A few days ago the Advertising Club Hyderabad had their annual gala...the ADEX 2008...which I had to unfortunately miss since I was committed to watch my daughter Deeksha's directorial debut...a play called TAX FREE.

But when I got reports of the function I was a bit disturbed...couldnt the Ad Club function without the mandatory Pole Dance? Did a gathering of supposedly mature individuals engaged in the world's oldest profession need tittilation of this kind to ensure attendance? And strangely a thought crossed my mind...what kind of person would do a Pole Dance anyway? What was her compulsion? And I wrote...

Olga the Pole.
The announcer cymbaled
into a rolling thunder of a
crash boom bang.
And the audience
frenzied into anticipatory ecstasy.
The lights danced
their digitally unleashed sway.
And the testosterone levels
peaked beyond the meter’s scale.

Olga pranced in.
Her lithe body etching
overtly sexual hieroglyphics onto
the sizzle that she ramped.
Her costume peeked once
in a while from behind her
nudity. Her sweat mingled with
her body spray of disgust.

She looked away from the shimmering
pole, the chromium of distaste.
Just before she got her hands around
it, her lover for the rest of the show.
As each man in the well of faces
throbbed in her grip
she remembered to seduce the pole.
Slowly. Languorously. Stretching her sexuality
like a metaphor, letting the hated object
read between her lines.

Her hair climaxed in a fitful of passion
as it flew enraged at the abomination
that was her encored orgasm.
Her inner thighs chafed with
the embarrassment of celebrating voyeurism
in a pitiful imitation of a eon old
fertility rite.

The crowd exploded into an applause and
a few of the more inebriated, lunged towards her
with garlands of money. The gleam in their eyes
semaphoring their intentions, their motives.
Hands groped at her public parts while her privates
cringed at the sheer ignominy of it all.
Her heart for instance cried tearless and
her soul, dried up of all emotion, looked to the skies
for redemption.

Olga the Pole.
The emcee husked into his phallus like mike.
And she took her bows.
Looked sensuously at a few faces
while emanating hatred to all.
She was hungry now. Hungry to feed her infant.
The breast yearned for the suckle of love.
She loosened her strap. The man with the biggest
dollar sign reached for her. And had the
dinner she had worked up for the child.

Starved, he wrestled with the fabric of her poverty.
Starved, the baby wrestled with the fading texture of hope.
Starved, she wrestled with indecision.

Who to kill?

The father. Or the child.