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JHOOMUR BOSE

Confessionally Yours

PENGUIN METRO READS

CONFESSIONALLY YOURS

Jhoomur Bose is a former journalist, blogger and full-time mother. She has written for various Indian magazines, newspapers and websites and currently lives in Melbourne, Australia. She writes about stuff that happens and stuff she wishes would happen at http://twistingthetail.blogspot.com.

For my daughter Mia, my star

Vindaloo & Vibrators

Get them by the balls & their hearts & minds will follow

BLOG ARCHIVES

2009

September (8)

Sex, sweat & Sharon Stone

Size doesn’t matter, unless it’s the ego

The breasts of burden

The world at my fingertips

Suck it, shut it, forget it

October (10)

November (9)

December (6)

2010 (32)

24,688 HITS

Sex, sweat & Sharon Stone

The first time I had sex, I remember it being very sweaty. It was a sweltering June afternoon in Delhi and the ceiling fan did not work. There was a cooler in the room but neither the boy who was to fuck me, henceforth the Fucker, nor any of his four friends thought of turning it on. From what I could hear of the friends—sitting outside in the drawing room—they were arguing over who would go and buy more beer and who got to handle the remote control.

They planned to watch a rerun of the 1996 cricket World Cup, the quarter-finals between India and Pakistan. But that was to be after I was sent home. While their friend was inside—screwing me—they were watching an unedited version of Basic Instinct. The fight over the remote control erupted when one of them replayed the Sharon Stone-leg-crossing-flashing scene for the fifth time.

Earlier, none of the other boys had looked at me when I entered the house. The Fucker did not introduce anyone and ushered me into the bedroom. Just as he bent to kiss me, there was a knock. The Fucker answered the door and came back with a bed sheet.

‘Can you spread this?’ he said, while he fiddled with the fan regulator.

‘The fucking fan doesn’t work!’ he yelled out.

‘Just don’t forget the bed sheet, my mom will kill me,’ someone yelled back.

Then he kissed me or squeezed my breasts. I don’t remember which happened first. I remember holding on to him and my neck hurting from the stretching—he was very tall. I was about to ask him if he had locked the door when he threw me on the bed and pulled off my tee shirt. He fumbled with my bra clip and ripped it off. It was my favourite bra. Through a blur I saw that he was naked. There was a strange, cloying odour, like flesh that has been packed in too tight.

He said something about holding ‘it’ and condoms; I turned my head and covered my breasts. I heard plastic rip, he pinioned my hands on top of my head, pushed my thighs apart. I felt him thrust in, it was uncomfortable; I wondered if the door was locked.

‘I swear she is clean-shaven man, no fuzz, rewind it dude,’ an excited voice said outside the door. I was unshaved. The Fucker started moving faster then. For some reason I thought of the previous day’s class, the microeconomic theory of demand and supply.

At the precise moment one of the voices outside started shouting ‘Dickhead, stop rewinding, get on with the movie!’ the Fucker, grunting now, violently shook his head. Rivulets of sweat were running down his face, dripping off his chin, on to my breasts. As he tried to shake off the sweat, a steady stream of saline droplets dribbled off his nose and fell into my eyes. It made my eyes water.

‘Don’t cry baby,’ Fucker said, still thrusting, grunting, somewhat strained. ‘I am … about to … come.’

I turned my head into the pillow and screwed my mouth and eyes shut. I didn’t want any more of his sweat. In fact I wanted him to get off me. My thighs were tired and hurting. The kind of pain you get when you cycle too much or do a lot of aerobics. Demand-supply-demand-supply went on in my head as he started moving faster, panting harder. Then he collapsed on top of me. He was heavy, it was difficult to breathe. A minute later, he rolled off and walked into the bathroom. I could hear Sharon Stone saying something like ‘I’m sure we can arrange that officer’.

The Fucker came back, a towel around his waist. He asked me if I wanted to have a shower. The water from the overhead tank was boiling hot. I quickly wore my clothes, stuffed the now torn bra in my jeans and walked out into the drawing room. None of the boys looked at me. The Fucker walked me to the door. As I got on to my bicycle he asked, ‘Was it good for you?’ I said yes. It was my first sex lie.

There have been many fuckers since that day, many lies. Never love. Even that first time wasn’t love. Why did I do it? He was available and willing. I was curious and impatient; and I didn’t want to wait for a husband chosen by my parents.

That first evening, I waited to bleed. There was nothing. I was a virgin, but I didn’t bleed. It’s been eighteen years since that day. I still wonder why I never bled. I don’t recall the boy’s face, but I still remember the theory of demand and supply. I am not scared of holding ‘it’ now and I don’t shut my eyes anymore. I also, as a rule, never fuck without a fan.

1

All I’m Selling Is Sex

‘Sex sells. Shah Rukh Khan sells. Scandal sells. That’s three Ss for you, all three together spell Success. But this fucking rag does not spell success. It spells shit. That’s another fucking S for you. This fucking rag spells shit because it has neither Shah Rukh, nor scandal and definitely no sex. How in the fucking hell are we going to sell this shit? Now, if you can sell this shit you must be a fucking genius. But I didn’t hire you to be a fucking genius. I hired you to do my bidding because I am the fucking editor. What part of it don’t you fucking understand?’

This is the weekly Monday morning edit meeting for the newest weekly newspaper a.k.a. ‘f***ing rag’ launched in New Delhi. It’s called Tabloid and I’ve joined it three months back.

The man giving the lecture is Tabloid’s editor. His name is Hrindham Bandopadhyay, poor thing, but he insists everyone either call him Ranu—which his mother calls him—or Ed, which is short for editor. Ed has really short, cropped hair, wears glasses with thick, black frames and his clothes are always, always in various shades of khaki. In fact, until I met him I hadn’t known that khaki had so many different shades.

Ed likes neat gin, expensive Oriental food, people who speak really good English, foreign-returned Indian authors, women who wear business suits and women who can say ‘tits’ and ‘f***ing’. In fact Ed likes f***ing so much he usually says it at least ten times in one sentence. According to office legend, Ed’s record is f***ing twenty-one times in eight seconds though legend also has it that the reporter who counted was fired soon after.

Currently, Ed is shouting at everyone present in the conference room—the entire news bureau, the features team and a couple of office peons thrown in as well because Ed is an equal opportunities employer.

‘The operative phrase here is “spell success”. Please don’t mind if I butt in Ed—you are right, but then you’re always right,’ Sinha says.

Chief of News Ravikant Sinha, better known as Sinha, loves focusing on the ‘operative phrase’ and has been in the news business for twenty years. He is tall, bald(ing), has a very fit body but an unmemorable face, and a baritone that could rival the late Amrish Puri. Sinha is said to have the best ‘nose for news’ and can apparently smell out a good story before anyone else. His fans love talking about how Sinha had not just predicted the Babri Masjid demolition, the Sarojini Nagar bomb blasts and Aishwarya Rai winning the Miss World title—he had his copy ready for publication before the incidents happened.

There are many such popular stories about Sinha but the two favourites are—1. He wants to be editor and is scheming to usurp Ed’s position and 2. He prefers trainee journalists, especially if they are female, young and pretty. While the younger girls idolize him—the prettier they are, more the idolizing—the older lot are wary of Sinha. They say he can get rather nasty when he wants to.

‘While success is important,’ Sinha continues, ‘good stories are equally important. You’ll be happy to know Ed that the special investigations team has some good stories for next week. Take Ratan’s story on—’

‘Does it have sex?’ Ed asks while he reads a news report left on his desk.

‘As I was saying Ed, Ratan is investigating the involvement of this government school principal—’

‘Why will an old toad interest our readers?’ Ed asks and starts tearing the report.

‘This old toad might be sending minor girls to ministers for sex,’ Sinha says smiling though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ed raises an eyebrow and stops tearing the report. He often tears article proofs when he doesn’t like the content. There are bits of paper floating on the carpeted floor of his office.

‘Do we have proof?’ Ed asks.

Sinha nods towards his favourite brown-eyed boy, principal correspondent Ratan Ratanagiri, better known to everyone as Sewer Rat.

Sinha promotes Rat—even though he is not female and definitely not pretty—because Rat can create a story out of nothing. Rat thinks that every uncovered pothole is an accident waiting to happen; and strangely, once he finds a pothole, accidents always happen. In fact everyone calls him Sewer Rat because he seems to have done a great many stories around potholes and sewers. Not many people like him for various reasons and the constant stink of coconut oil from him doesn’t add to his general likeability. Rat also cannot pronounce ‘S’, which has led to some mean but hilarious situations. Like the other day in the canteen.

We were five on a table with two seats vacant when Rat came in with his tray and tried pulling out one of the vacant chairs.

‘Not that one,’ someone said.

Rat pulled out the other chair.

‘Not that one,’ said someone else.

‘What the fuck! Where do you want me to shit then?’ Rat yelled.

‘Not in public please!’

People at our table and the surrounding tables laughed for ten minutes after that. I know it’s a cheap joke, I know people shouldn’t make fun of someone who is ‘speech challenged’—but Rat’s a great laugh.

‘According to my shourshes it’s an open secret that the prinshipal shendsh school girlsh to minishtersh for proshtitution. We intend to catch her red-handed, we’re planning a shting operation,’ Rat says, spittle flying everywhere.

There are some smothered sniggers. Ed eyes Rat as if he has seen him for the first time.

‘It better be a good story,’ Ed growls, ‘but that’s next week. What do we have for this week though? Features? Don’t we have anything on Pamela Anderson or someone whose fucking tits we can show on the back page?’

This has been directed in the general direction of the Features team—that’s us—and the resident puritan, Features editor Leena Ghoshe rises to the bait.

‘Firstly, I object to the use of the f-word. As for ‘sex sells’, I think along with the mandatory dose of ‘sex’, people also need some mental stimulation. Some fodder for thought. We have a good feature on R.K. Narayan and an interview with Mahender Singh Dhoni. We could do more stories but unfortunately, all the space for feature stories is being eaten up by ads—’

‘Those ads pay for your salary, madam. As for mental masturbation for readers, I don’t give a damn! Ditto for what anyone thinks about ‘fucking’. Those who find their souls getting corrupted with my swearing can get the fuck out of here. Now, do you and your sisters have a fucking story for me?’ Ed asks with a nasty smile.

Ed and Leena don’t really get along and this is one of their routine weekly skirmishes. There will be more as the week progresses. Leena is the only one who can tell Ed not to use the f-word, though without much success.

Leena talks in clichés, starts almost every sentence with ‘firstly’ followed by ‘secondly’ and loves making ‘inverted comma’ signs in the air. She can also spot any syntax error and correct any copy and is therefore (un)popularly called Comma Queen. She is my boss and much as I dislike her—and she me—she is very good at her job. Right now though, thanks to the fight with Ed, Comma has stormed out of the edit meeting. An angry Comma means bad news for someone and—

‘Polly, what happened to the interview with Bipasha? To my desk please,’ Comma calls out from outside the conference room.

—that someone is usually me, Polly Sharma, trainee lifestyle reporter, currently on probation, resident punching bag. Oh well, here we go.

Comma flings her notepad on the desk and glares at me. I know she’s waiting for me to say something (anything really) so she can begin on her Polly-you’re-so-useless routine. I keep quiet, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of starting it.

‘Well, the cat got your tongue? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself, Polly?’ Comma says and continues to glare at me.

I wait patiently for her to continue, I know there’s more to come.

‘Firstly, you don’t deliver by your deadline, which makes me lose face before the entire world. Secondly, you have the insolence to just stand there and look at me. The least you can do is apologize for your incompetence.’

‘I am not—’

‘You are not what, Polly?’

‘I did … I did email Bipasha’s publicist about the interview, Leena,’ I say, ‘but she did not respond and—’

‘Firstly, I don’t know how you managed wherever you were working before this Polly, but incompetent, lazy, armchair journalism will not get you far with me. Secondly, even a rookie knows film stars don’t work on emails, you need to call them—’

‘I called her as well. The publicist said that since we are … since we are a new newspaper, we—’ I speak really fast trying to explain.

‘So what if we are a new newspaper? Firstly, did you tell them it’s the biggest media house publishing it? Secondly, if you knew how to convince people, Bipasha would be giving you an exclusive instead of—’

‘She wants to be on the front page,’ I say.

‘—refusing you and—what did you say?’ Comma asks, stunned.

‘The publicist said Bipasha will be happy to give me an interview but only if we put her on the front page,’ I respond.

There, now I’ve really done it. Comma cannot possibly complain about an exclusive interview from one of Bollywood’s hottest stars at the moment. However, I can never be certain with Comma; nothing upsets her more than a lost chance to put me down. I can almost see the cogs in her brain turn as she tries to find a new reason to yell at me. She finds it.

‘Well? What are we waiting for? Why haven’t you fixed a date yet? Don’t tell me you are waiting for the cows to come home?’ Comma asks.

She waits for a response from me. I am tempted not to say anything because I know that no matter what I say, she will find some fault with it. Unfortunately though, I can’t keep quiet indefinitely.

‘Bipasha wants to do the interview here, in Delhi,’ I tell Comma. ‘She has agreed to an exclusive photo shoot as well. However, she won’t be here till next week.’

Comma ‘harrumphs’ at me.

‘How convenient is that! You don’t have to do any story for this week. Very well then, kindly ensure you make the Arts and Theatre listings page. I’d also like some new recipes for the 10-Minute-Cook column on the food page. Since you have a lot of free time on your hands, kindly also edit the horoscope column. The astrologer is on leave for two weeks; kindly pull out some older predictions and rehash them. I’d also like you to make a couple of single-column fillers for various pages. You can start with a compilation of the biggest Bollywood scandals in the last two months. Kindly check in the Bin and use the older issues of Tabloid to compile your list. I hope that’s not asking too much from you,’ Comma finishes.

Satisfied that she has sufficiently increased my (already heavy) workload, Comma turns her back to me and behaves as if I’m not there.

Frankly, I’m glad that’s all there is to it; sometimes she can carry on for half an hour. Much as I’m glad this Polly-you-are-useless session didn’t last long, I can’t help but feel miserable about the fact that this week again, there will be no stories carrying my name in the paper. In the three months that I’ve been working here, I’ve written a lot of stuff—mostly compilations, summaries and captions—but none of it carries a byline. I’ve made several excellent pages though.

There’s ‘Whirl this Week’ with its fashion parties, numerous designers and innumerable models who blaze on the ramp for a season and then usually snort out of existence. Then there’s the Bollywood page called ‘Bolly Bolly’—a take on balle-balle, Comma’s idea—with Bollywood stars, socialites having affairs with Bollywood stars and hitherto unknown restaurant owners who become celebrities by virtue of inviting Bollywood stars to their parties.

Making these pages is a thankless job since I don’t get any byline. Not only that, despite much compilation, nifty copy-paste, snazzy caption-writing and many late nights that go into making these pages, readers forget them with a turn of the page. I’ve never heard anyone ever say, ‘Ah, great picture-caption coordination on this TV listings page, wonder which journalist made it?’

To the Bin then.

The Bin is separated from the rest of the office by a thick, smokeproof, soundproof, bulletproof (some say), one-way-see-through glass door. Some journalists call it the Viewpoint because you can see the action inside the office. Other journalists call it the Screw Point, because during night shifts a different kind of action happens here. For smokers this is the Smoking Point while a few old timers whisper the name Suicide Point. The story goes that one hassled sub-editor—after half a year of getting no bylines and constant harassment by his editor—overdosed on Valium. I’ve never liked that story.

The Bin is really the landing of the fire-exit stairs and is always littered with unsold copies of Tabloid, discarded press release material, empty plastic cups, numerous cigarette butts (there’s a No Smoking sign but no one cares) and languishing journalists with languid cups of some beverage. Most journalists drink the watered-down office tea, which is slightly better than the watered-down office coffee. Some journalists, though, don’t drink caffeine at all but prefer Old Monk or Solan No. 1. Usually there’s always someone sitting on the stairs or smoking, today, though, the Bin’s deserted.

Despite there being three housekeeping personnel and one housekeeping supervisor, the Bin is always filthy. I skirt around freshly spilled coffee that’s trickling down the stairs, avoid a puddle that could be vomit and head towards the pile of older Tabloid issues. I pick up last week’s edition, quickly flip through it and quickly put it away. It’s full of the India-Australia cricket matches that India lost. I am so not into cricket. I pick some more issues from earlier weeks and sit down to read. If I like anything for the compilation, I’ll have to note down the edition and page number and pull it out of the system files. I am very good at copy-paste.

I’ve just found three bits of Bollywood gossip when I smell cigarette smoke mingled with a perfume I recognize. I see Ragini walking up the stairs—the only person I know who can smoke and exercise at the same time.

‘More coffee on the stairs, as if this bloody place needed decoration. And eww, spew!’ Ragini says pointing at the puddle with her cigarette.

‘Hello Rags,’ I say and smile at her.

Ragini Malik is Tabloid’s senior correspondent, resident idealist and my closest friend since college. She’s always looked out for me and was the one who told me about the opening at Tabloid. She winks at me and points at the newspapers in my hand.

‘What are you doing with those early in the morning, my love?’ Ragini asks. ‘No wait, don’t tell me. Kareena and Saif are getting new tattoos because their love is not visible enough?’

‘You might have something there,’ I reply with a laugh. ‘Though Saif’s tattoo is quite showy really, it’s on his—’

‘It’s a bloody joke, Polly,’ Ragini says with a sigh, ‘Why must you kill all my jokes?’

She pretends to look hurt and takes the paper from me.

‘I bet Kareena has had a boob job done—look at how perky they are. My boobs though are real. What do you think of this?’ Ragini asks and twirls around.

Ragini is fiercely passionate about the things she believes in—the rights of slum dwellers, wearing cotton salwar-kurtas and showing lots of cleavage. Today she has outdone herself with the cleavage and her breasts …

‘The kurta is beautiful but your breasts are more out than in, Ragini!’ I say, taking in her appearance.

She’s wearing a tight black churidar and a maroon kameez with a plunging neckline. She’s not wearing any dupatta because Ragini believes ‘a dupatta completely defeats the purpose of a plunging neckline’.

‘Don’t worry about my breasts, love, you know I like airing them a bit,’ Ragini says with a naughty smile. She sits down next to me and lights another cigarette.

‘I’ve also told you many times—breasts are a woman’s biggest distraction strategy. We should be using them oftener,’ she says seriously.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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