Malvika’s Ramblings

Nights crawl and I get depressed. A day wasted. I must sleep now. I could use these hours, not use but enjoy with sketching, graphics or music. But I feel like I was slumping all day. Slumping in a couch and it sank down and down and down. And this night I have again reached the depths of the couch. Depths beyond the couch. An underworld, the real Bottom. I could take a deep breath, grab that escaping oxygen and walk around the room. I cant go out and stand head to chest with black guys in baggy jeans and oversize jackets.

They stand one in front and one at the back and say “Sexy gurrl”. There is something dangerous about this. He says “Whats your problem I’m just saying hello. Why r you like Dont touch me and all”. I never said that but he can sense it. I dont budge. Ego. He may grab my ass or push me back. But I dont give in. Stubborn that I am.

And then he could be right. Whats all this in my head? Cant I be civil to a fella on the street? But I am not answerable to him. I dont have to be nice. Reading my body and defensiveness, he could be my Dr Phil on the street. Sorting out my issues as I stand, waiting to step on the zebra crossing. But I can smell alcohol on his breath. And he is standing too close. And I feel I cant beat him up like I can handle guys in India. Maybe not win in India, but give it a good try. Here I would pound and he could laugh.

I am scared. But like the time the cop at the concert thought I was a guy and was about to lathi-charge me and I just wanted to talk sense and say ‘ Excuse me you cannot do this’, I now say to the guy ‘You are being weird. This is not normal.’ As if he did not know. So he is the brat on road. I cannot be the screechy female. Why not? Its not me. Me is dumb. Thats all that is proven.

Anyway, so I cant go out. I will sometime. Maybe with a cycle to bang right into the front of a swerving car on an empty street and walk home with a bleeding knee and a cycle tire in one hand. But no cycle with me just now. And no enthusiasm to step out. No reason. I dont want to talk to chests just now. I dont want to be called sexy girl in my grey slippers and greasy hair hanging down to my shoulders.

So I slump back in my couch and watch ‘So you think you can dance’. Sexy people. Sexy stuff. Just what I love. Talent, samba, fox trot, hip hop, break. It makes something leap out of my heart. But the rest of me slumps deeper. Rhinestone studded dresses. A curvy exposed back. Swan-like grace. A guy dancing fantastically in a waistcoat and hat. TV show over. OK..Now what?

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 21st, 2007 at 10:08 pm and is filed under Anecdote, Traveller. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.