of flaws

She’s so… spunky, he’s saying. Obviously they’re talking about you.

I’ve always wanted to be with a woman like that. Driven. Independent. Confident. Sexy. She walks into a room and turns heads. She’s the hottest woman and the coolest friend rolled into one. You know what I mean?

You’re inching closer. You don’t want him to know you’re eavesdropping. She’s the kind of woman that makes you always want to hold on to, he says. You smile. You believe him.

Well, almost. You know he loves you, but always? You’ve never liked the idea of always. You know either of you can’t be absolutely loyal. It’s not in you. Both of you like being loved too much for your own good.

Also, he likes to be needed. All men do. You don’t know how long it’ll be before he realizes that you’re too driven. Too independent. Soon he will see that you can find your way around the world even without him; you don’t need a man to give you safety or money or happiness.

You know his reverence will eventually turn into resentment and that’s why the whole concept of always is so fucking flawed.

 

of little ironies

You know how when you’re little you want your wedding to be just perfect; how you imagine yourself in a bright red saree with a gold border, gold jewelry that is just the right size, hair done up in a neat little bouffant, and makeup that makes you look radiant; how you just know your family and friends are going to fawn over you as you get mehendi applied to your palms; and how much you want the photographs to be beautiful and candid at the same time? You know how you play that gooey-as-hell Kabhi Kabhi song again and again in your head, picturing yourself and your dreamboat in the sequence instead of Amitabh and his ugly consort?

I don’t.

of a bumbaclot

I woke up this morning to this comment on my about page.

Needless to say, I was pissed. Surely I wouldn’t have 180+ followers if my writing was this shallow! At first I was going to allow it to appear and reply to him in the comments section, but then I realized that my Chetan Bhagat syndrome wasn’t going to allow it and I would HAVE to write a full blown letter to whatshisface about it. So here goes:

Dear Subrat,

(Is that even your real name?)

No, I don’t know what you mean, but thank you for your “sincere suggestion” that I write like Chetan Bhagat and am an aspiring Rakhi Sawant. I will take this as a compliment for two reasons:

1. I may find Chetan’s writing uninspiring but hell, he sells books and people make movies (and money) out of his brainfarts.
2. Rakhi thrives on negative publicity (such as this) but thrives nonetheless. By god Jejus ki kasam, I would give my other arm and my remaining teeth to appear on Big Boss. I could get a set of sparkly white dentures with all the money. (I’d also get breast implants but that’s besides the point.)

I’m a glass-half-full person, you know! Oh but how would you know? You didn’t bother to read anything other than my posts on the bad stuff Indian girls should not be talking about. Yes sir. I’ve recently learned to decipher my stats page and have been doing my homework. Gotcha, you bumbaclot!

At this point, I’m wondering this: if I were to write more posts about divinity and how Indian women are destined to pander to the whims of the men in their lives, would you then think I’ve grown up and/or graduated? Also, what upsets you more, the fact that I have sex or that I talk about it?

In my defense (rhetorically speaking), if you were to read between the lines lines that do not contain the words “sex”, “masturbation”, and “vagina”, and “naked”, you’d realize that I also write about independence, love, heartbreak, freedom, family, and the general travails of being a single woman living alone. I write about weirdos I come across (such as yourself). I write about pain and depression and thousands of other things that your birdbrain may not be able to process.
But I don’t blame you. With your head that far up your ass and your eyes shut as tight as a camel’s ass in a sandstorm, I don’t know if you ever can. So I just hope you’ll leave me and my 180+ followers alone so I can “find solace” in my “graceful writing” through which my readers can “gather good” about me.

Really looking forward to hearing from you.  Go on, say something that actually makes sense. I challenge you!

Also, I don’t mean to nitpick but I think you meant “posts”, not “blogs.”

~ Anawn

of delusions

You know how I forgot my car keys in the ex husband’s camera bag.

He came to drop off the car keys today. He was being really sweet, but I suspected that he was rather miffed at having to come to my office all the way just to drop off my car keys. It’s no problem at all, he said. At least I got to meet you again.

Although I know he hates detours and was just being polite, he didn’t seem upset at all. I almost felt

103 People Unfriended Her, How Many Would Do the Same to Me

The ugly truth about beauty.

Blog Woman!!! - Life Uncategorized

I came across a Huffington post about a woman who posted pictures of herself on her Facebook wall that caused a collapse in her social circle.  The headline said “When Beth Posted These Images on Facebook, 103 People Unfriended Her”.   

The headline effectively grabbed my attention, but what the story really did was zero in on the heart of one of my own deepest fears.  It cut to a deep vulnerability that even I don’t fully understand, but it’s one that has held me back from engaging as fully in life as I possibly could.  I can’t do that until I can somehow get to a place of true peace about it.

The pictures that Beth Whaanga, the woman in the Huffington piece, posted were semi-nude images of herself featuring her scars from a double mastectomy and a hysterectomy.  They were taken by a photographer leading a project called,

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