Back to the high school, when you first read the chapter on the reproductive system. Yes, I am sure you remember. Now, read on.
Sex was a subject that always eluded me. It was incredulous to have to think that the excretory organs were not only meant for excretion but served a much higher purpose. It seemed filthy to us for the first time we heard about it but as time went by and we gave it more thought, it became the most talked about topic among the students.
The chapter on the reproduction system of human beings opened new fields of information, not to mention interest, for us. I remember how the whole class listened to Mali, our biology teacher, who in fact was also the in-charge of the school gardens. He possessed a magical power; a power which managed to turn even the most interesting subject in the history of mankind into a just another boring chapter. But still, the charm of sex was such that we listened. We listened with heads down and blushing red cheeks. And what more, the girls had their palms to their open mouths with occasional sound of giggles. I remember how embarrassed we felt when Mali drew the male reproductive organ on the blackboard.
We were mostly disappointed after the class was over.
“Damn it. He only showed us the internal diagnosis of it,” someone said.
“Yeah, he gave us the unreal picture, useful only for biologists. I want the real picture,” another one said.
We all were standing in the corridor in front of the class, eating our tiffin and talking. After most had spoken and I still hadn’t, someone poked me.
“What happened to you lover boy?”
“Don’t call me that,” I said, “Anyways, I am thinking something.”
“Thinking…hmmm…” and a hum started.
This hum, started by guys, is one of the most dangerous things that can happen to you. It starts with a simple sentence, which is picked up by a double minded brat who thinks in all possible directions and then starts a notorious, acknowledging hum. Now, the other guys whose minds do not work that fast, interpret the hum in the required sense, customarily sexual, and then return their consents. So, the final result comes out as a loud hum which, in most cases, scares the hell out of the guy who said the unforgivable sentence.
I am one of those brats.
“I am not thinking about her, assholes,” I retorted. The abusing part of school life was new to us, and so we explored all the abuses we heard, using them as frequently as we could. “It’s just that I can’t understand certain things.”
“What can’t you understand?”
“Listen to me carefully,” I said, drawing their attention, “Children are produced by having sex. Aren’t they?”
“Now, AIDS is transmitted through sex. According to what Mali told us, condoms are used to prevent spreading AIDS. But condoms are also used as contraceptives. So, if we have to use condoms, failing which will lead to AIDS, can someone tell me how are kids produced?”
People looked at me, confused. I shrugged my shoulders, “Did you get me?”
“Yes, yes,” they approved. I saw the confusion on their faces. They had understood the question well. The school bell rang and nobody had the answers. Recess was over and in a desperate attempt to answer someone said, “There must be another way out. May be they will teach us that later.”
“Maybe,” I thought.
The question was enough to keep people thinking for a day, but that wasn’t the only question that racked my mind. The process of sex started with kissing and ended with having sex. BUT WHAT THE HELL IS SEX?
The answers, however, were always elusive. Wrong answers didn’t satisfy, and correct answers we didn’t want to believe.