, got wild,

Arched, coiled, writhed,

Begged for his child,

And at the climax

Screamed my head off – 

All an act

And haven’t seen him since.

Simple as that. 

For those who don't know who Pygmalion is, here is the wikipedia link for the story. I don't particularly want to dwell on the details of my friends' stories here. But suffice to say that three hearts were broken because of the hot-cold-hot-cold attitude that confused men often adopt. I wish men would understand that it's not okay to encourage a woman and then let her down by putting all the blame on her; that it's not okay to stop communicating out of the blue and then place the blame on the girl of actually saying the word "break up" out loud; that it's not okay to get into a relationship simply because you're lonely and then get out of it when you need space.

All relationships have to be worked at and they require efforts. If you don't want to put in the efforts but want the results, then it's never going to work out. And this advice goes out to everybody, irrespective of their gender.

Mencynicism

Mencynicism is the kind of cynicism that is born in a woman because of men. All the men she ever encounters - in her life, on the streets - everywhere. I've found that Indian women are a lot, A LOT more mencynicists than any other women I've come across.

And, now, I know why we are all so jaded and mencynicists here. *Rant Alert* I feel concious of stepping out of the house. I wear loose kurtis, tie up my hair in a tight plait, wear minimal jewellery and zero make-up. I try to be as inconspicuous as possible. And I hate it because it's not me. I like flaunting myself. But I don't do it here. I still get stared at, I still hear the catcalls, I still sense creepy men making inappropriate gestures behind me. And I'm not even someone I'd call exceptionally beautiful. I can't even imagine what the really pretty girls must be going through! My creep-radar had gone so down for the last year that it's working over-time here. And it bothers me no end. I notice the rude graffiti in the ladies compartment of the local trains and my blood boils over. Why the fuck do we have to go through all this abuse? And I can't do anything about it. ANY FUCKING THING! Coz I'm just the one. They are so many. It's me who'll have to face the consequences. I have never hated being physically weak so much as I do it now. I wish I could just go and slap these people without having to worry about the what-ifs. I wish I could make eye-contact and let them know exactly what I think of them without having to bother about what might happen later.

Some of the experiences I've had in the past: I'm walking on a crowded street and suddenly something wet brushes against my arm and I find white stuff on it. I look back and there is a sea of men whose backs are facing me. I'm walking on a very crowded railway overhead bridge and I can feel someone trying to push himself on me from behind. In the same situation, on a different day, I can feel someone trying to grope me from behind and all I can do it press my bag against me and keep crawling along with the others because there is no space to turn around and confront anyone. Besides, it's the same situation of turning around and facing a hundred different men. Who can I point fingers at? Countless times, I've got into a ladies compartment in a local train and there are drawings of penises on the seats and numbers on the walls. Countless times, I've been stared at, head to toe in that creepy manner which makes it clear that the man has obviously undressed me publicly in his mind. I've heard innumerable catcalls from the passing train when the ladies compartment of our trains passes them by. And I'm from Mumbai - one of the safest cities in India. I shudder to think what the girls and the women in Delhi must be going through! Even though I'm sure nothing will happen to me here, I am still fed up of all the indirect abuse we put up with all our lives. Do these men really think of NOTHING else at all? Is there absolutely NOTHING in their lives apart from harassing women and thinking about sex? This kind of behaviour is what makes sex a dirty thing, while it should be a beautiful, sensual thing. It may have something to do with the sexually-repressed society we live in. I'm not saying that England was a haven. Not at all! I did face some random catcalls there as well. But, I've never been harassed or creeped-out like I've been here. And I know every single woman has faced something or the other like this in her life. Probably more than once.

And if this wasn't enough, we always have the cheating and the commitment phobic boyfriends to remind us that men really only think with their penises. Is it any wonder that we think there are no decent, date-able guys left in this world?!!

*Disclaimer: I do acknowledge that not all men are like the ones mentioned above. I just wanted to point out that the percentage of men who are is too high for us to rest at peace.