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Futile fantasy

Chandrima S. Bhattacharya finds herself guilty of self-censorship — there is much she cannot bring herself to do

SEX AND THE CITY

I can’t do certain things. Not even in my mind. I can never wear a bikini. I can at best treat the bikini as nightwear and try to go to sleep in it, though I would be worried about what my bed would think of me. I am encouraged by a New Market shop that sells bikinis made of synthetic material and knotted at the sides as part of its lingerie collection. If I have to wear it in public, I can also wear it over my clothes. Which makes me ask the question I have pondered over for decades: why aren’t Superwomen allowed to wear bikinis over their costumes? Why are they, at least Superwoman, made to display the same old undie, like the Supermen? What right has patriarchy to impose a male undergarment on a woman, real or imaginary?

Which brings me to another important question: why are there so few Superwomen? I can only think of one live example around us: Mayavati, though she doesn’t fly.

But I can’t wear a ghomta (ghunghat) either. I can’t go mmuaah… Every time I try, there is a gap between the sound and the pout. I can’t get the two things going together. It makes me feel futile. Between the idea/And the reality/Between the motion/ And the act/ Falls the Shadow/For Thine is the Kingdom. Life is very long. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.

I can’t be Anthony Bourdain. In Vietnam, he ate porcupine. In Indonesia, he ate penis noodle soup. I usually can’t eat any animal without vertebrae, though lobsters are a big exception. But even with these, I am choosy. I can’t eat dog, cat, rat or elephant. I also can’t eat grasshoppers, crickets, cockroaches or caterpillars, fresh or candied. I can’t have any broth made of blood. I can’t even have a rare steak always. I don’t like food to spurt blood. I think it’s the job of headless bodies in horror flicks.

I can’t look at the chicken that is going to be turned into curry for me. I feel embarrassed. I can’t bring myself to drink Bangla. No, not even mixed with Limca. I can’t imagine myself on television, interviewing a celeb. I don’t think any celeb would look at me. Even if he does, I would want to ask questions that would probably not be interview material. Suppose I am meeting Amitabh Bachchan. What I will really want to ask is does he still see Rekha? Is it true that his van is still parked near her bungalow often? What does she look like without make-up? Is it true that he says “yes” to any producer who can meet him in between shoots with a cheque? Does he doze off on his way to another studio? Doesn’t he feel bored? How much does he pay as annual LIC premium? Instead, I will have to ask him about his dedication and commitment and future plans.

I can’t watch Basic Instinct with my parents. Once it was showing on a channel as I was channel-switching. My mother sprang up and planted herself firmly in front of the television, covering the screen with a newspaper and allowing me time to navigate to a safe channel, thus relieving me of the burden of self-censorship. There are many other things I cannot do. I cannot scrape my tongue with the vile U-shaped tongue-cleanser, metal or plastic. The horror of it — it always seemed to pull my innards out. Though I think it is facing extinction — serves it right. I can’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. I can’t worship the god of greeting cards. I cannot get the magic of Elvis Presley. I can’t get to like Sandhya Mukhopadhyay’s voice. It’s like a metallic screech. I cannot like Nazrulgeeti. I find it insipid. It doesn’t compare with Rabrindrasangeet. I am an old conservative.

But whatever I do, I cannot imagine myself alone with Daniel Craig.

chandrima@abpmail.com Are there things that you cannot do? Tell t2@abpmail.com