Staring at women's (covered) chest

We, Indian (especially North Indian) men, love to stare at women's chest. Be it under three tonnes of loose-fitting clothing, across a crowded bus or up close in a conversation, if those babies are staring at us, we are staring right back. Big or small, droopy or firm, crooked or straight, we don't care, we are equal-opportunity harassers.

To be sure, staring at women is a fundamental preoccupation of all men around the globe. Show us a little skin and our eyes will be glued to you like burned cheap plastic. Legs, breasts, ass, forearms, anything, as long as it is attached to someone with ovaries.

But the men in North India have elevated it to an art form unrivaled throughout the world. Our motto - "let no boob go unwatched". In the process we have created a surveillance state that would be put Iran to shame, making sure someone is keeping an eye on every pesky little (or not so little) breast 24x7. I am happy to report that cities like Delhi boast of an almost zero percent rate when it comes to crimes committed by breasts.

The only puzzling aspect of this civic service is the logistics of it. My understanding is that the North Indian women (uncooperative creatures that they are) are exceptionally careful about covering up all of their bodies, allegedly to avoid the so-called "harassment" [read this with air-quotes while rolling your eyes]. So essentially, the men are looking at very unappealing thick fabric with - hopefully - some sort of elevation right below the neck area. That is all that men get to see.

Not that there is anything wrong with lusting over vague ball-shaped body parts hidden behind a chunni, a loose shirt and what is bound to be a granny bra. But it must get boring pretty quickly. So why do we do it? Day after day, year after year, just staring at those ambiguous hints of breasts when any moment we can just flip out our phones and look at naked boobs on the internet.

If the NCR Police is to be believed (and there is absolutely no reason not to), Indian men come with a heart of pure gold, only to be sometimes led astray by women of loose character - who am I kidding - sluts.

And so, like every bad spy novel, the explanation lies with the victims themselves. It is the women who are responsible for us staring like hunger-stricken apes at their breasts. Our society teaches us that women are fundamentally slutty, ready to give away the store to the first customer that comes along. Yet the same women go on to such lengths to hide their bodies from us. In our 250kb-RAM brains, this does not compute. There must be a way to cross that threshold when average woman on the road is so filled with desire that she voluntarily goes into a dark van to have sex with three complete strangers.

But how to get that switch turned on? Since social taboos made sure that we never learn how to talk to women and bad parenting left us with absolutely no respect for women, we are left with only one tool - telepathy.

And that's what we are doing when staring at those breasts: hoping for a Neo-like moment when solely through the power of our minds, we will able to breakthrough that barrier. The flood gates will open to show us the marvels of the universe that are breasts.