The Moves

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What is that one arena in India where it is perfectly legitimate to be lascivious and come hither? A trifle cheap as they say.  Fleshy, undulating and mock seductive. You can throw your head back, tip it one way, or even cock it. The eyes could be dilated under twitching brows, narrowed for coquettish effect or just plain rolled and crossed playfully. No one bats an eyelid! Looking in from the outside, it would appear to be a rally called 'Humans against inhibitions'. It's alright, you can use your handkerchief as a prop. Just bite one corner and pinch the other with both hands. Now swing the head, both arms and the waist to mimic coil uncoil. Don't worry about your appearance. There is sure to be a human snake close by, hands cupped over his expressive head, lunging at thin air. You don't have a buoy, simply imagine one. A stack of currency notes for one. Careful now, this one needs skill. You begin to flick them into the sky with the right index finger and off the left palm, gyrating all the time, bend those knees a bit. Such a suicidal but celebratory sense of abandon, quite un-Indian. It is perfectly acceptable to balance a full glass of the amber beverage on the head and teeter, egged on by bashful beams. This is the safe space for the most part to let the hair down. You are free to cut the rug in multiple directions. Be as jerky, as twirly, as trippy as you like, you know perfectly well that just beyond the floor lies your true, dignified self. This is just pretend. A hark back to our Bollywood subconscious. A glimpse of the play that lurks in the heart. A window to the primal masquerade. And you are in plenty company even as you pirouette around a bellowing dupatta. The spectators! Their mirror neurons are lit and frisky.

The Door

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Have you struggled with a closed door in your house ever? No, it's not jammed. It has been deliberately and firmly shut and latched with an intention to keep you out. Go ahead. Knock. First gently, then insistently, soon with an ear flattened against the wood. Call tentatively to begin with, then louder but the music is insurmountable. Your innards begin to erupt now. Some guests are expected home and you want to forewarn the kid. Perhaps you want the curtains inside measured for a makeover. Quite likely it's the family dog you think has gotten locked in. Even a fire, god forbid! But the door stays in place. You stand rooted one paralyzed

moment then shuffle away in bewilderment. Oh good lord, what if he is writhing in fever! Hope he has not passed out, horizontal in an alcoholic haze. You bolt back at the door. There's a gap between the panels. You grab the handles and apply pressure, sinking to an arthritic haunch. While you are craning to align the eye, the domestic happens upon his crouching Madam. "Dukhi, I dropped the tiny screw on my ear stud, use your broom later alright!" You heave up exhaling an exasperated sigh while he looks on, squinting at you limp off in a cloud of injured dignity. But the needles of suspicion are stabbing at you. Betoo's toe had just begun to come into view when you were interrupted. What if he suffered a stroke having smoked up until dawn with his scruffy bros. Could he have been poring over porn? Beads of sweat threaten your forehead now. You reach for your loyal bottle of Sualin and pop a tablet, wincing at the sickly sweetness. Lowering gingerly on to the edge of your bed you address yourself, "Try looking in from the windows across his room, get up!" Just as you are picking yourself, a disprited young voice comes cutting through the corridor, "Ma, I sent you a Whatsapp message last night to wake me up at 6 am, I just missed an important session. Don't you guys check your feeds?"