Spending a night watching Sex And The City is not good. What’s
worse is sitting and work and thinking about it later. Honestly, though. I’ve
been thinking about how nobody would ever think of writing a Sex and the City-type
column in a country like India. Because we’re just so damn scared.
So scared of everything that has anything to do with sex.
Forget sex, just the idea of a girl on the road in a dress or in shorts draws “No, no, beta, don’t step out looking like
that” comments from parents. The saddest part is, they’re not wrong. They’re
only doing the best they can with the society they got. And yesterday, when my
parents said to me, “Get out of this country as soon as you can.”, I got to
thinking. What makes India such a painful, yet daunting country to live in? It
could easily be the age-old mentality, the prominence of societal life and
other, similar psychobabble bullshit- but the real reason is that we’re stuck.
We’re stuck in a flux- the change from ancient to modern envelopes us, and
after two decades of a semi-gradual transition, there is finally a gaping
generation gap. A chasm, if you will, that separates the Indian citizen from
the citizens of the world- that allows two different kinds of teenagers to grow
up at an arm’s length away from one another. There’s the kind who is okay with
pre-marital sex, watches Sex and the City and night, and can has no qualms
allowing a charming man at a bar to think he has a chance with her if it means
she can have a free Cosmopolitan. (Okay, scratch that last. Usually we only say
yes to a drink if we’re considering the sex. Never if it’s out of the question.
Still, you get the picture.) And then there’s the kind who spends a large chunk
of his childhood chanting prayers, shouting slogans and being told that his
duty as a proud Indian was to keep the West out. The kind who, if you overtake
in a car, will nurse his bruised ego by chasing you to your house and
threatening to beat you up till you bleed, who will call you a whore if he sees
you holding hands on the road, and will lech at you when you’re wearing shorts.
And that. That is why we cannot write about sex. Think about
it. Your column becomes big, you get your own billboard like Carrie Bradshaw
did, and instead of being proud and happy, you worry that some creep will see
you and follow you around because he knows you write about sex. Or face gossipy
neighbours, who’ll blame your poor parents and your upbringing, and eventually
discuss how people like you are taking this country to the dark side, as the
sip their mint teas at their weekly kitty parties. It’s not as romantic as you’d
think.
I’m still a strong believer, however, that sex-ed doesn’t
end in high school. It’s a never ending, lifelong process- and one in which all
women are together. So, in the spirit and womanhood, and to encourage women
everywhere not to abandon each other in times of need, I strive to write- in
addition to all the gobblesmack I put up here, one column.
One column about things I know, things I don’t, things I
think about, things I never did- about sex. Because SEX, is fun. And free. And
unashamed. And I don’t care about the bitching neighbours or the tutting schoolteachers anymore.
And because inspired somewhere in the midst of a long night
of Cigarettes and Coca-Cola and Carrie Bradshaw, I shall pay her tribute. Let’s
call it…’Carrie On’. Because it fits and I like it.
(PS: I don’t know what Mila’s opinion on or inclination towards
said column is. But she knows she’s always welcome. Damn her.)
"That crazy concept that we’re not really responsible for the course our lives take. That it’s all predestined, written in the stars. Maybe that explains why, if you live in a city, where you can’t even see the stars, your love life tends to feel a little more random."
-Carrie.
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