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My plait is as thick as my arm, it snakes down my sinews, a river, breaching, in monsoon.) (In first-century India, my buttocks can hold mountains, and the desires of the whole world. My bare, tight midriff was pierced at the navel and encircled with a silver chain. My hair was silk, my lips crystals, my hips flat.
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On the dance floor, you held me by the waist. “Helps me imagine bigger boobs,” you said. when we had sex in the club’s loo, you took off my skirt and top and thong but not my bra. I walk slowly, bent slightly forward, unable to carry the weight of my heavy, heavy breasts.) (Lips like a red bimba fruit, eyes like a frightened gazelle’s, in the third century my waist is so tiny it disappears between my bosom and hips. “I love you, Sweetheart, but your boobs are really small.” at the club you smiled at the women who stared at your chiseled, fair face-nose sharp, jaw square-and told me how hot their breasts were.
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I’m a tree nymph with a button nose, my hair dark like the wings of the Bhramara bees, three-layered pearls dangling between my bare breasts, my skin glossy like a plastic Barbie’s.) (300 BCE, a garden glazed with moonlight. I plucked the three hairs between my breasts, Sweetheart, and wore an off-white plunge top with a tiny gold skirt over a thong that dug into my butt crack.
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I laid a T-shirt over my long hair and ran a clothes iron over it to turn my hair into satin. I shaved the hairs between my navel and cunt. I shaved the hairs at the small of my back. I shaved the hairs on my knuckles and toes. the club was called MOJO and played desi hip-hop that reverberated at my gullet, my world a cube of bass and rum and disco lights. In twenty-first century India I am pale-skinned, walking into a glass cabin toward four suited men who nod at me approvingly from behind a long desk.) Fairness cream = light skin = beauty = confidence = job interview badassery.
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(Ten years ago, when a popular skin-whitening cream in India started receiving criticism for propagating problematic ideas of female beauty (light skin = husband), the cream’s new TV ads started showing how the cream leads to women’s professional success. I laughed then, turned to my side, my clit erect, when you said, “Why is it so dark? Why isn’t it pink?” Sweetheart, that afternoon I lay on my back in a black bra and nothing else when you kneeled at my knees and pulled my legs apart, said, “Hmmm,” to my blue-black cunt that opened like a carnivorous flower. (Today my lips are fissured, purple wine in their cracks.) Musicians barely appeared on the roads anymore and when they did I wanted to tell them, “Don’t leave, please.” “Told you so,” you told me.Īcross the wine stain, a Rajasthani man in khaki pants and a tucked-out shirt played ravanhatha that sounded like weeping. The station smelled dense-your mouth at the end of a night of partying, Sweetheart, when you wanted to have sex and I turned to you, eyes wide and desperate, said, “Kiss me first,” but we couldn’t because alcohol had dried our mouths. someone had emptied a bottle of red wine at the exit of the bus station, the stain like the line of hairs between my navel and cunt.