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Dear Bultu, here's why I can't imagine you naked

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Sreemoyee Piu Kundu
Sreemoyee Piu KunduNov 06, 2014 | 13:10

Dear Bultu, here's why I can't imagine you naked

Dear Bultu,

You may not remember me. I mean, let’s face it, we had just one evening, a little over an hour maybe, and, I mean, you were busy. C’mon, of course I know you were checking out my tits. You’re a guy!

Oh c’mon, get over it. I’ve had my tits checked out before.

I’m a Bong babe, remember? We are naturally blessed.

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So?

So, I also have a sense of humour.

What?

You didn’t get it. Of course, you didn’t!

You were too busy, you see. Okay, I won’t bring up the boob part, again. I know you are a Bong man. Sensitivity’s your thing. That, and, poetry. But, of course, you can quote Satyajit Ray and PB Shelley, in the same breath.

Why didn’t we go there?

Umm… well, there were these delicious shammis Ma had made painstakingly, and fish fry – the bhery Bong staple. It always impresses people. Served with a careful dollop of Kasundi on the side.

Kasundi, silly!

The Bong word for French mustard.

Didn’t you study French, or something? You did, right?

Of course, you did. How dumb of me to doubt your stupendous academic achievements. You were also a light architect or something?

What the fuck does that even mean, Bultu?

Hey, and the other thing. Whoever calls their son Bultu!

Bong mothers, but naturally.

Hey, Bultu, now that we are on a daak naam basis, why was your mum asking me those dumb ass questions. Remember?

You know the time before the time my dad asked us to converse in private. Before your mum told my mum that you always had dreamt of a Bong wife. Before we all nodded our heads jointly. After you first smiled at me. Quickly bending down to fix your laces.

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Your sneakers impressed me.

Nike Air!

But, but not your hair, Bultu. I mean, let’s face it, you hardly had any! Except the few stray strands billowing softly in the breeze of our new ceiling fan.

It was rather filmy, I think.

The way I sat. Before you. My knees crossed.

Your mum asking me if I liked wearing a sari.

I was in my latest Levi's curve jeans.

I lied.

Saying it disgusts me.

The truth being, I look the hottest in a sari. That, and a backless choli. I like to click a lot of selfies. I pout. I like my cleavage. My navel. My inner thighs. My…

Anyway…

Bultu. Coming to your question, of why I am opting for an arranged alliance. I have no freaking clue why. The truth is I love being single. It makes me fearless, and flirty. And… I am sick of the relationship rut. The refrain that I must kiss a helluva lot of frogs before I arrive on Prince Charming.

Bultu, are you a virgin?

Shut up, Bultu!!

Well, I’m not. And guess what, the guy I slept with. He dumped me. Treating me like shit after we’d done it. The usual...

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I was actually told our three-year relationship has ended over an SMS. Yes, it was cruel. It sucked. The sympathy. The sadness. The soullessness.

I mean, this coming two and a half years or so after my college boyfriend hit me. Twisting my arms. Pressing his cigarette stub between my legs. Insisting on sex, when I pleaded I wasn’t ready.

I had lost a lot of weight, that time.

I used to be a really fat person. Like really…

Kunal said I was the most beautiful girl. A lot like love, actually.

Do you like sex, Bultu?

Will you ever force me into it? What if I can’t produce kids? What if I want more from life? Than a picket fence can ever hope to give me? What if I have my own dreams? My own darkness? The demons in my head…

Oh, but I love picket fences. Yes, I am a bit like that. I like fancy things. In books, as in, in chick-lit books, that I am sure you will never read. I could be called high maintenance. I fancy Jimmy Choos. And sometimes, masturbate thinking of myself as a really rich woman, in this mansion in South Hampton.

With a pair of poodles gawking.

The doggy thing?

Do you touch yourself, Bultu?

I mean, have you ever wanted to do it in aircraft loo? Or in a public place? What are your wildest fantasies, Bultu?

Tell me everything.

Okay, fine. You are from a cultured family.

You want a son, Bultu?

What if we have a daughter instead? Have you ever considered adoption? Surrogacy? IVF? What if the stress of your high profile career swallows the motility of your sperms, or something? Will you ever tell your mum? The truth about how unhappy we may end up being.

Think about it, Bultu.

Because your mum categorically told me you loved children, and that, you wanted them to have an Indian education.

My ass!

Look around Bultu. This country sucks. I mean, let’s be honest. I was the 12th girl you checked out. "Sitting," your mum coined that phrase.

12 unmarried ladies in one day!

Gosh, you’re fast, Bultu.

And fat.

Oops. I was never meant to tell you that.

But, your paunch was bigger than my dad’s. And your double chin. See, I’ll be honest, I have absolutely nothing against fat people.

It’s just that, I couldn’t…

I, I couldn’t see you naked, Bultu…

I’m sorry.

But I think every woman has the right to be attracted to the man she’s choosing to cherish the rest of her life with.

I mean, look Bultu, I’m not going to spend my wedding night with a good-looking CV.

Harvard. Gold medallist. Audi. Real estate.

Am I superficial?

Maybe.

Which is why I also didn’t like the fact that your mum kept preening into our study, every few seconds, asking you to "get up".

Actually, I felt even she was checking out my tits. Which is cool. Women have equal rights to fantasise. And sometimes, some women dig chicks. More.

But, but, Bultu…

"Otho (up)": whoever the fuck says that to a guy. Sitting with a girl.

Do you know how many times she ordered you, saying, "up Bultu…"

I don’t, okay. I wasn’t counting, either.

I was busy staring at your crotch.

Wondering...

(Okay I now sound really mean) Whether you were impotent or something? Fearing the worst. You. Naked. On our wedding night. And she screaming.

"Otho Bultu…otho…"

Bultu, I like you. A lot.

I mean, I think you are a well-meaning, 41-year-old, virgin NRI who needs to desperately stop meeting unwed Bengali girls, and chomping on oily fish frys and cholesterol-loaded shammis.

Watch your scales, Bultu.

Also, you see, this arranged marriage market is very cruel. It shatters your self-image. You are nothing but a product sitting on a shelf. An advertisement. An agony to your ageing parents. A social antithesis. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Bultu.

You must say the right things. You must have hair. You must be fair. Slim. Non-manglik. Convented.

But, at least, you are a guy.

41 is cool. You’ll still be able to manage a girl in her late 20s. I mean your mum did say you have a double PhD. Wiping her eyes.

She was a widow.

My mum was one too. Except, I never saw her crying. I mean, she was a kickass Biology teacher. And she worked her butt off to raise me. Along with my grandparents.

In Kolkata.

You said you hated Kolkata?

Wrong move, Bultu (read asshole!).

I mean, I may not live there anymore. But it’s home.

It’s my Vegas, baby.

The place where my parents met.

Yes, Bultu.

Love stories do happen. Sometimes in the unlikeliest of places. With two people you think can never land up together.

My dad. Younger than Ma. A South Indian. Brahmin.

They’ve been together over two and a half decades.

Now.

Nice story, huh?

I swear. I was about to tell you, Bultu.

If only your mum hadn’t barged in on us. Minutes after you told me it was expensive to be a writer. That you were more turned on by a working woman. That in the US I’d get bored sitting "idle". That you were busy.

Very busy.

And that writing courses were bloody expensive.

"Do it on the side, like a hobby, Cornell looks good in movies," you made a joke, putting on an accent.

"Bulto otho…"

I said.

This time.

I also showed you the middle finger when you weren’t looking, alright, Bultu.

And, oh, before I end this note.

My name.

My name, is Sreemoyee Piu Kundu.

You never asked.

Bultu…

(Inspired by real events)

Last updated: March 29, 2016 | 18:31
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