The Gun Ride to Heaven

Pop, bangs, thundering and pounding 
Gunfire, blood, and an eerie moan
Leaning in her pew, crying to herself
forlorn expression, tear-rimmed eyes
Disconsolate stands the mother to the girl
who picked out her white communion dress
Will that home ever see light
where Christmas gifts lie wrapped tight
through the years that will follow ?

The unthinkable, when it descends
a faith is convulsed not in God alone, but in the guild
A freak Friday morn heaved horrific horror
for loved ones of the twenty sinless souls
A safe haven for children reduced to 
a national symbol of heartrending terror
Carnage in class rooms where no one left to save.

While gun control advocates grow quieter
the gun lobby grows stronger and louder
It was Denver, Oregon and now Connecticut
How many more mortalities from mass shootings 
before America talks of sensible gun control
For, if you have the right to bear arms,
think of those who remain unarmed
in a given place, at a given time
A decaying culture and mental illness
Spells insanity for one and gloom for the rest.

All Things Christmas

 It is the time to praise the Babe

 who brought in cheer to the somber chill

 and thereon began 'Cristes Mæsse'

 and we shall rejoice for it's Chistmas time

 I long to bring the fir tree home

 And grace the nook that lies bare

 bells, lights and tinsels adorn

 O the joys of a blessed season

 I dream to wink at that jolly old elf 

 huffing and puffing as he hollers in

 I crave to hear the peal of bells 

 as Dasher n Dancer prance 'n tinkle

 I wait to hang a stocking there

 that he shall fill with gifts of love 

 my stocking fillers he knows best

 are bounties of joys for them I love

 I fancy not of gems and riches

 all I seek is love galore

 a season full of mirth and gaiety

 one that brings in joyous hopes

 I set on to fill my pad with greens

 a mistletoe moment and holly wreaths

 pots of poinsettias and rose blooms

 O how flushed is the beauty of joy

 I ache to sit by the hearth’s glow

 and sing aloud the tunes of bliss

 come and join, my loved ones

 it's you I seek to flux the freeze 

   

 I pine to huddle in the ardor of love 

 gleams and beams to cling 'n coddle

 a time for togetherness and for joys

 as Christmas carols the chorus croon

 Ring in the joy of red and green

 let's jingle and jangle this Christmas in

Marriage, Beauty and Infidelity

http://bkhush.com/dev/content/marriage-beauty-and-infidelity

Extra marital affairs have never been uncommon. While it is unfortunate that infidelity comes about and shakes an otherwise stable marriage, the fact that it has been prevalent in all sections of societies around the world, adds a sense of disquiet amongst couples. However, we do not bother ourselves with affairs that do not concern us. Nevertheless, there have been numerous extra marital escapades between people of repute and those in high offices that have intrigued us in some degrees. All such liaisons, irrespective of the reasons they develop, are outrageously scandalous, shameful, and unacceptable. They get the world speaking of the unspeakable. Even as, each such affair sets a deterrent example there are a few, very few, from which the society in particular, and a generation at large draws a cautionary note. Such is the fallout of the recent scandal between the CIA chief David Petreaus and his biographer, Paula Broadwell.

As news of the David Petreaus-Paula Broadwell affair cascaded down the media, my gut reaction, like that of countless others was to see what wife Holly Petreaus looked like. While reasons for the liaison could have reasonably varied, a diatribe against an ageing wife who looked more like a 'grandmother' to her rather ‘tanned, taut' husband, flocked the cyberspace. Going by pictures and videos, one couldn't agree anymore that the general's romping with a woman twenty years his junior was plainly inevitable, given the fact that she is every bit of a head turner as opposed to his unadorned, plain Jane wife of thirty eight years. "I'd have done the same thing," said a commentator on CNN's website. The media have raved and ranted enough over the affair, especially why Holly Petreaus did not seek to make herself any ‘lovelier’. Interestingly, public opinion too, has held wife Holly’s physical appearance as a contributory factor in her husband’s straying. Hence, the question that arises uppermost in one’s mind is whether beauty is the salient weapon a woman needs to keep her husband hooked.

While popular press confirms that the wife of the ‘philandering general’ has been the rock on which he has relied in a preoccupying career, Holly Petreaus's personal pain comes more as a threat every woman faces as she ages alongside her still winsome husband, who spends more time at work with a luminously beautiful woman. Enough reasons for Cupid to strike its arrow. Enough reasons for bio chemistry to get working between the beguiling nymph and the suave commander who certainly loves his homely, not-much-to-look-at wife of nearly four decades, and one who has been the bedrock of his success, but who fails to set his libido humming the way the new woman does. Sin of sacrilege? Well, for a while, let’s keep moral issues aside, and talk about a wife who, cloaked in the security of a ‘seemingly’ rock solid marriage, finds it immaterial to bow down to the standards of vanity and cosmetic beauty, and consequently allows herself to let go. She has other meaningful issues and pressing concerns to dwell on, especially with her husband’s absorbing career that she has all the while supported firmly. How well do her efforts pay? Furthermore, why is she held virtually responsible in tainting her own marriage?

Very often the man in the street inevitably draws subtle hints and inferences out of such a national scandal. Here, one discovers an ageless monster that raises its grisly head, and reminds every woman that an age old marriage in no way guarantees a lifetime of her husband's loyalty to her. A blaring reality emerges: no matter how accomplished and successful a woman is, she plunges to her downfall with greater rapidness if she fails to conform to the conventional standards of physical attractiveness. A scribe on a popular news website was of the opinion that Holly Petreuas' "entire demeanor, her hair, no makeup, her frumpy clothes, seem to scream to her husband and others ... I don't care!”-Chicago Tribune. Funnily enough, if a beautiful woman is betrayed, numerous other reasons surface for the betrayal, and all do indisputably agree that beauty is just insignificant to keep a marriage intact. In Holly's case ironically, it is this insignificance that has gained significance, and forces women to agree to the time honored allegory, that it is beauty with which she can harness her beast. Needless to say, a personal tragedy between three individuals who the world did not know until yesterday, has not just suddenly won a viral empathy, but has come to undo the perception that 'beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder'.

Leo Tolstoy had said, “It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness”. This has forever been a universally accepted truth. Coco Chanel, the French fashion designer and founder of the Chanel fashion brand, contrastively opined, “A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.” So even as Paula Broadwell is tailor made for the Chanel school of beauty, Holly Petreaus firmly supports Tolstoy. As the recent CIA scuttlebutt unfolded in generous doses, with pictures of the two women in their respective aura, all that clamor for a nick here and a tuck there, a Botox up and a silicone in has suddenly come to fuel ordinary women's minds like never before. The fact that women take extraordinary efforts to look physically attractive confirms that societies focus largely on physical appearances.

Physical beauty is a unique "combination of social consensus and genetic fitness". This is where the world associates the alluring Broadwell, the then tantalizing Monica Lewinsky and the ultimate sex symbol for generations, Marilyn Monroe. There is a tug of war that has surfaced in people's minds with Broadwell's beauty and brains, and Holly P's brains and her unflinching support to her husband, sans beauty. What turns out is that Holly Petreaus' plight has suddenly become every ageing woman's nightmare. Years ago Hillary Clinton suffered the same blow when Bill Clinton's affair with Monica Lewinsky hit the headlines. Each time a less glamorous wife loses out to her sexier counterpart it is plainly inferred that her fading beauty or none thereof, works to her disadvantage. It becomes analogous, therefore, that just as one needs to perform consistently to keep one's job, a woman tirelessly, endlessly needs to enhance her looks, apart from all her other attributes, to keep her marriage. While there certainly is a LOT MORE than mere physical attractiveness that brings a man and a woman mistakenly together, what is it that leads us to the fearful conclusion that beauty is a predominant, if not the only factor in contributing to infidelity?

Thou Shalt Die Because I Believe.....

Savita Halappanavar died after she was allegedly denied an abortion in a pro-life Catholic country. Malala Yousafzai survived a near fatal encounter with the Taliban bullet. Chris Stevens, the US ambassador to Libya was killed by terrorists who attacked the U.S. consulate in Benghazi, Libya.  Dissimilar that these deaths may be and dissimilar may be the circumstances that have brought them about, yet a common thread links them together: death in the name of religion. While all instances of death that occurred or could have occurred took place in different situations, it was religious fundamentalism that sowed the seeds.

Malala lived in the Swat province, a region that militant groups controlled, and in her campaign for the rights of girls to be educated, had written a diary on Taliban atrocities for the BBC Urdu service. The Pakistan Taliban said it carried out the attack because Malala was 'promoting secularism'. Savita, who was under immense pain and agony as a result of miscarrying the foetus, repeatedly asked for her pregnancy to be terminated. Doctors, who could have saved her, turned down her pleas because the fetal heart beat was still present, and abortion could not be performed because Ireland is a Catholic country.  Chris Stevens, a career diplomat whose humility, warmth and integrity won him friends across the Middle East, friends who came to trust him even as they  doubted his government.  Stevens’ tragic death came as a 'spontaneous response' and a 'senseless outrage' to an online preview of a film considered offensive to Islam.  Extremist forces decried Malala's attempts to secure education for girls and women, for they believed that "whom so ever leads a campaign against Islam and Sharia is ordered to be killed by Sharia.”. So much said for the causes that have led to the deaths and the attempted annihilation of lives that ought to be lived.

If one can make sense out of the analogies, one will agree that Chris Stevens and Hallapanavar passed away because religion was placed above their lives. Malala's survival, on the other hand, is hailed as God's will. The question that arises is, whose will determines our lives: is it our own, or is it the will of the fundamental forces around us that determines our right to live; or further still, is it the will of the invisible force that is believed to be the ‘sole custodian’ of life and death? While the latter seems a matter of faith and thus abstract, the former are more concrete and thus become the real factors that govern our lives in a world ridden with prejudices and dogmas. While 'religious' doctors refused to stop a tiny, failing heart beat that they knew was dying and thereby posing an enormous risk to a healthy heart, they did not care to save the woman who had a right to live and to be protected.

These examples may hardly be enough when one goes back to a host of killings that have taken place the world over in the name of religion. Graham Staines’ burning to death in Keonjhar district of Orissa, India, way back in 1999 still gives one goosebumps as one thinks of it. Public protests condemn Savita’s abortion death. A nation has mourned the death of its diplomat, and the world prays for Malala's speedy recovery.  What remain unchanged in the face of these reactions are the dogmas that support these deaths. When Hitler defended his rights to exterminate the Jews, he said, "Hence today I believe that I am acting in accordance with the will of the Almighty Creator: by defending myself against the Jew, I am fighting for the work of the Lord."  The world stood shocked as the ‘great emissary of evil’ leashed genocide against those held together primarily by their religious beliefs.

It is paradoxical that religion, a set of beliefs that unites people even as it polarizes them into secular forces, becomes the underlying factor of one's right to live. The irony of religion lies in the fact, that even as it is created to uphold life and provide a sense of direction to righteous living, it increasingly becomes a weapon to exterminate life.  How right is the self-righteousness that we practice in the name of religion? How does a false sense of guardianship and the consequent security that religion extends to its believers, stand vindicated? Furthermore, how just is the fanaticism that comes with a blind adherence to religion? Why doesn’t intellectual responsibility triumph over religious faith? Is human life so fragile that it should crumble under the force of someone else’s belief? If this is what religions stands for, why does the religion of humanity not raise its head? 

Melancholy

On woodland path cloaked in red, I trudge up to nowhere

My warmth is spent, a chill doth sets, a gloom spans the sphere

The lake lies dull sans a ripple, I cry a tearless tear

She lies wrapped, in earth's bosom, her voice I long to hear

As October twilight fills the air, a haze befogs her visage

My heart aches to feel but once the warmth of her embrace

A bosom friend, that destiny hurled once into my path

My life that earned a treasure rich, flowed louder than a strath

An autumnal mist eclipses life that sparkled like a beam

My mate n' chum, she now recedes to morning's fading dream

White as snow the wintry chill has snubbed off the wick

The flame we lit has long died, its soot I scrape off thick

Spring comes n' summer fades, 'tis fall's chill afore winter's snow

A season comes and a season goes and all that stays is but the blow

The Static Face of an Evolving India

The term 'marriage' generally bears a striking connotation: love and a life together. Love is the key ingredient of this social union between two people who are committed to spending their lives together.  What logically ensues is that in order to get married one needs to be in love. Wedlock seals the romantic involvement and a new life begins for two people. True. This is commonly and most naturally the case the world over. In India, however, the scenario is entirely different.

This is one country that regales in its age old tradition of 'arranged marriages'. While, getting married becomes almost imperative for every Indian, falling in love is even today frowned upon. Paradoxically, in a land where remaining unmarried is considered lacking a fundamental ingredient of life and an embarrassment, a youngster in love, evokes the piquant curiosity of his peers and invites nasty insinuations from the elderly about his/her romantic relationship. In major parts of India, being in love before marriage is a virtual stigma. So is remaining single. A girl in love supposedly brings 'shame' upon her family. And all hell breaks loose if the boy she's in love with happens to be from a caste/ community different from hers. In order to salvage the family's 'honour', the girl is either hastily married off to another boy of a 'respectable' background, falling within the 'caste/community' compartment, or in worst cases the unwavering, undeterred girl and her lover are sacrificed by their own people in the name of 'honour killing'. Shocking as it may seem, yet this act of barbarism continues to be practiced in parts of the country. Most couples in love, however, are lucky enough to get a positive nod from their respective families. In such cases too it seldom is an easy win for them. Often parents put up a stiff resistance to their children's choices and ultimately, fearing an estrangement from their heirs, give in. At other times, however, the girl and the boy, two consenting adults, are forced to marry someone against their own wishes.

In the background of these somber, sour and unyielding practices, the age old tradition of arranged marriage still exists as the most acceptable way to matrimony. Funnily enough, Indian parents proudly take the onus of finding suitable matches for their children, and getting their 'independent' children married off is an incumbency carried out almost theatrically. The practice, in today's world that significantly values individual freedom and choices in all that one does, appears downright stifling and outdated. Recently, while talking to a cousin in India, who works as a software engineer with a reputed multinational, I casually asked her about her plans for marriage. The youngster replied saying that while marriage was most plainly on the cards, she was still waiting for Mr. Right. I asked her if she had someone in mind, to which she replied in the negative, and said that she expected her parents to do that for her. Some twenty years back the answer would not have befuddled me, but today I found it difficult to stomach that. What is simply beyond comprehension is, the way a person who's come to be independent, with a distinct conception of life and choices, allows someone else to choose a 'life partner' for him/her. Isn't that a decision reserved exclusively to the individuals concerned?

Most Indian parents, in their mid-ages, spend a chunk of their time and resources playing match makers to their offspring. The burgeoning matrimonial websites come appreciably to their aid. Bharat Matrimony, a ubiquitous name in Indian households, boasts of having entered the Limca Book of Records with a record number of marriages. Not that 'love marriages' are non-existent. With changing times, 'love matches'- a term not used in the western world, are gaining grounds especially in urban India. However, such marriages are arranged by families, dutifully and most self- righteously, by way of mutual approval and compliance. In ancient India, where the idea and role of the individual was not well recognized and remained relatively blurred, the concept of arranged marriage did work, and those marriages were fairly successful too. Today, however, Indians with a decent education and career have veered far from the age old way of living, but when it comes to settling down in marriage, they most often lie, bereft of any romantic association, almost wholly at the wishes of their parents. And it thus is a 'loveless match' to begin with. It would be further intriguing to note that many of the youngsters have had no romantic involvement at all until they get married, which happens anytime around their mid-twenties or later. And this is highly regarded by the older generation and often passed off as a mark of 'integrity of character'. To such couples, sex comes, not as a result of love, but more as a result of a natural transpiration between a man and a woman being 'made to sleep together' for the purpose of nurturing the family tree, and for enabling a ‘socially accepted’ way to satisfy their basic human instinct. What follows marriage is a life bogged down with family pressures and responsibility, so much, so that love merely remains an object of fantasy, restricted to books and films.

In a land where individuality and personal space do not come easily and naturally, it appears that the age old tradition of arranged marriage has not just survived, it is continually evolving to suit the needs of a changing populace. And so, a 'fair complexioned, smart, beautiful convent educated, 5ft2'' docile, homely, graduate, Brahmin girl of 22,' of the 80s and 90s has now progressed to a 'beautiful, Hindu, Mumbai based investment banker 25, progressive woman with a spiritual bent, seeks alliance with like-minded Hindu man, preferably based in the US ; caste no bar'. In a progressing India the old arrangement still works, with a constant variable of 'beauty' as an essential criterion for an Indian bride. Not just in India, but scores of Indians settled in America and other parts of the world, continue to opt for arranged matches with a view to retain their culture. The difference is that back home, parents play a decisive role in these marriages. Romance and courtship between couples-to-be is not encouraged. And all clandestine meetings, if any, to that effect are often swept under the carpet and not given enough importance. Indians living westwards generally have a strong say in their own, arranged relationship. Furthermore, the need to know one another is far more crucial and relevant than what goes on at the family levels.

It can be summed up that arranged marriages continue to hold their charm for Indians. The flavors get somewhat marinated in the changing times, but families still look for decent brides and a US based software engineer continues to be the most sought after groom.

Beery Tales

We sometimes spend too much time indulging in a particular interest, so much so that it is generally disapproved of by others, and though we are not considered eccentrics, yet the indulgence yields little to us. Such an excess is termed as a 'fetish'. Women often have a fetish for something that relates distinctly to their feminism. A fetish ranges from something optionally tiring, like cleanliness, to something apparently splendid and impressive, like housekeeping, and then something typically crazy like beauty, personal grooming, fitness and then women often have that characteristic obsession for clothes, accessories and jewelry. I, myself, most shyly admit to having a fetish for beautiful hair! I strongly believe that great hair compliments a woman's looks more than all the adornments that she may try.

I am inherently blessed with voluminous, dark tresses that, at the moment, seem to be en voyage to losing their glorious sheen. My erstwhile youthful years, coupled with a stress free life, and not to miss the adequate climatic conditions of the region that I once lived in, contributed immensely to my flaunting a healthy mane. I took little efforts to earn the admiring and envious glances of women not endowed with as lustrous a crown. Over the years as the biological clock ticked on and I trailed my husband to the Middle East, I soon realised that the desalinated water in the region for domestic use and personal care, became the strongest enemy of my hair. Within weeks of my arrival here, the tress, in open rebellion, began to part with the rest of my physical self. I started losing hair in tufts. Thereon began the ongoing agony of bidding a continual farewell to something I had once proudly possessed.

My rounds of Dubai, the city that I happily settled down in, led me to discover that hair treatment salon and parlors galore here. Numerous hair treatments exist, most of which I learnt upon my arrival here. Pharmacies and stores do a thrift business not just with skin care products but the ones for hair care, as well. The leading brands in treatment products for smoother and stronger hair, across the world find their way into stores and professional salons here. While shampoos and conditioners are one of the very basic, intrinsic hair care products, there exists a long list of names in specialist items like keratin wax, chocolate wax, mousse, masks, souffles, cream, sprays, serums, hot oil treatments, the very strange 'snake oil' and numerous other potions, some of which until now had been alien to me. I started to loosen my purse strings on buying anything and everything that promised to restore the lost glory to my hair that had by now reduced to frazzled frizzes.

I started visiting parlors for different hair treatments that were spoken of as tried and tested therapies. Not to mention the various home remedies that followed at the behest of concerned friends, well-wishers and wellbeing magazines. I patiently waited for the desired results, yet nothing majorly helped. I felt horrible and helpless! It seemed as though every day was a bad hair day in the literal sense of the term.

Friends and acquaintances shared similar stories of follicular disasters and 'hairy tales' were told at many a parties and get togethers. I would often be an intent listener to all such tales. It was on one of these occasions that a friend suggested the use of flattened beer as a final rinse for hair. I had known about this home remedy as a great tool for softening the mane but had never tried it, probably because the lingering smell of beer somehow failed to ensnare me into using it. Smelling good is always a top priority for women, and the reek of stale beer, I was sure would be an outright declivity to one's femininity. But, in order to tame my tresses, it was time to get them boozed!

I found myself desperately giving in, although with little expectation. Hesitantly, I carried a can of flattened beer to the shower the very next day. The beverage had never caught up with my preference of drinks, and so it felt weird carrying beer to the shower. After the elementary round of shampoo and conditioning, I finally rinsed the frizziness with beer and stepped out of the shower, only to acquire the disapproval of my children, who disdainfully said that I smelt foul ! To my utter dismay they tried to stay away from me. It surely did not feel right having these little ones get sniffy. That being a Saturday afternoon, I tried to distract them by taking them out on their promised trip to the beach where the air felt refreshing.

Wrapped in an eternal cycle of unrelenting chore, I hurriedly blow dried my hair, all the while expectant of some miracle, as an end result. And this day was one when my silent prayers seemed to be getting answered, for what I arrived at was mind blowing, absolutely astounding! The instant feeling of softness in my hair amazed me, like never before. I had not felt like this in all these months. I could see lustrous strands of black and they appeared incredible. The silky feeling made me run my fingers through the new softness constantly, and I felt almost tipsy with joy. I just could not believe that an ordinary, most commonly found ingredient had done something extraordinary. I began punching the air in delight, even as the fresh, satiny fluff on my head kicked around in self-glorification. I could feel the kick, the high, call it what you may. Seldom do I share such episodes and experiences with my husband, to whom they probably appear out right absurd and rather vain.

Thus, without any knowledge of the triumphant conclusion that I had arrived at, he walked merrily on the beach, along with the kids. I followed them, still soaked in the delight of my new grand slam. With a spring in my steps, I caught up with him. The cool air on the beach blew against our faces and gently lifted my feathery, shiny locks. As the tantalising aroma of beer in my hair wafted towards my 'beer bellied' husband, I felt him come close to me, his face nuzzling into my hair. I was insanely amazed. The beer had not just worked; it had worked wonders! Something that large amounts of delicate creams, rich serums, refreshing gels or sumptuous fragrances had failed to bring about, this ordinary, smelly beer had. My fetish did not go in vain. A can of beer is now a regular sight in my bathroom. The use and the hangover persists!

Fifty Shades Of Fluff

As I riffled through the aisles in a popular bookstore, stacks of paperbacks in black-grey cover drew my attention. I chuckled, for I had just finished reading the trilogy, the much devoured Fifty Shades series by debutante British writer E. L. James. These self-published and largely erotic books by a first time author have made their mark in the fiction world like none other. If reports are to be relied upon, Fifty Shades surpasses J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series and Stephanie Meyer's Twilight Saga as the fastest selling paper back series. Fifty Shades of Grey, the first in the trilogy has gone on to become the bestselling Kindle book of all time on Amazon.co.uk. The books namely, Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed have become so immensely popular that they are amusingly tagged as self-help books on rekindling mid aged women’s interest in intimacy. The first of the books was published in 2011 by a rather nondescript Australian publisher, The Writers' Coffee Shop, as an e-book, but word-of-mouth sent a plethora in the sales and the e-book hit the bestsellers list particularly in the United States and the United Kingdom in early 2012. As American publishers battled over the rights to release the books, Vintage Books secured the same in March 2012 to publish the e-book and the paperback editions. The books have earned the top spots on USA TODAY and The New York Times best sellers list for several consecutive weeks. Amazon's audible.com, offers the unabridged series on its Audible Best Sellers list. This clearly is an incredible bit of recognition.

Well, so much for the electrifying adoration the books, developed originally from a Twilight fan fiction, continue to receive. The raunchy, ribald pornography that James handles in the audacious, spunky bedroom scenes with unblinking openness  have something to do with the way the book continues to spawn a burgeoning fan base comprising largely of women, right from high schools to the middle ages. However, the books continue to receive conflicting reviews, from being  gripping and compelling, to having set the readers' libidos humming, and then to being a nasty piece of writing, risqué, porn trash, and of course  have gone to the extent of earning a derogatory nickname 'Mommy Porn'. Despite the poor reviews, the blockbuster sales suggest there is something deeper in the books that has taken the publishing world by the storm, and has extended a sky rocketing success to its author.

The hype and hoopla intrigued me enough to see for myself what all the fuss was about.  Honestly, however, it wasn't the erotica, but the hysterical popularity that lured me to jump on the bandwagon.  After visiting some popular bookstores in the city and discovering that almost all of them had their copies sold out, I decided to buy the e-version of the books on Amazon. Surprisingly enough, as I went about reading on the iPad, I realized it was difficult to get my hands off the 'chick lit' even in the briefest time that I had for myself, and that included the time spent in waiting to pick up my children from their activity classes and so on. Right away, I downloaded them on my cell phone, which allowed me greater flexibility in carrying the books all around and reading them whenever time permitted. Moreover, I had successfully managed to keep out the embarrassment that arises from reading porn literature so brazenly. Albeit, I confess the books kept me up as late as 2.30 past mid night and garnered my reluctance to sack in even after that. Even as I enjoyed the love story, the steamy, over the top sex exhibits, had me silently thanking my good sense that prompted me go for the e-books. With a sixteen year old book worm at home, I dared not have the print edition lying sprawled shamelessly on the couch. The love story that generates an ardor laced with abashment, describes the deepening relationship between Anastasia Steele, an intelligent, young, beautiful but moneyless college graduate and Christian Grey, a strikingly handsome, philanthropic Seattle billionaire with a tormented childhood. As James admits in an interview, the story is about romance between a young couple; and as all other young couples, these two have their fair share of sex. Now, the heart of the matter lies not in the plain 'vanilla sex' that  couples normally engage in, but the 'kinky fuckery' that some women confess has induced them to feel wet 'down south'. At the same time, those who abstain from talking openly about their personal bedroom practices have admitted that somewhere in the course of their reading they have found themselves snuggle close to their husbands, and the lustful, carnal depictions have secretly massaged their G spot. That’s more like a sex toy in print! Yet, there are scores like me, who at some point in the first book weren't sure if they’d go on to read the other two in the series. Gradually though, the unique love story with a lot of spins and jerks nearly obsesses you and swamps you into a deep, dark world of dominance-submission and sadomasochism. Synchronously lies Ana's unbridled, first hand account of  her sexual encounters with  the irresistible Christian and their tantalizing amusement with hand cuffs, blindfolds and riding crop in the 'red room of pain'. The BDSM and SM details are repulsive, but Ana's mind blowing orgasms allow the readers a trip into the searing fantasy sex cauldron.

Women, however, may find it easy to relate to Ana who comes across as a normal, smart, beautiful and intelligent girl next door, who initially fumbles and stutters in the presence of the celebrated entrepreneur, Christian Grey. Christian, with all that wealth, has his philanthropy and his undying love for Anna peeking through the greyness that surrounds him. In this Harvard dropout, twenty seven year old Adonis and an utterly successful entrepreneur, we may catch a fleeting glimpse of Mark Zuckerberg, philanthropist Bill Gates and the piping hot Tom Cruise. Funnily, by the time one gets to the end of the book, probably the high school readers start comparing their SAT scores with Ana's. The novel ends perfectly with Christian and Ana playing joyfully with their boy child, as they're on the way to bringing into the world their baby girl. Ana gazes up at the promising view as the sun sinks behind the Olympic Peninsula. 'It's everything that Christian promised it would be...". "It's home" and Christian is ‘fifty shades free’. A utopian ending seals a splendid fairy tale. Beauty and the Beast is somewhat revisited.

Humorously enough, each time Christian beds Ana, whether in the shower, on the piano top, in the elevator, at the boathouse and various other places, women may find themselves squirming with feverish delight and experiencing 'pawned' orgasms. Those who remain insensitive to the aphrodisia, and express disgust for such sleazy representation, may decidedly be called a bunch of 'elitist snobs'!  Yet, all would univocally agree that there are certain sketches that are far too difficult to stomach, and that is exactly the reason why one needs to read the novel behind closed doors. Readers complain that the book contains poor writing with sloppy and repetitive phrases, a repetition of lowdown obscenity, and frustratingly annoying dialogues. Louboutin is misspelt ‘Laboutin', a case of poor editing. Ana's 'inner goddess' constantly propping up, and her ceaseless use of expletives not only leaves the readers exasperated, but  also do not complement the persona of the English Literature graduate who enjoys reading 'Tess of the d'Ubbervilles'. In the background of an urban American setting, the writer’s inept handling of Americanism in her writing has raised a quite a few eyebrows. Despite the flaws, Fifty Shades has clearly gone viral and erotica has come to be resurrected to mainstream fiction.

In case you haven't read the novel, go ahead, buy it, borrow it or even lift. Let yourself loose and treat yourself to one of the most erotic fairy tales of your time, a book that is hard to put down. With all its fluffiness, the novel clearly veers far from fine literature and serves just well to pass the time. Nevertheless, there are some hugely popular books that are loaded with sex, often unromantic sex, and if one can tolerate those, one can certainly accept this as a light read. I'm sure the writer herself did not look beyond. You may just enjoy the story if you look past the preposterous sex scenes. Simultaneously, you will fall in love with Ana and Christian and will certainly want to know more about Christian's obscure history, Ana's vain struggle in disenchanting herself from the man who by his own admission is dark, and their passionate relationship that finally frees him from his demoniac past. And, should your man ever snicker at you, just confront him with a bold, 'why do YOU watch porn'? Again, women readers will be quick to point out that while the book is replete with sex, what interests them primarily is the enduring love between Ana and Christian.

Universal Pictures and Focus Features have won the screen rights to James’ purple fiction. The angelic beauty Shailene Woodley, and the very charming Emma Watson are touted to be the top contenders for Ana’s role. However, if some of the unimaginable, bizarre and perhaps, never before performances of intimacy are to be screened, it is a wonder if the actors will ever agree to give those 'hot-shots'. Even with body doubles, the scenes will be hard to ingest. Despite all that perplexity, movie goers await with ecstatic fervor, the most 'wild, wicked and wanton' book-to-film release.

Perhaps the most fitting conclusion to this review would be in the words of Deirdre Donahue, USA TODAY, "So before you dismiss Fifty Shades as silly or demeaning having never read a word, here's Christian Grey's advice: "We are consenting adults and what we do behind closed doors is between ourselves. You need to free your mind and listen to your body.

 

Love's Refrain

In ripe efflorescence, the flame of fondness flits,
gleams and glimmers with mellifluous harmonics
Wrapped in a cocoon, our twin hearts beat in unison
as Cupid's couple, we cleave in a rhapsodic mission

Our lives' elixir, we synthesize as dyad lovebirds,
nourish and nurture amidst prismatic pastures
Wherein fidelity, fervor, friendship and fondness
flock our spirits as we embrace amorousness

A world of wealth that the Almighty doth shower
upon you and I, swathed in love's luscious amour
A love that swells and craves divine benediction
sensuality and desire are its concordant musician

The peals of laughter that let sunshine into our today
Pray, it glows incandescent when debility comes to stay
In sickness or in health, through all highs and lows,
for better or for worse, while our fondness grows

Sweetheart, upon all our wedded bliss, abounding rife
I, most solemnly do affirm, to be your ever loving wife.

It Tugs, I Twitch, It Beeps, I Peek

We seem to have abandoned the days when weddings and births were announced on the house phone, and the household huddled around to gather every ounce of the conversation. The house phone seldom rings anymore, and with that we have almost done away with such ceremonious revelations. You no longer have to wait to be informed by your aunt that the pregnant cousin of yours has delivered. A beep on your hand held device alerts you of the baby's arrival and pictures of the new born are flashed across the world even before it may have taken the first breath of life, leaving you wanting to scoop her already into your arms. Kith and kin, or better still, digital connections of this cousin, receive an on-the-spot update about how adoringly her husband thanks her for this bundle of joy. And as the beaming mother swooshes into texting, instant messaging and updating status on social networking sites, the pangs of labor and child birth thaw by degrees as she transports herself from meatspace to cyberspace via that indispensable widget she refuses to part with. Now think of this, some ten years back, when you brought forth a life no less precious into the world, did your husband applaud your attainment to that effect? Or, without the testimonials do you now feel less appreciated? Or, worse still, has the language of love undergone a transformation? Probably, it all lies in that little device which you appoint to publicize your privacy, and thereby forfeit those exclusively personal moments to digital eccentricity. And in the flush of this revolution in connectivity, does it turn out that our erstwhile existence, bereft of such trimmings, lay insipid in the confines of a small group of familiar associates?

Not a totally grim scenario, though. You may be vacationing on the Seychelles Islands and yet clinch a lucrative stock on SENSEX or get the latest on the NYSE. All courtesy the minuscule gadget you own. A decade ago, the average person was probably more diffident about technology. Not anymore. So, as you tweet about the London Olympics and post videos of the latest Pitbull concert in your town, you certainly can ask Siri, to guide you to the nearest Italian joint in your vicinity. It's all about 'biting into the Apple' or latching on to the 'Blackberry'.

While telecommunication facilities vary from nation to nation, and from region to region, we quite easily store every bit of information on our mobile devices, so much, so that this pocket-sized gizmo turns out to be a ubiquitous personal assistant. So dependent are we on our smart phones, that parting with the same awhile afflicts us with a disagreeable feeling of incompleteness. All communication between friends, co-workers and acquaintances living across the globe, is simply and most effectively contained in our pockets. You have this sudden urge to say something to your friend, least important it may be, swoop into a schmooze even while you are swaddled in your duvet! Emotions flow freely. You may not get yourself to saying things aloud, but typing and tapping 'send' is all too easy. To say 'love you', 'thinking about you' 'missing you' or 'did you have your pill this morning', is all but a pushover and simple as ABC? In other words, love, care and concerns are now digitalized. With animated smileys, you tap the keypad or simply touch the screen at any odd hour and let your heart open up to your loved one at the other end. It's no more about sitting at your workstation or embracing your laptop. It doesn't even matter if you're living in unmatched time zones, if you haven't hibernated for the day, you're always there to answer a call or acknowledge a text...and then you're on a roll!

Moreover, with twitter feeds rolling in every second, a meeting at the workplace no more palls on you. Tweets let us keep in touch when we are not blah- blahing on the mobile phone. Facebook updates roll in every minute, and you get to see that your friend in Oslo is enjoying the spectacular northern lights, while you are sitting through that draggy, dreary meeting, headed by that acrimonious boss of yours.

It may lift our spirits to know that we are in communication, even though we may be tens of thousands of miles away from each other. Technology has actually made it possible to dive into one another's life at random moments. With video calling facilities enabled, you can connect with your mom no matter where you are, and show her how sassy you look in that outfit she gifted to you on your last anniversary. Even as, you allow your mind to go wild on the scary possibilities of this video calling feature, you may just need to box up at times. After all, would you like to 'facetime' with a friend when you have your face layered with a cleansing mask, ugh? Well, that may be just one of your many flashes you may not want to share. Yet, with 3G, 4G and the innumerable Gs evolving, it just doesn't matter, where you are or what you're up to. All that matters is that smart pocket device that beeps in harmony with every move you make, reminding and reassuring you that all those who matter are just a click away. With the pervasive and unrestricted wireless services, networking is simply at the push of a button. And, if you possess the gizmo, you have it all there.

The smart phone virtually has broken barriers, blurred distances and has made information available literally at one's finger tips. And with that omnipresent ding, technology has gifted us with a peerless vim. Paradoxically, even as we bemoan the gluttony of wireless connections, this contraption certainly gets us hooked as it slides the world into the cozy confines of our pockets, and fills us with a warm complacency of being connected in a rather disconnected world.

Smartly yours!