Saturday, October 15, 2011

The Autobiography Of A Breast



Abreast in first class.

I’m a citizen of Bombay. My name is BREAST.  Boobs, balls and bablay are my nick names.   
I boarded the train at Andheri station. It was the ladies compartment. The first class ladies compartment. The one that has the general first class compartment that has organisms that are one of the other sexes.. And that complete whole organism is called a man. But i'll call them – The Moustached Ball


Everyday when I get into the train the mustached ball looks into me- as if I am some long lost cousin of his lost in the mela of kumbh.. I was for once embarrassed, and I covered myself with my hand and drifted my focus on to the other breasts in the compartment. Two stations passed by. Now it is Santacruz. And this Moustached Ball was still looking into the depths of my nakedness. I could sense that he was not just admiring. He was doing some pelvic movements and was feeling up his balls too. It looked like he was going to spurt out to an orgasm any time. Till now, more stations had passed. The train was to stop at Wadala and move back on another track towards Panvel. As the train changed routes, my mind was violent with this brute. I am a young breast of 22. He was a hefty old mustached ball of 40 something. I was scared, but I smartly tried to ignore his perverted NetraChodan. This happened day after day. This Moustached Ball had boarded the train one station later - at vile pale. 

I should say, I have named the station vile parlous in my mind. There is this certain uncertainty of the unknown fear that I had deep in my heart. I had a clean chest. And he didn't  Every day, he would ogle at me. One day, I  had draped a saree… and hid myself inside a blouse. It was a rainy day. And I was wet. The sari was transparent. The blouse was stuck to me. My pointed nipples were his delight. I could never forget those stares. Those looks. Those lusty movements. Those dirty lips. I can never. I thought he would do something bad. Bad like – touch me, or press me, or oppress me.

He never drifted his eyes from that sight. I felt I was stark naked. As I alighted midst the mad rush at my destination – Kurla station. He followed me. The day was bright . The crowd was noisy. But I could hear it right. He was soon accompanied by 2 of his friends. They said “BABLEY KYAA HAI BAAP”.. As I walked past Kurla station bridge. There was hardly any room to move my hands. Three Moustached Balls joined him and they kind of encircled me. I was felt. One hand was on my me.  Another on my nipples. I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout. I wanted to revolt. But I couldn't. I was scared. Really scared.

The four moustached balls were mushtandas and I was a little breasty bubbly babli ball. I have marks of their hands on me. I can see them, even if you cant.  I can still feel their lusty hands on me. I felt so violated that I switched jobs. I ran away from my city. I ran away from my country. I reached Florida. Things were not any different here. I returned after 7 years. Married to a decent Moustached ball now. I haven’t mustered the courage to let him touch me. Though we have had some "force-myself"moments of penal-vaginal sex and as a result we have a baby boy. I left my husband. I am alone today with my folks.  I hate to breast feed him. After all, he will grow up to being a moustached ball. I mean. He would also be a moustached ball. Another moustached ball. Just another moustached ball.



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My idea of feminism has been very different. A firm non-believer of extremist thoughts, I, for once, never really struck a chord with the bra-burning feminists. (You belong to that category? Koi nahi – the world is big for two contrasting thoughts to co-exist and find our own footing) I have never found it offensive when someone looked at a woman’s boobs or booty and said that they were a beauty. Well, voluptuous or anorexic each has their own tale to tell and a whole lot of woes. Let me delve deep into the plunging necklines and get into deep secrets of the booby world. This is something that a friend of mine had narrated. It took her 2 years of  her following  my blogs and articles, and stalking …  to speak about openly to a complete stranger – ME. and that’s all that she needed. A ear that hears. A shoulder to cry. And yeah...  drama queen friend like me… who makes a joke of every serious situation. You know all i had to do, was not to counsel her. I cant. I am not a professional counsellor  all i did was i listened to her. and slowly directed her to a counselor. and O! Man, it takes a lot of patient ears to hear the unsound heart. well, but then, when finally when she stopped singing her  "why me"... i was all smiles and think all my listening was worth it. 

And today, I share her story; I've changed some details, to conceal her identity. And yes, I have her permission.

Today, she has grown from being a breast to being a woman. And she has learnt to love, and learnt to live. Though, this never came easy. How I wish, it was easier to say no?


you think of it, while i admire the new titillating Vidya Ball an's flick - Dirty Picture's promos. 





Balls, after all, that's the first ever thing that i and HUMankind have touched, clasped, pinched and  suckled to. 

Hai Naa?

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