Item Number: Rain, Rain Go Away. Come Again Another Day

Monday, June 29, 2009

Rain, Rain Go Away. Come Again Another Day

The smell of fresh earth, the sound of raindrops humming on the tin roof above, stirring a hot coffee wanting to become one with the rising vapors, the undying desire for a cuddle under a warm blanket, stray thoughts that break into a romantic song, a smile that’s brought by a distant wet memory, fingers running through the phone list, warm feet that can feel the dampness outside. Love is all around..

That has always been my impression of the monsoons. A rich mans impression. The colors seemed quite grey when I tried painting wearing somebody else’s raincoat. As I peered through the cloth hanging as an excuse for a shield from the side of my auto, I realized along with the ink moistening on my crumpling CV, most of Bombay outside my little window was drowning in gutter and neglected waste. The smell of fresh earth was disguised under week old rotting plastic and knee high sewage. Pitter patter on windows had now become loud thuds of splashes as wheels tried to recover on roads. The undying desire for a cuddle still existed, but I had to stop myself from chasing every stray dog drenching to the bone, sitting without a tin roof above. No distant warm memories exist here, when a cold hand reaches out to grab yours, begging for a few alms. How much will be enough to buy a coffee that remains warm for the rest of the day?

I gaze away wiping the dash of freshly tossed muck, as my shifted thoughts are now troubled with the onset of an oily skin, pimples, marks etc. I watch kids playing cricket by the side of their huts, blithe, untouched by the downpour or the onset of pimples.

I feel stupid and ‘one of those’ for fallaciously empathizing with the world as I make my way back to the ivory tower.

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About Me

Ok, so I’m 5ft 9, about 139 pounds, big greenish brown eyes, long curvy lashes, a curvier body, soft curly hair and an electrifying smile. This impression exists in my head…and now in yours.

It’s not because what I look like makes me uneasy, but this is the number that I’d like to turn up in, someday.

Hence, the ‘Item Number’. A lot many maybe familiar with the term and all that it implies but for the ignorant read on…

I’ve always associated myself with the term ‘Item Number’ which however until recently was a phrase loosely used in Bollywood to describe a filler, a foreplay before the formidable act, a thesaurus for sleazy dance, an excuse for skin show (not always attractive).

All that is now the past. With cinemas growing sensibilities, the stigma attached to the phrase no longer exists and in fact, is now glorified by a list of A grade celebrities gracing the screen with their special performance, adding glam value to an otherwise submissive script.

However in spite of the recent but growing respect, the meaning of the phrase ‘Item Number’ has never changed for me. An item number is an exhibit out of the ordinary plot line, sometimes provocative yet necessary, it sometimes lends itself to the situation but other times it’s forced. It’s long enough to make you smile, but short enough leaving you longing for more. Sometimes special. Sometimes over the top. But never subtle.

I believe, if we search deep inside, we all yearn to be an item number (yes even you!)

It’s the longing to be special. To be provocative. To be able to tease ones boundaries. To be different. To be the one. To make people sit up and notice.

If only for an hour, if only for a minute or even a second.

When you hear the crowds cheer (even if it’s just in your head), respond to every appreciative/envious glare with a radiating smile from within, when you know the stars are shinning in this moment, only to make you look brighter, and you almost throw your hands up to the universe miming a big ‘Thank You’ that’s when you know you’re an Item Number.