Plain

I am plain.
This is not a self deprecatory post. It is just a fact that I state here.
I am not ugly. I am just plain. I got a face that shows how old i am. I got skin that is not even toned. I don't have a hot body that people can lust after. I don't have a single remarkable feature. If I primp and preen and put oodles of make-up I will be able to transform myself. I don't however do that.
As I see it, I am not a model/actress/dancer or in any profession where my face would be my fortune.
You think that I will get by in life? WRONG!!
I forgot to mention one thing. I am a woman.
A woman.
If I need to get by in life, just about scrape through with the usual ups and downs and highs and lows, I still have to be beautiful. If I am not desirable, then I am nothing.
If I were a man, and ugly to boot, I would still get a fair shot at life. They will say, " Never mind, handsome is as handsome does." Even if I were no genius at whatever I do and even if I were not at all talented, I would still scrape by.
However, I am a woman. I must strive all my life to look as close as possible to the IDEAL WOMAN. My teeth must be set straight, I must wear high heels to lengthen my calf ,thrust out my boobs and jutt my butt out, I must wear eye make-up, face powder to even out my complexion, wax, pluck, tweeze, thread, bleach, wear tight clothes, smell good, feel soft to touch, have silky smooth skin and I must maintain this day after day. Only to look the same as all other women, to try hard to be at par with every other woman and look the same so that some day a hairy ugly smelly piece of goods will paw at me and deign to go to bed with me. Call it marriage, call it love, call it an affair. Even if not for sex, I must still strive to look like all other women and as close as possible to the ideal so that the men at work place will at least take me seriously.
If you are a plain woman, and not a genius at something, then life is tough.
I have only one wish. If my genie would come to me I would say to him ( definitely HIM, who has heard of women having the power to grant any wish?) please grant me leave to get away with it. More than anything in the world, I want to get away with being plain. Like many men I know, I just want to get away with it. That's all.

Beaches

Those that have known the sweaty Sundays
do not crave beaches anymore.
Nor do those who suspect themselves to have
fallen prey to melanoma.
All very well for the Englishman to exoticise
the hot waves lapping at the sand-furnace.
All very well for him to talk of afternoons and coffee spoons.
Give me a poem that writes about a beach country as it is.
That tells you of the thirst on your tongue,
the puckering of imported apples,
the sweat baths, the uncalled for tanning,
the cottons that do not help.
Even nudity wouldn’t,
the irritation felt when you see naked Caucasian bodies
that lay sprawled out in the sand.
Covered by sunscreen, protected by their moral code
which allows them to wear nothing but sunscreen,
and then you turn away, to see a black burqua’ed lady
leading away little Asif to his Arabic classes.
Unwilling is he, he’d rather watch cartoons.
No,they do not crave beaches anymore.
A holiday is not a holiday if you go to yet another beach.
Wearing your shorts and tee,watch your family
paw at the waves, feebly, play ineffectually,
feel impatient as you feel the thin ridge of your thong
tease your butt-crack and then snap tight against sensitive skin.
Suffer the same, pretend to enjoy yet watch with sympathy
the local woman who looks on at everything with spite.
Understand. They do not crave beaches anymore.