Riding the Bombay Locals- Published Version

This version was published in abcdlady.com. Its a bit modified from the original. Riding the Mumbai Locals-Ladies Style

Sitting on the commuter rail in Boston, I suddenly became very aware of my personal space. A woman sat next to me, and I immediately moved away to make sure she wasn’t sitting too close. It brought me back to riding the local trains in Mumbai, where personal space was a foreign phenomenon. Riding the Mumbai locals ladies’ compartments can open adventurous minds to the differences between genders, the joy of proximity and the complexity of public transportation in India. After spending 27 years of my life in the United States, I moved to Mumbai for two years to work for a non-profit organization called AVSAR India (Alliance of Volunteers for Service, Action and Reform). The organization recruited volunteers to work in Mumbai for local organizations and part of my job was to orient volunteers (mostly from America or Canada) to Mumbai. This experience led to my discovery of the wonderful world of the local trains of Mumbai.

Photo by Deepti Gupta

The train lines in Mumbai run north to south with some variations. The three lines are the Western, Central and Harbour lines. It has been observed that at present about 5,000 people cram into trains with the capacity to carry only 1,700 passengers. The suburban railway began operation in 1857 and is considered the oldest railway in Asia. Total ridership is estimated at 6.1 million daily.

The dubbas or ladies’ compartments are at the front, middle and end of each train. It’s easy to find the dubbas at the train station because you see a multitude of blood red, peacock blue, lime green and haldi yellow on saris, jeans, tops, purses and shoes. The ladies’ compartments were most likely created to save women from various forms of sexual, visual and verbal harassment that one of mixed genders could bring. Although Mumbai is quite safe (generally speaking), it’s always safer for a lady to retie her sari, put on make-up or gossip with the gals without the roving eyes of their male counterparts. The ladies’ compartments are still usually not large enough to accommodate the waiting crowd of ladies, so where you sit or stand usually impacts your experience on the train.

Standing in the breeze of the doorway of the train provides anonymity of the best kind. I once saw a young woman crying there. She wasn't weeping, but there were big tears rolling down her round cheeks. I wanted to say something, but it felt like she needed to be alone and anonymous in that crowd. Perhaps someone had broken her heart at Churchgate (south Mumbai) and she needed the ride to gather her thoughts before going home to her family in Andheri (a suburb of Mumbai).

When the trains are crowded, averting your eyes is difficult because you can only look at the person squashed up against you (or, more specifically, you can look at her hair, arms, sari, cell phone, purse or whatever is directly in sight). Pieces of flesh (butts, breasts, thighs, arms, knees, elbows) are haphazardly forced upon one another, and the commotion of a lost dupatta (scarf usually worn with traditional Indian dress), umbrella or child usually takes over until the item is returned to its original owner. Women and children squeeze up against the doors, in the aisles, in the benches and anywhere else there is an iota of space available.

The Western, Harbour and Central lines all have their regulars: beggars, saleswomen and men (either young adults or handicapped), entertainers, street children and food vendors. They are as timely as the trains. There is never any peace, especially if you want it. All around you hear:

"Kela Dus Ka Char" (Four bananas for Rs.10)

"Cleeeps, fine cleeeeps" (Fine hair clips)

“Lipis-steek” (Lipstick)

"Orrrrrrraaaangggeeee" (Orange)

"Seeng-phali, Seeng-phali" (A local word for roasted peanuts).

Although there is a first-class compartment, the random mix of women who ride the second-class compartments is as diverse as the colors that the women wear. When else would Desi housewives, school teachers, bais (maids), ayahs (nannies), vegetable and fish sellers, investment bankers, college students, transvestites and social workers ever find themselves together in such an intimate situation?

I really enjoyed the juxtaposition of social classes on the Mumbai local trains. With five rupees for a second-class ticket compared to over 70 rupees for a first class one, the price of a first class ticket from Bandra to King's Circle is virtually unaffordable for the average Mumbaiite. Most second-class riders will say, "In first class, you are being pushed in the same way by more expensive elbows. Tch, tch, what a waste." I agree.

The most striking observation I made while riding the trains, however, was of the power of progress. I arrived at Bandra Station in Mumbai in July 2004, and beyond track seven, I saw a family living a tenuous existence. Their shelter consisted of a tent made of plastic and cloth, precariously supported by uneven wooden poles. By the time I left in March 2006, the same family had turned the tent into a square shed, with four walls and a roof. Perhaps they still don’t have access to running water, health care or a toilet, and maybe they are living on land that is not legally theirs. But in the struggle for basic human rights—food, shelter and clothing—possessing one of them is certainly a start.

During my two years in India, I was able to be a part of the place I always called home. Navigating the public transport system taught me so much about the different worlds that exist within India and Mumbai. I will always carry the memories of the people and the place with me.

Back on the train in Boston, I sleep and my thoughts drift off to another time and place. There is very little interaction with the other passengers on the train and very little noise. The train conductor smiles at me and says “Good morning.” I recognize some other passengers, but we don’t talk. Then I miss the voices of the ladies compartments on the local trains of Mumbai, for that is where I really learned about India.

---

Meenakshi works as a Public Health Analyst in Boston. She would like to dedicate this piece to her grandfather, Bauji, for always inspiring her to "seek thy self" through writing. You can read her blog at transformintobeauty.blogspot.com. To volunteer in India, please visit www.AVSARIndia.org.

Riding the Bombay Locals-Ladies Style

Sitting at a crowded concert in Boston, I suddenly became very aware of my personal space. Somehow it brought me back to riding the local trains in Bombay, where personal space was a foreign phenomenon. Riding the Bombay locals, ladies compartments can open adventurous minds to the differences of the sexes, the joy of proximity, and the result of a cheeky comment.

The train lines ran north to south with some variation. The three lines are the Western, Central and Harbour lines. At a recent court hearing for more trains, it was observed that at present, about 5000 people are crammed in trains having capacity to carry only 1700 passengers. The suburban railway began operation 1857 and is considered the oldest railway in Asia. Rider ship is estimated at 6.1 million daily.

The ladies compartments (dubbas) are at the front, middle, and end of each train. It’s easy to find at the stop because you see a multitude of blood red, peacock blue, lime green and haldi yellow; in the forms of saris, jeans, tops, purses and shoes. The ladies’ compartments were most likely created to save women from various forms of sexual, visual, and verbal harassment that one of mixed genders would bring. Although, as a city, Bombay is quite safe (generally speaking), it’s always safer for a lady to re-tie her sari, put on make-up or gossip with the gals without the roving eyes of their male counterparts. The ladies’ compartments are still usually not enough for the waiting crowd of ladies, which leads to a lot of unruly and friendly behavior at the same time.

If your stop came early, you got to share a bench from Churchgate to Bandra with three average sized women comfortably. If your stop came later, you would run the risk of squeezing half an ass cheek on the corner of the bench. Not comfortable when some women had a hard time balancing themselves and ended up squeezing you in the corner, pressed up against the metal bars of the window. I always marveled at how physically incapable some women were of asserting their half-an-ass cheek and would still sleep with the corner of the bench so intimate with their posteriors.

Some of the ladies riding the Bombay locals are aggressive about getting that seat. Instinctively, they enter the train; they come up to each person sitting and point to them. A secret code for which station are you getting off at and can I have your seat. These women will even wake up the sleeping commuter to inquire.
"Bandra"
"Andheri"
"Mira Road"
"Last"
When the promiser gets up to prepare for the exit (usually two stations before) the promisee quickly squeezes in, and the others adjust, regardless of size. The promise is made by the traditional Indian half-nod, half-shake that confuses EVERYONE. It’s more of an ‘ok’, but it looks like a ‘no’, or ‘I don’t know’.

Some women didn’t want to sit on the bench. I always wondered about some women that chose to sit near the door of the train. They were usually of lower socio-economic status, but I never thought they sat there because of that. Standing in the breeze of the door, this location provided anonymity of the best kind. I once saw a young woman crying there. She wasn't weeping, but there were big tears rolling down her round cheeks. I wanted to say something, but it felt like she needed to be alone and anonymous in that crowd. Perhaps someone had broken her heart at Churchgate and she needed the ride to gather her thoughts before going home to her family in Andheri.

The doorway also provides a peek into the morning abulations of the population of Mumbai that does not have access to a toilet. Women are never seen, due to shame factors, must go out between the hours of 2-5am. (Once on a CNN interview, Shah Rukh Khan said he felt the plight of women needing toilets and that would be his platform). I guess we can say alvida to that idea! Anyways, the doorways also give you insight into how people live in slums along the train tracks. It gives you an enormous amount of perspective to see how life isn't all about what is happening in YOUR life. It’s a great perspective builder. SO, staying near the doors is great, if you want some breeze or to peep life on the other side of the tracks.

Being near the doors isn't a choice during rush hour (9-11am and 6-8pm). At that time, it was a battle of survival of the fittest and meanest. It can be likened to herding water buffalo or arriving at a Nirvana concert en route to your job at the frozen yogurt store. The strangest thing is that even during off-peak hours, there is still the same amount of pushing. After seeing grandmas utilizing their emaciated biceps to push children on to the train I realized this was not the time to be polite or reflect on the wonders of Incredible India! Hell no, these women were on their way somewhere and you weren’t about to get in their way.

It seemed that even the mothers forgot they were mothers once too when they pushed women with children on the train. In a crowd that often made me want to cry for my mother, the sound of children crying often laced the chatter on the train.

Each line has its regulars: beggars, saleswomen and men (these men were either young adults or handicapped in some way), entertainers, street children, and food vendors. They were as timely as the trains. There was never a dull moment, especially if you wanted one. Their sounds were all over the place:

"Dus Ka Char"
"Cleeeps, fine cleeeeps"
"Tickly, ohhh tickly"

“Lipis-steek”
"Orrrrrrraaaangggeeee"
"Seeng-phali, Seeng-phali"

On the Western Railway, there was a middle-aged man, with a pleasant face who sold time cards on the trains. He happened to have no use of his legs, he traveled on his hands. He saw the world from the ground up. These people were not beggars, they were entrepreneurs with traveling shops selling snacks, soaps, scissors, pens, notebooks, fish, fresh vegetables for dinner, fruit, hair clips, roasted peanuts (shelled and otherwise), lipstick, earrings, payal, manglasutras and on occasion, clothing.

So if you had to:

1.) Make dinner but forgot the subzi
2.) Lost a button and needed a safety pin
3.) Wanted to buy your kid an after school snack
4.) Had the desire to look like a married woman (female or hijra)
5.) Needed to kiss up to your boss with a cheap pen

...you would be all set.

SO, now that you have fought your way on to the train, proudly claimed a seat, silently cursed the next 7 generations of the grandma who pushed you, and purchased some sabji for dinner, there are only a few more things you can do for "time pass" until your station comes.

Clearly, for someone needing to pass the time on a trip from Dadar to Borivili, running into your neighbor's aunt's bahu's cousin was VERY exciting. SO exciting, that you found it very necessary to express your excitement by increasing the volume of your voice to a decibel level that would cause immense, piercing pains to anyone within 30 feet of you. I don't have a source for this, but I remember reading that the frequency at which women talk on a Bombay local is equivalent to a jet plane flying over your head. Hindi, Gujarati, Tamil, Marathi, Punjabi, English pierce the air, and sometimes a mix of all of the above otherwise none of the above or other.

It’s not just the volume, but the pitch. Three or four women, speaking in a high pitch at max volume can drive fellow passengers to seek solace in other parts of the dubba. If it is too crowded, daggers are distributed from the eyes until said activity is reduced or ignored. Perhaps I am overly sensitive in my hearing, but it doesn't really seem to bother the others riding the train that much.

If you don't have anyone to talk to, you can always do the universal Indian past-time, staring at each other. I would love to do a study on why it is totally considered ok to burn a hole through someone with a Care Bear Stare. But its kind of fun when you get used to it. The gaze usually starts at your face and works its way down. Mostly people end up staring at your face or your feet. If your gaze goes up, you can see the grimy dust that has accumulated on the deceptively placed fans and over to the connecting men's dubba. The men's dubba is connected with a metal mesh/net type thing that is meant to be a barrier but more so provides a voyeuristic view into the ladies dubba. For all the men that are curious about the various, mysterious activities of the women's compartment are treated to dirty looks and turned backs.

When the trains were crowded, the staring was harder because you literally could only look at the person squished up against you (or more specifically at their hair, arms, sari, cell phone, purse, or other randomly placed accessory. Plus with the parts of flesh (butts, breasts, thighs, arms, knees, elbows) haphazardly forced on one another and the commotion of a lost dupatta, umbrella or child usually took over until said item was returned to its original owner. Women and children were squeeze up against the doors, in the aisles, in the benches and anywhere else there was an iota of space available. This is when the fights happened.

The fights ranged from light-hearted to serious. The random mix of women who rode the second class compartments were as diverse as the colors they wore. When else would desi housewives, school teachers, bais, ayahs, vegetable and fish sellers, I-bankers, college students, transvestites, and social workers ever be together in such an intimate situation? However, the various stresses on some of these women would crescendo when someone was inadvertently or advertently rubbed (or pushed) the wrong way. The best story I heard was about a woman who was blocking the doorway. (Side note, this can be very annoying for those trying to get on, but almost necessary for those who need to get off at the next stop, most people make adjustments). This woman did not. Things got ugly.

"MOVE OVER" one woman shouted at her. She barely budged.

The other woman was not hearing it, "you are so stubborn, and you can't even let us in. You probably don't even let your husband in!" At this point everyone burst out in laughter.

However, people do get into fist fights, and are subsequently broken up by the others on the train. A friend was once in between a dishoom dishoom fight, and in trying to break it up she was injured as well. Even though I have mentioned the fights, it’s only meant to give an overview of all the various happenings on Bombay locals.

And some final observations..

At ANY and ALL times of the day, the men's compartments are jam packed. There are at there are 6 women's dubba's then there are 12 for men. What are these guys doing? Don't they have anything to do? Why are they on the train at all hours of the day? Ya, tell me.

I really enjoy the juxtaposition of the classes in the Bombay local trains. The price difference for a ticket from Bandra to King's Circle is virtually unaffordable for the average Bombay-ite. Five rupees in second class versus Rs. 70+ (my memory is fuzzy) first class. Most second class riders will say, "in first class, you are being pushed in the same way by more expensive elbows. Tch tch what a waste." I agree. Plus, there are way more interesting things that happen in the 2nd class compartments.

The biggest thing I learned from riding the trains was the evolution of progress. When I arrived in Bombay in July 04, beyond track 7 of Bandra Station (Harbour Line going to VT) I saw a family that had perhaps arrived in Bombay. Their shelter consisted of a tent made of plastic and cloth, precariously supported by wooden poles, unevenly. By the time I left in March 06, the same family had turned the tent into a square shed like structure, with 4 walls and a roof. I am sure they still don't have access to running water, health care, or a toilet and are probably living on land that is not legally theirs; but in the struggle for roti, capra, aur makan, possessing one of them is certainly a start.

The Festival Of Lights-- By My Grandfather

My grandfather is a wonderful writer. He wrote this piece about Diwali over 33 years ago. He had given me a xerox of it and I decided to post it here. I have copied it word for word, so you will be able to see interesting nuances in his writing. He is almost 90 and lives in Amritsar, Punjab (also included a pic of the Golden Temple). Enjoy-- and please leave a comment!

by Pars Ram Verma, B.A. (Pb), L.C.C. London

Printed in the Motor Transport Weekly, October 1973

(The author is a distinguished prose writer since his College days and he combines himself the rare gifts of fine Art and scholarship in the ancient lore, and the modernized version of the Great Epics, the Bhagwad Gita, and the wisdom of the sages. As an Artist, though he never studied drawing during his School of College Career, he has a very apt hand in the delineation of Nature and events in their correct perspective and colour scheme. The silent strokes of his brush are more eloquent than the echoes and re-echoes of dynamic natural scenery and actual life.

(But how, out of his daily pursuits, he found time for such vast study in depth and eminence in Art with big prizes, rewards and distinction, presents a BIG QUESTION MARK. -Editor)

Diwali, the annual Festival of Lights, has now been celebrated by the Indians, over centuries. Its origin is shrouded in the mists of antiquity, and various factors and occasions have been advanced as attributable to its celebrations from time to time. According to the available earliest records it appears that a large Section of the ancient Aryan community, when they were the inhabitants of Central Asia before their exodus to India, were occupying tracts of land near the North Pole. The region remains under the blanket of a long dark night stretching over a period of six months before the turning of the dawn of the day, covering an equal span of time. The dark period, according to them, belonged to the god of Death, who, throughout this period, kept the souls (departed from the Earth) in his custody, for the purpose of allotting them future births thereafter. On the eve of the departure of the dark period, the Aryans of the region lit up the stupendous lights to propitiate Lord Yama and also to bring out the souls of their ancestors from the depths of darkness.

When, later, the Aryans moved into India, and they carried all their traditions along with them, and celebrated their festivals, in the prescribed months, modifying their technique and texture wherever necessary in the new environments. They made this country their permanent home, mingled themselves into its soils, and became a part and parcel of its atmosphere. The advanced intellectuals among them found the cool and soothing sylvan surroundings as an ideal place for the pursuit of knowledge, wisdom, arts, and sciences. Gradually developed in those forests the great Indian culture, which came to be known as “Aranya Sanskrit” or the “Civilization of the Woodlands” which brought out the rarest of truths in Nature and Man, and projected them over the entire continent and other countries. It is during this period of rapid intellectual growth with the background of the festivals like Diwali that the Thinkers and Seers of India, poured forth their innermost love for Light in their hymns, then they prayed—“From darkness, lead us unto light, from death unto Immortality”. This unquenchable search for Truth on the part of those exalted ones was also largely responsible for allotting a very befitting name made to this illustrious country. They started calling it ‘Bharat’, which, when analysed represents a country which is perpetually devoted to search after Reality (Bha) standing for Light/Truth/Reality/God, and Rat meaning devoted to or in search after. According to them there was no religion higher than Truth. In this land devoted to the search for Light, Truth, and God, therefore the unique Festival of Lights continued being celebrated all over the ages. Certain other incidents in the annals of our land, and happening to be associated somehow, with this day continued lending greater importance to this ceremony.

Then oozed out, from the great Scheme of Nature’s Way of Working, the un-paralleled epic of Ramayana with the self-same victory of good over evil, of light over darkness, celebrated the return of their beloved king, by illuminating their dwellings, streets, and other public places with whole lines of their glow worm like shimmering earthen lamps. Actually this was the outer, material expression of the experience of their inner, mental joy. With the lofty mansions, palaces, Durbar Halls, temples, gardens, lakes, tanks, private buildings, hutments, hermitages and highways, all gently but copiously lit up with rows of glimmering lights, the entire pageant assumed a peculiarly ethereal look: a repository of all that is bright, good and noble in life. The occasion so deeply embedded into the minds of the masses that it effaced from their memories all previous happenings that might have been responsible for the organization, celebration, and augmentation of the Festival. Since then it has been handed down, like a precious legacy, from father to son, for celebrating in a manner fitting into the utmost of a householder’s capacity. All rich and poor, irrespective of caste and creed, have all through this long rain-bow of centuries of chequered shades of events, felt the inner exuberance of job on this occasion.

Poets, writers, and artists in all times and climes, have had the privilege if offering the choicest of their creations at the altar of Dewali, as a dedication to the the Goddess of Light. Art and literature of our country have thus been greatly inspired and enriched by this sublime festival. This is also an occasion when the householders and business people carry out a cleanliness campaign giving a face lift to their homes, places of work and other surroundings. Business community conduct a stock taking of their transactions carried on during the outgoing year, and start their future accounts. Children feel extra hilarious while waiting and preparing for the festival and much more so during the actual celebrations. This is the season for the confectioners, toy-makers, fire-works wallas and picture-sellers to do roaring business.

In whatever way, the festival is celebrated, Light, Truth, and Joy are the keynotes of its fundamentals. The deeds of the past year have to be examined in the light of knowledge and experience gained, then a stock-taking of our achievements and failings has to be made with a view to striking a balance-sheet of our doings. That will lead us to ascertain the Truth about where we stand in the context of our duty and responsibility to our great country, and then devise ways and means to come up to the expectations of the Nation. Only that way we can work for GandhiJi’s RR, celebrate the Dewali and enjoy it purely and sincerely.

(This seems to be the correct interpretation of the significance of the Great Festival in the context of present day conditions prevailing in the country. –Editor)

Light and knowledge are saturated in our blood and have become the very marrow of our bones. Unfortunately, we have, in recent years turned our mind from the True, the Good and the Beautiful in Life. When Mother Earth gives us so much in plenty, and there is still no dearth of her resources for further development, where is the occasion for certain people to indulge in practices un-becoming of Indian blood and soil? Black-marketing, hoarding, smuggling, debauchery, storing up Nature’s gifts and starving of the less fortunate in consequence were all alien to our ways of life.

In light of our glorious traditions, these social vices should be made to burn out and fade away. Instead of allowing these unhealthy traits to continue increasingly tarnishing our character, it is time we diverted our energies to follow the path set by our noble ancestors, devote ourselves to helping the needy and lifting up the down-trodden in a practical way rather than making only ‘visible’ and loud noise about it. When the majority starts thinking of others sincerely, there will be no occasion for exploitation, and an era of peace and plenty will then again usher in over this land of milk and honey.

Such results are not at all in the nature of things un-known and un-heard by us. They are part of our way of life, but appear to have been temporarily buried under the crust of self-seeking materialism and an unscrupulous copying of the Western ways of living. When the two comparative values of life are subjected to microscopic analysis in the light of humanitarian knowledge, our country will regain its glory and prosperity, and will act as a Torch Bearer of Peace and Nobility all over the globe.

India will be the true advocate of human rights for people of all countries, and spread the wisdom, acquired by her through the ages, for the good of all without distinction and thus enrich everybody to lead Kindly Light!!!

GBFs

Every girl wants one, most girls try to steal one, and some girls have one. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am talking about the Gay Best Friend. To be referred to as GBF, henceforth.

The other day, I was thinking about all the GBFs I have had in the recent past. (Yes, people I just got a job, so will spend less time thinking of such things). However, like every Carrie needs a good Stanford to run to for relationship advice or the usual clever gay quip that these men never fall short of, the Supreme Goddess also needs a regular GBF.

My first GBF was Billy K., a greek lanky, long-haired, eye-brow tweezing, Janet Jackson repertoire dancing, funny guy. He lived down the hall from S and I in the hall where everyone got baked at UMASS, Baker. He had a body most of us would die for and treated the institutionalized hallways as his personal catwalks. He would steal dishes from the dining hall and then return them when they were dirty because he didn't want to wash him. He was totally high maintenance. He made fun of us for being fashionably fallible (come on, we were hippies! We rarely bathed, forget fashion!) I remember that being gay was a big deal for him because he came from a very traditional family.

It wasn't until junior year of college, when our South Asian group was doing a fashion show (why are people obsessed with these in college?), a Pakistani friend introduced me to Aamie, a fashion show coordinator extraordinaire. We instantly became dancing partners, he and I had fantastic dance chemistry. We performed in many dance items together and managed to become good friends as well. Well, that was until (from intense pressure from his friends) he asked me out on a date. I was doing laundry in the center of town (at a Laundromat, of course, not in the town common) and Aamie came bearing ice cream and a sheepish look. Later on, he told me, that while he was asking, he was saying "please say no, please say no" in a silent meditative chant. Thank god my gay-dar was right-on. I suggested we remain amigos. Soon after, Aamie came out and went through a very difficult time, including a long hiatus in Pakistan. We kept in touch and solidified our friendship. When he finally landed back in the US, we were ready to hit NYC, fag n' hag style. We helped each other through break-ups and make-ups and always provided a non-objective opinion on each other's men choices.

Two thousand and four brought me to Mumbai, India. Because I wasn't allowed to become friends with my colleagues, I ventured on to the wonderful world of Friendster. As I was scrolling through people in Mumbai, I saw this guy who looked vaguely familiar. Wait, a gay guy that used to live in Somerville when I lived there! I had previously scoped him out for Aamie but the distance could have been a problem. I contacted him immediately and we decided to meet at Mocha in Bandra, he lived about 10 minutes away from me! It was Vikster (also blogging at sourapplemartini.blogspot.com)! He says the first day he saw me in a salwaar kamiz, he thought I looked like an Auntie-Ji and had re-considered my Hag status. However, when he knew I could hang at the Gay Bombay parties and score more numbers than him, I was a hag with a bag. He not only was a companion, he was witty, funny, knew Monsoon Wedding by heart, celebrates his life with his fashion criticisms of everyone, and does a mean interpretation of Auntie-Ji's.

Through Vikster, I met Abhi. He worked at a call center and approached me and a friend at a gay Bombay party. Really nice, really sweet, and had a huge heart. Abhi took me to a straight bar (after so many Gay Bombay parties, I couldn't even see straight!!) called the Hawaiian Shack. Well that little experience changed my life, because that's where I met my future hooosband A!!

I may be lucky, many women crave multiple international GBFs, and I have been fortunate to have so many. The GBF is a quick phone call (or 10.30 + EST) away. Always there for you, whether it's a snappy comment or a chiding remark about the size of one's ass, you will never be alone if a GBF is around. The moral of the story is, if you hang out with enough boys that pitch for the same team, you might just find one who pitches for yours! The GBF's satisfaction is guaranteed!

Well, not completely.

When will Hari meet Sarita?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.