Pinocchio No More

January 2007: How my nose job solved psychological issues more than it did the (non-existent) issues of my nose.

When I was really young my mom (who I insist I love in spite of this!) said Barbara Streisand and I had similar noses. Which, in itself, is not a bad thing to say. But then, a few months later, completely oblivious to the fact that I had a better memory than hers even when I was six and she was thirty, she said, “Barbara Streisand has a really ugly nose.” This comment, for a reason that completely escaped her, caused her little daughter to weep and weep until my little heart nearly gave way! Now here’s the thing—no one has ever said that I have an ugly nose since. Not one person. And on grown-up analysis, I am well aware that my nasal organ looks nothing like the legendary long-nosed singer’s. In fact, I am convinced that my mother has needed spectacles since she was thirty. However, the memory of that childhood scar has remained.

My nose isn’t crooked or anything. In fact, it is perfectly straight. It did have a hook at the end though, that I grew up with a complete complex about. It looked to me like something you’d stick a ring through if I were a cow. Knowing this complex, my ex-husband would lovingly call it a ‘Lousy Cowsy nose’ (better than his ‘Pakoda’ I always retorted)! I would avoid posing for photographs that intended to take my profile, and I was convinced that that was really not ‘my best face forward’.

So when I was in god-forsaken Dehradun for a long time, away from civilisation on family business, I decided to finally do it. At 23, after 17 years of being complexed (23 – 6 = 17). Go under the knife. Get that little loop chopped off. My father, who was very sick at the time, gave his approval in a drugged haze. My mother agreed 'once she approved of the doctor’. She also insisted I consult our neighbourhood ENT specialist, quite oblivious to the fact that I was embarrassed to death because Dr Bhatia was a very close friend of my grandparents’ and had seen me grow up! So, all background done, I went for my first consultation to this famous plastic surgeon. And then, after having got a few tests done, I went back for my second one, mother in tow. However, this time, for some reason, there was a huge police presence outside the hospital when we reached it. My mother was immediately suspicious. You see, her ‘once I approve of the doctor’ literally translated meant ‘once I meet him, talk to his family, examine his degrees, check whether the hospital has violated any building norms, speak to his professors, meet his wife, see if his own nose is up-to-the-mark, etc.’ No one, doctor or not, was too good for her dear daughter’s nose. Anyway, she spoke to the police and gathered that there had been an acid attack on some small-time actress’s sister, who was admitted to the hospital. My surgery was scheduled for a few days later…

I will now give you and example of my mother’s hyperactive imagination. You know what they say—an empty mind is a devil’s workshop. I was out the next day when I got a call from her. Sitting at home, she had come up with a theory that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud. “What if,” she said, “your (harmless and sweet!) doctor has orchestrated the attack to bring publicity to his hospital, the only one that’s advertising plastic surgery in this town?” I am fortunate to have a little more sense (and a less idle mind) than she does! In light of this creative use of her imagination, I quite forgive her for drawing a non-existent parallel between Ms Striesand’s nose and mine.

Anyway, I’d thought about it long and hard. Would I tell people, would I not tell people? I decided to tell because otherwise it would just get complicated—who I had told, who I had not told, who’d noticed, who wouldn’t... So, on a medium as public as it can get, here it is… I had plastic surgery a couple of months ago to get my long nose shortened. My kind doc, who had originally told me I’d have a small scar at the base of my nose, said very proudly when I woke up, "Oh, I managed to do it without a scar. Now no one will even know!" Here’s the thing—there are two reasons no one would know I’d had a rhinoplasty (why such a mean name)? One, of course, was that I had no scar. Two, I looked no bloody different! I might as well have decided to not tell a soul!

So, here I was, recovering from a surgery that might as well not have happened, in my grandparents’ house. They were completely flummoxed. “Kya naak katake aayee hai,” said my witty grandfather. My dear Dr Goyal said he’d do the surgery again, for free, and snip a little bit more of. And he did. I look marginally different to other people—those who I’ve already told. Others don’t notice a difference at all. My aunt, in an effort to make me feel good, kindly said, “Oh, but this is the true test of plastic surgery—you shouldn’t be able to tell!” And then, what exactly is the point?

Before my surgery, I was taking to my friend Shibu, who sent me an SMS saying, “No need for a nose-job babe, you’re beautiful as you are.” Baggy, who I was chatting with on Skype, was meaner. She said some quack in Dehradun would cut my nose off and then I’d look like I have leprosy and then, big tits or not, no one would look at me. After the surgery, Shiv has been teasing me about my new weight-loss plan—getting rid of 20 gms at a time by chopping off body parts.

But you know what, difference or no difference, pain or no pain, money down the drain or not, I’m feeling much better about myself. Much better. I no longer feel that Aishwarya Rai is any competition at all…

But tell me something, all those of you in the legal profession. Do you think I have a case? Seriously, if I sue, would I stand a chance? Would I be able to get my mom to reimburse my medical costs—considering that it was her genes and her flawed imagination/terrible memory that led me to the surgery in the first place! And then, what about compensation for mental harassment, huh? Do you think I would win?

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An edited version of this article appeared in Man's World in January 2007. Read another article about my experiments with plastic surgery here.

The Reduction of Seduction

November 2006: Is seduction an outdated art?

Perhaps the most telling indicators of how dramatically the art of seduction has suffered over the years, are the results I encountered when I Googled the word. Here’s what I encountered—

The first site that came up was a semi-porn site, which promised ‘100% free dating tips, sex tips and seduction secrets’. It also featured the promising article ‘How to seduce your ex’s friend’.

Following this promising start was a site on ‘Speed Seduction’ (registered and all huh!), a theory created by one Ross Jeffries.

Third in line was a site that would teach me to use ‘hypnotic tricks, phone techniques, kinesthetics, power rules, foreplay, along with a host of tricks to seduce any woman’.

This search also yielded a porn shop and a lingerie brand called Seduction. The word also showed up in a variety of porn sites…

Here’s what I didn’t know—old-fashioned seduction is truly outdated. It took a Google search to teach me this hard fact of life—years spent waiting around for my knight in shining armour didn’t get this fact into my thick skull!

This painful realisation made me think long and hard about why the art of seduction is dead—or dying at any rate. (Oh, by the way, I came across a site detailing the ‘science’ of seduction as well—reminded me a little of that chick-flick… can’t remember what it was called… where this girl equates men with cows or something and relates mating behaviours.) From a sociological perspective, the reasons seem to be different for Western countries and for India.

Sociologically, seduction, when applied to sexual behaviour, refers to persuading a person to do something that s/he may later regret and/or would normally not want to do. Seduction is the stage before sex: the many-fold and complicated steps involved in convincing a person of your charms and desirability.

In the West, where arranged marriages haven't been the norm for a while, seduction became a huge part of sexual and social consciousness during the period between extreme prudery and absolute sexual liberty. It was during this time that a man (it was usually a man) had to use his charms and powers of persuasion to convince a woman to go to bed with him. However, the advent of the sexual liberty of the '60s reduced the need for elaborate seduction… going by the traditional definition, women didn’t need much convincing to go to bed, as it was neither something they ‘wouldn’t normally do’, nor something they’d  ‘regret later’! The final fall for this dying art form came with the advent of the internet and the impersonal and brazen sexual norms it brought about—my profile on Skype, which is neither inviting nor too interesting, gets me several offers of ‘friendship’ and more every day!

We, in India, have got the short end of the stick where it comes to our exposure to this fine art. With our arranged marriages, seduction on a purely sexual level was rare and restricted, particularly after the British came to India and left us with their unhealthy Victorian morality (that the RSS has promptly adopted as being part of authentic Indian parampara). Literature and myth in India have several accounts of sexual seduction, and describe a number of gods and their sexual prowess. Lord Krishna and his gopis, the Kamasutra and Khajuraho are all a part of our culture.

Anyway, when dating and sexual liberty finally became mainstream in the '90s, the internet-porn generation emerged simultaneously (or perhaps the emergence of dating and sexual liberty has something to do with the emergence of the internet and free porn—it’s not really a question of what came first: all social movements are interdependent and feed off each other). There was never a chance for subtle physical seduction—we went straight from the eyes staring meekly from under the ghoonghat to them staring wide-eyed at the wonders the internet presented. We now have new and improved virtual ways of meeting, flirting and planning/having sexual liaisons. Unfortunately, the era of seduction has, by and large, passed us by.

Such is the pity. Where are the old-fashioned men who wined and dined a woman, who picked us up at the door and escorted us back home? My friend, lets just call her ‘S’, gets drunk fairly frequently—and does so with a group in which more than one guy is seriously interested in her. However, the guys (and she) think it perfectly all right to deposit her, almost passed out, in a cab to get her home. I mean, come on! Forget chivalry, think safety maybe?

But hey, I understand that everything comes as a package deal. If I were with an old-fashioned guy, who did all the right, romantic things, he’d perhaps also be conventional enough to be intimidated by my sexuality, would probably keep me from writing brazen articles and want to do it missionary style all the time! On the other hand, an unconventional man will probably not do all the chaste and romantic things Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty had done to them. But he’ll accept me, as I am, and I will not be judged for having sexual impulses and making moves as and when the feeling seizes me.

But then, we’ve all grown up reading happily-ever-afters. (Now completely rubbished in our cynical feminist heads—why did Sleeping Beauty need to be rescued by a man? Her ‘happily ever after’ probably consisted of placid domesticity. And why couldn’t Cinderella just run away and become a big-time Bollywood actress if she was so beautiful?) But really, we really want the best of both worlds. We want the seduction and the romance, the flirting and the flowers—not for too many intelligent women are the internet ‘friendships’ and the cold hook-ups (at least not more than once in a while). We all want the best of both worlds—I want the man who treats me like a Princess, but doesn’t expect me to do nothing but sit on a throne! I want a Prince without old-fashioned gender definitions.

My knight in shining armour? The old romantic legend, slightly modified and updated, infused with a liberal dose of feminism and modernism—and of course, schooled in the art of seduction. All the chivalry and none of the chauvinism!

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An edited version of this article appeared in Man’s World in November 2006. 

And so much has changed—for me and in the world, in general—since I wrote it! Tinder coexists with shaadi.com, living in is par for the course, feminism is in wave five. And that knight in shining armour I was dreaming of? I found him! :)

Think Drink

September 2006: How’s life from a non-drinker’s point of view?

Right off the bat, let me establish that I don’t drink. At one point of time I would add ‘never ever’ to my ‘I don’t drink’ statement, but now that I’ve had alcohol eight times (ginti se!) in my whole life, the ‘never ever’ tag no longer applies. Nonetheless, I can say that I’m not a social drinker—each of those eight times, I’ve gotten completely drunk. Completely shit-faced. It’s a very funny feeling looking at the world from behind a haze of alcohol. It’s rather like seeing everything through a honey-coloured filter while spinning on a top: all things are beautiful and nothing is stationary. More on what I think of the world when I’m drunk—and what the world thinks of me—later.

I don’t really know why I don’t drink. Maybe I don’t care much for what alcohol does to/for me in small quantities. (The jury is still out on what I think of what alcohol does to me in large quantities—I’ll keep you posted!) Maybe I don’t like the bitter taste—I have more than a sweet tooth, I have sweet teeth, and alcohol, well, just tastes terrible. Maybe I don’t think it’s worth the calories—I need to give up something for all the sweet calories I ingest. Maybe I’ve watched too many social drinkers slur their way through fauji parties to want to be like that. Maybe I’ve listened to too many lectures delivered by my mom to my dad about his drinking—thought it’s surprising they’ve affected me when none of her lectures against smoking have. 

I honestly don’t know why. But even when I turn down drink after drink at parties, very few people actually take me at face value when I say I don’t drink. You see, I am cool, dress well, speak well, party hard—and people believe the two just don’t match. On further probing, I say, ‘I don’t drink on principle.’ This adds to the coolness factor and my whole woman-of-substance-and-mystery persona. And this really throws my friendly host, besides being great party conversation, especially since my dad worked for an alcohol company and I’ve written this trashy little e-book on alcohol. (I know, tell me about it—the things we starving writers will do to keep the home fires burning!)

Not drinking has made me very popular with a certain section of the population. Firstly, I am a very cheap date. Secondly, I get invited to all these society parties, with my society-type friends, where I am very out-of-place with my kajal-panda eyes and jhola. I have always marvelled at my own popularity. I fit in everywhere, I thought. I am fun and friendly and oh-so-popular! It was only recently that I realised my popularity had its roots in my being the designated driver, a cheaper alternative to employing a driver or taking a cab. Of course, this realisation has done wonders for my sense of self worth.

But boy, have I been drunk! The first time I got drunk was in Jaipur. I was there with my parents, all of 16 years old. At this party a friend kept handing me this pretty blue drink. It was a beautiful blue, and in my mind, anything blue is attractive and positive. And it wasn’t bitter. So I drank and I drank, in spite of my mom warning me that it was quite potent. By the end of the evening, I was completely smashed. Sufficiently lubricated, I ended up telling my parents about quite a few indiscretions I would, under normal circumstances, have paid to keep from them. My first taste (quite literally!) of how alcohol can make you say and do things that you may not have said and done in a more sober state.

A few years later, I was seeing this guy. The Christmas-New Year’s holidays came along, and I wanted him to come to Goa with me. I begged and pleaded—all my friends were going. He said no and we didn’t go. Three days before New Year’s, I was single again—dumped and heartbroken. I was all alone in the city—with all my friends on the warm, sun-kissed beaches of Goa. I decided to get drunk on New Year’s Eve, all by myself, miserable and pathetic, as my parents went out partying. My maid watched amused as I proceeded to blow chunks a few minutes before the clock struck 12. And that’s when my parents called to wish me. My maid, in a well-meaning attempt to shield me from the consequences, told my parents I was in my room with someone, and that the door was locked so I couldn’t come to the phone. I spent the New Year drunk and heartbroken, with my parents furious with me in the mistaken belief that I was locked in my room with a new boy.

Though it still escapes me why anyone would want to have sex with a drunken woman. I’m convinced—and this comes from personal experience—that men who have sex with drunken women suffer from latent necrophilia. Really, how else would you describe someone who would willingly sleep with someone completely unresponsive! I have refused to turn over, cooperate, kiss or even wake up to acknowledge the sex that is being had with me—yes, I use passive voice deliberately.

Anyway, coming back to my interesting drunken episodes. A few weeks ago, I was at a little celebratory get-together at a bar. I was goaded into drinking, and once I decided to drink, I went at the free booze like a true alcoholic. I drank four Long Island Iced Teas like they belonged to Lipton and not Long Island. Soon I was drunk as a feather in the wind. In the company of close friends, I decided to close my eyes and go to sleep, queasy as I was. Except, I have noticed that seats get remarkably slippery when you’re drunk. I kept sliding under the table, and would wake up sitting there, facing someone’s crotch. I also remember having to pee a lot—alcohol does really fly through your system, doesn’t it! I finally fell asleep on someone’s lap, and was woken up only when it was time to go home. I was being, well, the word may be supported or dragged—I’m not quite sure which—out of the pub when I realised I wanted to puke. I threw up on my friend’s shoes, and then again on mine. This someone has since sent me a laundry bill, for the large saliva stain on his pants on which I had drooled when asleep, and another one for new shoes—to replace the ones I puked on. By the time I was taken to the ladies’ loo and was made to stand appropriately poised over the sink, I was done. Anyway, I was driven home in a taxi, asleep on the back seat. When we reached home, however, I heard the negotiations between the cabbie and my friend—and was conscious enough to do the calculations for him and tell him that we were being over-charged by a hundred bucks. I don’t think the brain ever really shuts down, you know.

The one great saving grace is that I don’t get hangovers. Not at all. My dad tells me this is hereditary—he never gets hangovers either. For this supernatural ability, I have been persecuted, branded a witch, and have nearly been burnt at the stake by my friends. ‘What a waste of such great genes,’ they rant. I have even had marriage proposals from men who, aside from my beauty, brains and all of that, have wanted to pass on this great ability to their children. 

Through all my drunken episodes which I’ve enjoyed thoroughly, I’ll say this when I’m sober—I’d much rather watch people drunk than be drunk myself. I’ve seen some really funny things happen.

People say you’re the most honest when you’re drunk. I certainly hope that’s true. I met Tanya when I joined college. Tanya is this stunning, composed girl-you-want-to-be type person: not a hair out of place, never had a clothes-that don’t really match episode. I thought she was snooty—and realised she was just shy. Anyway, by the third year, Tanya had thawed and we’d become really close. A few months ago I got a call from her, late in the night. Nothing new there. I picked up my phone and was taken aback when I heard my formerly shy and unexpressive friend declaring undying love and her ‘forever friendship’ to me. Of course, when I called her the next morning, I convinced her that she had declared a diametric deviation in her sexual preferences and had wanted to leave her boyfriend for me!

Yet another one of my friends once came back home after a party and had almost convinced his parents of his sobriety, when he asked to be excused to use the loo. He then proceeded to walk into the kitchen and pee into the sink all the while proudly grinning to himself at having pulled of his little farce.

I am done now, I think. I prefer my woman-of-substance-and-mystery persona to being the mysterious substance on the floor. Henceforth, as far as I’m concerned, the Romanovs belong in Russian history, Old Monks in Dharamshala and any Royal Stag I meet will walk on two legs.

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An edited version of this article appeared in Man’s World in September 2006.

 I still don’t drink, though I’ll have a Bailey’s once a year or so. I have got trashed once since I wrote this article 12 years ago, on the insistence of my spouse who said he’d never, ever seen me drunk… Verdict: I am a boring lightweight who falls asleep soon after one drink. And yes, he verified—drunk, I’m as terrible in bed as I said I’d be.

Mad About Milind

August 2006: A crazed fan expresses her love (lust?) for top model Milind Soman, the month after his wedding.

I brought it upon myself.

I’ve been meaning to write this article for a really long time. I finally sent it in to my editor this morning. A few hours later, I got a call from a friend telling me that Milind Soman got married a few days ago in Goa. I’ve had to rework this article with teary eyes. It was just bad timing…

I have been madly in love with Milind Soman for a painfully, heart-breakingly long time. I first saw Him when I was 12, staring down at me from a large hoarding at Chowpatty. He was beautiful and nude (that’s how I remember it)—and I had my first love-at-first-sight moment. That was 11 years ago. I’m 23 now. And I’m still in love.

Now, any other, less madly-in-love, less obsessive, less committed woman would have just given up. She would have said, ‘Forget it; get on with your life.’ Can you imagine being steadfastly in love with a man who doesn’t even know you exist for 11 years? Well, I am, and it’s painful!

The thing is, the man is gorgeous. His long, lean and absolutely beautiful expanse is covered with silky olive skin. His physique is just right—not gym pumped but swimmer natural. His black eyes crumple perfectly into His clean-cut face; His wavy locks snake seductively over His forehead. Ohhh… I could write a Mills and Boons novella with Him as the archetypical male hero.

In other words, Milind looks like a God. [Oh, we’re on first-name-basis, you see—in my brain, as inventive as Thomas Edison’s, we’ve shared many-a tender moment, not to mention some not-quite-so-tender!] I pray to Him and I pray for Him. I’m agnostic when it comes to a God in Heaven: when it comes to my God here on Earth—well, I’m the most fanatical devotee there is. Oh, these crazy South Indian movie fans, with their temples to their Movie-Gods: I completely empathise! I remember pretending to agree with a bunch of my friends who found this devotion bizarre. Tara*-the-Intelligent even genuinely agreed with them. However, Tara*-the-Crazed-Fan (who takes over during conversations even remotely pertaining to Milind) completely understood the fellow crazed fans’ point of view.

Considering the fact that I live in India and have made it my second job to hunt and have Milind, I have never ever seen, let alone met Him! Some God in Heaven has decided I shouldn’t have this one thing that matters so much—any wonder I’m agnostic? Lesser fans—even those who aren’t fans at all—have seen/met/touched/hugged Him. Why? Is that fair? I’ve had so many near misses. So, so many—

Jaya, my friend in college, came to class one morning, and, looking me straight in the eye, said, "Oh, I saw Milind Soman at the American Diner yesterday." Did she know how much she was hurting me? Such incidents happen all the time…

This has to be one of the most painful ones. I went to a party in Delhi with my then-best-friend and then-boyfriend. It was his friend’s party, and Neha and I had more interesting things lined up. Soon, we peeled off and went to a pub nearby for a rock show. The sound check was endless, and the music, when it finally happened, wasn’t worth the wait. My phone rang. It was Shiv. "Serves you bitches right," he said laughing, "Milind Soman just came and left." I hung up stunned, ready to kill Neha for having dragged me to this terrible show. She reasoned with me, "Oh, he’s probably just pulling your leg. Call up Shibani and find out." I called up Shibani. "Oh, oh, don’t talk to me," she screeched breathlessly, her ecstasy jamming the phone line, "I just saw Milind Soman walk around bare-foot in the garden!"

Then, there was the time, a few years ago. I was in London with my parents. My aunt Beena was driving us to Eton. Staring out of the window at the stream running along the road, I caught a glimpse of a movie set and of… Him. Yes, Milind, breath-taking in a white shirt, was singing to some chick on the banks of that stream! What? "Stop! Stop!" I yelled. But it was too late; there was too much traffic behind us. I spent the day sullen, happy only in my daydream, where the car stopped and I ran into His arms. Somehow—and I’m not quite sure how—He ended up singing to me, with the bimbette floating downstream with her arms flailing wildly.

When I was based in Chennai, I was asleep one afternoon when my phone rang. I looked at it groggily. It was my closest friend in the city, who worked for Mani Ratnam. I rejected his call. Again. And again. What was wrong with him? I called him back that evening. "Oh sorry," he said, "I just thought you might have enjoyed dropping by the office today. Milind Soman spent the afternoon with Mani Sir." Damn, damn!

This same friend decided not to give up on this little matchmaking exercise and, on my birthday, informed me that his present to me would be a dinner with the man Himself. I told absolutely everyone I knew. But there was a catch, you see. I would have to pose as a screenwriter and pitch a fictitious movie plot to my heartthrob. My first meeting with Milind riddled with deceit? Had I really sunk that low? Hell yes! For Him, I’d be the Queen of Sheeba herself! However, fate had its own cruel plans and Milind, it turns out, was out of town and asked for the synopsis to be mailed to Him. I had a lot of egg to wipe off my face the next day, that’s for sure.

Now the thing is, I’ve had His email ID but I considered it beneath me to send Him an email. After all, I needed to play hard-to-get. I am a lady. I decided I could not go around making first moves on random men. Discretion, I thought, was the key. I couldn’t just tell Him. So now, for that folly, I’m destined to sit in the shadows, my heart broken, Milind on my bedroom wall, Milind in my pocket (Yes, I carry photu of Him, phull philmy ishtyle.) Sigh!

Well, it was bound to happen, sooner or later. I was having a long shower one morning, blissfully unaware that my life was going to change. My phone rang, and I extended a soapy hand to answer it. "Supplement, page one," said my friend talking in terse code language, befitting the disaster that was lurking in the newspaper. There, there she was, a pretty French actress, proclaiming her love and commitment to Milind, and telling the world how happy she’s going to keep Him. MY Milind. And now he’s married! He didn’t wait for me!

Well, to be fair, Tara*-the-Intelligent has always had a feeling. It was an uncomfortable realisation that I chose not to acknowledge. Milind, Man-of-My-Dreams-Milind, well, I never really thought we’d get along. My collection of articles on and interviews of the man all told me one painful thing. We really wouldn’t get along. He’s a morning person, I’m a night person—we’d live in different time zones and would barely meet each other. He’s a hill person, I’m a sea person—the hills make me queasy and depressed. He wants to settle in an apple orchard away from people, I want to settle in a busy city—I’d die without people. But when it comes to matters of the heart and hormones, the sane voice is often not the loudest.

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 An edited version of this article appeared in Man’s World in August 2006.

Shortly after I sent in this article, many people around me were like, 'Oh, you like Milind? I know him too! My wife is his stylist/my son and he go trekking together/we’ve been friends since school/etc…' And I was like, 'Haven’t you been listening to the whining of my hormones all these years?!' Suddenly, many people were volunteering his number, and after this article was published, I sent him an SMS telling him to read it. He did, and SMSed me back (saying he was scared of me, but that’s besides the point). For years after, until I dunked that phone in water, I preserved our conversation, to be able to tell our kids, ‘Dekkho, papa aur mummy aise mile the.’

 And, would you believe, over a decade of working in the media, living in the same city, having many common friends, conversing on Facebook later, I only laid eyes on him at an airport last year (small ‘H’ now). Ha.

Pubicity

July 2006: The Founder and Sole Official Member of the Stop Pissing in My Face Society has her say…

Okay, here’s the thing. I hate being flashed. I hate having to see men expose themselves to me. Every woman does. It violates a very basic right—the right to choose. I choose to live in India, to see the sights I see. Cows on the road and the filth on the streets I can live with: I accept what I cannot change.

I hate being flashed. I do not want to accept it. Unfortunately, I get flashed everyday. You, as men, get flashed everyday. You don’t see it that way, I know. But isn’t it true? You see penises in public all the time. It’s what we’ve learnt to see and accept as pissing. It’s bad enough when men flash as an actual active act of aggression. When it’s seen as routine and harmless—I don’t know whether it’s worse!

Unfortunately, the average Indian man thinks nothing of whipping his thingie out in the middle of the day and street and laying claim to the closest wall/shrub/tree/drain/breeze. Put that thing damn thing away and find a loo! Standing, squatting, whatever their personal preferences, while some men seem aware of the wrongness of their actions, and make a pretence of embarrassment about their public ablutions, most seem absolutely nonchalant, and even find time to hold conversations with others while they relieve themselves in public. Why? Is there no shame in making our not-so-beautiful country smelly too? Much like women Down South who paint their faces with turmeric paste (yellow is a not-too-healthy human colour, but anything’s better than black, you see), Mother India is painted urine-yellow and has really bad body odour.

Why do we live in the biggest toilet in the world? There are better ways in which we can contribute to the smells and sights of our country.

What is it about Indian men that makes it okay for them to relieve themselves wherever they choose to? Why is it acceptable? It started as a necessity—we were a poor nation and were backward, and had no toilets. Now, we are wealthy and progressive. Yes, there are people who live in the slums, who do not have access to toilets. As much as it’s unfortunate, it’s acceptable. But what about those men who step out from their spanking Mercedes, spotless shoes and all, who have ready access to urinals, or at least know enough to be aware that in all probability there’s one around close enough and it won’t kill them to wait. And those cyclists, peons in offices, who know they’ll get there eventually, if not soon. What about them?

Also, while we’re at it, why men and not women? Apart from the obvious of course. It’s not acceptable. Or safe. For a poor little woman to relieve her bursting bladder on the street would mean curiosity, if not rape. So then, we come back to the inequality of the sexes. I think, being allowed to piss anywhere, at will and leisure, is the first sociological step to making Indian men the patriarchal MCPs that they tend to be. After all, little boys are taught that they never need have any control, never need have any respect for general and personal space. And that they are entitled to impose their bodily fluids and penises on the world at large. And that little girls are not allowed to do any of that.

As a mother or a father, I hope you don’t pull your son’s pants down and allow him to piss on the street. I hope you don’t teach him that this is okay and acceptable. Because it’s not.

I must admit, I rather enjoy my role of Founder and Sole Official Member of the Stop Pissing in My Face Society. Though in its infancy, this society has had several achievements. So far, there are four little boys in and around Colaba, and one in Bandra, who, I am sure, will never piss again. Never. Not on a wall, not in public, never. And there is one middle-class mother who has been told that, since she believes that her son is ‘only a baccha’ and that his urine is really harmless, should dr*nk it. And then there’s the Flick-Lungi-Up-Piss South Indian man who will always remember the time he couldn’t aim away from his feet because his willy was tucked away between his legs in shame. I hope you join my little society here and help make the country a slightly paler shade of yellow. Yell at/mock/shame/embarrass the next man you see who just couldn’t hold it.

We see signs telling us not to spit in public everywhere. Are we too embarrassed to address this way more offensive and in-your-face social custom? The police, that is so active in its drive against couples and their ‘public indecency/obscenity’—doesn’t it think that the Public Display of Penises is obscene?

The general public has come up with some rather ingenious ways to deal with the smell and the nuisance. From the subtle god-tiles on boundary walls (no one will piss on those!), to the direct ‘Yahan mootna mana hai’, to the classic ‘Dekho, dekho ghaddha moot raha hai’, there are things that work! These measures are just not enough though.

Really, there is a reason the penis is part of the pubic region, and not the pub-l-ic region. I wish more men would learn to keep it that way.

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An edited version of this article appeared in Man’s World in July 2006.

I’m a little less militant (more empathetic?) now, and have mixed feelings about The Pissing Tanker that made its way around Mumbai in 2014.