In Jaipur’s old museum of dolls, there is an old doll, behind a glass pane, made by the hands of a blind Venetian lace maker. The ancient custom dictated that the doll would be drowned in any body of holy water after nine days but upon constant insistence by the doll – who was by now addicted to the earthly form of life – the blind Venetian agreed to not drown her and let her continue to live upon one condition: the doll would travel the world and describe the beauty of men that the old Venetian woman could not see because of her weak sight. One day, a tall man entered the museum whose beauty – and two day old stubble – made the doll gasp. She struck a conversation with him and asked him what he was doing in this strange doll museum on this cool sunny day (she wanted to tell the Venetian woman everything). He told her that he had discovered one of those hyper-realistic Japanese love dolls, you know, but with a disturbing realism, almost fuckingly disturbing.  The skin was supple like that of a (living) human, smartly pink, with even some swollen veins.  Scars had been made, everywhere, very light, but “to make it true”.  The hair had been cut on geishas who were probably menopausal or “removed from active service”, and stuck one by one in this double skin.  The half-open mouth was of a disproportionate sensuality, desperately outrageous.  But it was wanted.  What he did not understand was why this cavity gaping at the bottom of the belly was removable… until one day, after use, he removed this kind of oblong plastic pot to put it in the dishwasher, between his coffee mug and pasta pan… Then he understood. The old doll, upon hearing this strange story, asked him if he could convert her into a love doll and take her with him away from the tyrannical bond of her Venetian creator. They would make love every day under the lemon tree. The tall man agreed but as he was taking out his scalpel, someone saw him and dragged him away from the doll. The old doll was handed back to her Venetian creator who sold this anonymous soul to the sexless devil where every day she thinks of the tall man, cries, and sucks on a wedge of bitter lemon.

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M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.