Poshington Post

They inevitably make me feel conscious of the never-ending bad-hair-month. Sometimes, ill-read and uneducated. Quite often lewd and plebeian. They are the Poshingtons of Delhi. As a friend of a friend once named them. In a moment of awe and reverence.

They have country-cousins in Bangalore. Though not of quite the same sheen. Or remotely the same screen presence. They are inevitably the Thinking Lot. ( Some of us like to think we can think also, but what good is thinking, if you can't do the Think Ritual?!) They write books and make films and art and culture and exotic food, they have truckloads of sex (I am told in hushed huddles), they seduce over Lacan, and orgasm over Zizek. There are hierarchies within them (I am told by treacherous informers). I like to imagine that they have secret sexual rituals involving the chants of post-structuralist theory to tribal drumbeats, with earthy FabIndia drapes forming a shamiana. Somewhat like in Eyes Wide Shut, but in desi tones and hues. With a Monsoon Wedding element to it. Though my middle class imagination stops right there.

But I digress.

So the Poshington who reads Lacan and Assamese poetry and can do standup comedy and does some other supercool stuff that touch the boundary-walls of my imagination only tangentially, is on top of the food chain. I am told by sources. Reliable ones. The person is usually male. The source doesn’t wanna risk taking a call on his sexual preference. For fear of losing membership and access to action. Below him (no pun intended, in order to secure the loyalties of my middle-class audiences) is the PoshMeena. She carries a whip in the shamiana ritual of my imagination. Is sometimes the exotic innocent flowergirl. Sometimes the brutal goddess (to students of Lacan). At other times, the anchor of civilisation (of Poshingtons). Adolescent Poshingtons put up her poster. Gabroo jawan poshingtons sing her ballads in dark corners at drunken ritual-zones. And she sniggers at one and all. Especially the wannabe PoshMeenas who would at this point be having loud drunken conversations about the silvery-thong-feminisms. But never quite measuring upto our Lady.

Below her, on his lucky day, is of course, the gabroo jawan. Who walks into the ritual with a little velvet pouch of tricks- he has spun in the course of the day. They could range from a Lacanian joke to a raunchy pelvic thrust.

I will stop here in the interest of the Poshington informer’s life, livelihood and action.

I remain the eternal Peeping Bong to this elaborate socio-sexual ritual. Grateful that I got to witness some bits of the Lives and Times of the Poshingtons. To my utter voyeuristic glee. Forming a good part of my Memoirs of Delhi.


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A ditty said…
stunning. i like.
A ditty said…
i like. stunningly delightful!
:) very very nice.

write one on the non-posthington vaiety of beautiful peacocks too. you know, the Dallhy boys who look like chocolate icecream on a hot summer day but open their mouth and only fart noises come out :)

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