So apparently my little bangla poem was a premonition. Or something like that. For the last few days, I’ve been having to deal with men whipping out their phone cameras trying to take a picture of me, along with, of course, the good ol’ following. Yes, I’m used to it—happens almost everyday and it doesn’t matter who I’m with or how many men are surrounding me.
We went to Sula Vineyards in Nashik last weekend and boy, was I daydreaming! I just stared out into the greenery, the beauty of an intoxicated Mother Nature accentuated by the drizzling rain, making the green even more luscious. I was so caught up in my dream of ‘I want to live here, right here in this house’, that I was ignoring my company of friends too. I was so caught up that I didn’t notice a bald man and his cheap shit friends (his head was shining) staring at me and, no points for guessing, trying to take pictures. I didn’t notice, that is, until suddenly my boys had made a wall in front of me, between me and my scenic view. I was about to throw a fit when I finally realised what was going on. And my friends refused to go let me yell at the baldy myself. The boys of either groups were on the brink of a fight by the end of the evening, but it was all wrapped up with “We are sorry, we are sad”. Lame and pathetic, much like the perpetrators (dramatic, yes, do I need to reiterate that I indeed am dramatic?).
Not even a day back in Bombay and the same shit happens at the railway station. I get off at my destination station and someone else starts following me. Of course, I yell at them all and off they go with their... tails between their legs—if you know what I mean.
So freakin’ tired of this. Have these men never seen women before in their lives? What do they intend to do with the pictures? Well, I have a few guesses. Yuck. And though the volume of this happening with my friends and I seems to have increased lately in Bombay, it happens everywhere, across the country and the world.
Of course, men continue to annoy me in various other ways. And after a perfect weekend like the one I had, I seem to be crankier and less tolerant. A world without men. Hmm. I know every woman has, at some point or the other, considered this and sighed a blissful, wishful-thinking-sort-of sigh.
For all the creepy men out there—I’m gonna stop yelling and start using my hands, feet and knuckles. How does castration sound to you?