Pleasures of the Flesh

Buses have become my preferred mode of transport. For the former half of my Bombay existence, I was loathe to travel by anything other than trains. I’ve grudgingly had to admit that a bus would be the more convenient way to get to work. With time comes great patience, so the traffic jams don’t bother me quite so much now. With time (and a little bit of money) also come I-pods which make the aforementioned traffic jams bearable.

I have withdrawal pangs now and then.

Its hard to imagine why and how anyone would miss the mad early morning scramble to board a local train. There is an insane amount of running involved. Pushing and shoving is almost a given. And the odd toe squashing can never be ruled out (why must we have ten toes???). Once inside there are more battles to be waged. Scouting for seats which are likely to empty first and strategically placing yourself in close proximity to the same. This is made infinitely harder by people who constantly fidget with their belongings as if ready to take flight at the very next millisecond but stay put nonetheless.

But there is one thing that makes up for all of that. Its what I call “smoosh”.

It is on these very obstacle race-esque local trains that I came closer to understanding why men love women so much. I was both delighted with my clever little discovery and surprised that it hadn’t hit me earlier.

Women are incredibly soft.

They have soft arms and soft shoulders. Soft bellies and bottoms. Soft hips. Soft cheeks. And even the most overworked ones have an element of soft in their palms.
[There is some softness in the chest area as well but I think that’s been done to death by the men folk. Some men derive a great deal of mirth from the notion of women being soft headed as well. Idiots.]

I vividly remember some sleepy mornings when i’d struggle on to the train all bleary eyed only to gleefully sink into a collective embrace from fellow travellers who unbeknownst to themselves were providing me with a safe envelope in which to transport myself to work. A generously padded cocoon if you please. Had it not been for the trains i’d have never ever been acquainted with the “smoosh”.

For all the men reading this, i guarantee it is every bit as wondrous as it sounds. As the train chugs along, stops, starts, it is filled with ever more women, more packets of softness. Its impossible to not collide with the “smoosh”.

I’ve been meaning to write this for the longest time but didn’t know exactly how to go about articulating it. I’m tempted to type the word “smoosh” repeatedly, but me thinks that would be mush too mush.

Bus rides tragically do not afford such pleasures of the flesh. Because buses contain men, some of them smelly and none of them even the least bit “smooshy”. And then there are the creeps. There is nothing more despicable than someone trying to get a bit of “smoosh” without the consent of the “smooshed”. Call me old fashioned if you wish to.

Thus ends my altogether too long (and perhaps graphic) discourse on train journeys. I may have reddened some cheeks along the way. But its hard to not write about something that hits you like a bolt from the blue. Especially for one who loves to write about things of little or no consequence.

I feel my discovery has made me just a pinch more sympathetic to the cause of men. If I were one, I’d want to “smoosh” a woman everyday.