The G spot exists

Ian Sample – I love his name - The Guardian’s science correspondent, reported that doctors have found evidence that the G spot exists. But it seems, that not all women have it. (I don’t think I have it). Anyway, Ian Sample writes: “Ultrasound scans revealed clear anatomical differences between women who said they experienced vaginal orgasms and a group of women who did not. The scans identified a region of thicker tissue where the G spot was rumoured to be lurking, which was not visible in the women who had never had a vaginal orgasm.”
The G spot is believed to have the ability to affect only vaginal orgasms. Thank god! And the doctors in Italy who conducted the study say that it’s possible for women to find out whether they have a G spot. However, one of my newspaper’s editors tells me that the study is nothing new. “Some women have it, others don’t.”

The three old ladies

I call them my Furies; they stare at me wherever I go. The slight rustling of the curtains on the first floor, the creaking of the door when I leave my apartment… they’re always there watching and waiting. They have nothing else to do. They are my neighbours, my very own witches who cackle but offer no predictions.

The first steals my newspapers, if I don’t pick them up by 8am. She’s always lurking in the corridor looking for something to steal. My landlady says that she even made off with a neighbour’s commode. Though how an 80-year- old can accomplish such a task escapes my imagination.

The second is a vigilante – her targets are vehicles parked in front of the building gate. The moment a car is parked outside the gate, she rushes out of her house with surprising agility armed with a rusted spear. She then proceeds to deflate the tires systematically, muttering to herself.

The third smells of cats – rumour has it that there are about 20 in her apartment. But even the local authorities don’t have the courage to investigate.

On Sundays I see them go to church. The three old women mutter and mumble. When they see me, they make the sign of the cross. They hold the mirror to my future. One day I will be old and wrinkled. I see the signs. I’ve already started muttering to myself, and I want to adopt a stray cat. My living room is littered with newspapers and magazines.

When I grow old, I will be a frizzy-haired chain-smoking alcoholic. There will be no mirrors in my house. I am not that brave.

Oh, those Martian women

It’s back to the drawing board for sci-fi writers and movie producers. Aliens are not little green men, and they’re certainly not slime-ridden creatures with extra large eyes. We now have proof that they’re hirsute women. NASA’s Spirit has captured a Martian woman sunning herself on a red rock, in a pose quite similar to the Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen.

On Earth, however, very few societies allow their women to walk around in all their hairy glory – that’s the prerogative of the men. But from this image we can infer that among the Martians at least, hair is in. Julia Roberts should be happy. Images of her hairy armpit still evoke horror and revulsion.

Of course, rationalists are quick to dismiss the Martian woman as the product of an overactive imagination. They attribute it to pareidolia, where people tend to see human faces in inanimate objects. Some say it’s a trick of light and shadow. But that’s what rationalists are about. They’ll use reason and logic to justify the boring view of the universe.

And then we would have to go back to little green men and slimy creatures. I like the idea of a hairy Martian woman. She lives in a world where torturous procedures like waxing and threading do not exist. And when she’s not abducting Americans for medical experiments, she likes to sit on a rock and watch the sun set.

It’s the 31st: let’s attack some women

Here’s a story that happens every year: ‘women attacked my frenzied mob’. Last New Year’s Eve, it was at the Gateway of India. This year, two couples – one newly married – were attacked in Juhu. A group of 50 men simply pounced on them, and began molesting the women.

This is the psyche of Mumbai -- a city that’s touted to be safe, open-minded and cosmopolitan. But simmering under this veneer of coexistence and equality is a mentality that is chilling and menacing. Everyone, the rich and the poor, are guilty. You could be walking in a chawl or parting at a ritzy night club, either way you're not safe.

On New Year’s Eve, when everyone is under the influence of alcohol and roaming the streets looking for an angry fix; it takes little to excite the masses. The mob knows that there will be little or no consequences to their actions on this day; they are free to do as they please. And so, on December31st, if I’m in town, I flee to the safety of my home. The roads are not safe after 10.30 at night, and I have no faith in the police. I have forgotten what the roads look like on the 31st, and now, I no longer want to know.

In 1977, Anne Pride’s war cry rang out in Pittsburgh. Take Back the Night, she said, and the women of the world took up the chant. In Mumbai, we too, are shouting the slogan, but the night never did belong to us.