I Choose to Love You in Silence.

I loved you in silence.
You were right there in front of me, they said, "What the heck," but I still loved you.
I tried to to get around knowing you, I tried to, but I stepped back.
There were so many scars from the place I came from,
Too many demons,
Too many broken hearts,
Too many lies I had lived.
So I loved, I still do, in silence.

I could not put myself on the line again.
I had failed so many times before,
I don't know if I could risk the same again.
I am a woman, the less regarded,
I din't know if loving was something I did,
Or if they would see it as love,
Or if you would see it as love.

I love you in silence, even today.
Because I'm too full of cowardice,
too full of self doubt,
too full of denial,
too full of, "What will they think."
Unlike you, there is so much I need to think,
So much I need to delve into,
Before I fell in love.

But today I say what someone said
A long time back.
"I chose to love you in silence."
Because then I have no fear of losing you.
And in silence, I have no recriminations,
In silence, you are nobody else's, but Mine.

-The Bra Slasher.

I woke up at 4. My body ached, demanded that I climb back into bed, for a precious half an hour                        more.

I thrust it aside, made my way sloppily to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen.

I made breakfast.

I packed tiffins.

I made lunch.

They languidly make their way about.

Then while they are busy, I busy myself.

I iron their clothes, and polish their shoes.

While they dress, I bathe.

Then we sit for breakfast.

And we leave for work.

I am Mrs. X. Sharma.


-Bra Slasher

Mother.

Mothers.

They are said to be second to God. The only creations on the phase of the earth capable of giving life. It’s noteworthy how she can realize things without you uttering a word, and there does come a time when you do not share everything with her, but you know somewhere at the back of your head that she knows, not everything, but little pieces of something.

“Mother is Supreme” said Chinua Achebe in his text, “Things Fall Apart.” If paraphrased, what he says is simply that when everything else fails, and everybody leaves you, the mother is always the trump card, the one standing champion.

My mother too falls in that lot. No matter what the scenario, no matter how much I am in the wrong, she has stood by me, some way or the other. Yes, her iron hand has come down on me. I have been the object of her wrath, and her annoyance, but I know that she will always look with annoyance and maybe even hatred, upon those who have hurt me.

But.

I hate that we live like we do. I hate that she has to look at me up down before we leave the house, lest preying eyes fall on me.

I hate that she has to see how my neighbours react to me, how they perceive me.

When I lived with her, she kept a watch on me herself. Now that I live away, they call and tell her where I am, with whom, and what I am wearing.

I hate her sometimes, for she listens to them more than me, I hate her for chipping the wings that have not yet opened.

But then is it right that I hate her? Is not that she can’t see me being detested and burnt?

Don’t wear your hair down, you look like a whore. Don’t wear cut sleeves, your armpits attract men. Those jeans are too tight, do you want them to see it all? That top, it’s too short, your butt is holding too much attention. You want to wear shorts?! I can’t see my daughter skimpily clad! Why do you use so much perfume? Do you want them to come for you, by smelling you miles away? Cover your legs. Don’t look them in the eye. Keep your head bowed while walking. Don’t shake hands with them. Always sit by the window on buses, they feel you up otherwise. Take off the red nail paint. Don’t, Don’t, Oh no Don’t.

Why mother? Did they chop your wings too? Is that what you mourn through me? Were you seen “some way” for the way you dressed your hair, wore your clothes, turned, bent, chewed, walked? Did they detest you mother? Did they call you names?

Or was it the fate you saw handed to someone else? And scared you so much that you chopped my wings. That you hated me looking at men. That you hated me talking at all.

You gave me life mother. You made me who I am.

You Cut My Wings.

-The Bra Slasher

I am a Man

Everybody knows me, but nobody wants to take my name. If I look at someone, that person becomes a target of my next sin. If I touch something, it becomes impure. What I speak, nobody hears. What I hear is not what I want to hear. How things differ when human organs differ down at the bottom. When he looks at me, I am a thing to desire. When he touches me, I am a desire. When he speaks, it is to satisfy his desires. I am a trade of desires. I am the real goddess of humanly desires. We humans are made out of desire of flesh, and that is what I serve, then why am I a thing to abhor. Why am I a thing? I am a prostitute is what they say.
The woman who lives in the next lane turns her face to me; the only thing that gives her ‘honor’ and makes her virtuous is that vermillion mark. How unaware she is of the fact that she too is nothing more than a play thing for her husband which he rejects to come to me. When a man crawls over me, he and his society think that I am being soiled with dirt. What the fool and his subjects do not know that I become a walking effigy of his dirt. When I look at the little girls playing on the road their mothers’ heart stop for a while looking at me with contempt thinking that I want to steal the laughter from their houses to hide into the filthy corners of my small room. But when I look at that innocent smile, in their harmless sparkling eyes, clean joy-filled heart, I long for those days of past when even I had dreamt of conquering the world. But the sunken eyes of my mother, lurking rib cages of my brother and cruel hunger made me a walking taboo. Men looked at my body, women refused to acknowledge the human inside me, and society made me a criminal. A criminal? Just the absence of a vermillion mark made me a criminal. Why don’t they see the blood in the eyes of those men coloring my skin, every curve, each strand, and all the nights, scarlet? I am not a human. Not a woman. I walk without any shame on the earth, bearing the dirt and desires of all the men. I am an unmasked man.
-Bra Rider

Wanderings#2

What Every Bra Suggests (I hope the shitheads don’t miss the sarcasm):

The Ultra Sexy Push Ups:

You like ‘em all perked up and nice and in your face, dontcha nigga? Yeah. That’s what the push ups are for. Shocking is it not, right from fairness creams to “look sexy with essentials on” all that is for women. Men look sexy all the bloody time. Is it not?

The Slight Padded, no Padded Bras:

Beautiful boobs that don’t need enhancement, embarrassingly large boobs or the eyes of lechers that create a need for them. Nipples are very sensitive. So when we run, or feel cold, or whatever, the get all perked up. That attracts your unwanted gaze, making us ultra-uncomfortable. Therefore whatever the weather, we wear these, to avoid your longing gaze.

The mother’s selection, Smaller Than Boobs Bra:

Okay, nature endowed some with a good amount of boob fat. Where some people find it sexy (GET OVER IT!), some very conservative mothers find it humiliating on their daughters. So what do they do? They make their daughters wear bras smaller than their size. Why? So that the boobs are constrained inside that tiny cloth, never to get out, creating severe trauma during the summer heat. All because of the set norm of what size looks decent.

Which makes me wonder, why isn’t there a set size for penises? There should be. And there should be genital bras for men. Because frankly, we seem to be taking all the “hammering” all the time.

The Full Coverage, The Underwire:

OR, Boob enhancers or boob concealers. I can’t understand for what reason. You got it babe? Go all around and flaunt it! Really. Seen those men in jogging attire? Yeah, sick isn’t it? They can go all around jiggling their thing, but we can’t? Oh where is the justice!

A bra is everything, everything constraining us. I asked a friend why we wear a bra, she said, “to contain the boobs, so that they don’t bounce and so that they don’t grow any bigger.”

I don’t want to go over it all over again. I am just saying, can you please live with our body parts, like we live with yours?

Bras? Men? All the same..

If Honey Singh can do all the yo yo against women in his ‘super hits’ who possibly left him because they were proud owners of good sense of music, then even I can blurt out all my venom on this divinely blessed species of men. We hate bras, this write up is all about men, and we are barely going to be politically correct anyway. No, stop thinking if you happen to be a man because that is something you cannot do, and yes, there is a connection between bras and men. You walk by a store, see this piece of cloth with two cups in vibrant color and think it’s going to make you feel heavenly, no? This is very similar to this piece of flesh that walked past you probably fucked you 2 times in his mind. You fall flat for his charm and bam! The bra is of a wrong fit. Oops! I meant the man turns out be a total douche. Bras? Men? All the same. Some men will be self absorbed vainly souls just like padded bras who want people to notice their existence first because apparently they have an extra edge and some will be dominating pricks who have sold their sensibilities on the devil’s alter just like those cheap roadside bras which can suffocate you to death. But all this comes down to one thing, bras and men both are clingy and their sole purpose of existence is to make women ‘sweat’. Yes, I said it. There must be good, better, best bras and the rest of the life of a woman will be spent searching for this one tailor-made bra for her, untill her boobs sag and become of no use to men. Err! I meant bra.

 Good luck ladies.

-Bra Rider

Here Here!

We south Indians have this thing. We have a sense of extreme propriety. We thrive on it. It’s not based on civic sense where we care for the wellbeing of others as well as ours. Oh no! (scoffs). here, I speak of propriety based on “My my, what will Mrs. Iyyer think! Shiva shiva!” And going by this logic, we wear fully covered clothes and apparently never talk to people of the opposite sex. Because, here I translate a famous saying, “whether the leaf falls on the thorn or the thorn falls on the leaf, it’s the leaf that will be harmed.” That’s right, we women are the leaves. And this saying brings to my mind the sickening image of cruel sex that breaks the hymen, painfully.

Getting back to the crucial point again, the code of civic sense. The concept is misplaced. Having spent most of my life in the northern parts of the country, I realize that we aren’t so different after all. We both think that women wearing shorter clothes are “asking for it,” a girl who goes around with boys, calls them friends is a whore, a woman who aspires to be someone, and puts her career first, oh god, she is not even meant to be talked about!

So here goes.

1.        We hate being stereotyped as the weaker sex. Yes, we like looking good. I want to know, how, just how in hells name does that make us weak! You guys spend hours on choosing clothes, don’t deny it, and what the hell does that make you all?

2.        Chivalry and being treated as touch me nots are different things. Pulling out a chair is different, but helping us go down the stairs? Boy. No No NO. (I have seen it happening)

3.        We are women. Anatomically given genital organs that are meant not just for peeing. Which means, we use them to have sex. It functions for both purposes. You looking down on us for sexual appetite is plain hypocrisy and mate, clearly, you have issues.

4.        Bras are a restriction. I hate this society which has imposed it on us. I hate that we have all these varieties to make our boobs look different in so many ways. Indian summers and bras don’t go hand in hand, don’t you see it? Not all of us have limos and centrally air conditions rooms.

5.        We love our careers. You might get a hard on seeing that in us. But sure as hell, many of you would like us to make sacrifices if we are to settle down right?

 So, I can’t help but wonder, where is that freedom that is the birth right of every individual? Don’t you all realize that in creating bondages like these you are creating crippled individuals, impaired of thought and action?

What are you all scared of? I guess I have the answer to that.

Free, intelligent, successful women, might actually challenge the accepted norm of the man-bread winner.

Crippling much? 

_The Bra Slasher

Wanderings.

This blog is a result of Us. Two grudgingly bored people who have no clue why we were sent on the wrong phase of the earth. In a mindless whatsapp conversation, we shared a few problems- like mothers giving us dissatisfied scowls, troubled relations with the ex'es, and our mutual hate for bras. Which led to lengthy discussions on the existential crisis of, hell! Why was I born! And since we had no other thing to do, we created a blog to voice all these sad, SAD thoughts and get in the way of many other people's happiness. yes, that's right. We can't get it. with so much apathy and sorrow, and dumbness, how do you manage that "Oh it will all be okay" look of yours? Do you say it to yourself in the mirror? repeat it while you're brushing, bathing, shitting? Tell us please. HOW?!

And the names, our names, we won't disclose them. the conservative, lousy, propriety based mindset of yours won't let us live in peace if we do.

So acting on our human right to anonymity, we hereby declare this page a place of everything that we find stupid, inhumane, inconsiderate.

And ironically, Peace.

the Bra-Slasher