A paltry poesy
Sexuality has various definitions. It’s an act of love; it’s a softening crate hidden in the deepest corner of earth that mumbles at the oddest of hours; it’s an ecstatic surge of expressivity. It’s an ongoing turmoil that we desperately cling on to quell. It’s our loveliest shade of shame; a glistening foil that flames in the dark. Sexuality is really all that springs and sleeps within each of us as we go about our lives. It is our most vivid filth, and our earnest innermost self.
And yet, sexuality is the most facile part of us that sings without warning, and yearns without wanting. It’s our most natural poetry that screams from our veins. It is as effortless as the monotonous ambiguity of dripping water, or the rotting fumes of a speeding car. It is as sudden as the unforeseen advent of dribbling rain, or a spark of heat in a forest fire. Sexuality forms the most acute part of our culture; in fact, all cultures. It has often marked the arrival of civilizations, the nurturing pact between screaming greens of grass huddled together, or even the sublime corridors of a house.
What’s ironic is that, like always, we wage wars with one of the most beguiling, inherently sumptuous parts of ourselves. We erase the colour off the murk, we shield the wolf from the lamb, we attempt to douse the water with bursts of blaze; we try to frantically smother another guileless aspect of nature. And tragically, the history of sexuality in India has been characterized by the utter futility and absurdity of these wars. We have begun to embrace the terror. We have begun to impair the grandeur, the exquisiteness. The countless depictions of violence that have been so unconsciously paired with our comfort levels, the innocent cop-gangster stories from the hidden lanes of our childhood, the ruthlessness of a seemingly sepulchral symbol of the Barbie. We’re taught, from our earliest days, to use our sexuality, our most natural expressivity, for a variety of reasons (in vaguely painted, implied ways). For security. For authority. For a sense of significance. For power. For social status. For convenience. And disgustingly, even revenge. We’re taught to toss pebbles at puppies. We’re taught to brave pain and devastatingly thrust it down our spines to make us stronger. We’re taught to hold back our tears in a room full of people. We’re taught to hide what comes shamefully naturally to us. And yet, we’re taught to ignore the delicacy of a moth being released through a window. We’re taught to ignore the excruciatingly tender whine of a night bird stuck in a tree. Our games don’t consist of releasing pigeons. And we’re not taught to use our sexuality for as natural a purpose as love; that’s considered foul, even revolting.
The India that was once considered the champion in the art of love-making — one of humankind’s most innate, most wonderfully idyllic expressions — has been discarded, ravished, churned down. That India has been replaced by an abhorrently dingy room filled with hidden tunnels stored with truths. Kissing on a street still creates a furor. Forcefully touching or groping a woman does not. Depictions of rape and horror fill our mass media like overfilled sacks of rice at a grocer’s. Women’s butts are amplified but consensual sex is flinched at. Something as natural as love-making that has sustained our whole generation and more is banned. Slit off. Severed from our collective consciousness, as though our whole existence was an act of shame and repulsion, as though it would be alright next to sever our bodies and our souls, repellent as their origins are made out to be.
In a world where body parts are as commercialized as electronic gadgets or fruit on display on a dusty street cart, it is not surprising that their value is measured by their sizes, complexions and usage. ‘Rape’ is considered a natural reaction for a man supposedly deprived of sex- not realizing that if sexual deprivation were all it took to rape, women would rape men too. Not realizing that rape really is more about an assertion of power than a genuine desire to express sexuality. Not realizing that sexual acts performed with mere body parts is not really as natural as sexual acts performed with living, breathing human beings. Sexuality is compared to savage hunting games performed in the wild for food. Sexuality has become brutal and brisk, and it is considered natural and normal in a society where consent even within marriages is disregarded.
But really the desire for sex that most of us carry hidden within our bruised swollen hearts is not really about hunger or brutality or oppression. It is not a cop-gangster game where a chase is meant to provide the thrill. It is not akin to the consumption of ripe, scantily-covered fruit on display at a supermarket.
But of course, sexuality is really poetry. It is the gradually soaring echoes of a violin on a sinking cruise ship. It is the comfort of a single street light on a deserted highway. It is the sinking of a tired evening sun into the widening arms of a blue ocean. Sexuality is what drips and pours from the corners of our hearts and souls without warning, gently and profoundly; like rain, like music. Like the intensely clinking footsteps that ring out from across our corridors, while we sit waiting in the hallway.