Fescapedes: 1

Your eyes, are crystals.
They sparkle every time I look into them.
To be the reason for their sparkle, I haven't been better flattered ever before.
I presume it is me, the reason behind that sparkle.
I close my eyes and lean in to feel the world spiral in my head as we kiss,
With half shut eyes, from beneath the curtain of my lashes, I see them sparkle, for some other miss.

We can see.

This is an open letter to every man, living in this country who fails to realise that he isn't staring in a way that is obscure enough because news flash: we have eyes. We can see. And we do see.

You think that you are molesting us with your eyes and we are not realising it. You think that each time you look at us, we do not realise how with each blink of your eyes, you've removed another piece of clothing off our bodies in your head.
You think just because we look the other way we are oblivious to your lecherous, rascally smile which by the way just conveys the joy your inner sexual pervert and voyeur is experiencing.

Whatever your thoughts, don't think them. They are as much of a lie as the 'respect' you have for us.

The part where you presume that we dress to please you, purge it out of your system because we certainly don't. That girl whose legs made you salivate more than Pavlov's dog, is wearing that pair of shorts because Mumbai is a really humid city. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH CATERING TO YOUR ENTERTAINMENT.

We do not belong to you. Our bodies do not belong to any of you, so stop looking at us with that sense of ownership.

This non-consensual undressing that you carry out in your head, is nothing short of a rape. It is nothing short of a crime. In case you didn't realise, we do not want it. And we are definitely refusing it.

Imagine living in a world where every move you make, every step you take is not only observed but ends up being next to pornographic material in somebody else's mind. Imagine that feeling of being caparisoned in a world where the thoughts of the opposite sex, about your outfit, determine what you will wear.
Imagine a life where you are nothing but a sexual object, no matter what you wear.

Yes. That's what I thought, sounds frustrating, doesn't it?
That's been our story, for decades.
And it is in your hands, to change how this story ends.
Don't take it to the level where the woman who ignores your stares, is forced to gorge your eyeballs out because trust me, most of us, are right around that alley.

Reconstruct your psyche. It is high time.
And thank you, if you DO end up doing the same.

*On a side note, I do realise men are hormonally hard wired to look at other women and vice-versa but what I'm referring to here, is the uncalled for staring and lewd/obscene looks.

Deep inside.

In some convoluted heart, a miserable emotion reigned in all its glory. It was less of an emotion, more of a sentiment. What is the difference, you might ask.
A sentiment, is just the less passionate version of an emotion. If emotion were a dark haired, dark eyed, bipolar beauty, sentiment would be the more sober version of that woman after attending rehabilitation.

It had started to feel like an emotion again. It was like an ocean wave, rushing towards the shore and becoming a tumulus, powerful emotion and the very next instant, it was retracting from the shore to go back to being a sublime and muted sentiment.

An undying obsession with wanting admiration. Admiration that would lead the admirer to ruin. An admiration which would destroy the admirer and empower her to a whole new level. An admiration which would mark itself by the twists and turns it made the admirer's wrist take while he held a brush, soaked in paint. An admiration which fed on his happiness and fed her with arrogance. An admiration that left him drowning in misery, with her being the only glimmer of hope, an only chance of survival.
An admiration that makes the admirer's blood run dry and fills her blood stream with an intoxicant.

Ah the pleasure, of having ruined someone's life. By not belonging to them because this emotion, admiration, is not love, no ownership exists. Destructing someone's inner temple where deities of self-respect have received adulation all their lives, razing that temple and filling it with turbid, putrid waters of self loathing and feeling an immense pride at having reduced the admirer, a monument, before he met her, to a mere pile of ruble.

The glory of having been admired and having become immortal in the work of the admirer.
The glory of being a muse.
The glory of being a conquerer.