Show business, family planning and the perils of moralism

For years I have been wanting to put pen to paper on this matter but when over two weeks ago, it erupted in full public glare, making rabbit-in-the-headline moments, had to say my peace. (By the way, in this case, the rabbit in question, could not care a rat’s whiskers about the blinding glare.) To get to the point without further ado—Condoms. Or specifically speaking, how the protective sheath, in this part of the world is unabashedly advertised/marketed. Strike unabashedly to be replaced with pornographically thrust in full frontal view over TV while watching news, a soap, a movie or simply channel surfing to see if something is watchable enough not so yodelling loud as to cause brain-ache, a panting condom commercial appears on the scene. Before one is quick to rush to conclusions that sum this pen-pusher as prudish, moralistic and someone, who should, post-haste be packed- off to the Nunnery, a bit of patience is a legitimate request. After all, hearing one out before sending a person to the gaols tears our democratic fabric to the last stitch, correct? As mentioned above, over a fortnight ago the teeth-itching, nakedly spreading like knotweed debate that sparked off regarding these turning a man into a monster or a man into a gentleman condom clippage were justified in their right. A confusticating Hamletic argument— to be or not to be, that is the question? Or a Winston Churchill, with his unfazed whisky-soaked jowls speaking out with bragging conviction. (Here must say, mum is the word as far as our own politicians go, more so post-elections so none can be brought in unless one wants to hang by the skin of one’s own teeth; thus Winston and his bow-tie associates !) Now to view this clip: A woman dressed in her provocative best Victoria’s Secret lingerie all lace and aphrodisiacal flesh jutting out of the ruby-red erotic wild thong and titillating top ensemble not a prepped up doll but a natural femme fatale predator ready to take her paramour/ partner to all new heights provided such and such extra-thin dotted for surplus pleasure condoms are used before making the ultimate contact. (Contact, in this context, definitely does sound schoolmistressy prudish ! ) And it would be a bonus if the said condoms come in the traditional ice-cream flavours of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. Once this cover is donned the visuals screened leave little left to imagination—the man now takes the lead—the clawing clutch of satiny sheets, the naughty afternoons stretching into the twilight zone. Going by this message—no need to eat, so no need to work. Unemployment, whoever heard of it?

And if it exists, it should persist at an all- time high. Now these orgasmic condom visuals halting the tidiest of evenings televising an opium snuffing Sherlock Holmes deep in thought unravelling a murder mystery or the saddest of news coverage showing how an overhasty hospital had in a devil-may-care approach declared a living baby dead, and so with clinical briskness consigned it to a plastic-sheathed grave, to a pop-eyed standstill; this act thrives in a cemented garden. Condoms, in a Developing Country as ours (a politically correct way of saying Third World, despite our integrated association with Trump!) have to be flaunted. Reason: how else would we educate the masses on birth-control?! Would not ads of this genre do away with long-lasting queues at abortion clinics?! Our population bursting from the seams, and so the-much-needed instructive visual manual that can be viewed and processed by one and all. For the poor illiterates—prisoners of birth—toiling away as labourers, to catch again and again, empty-stomach energised by a diet of powdered tobacco, flicked handily out of sachet, providing them the high to bear those bricks, while salaciously whetting their appetite lunging at the first available person—perhaps relieving herself in an open space—to use their manhood on; in this burgeoning blinded state it is insignificant if the need has to be derived from a one year old gurgling baby or a dim-eyed, sixty-something first-time grandmä. (Flute glass clinking sorts, too, prone to do so since these promos perforate the mind.) 16th December marked five years of the Nirbhaya horror...And each morning the paper reels off more rapes that have been reported by the dozens making one wonder what ails our nation?! A country living in an over-sexed, hypersexual climate gone goatish, randy and wanton... cutting across class barriers. Aah, a point that slipped the mind, labourers and hired-hands may definitely not have TVs but are in a possession of Mobiles and despite being unlettered know how to upload TV entertainment and are well-versed with how to rewind and replay performances of their pleasure. Reference here is to the Show-Business of condoms; the over-suggestive contraceptives, that they by no means, are going to buy, despite what pro-condom campaigners are taking to the roads for. Breeding like rabbits continues uninterrupted—might one say with added manforce, emulating the skin-flick. These pro and anti condom camps happened to come up since the government has taken tentative steps to, in the seeable future, ban the screening of such horny commercials from 6 am to 10 pm.

As a side note, long-lasting condoms not to be on one’s wishlist letter to Father Nicholas; cannot have him choke on his eggnog. To one and all, a very Merry Christmas! Dr Renée Ranchan writes on socio-psychological issues, quasipolitical matters and concerns that touch us all