If I wasn't a journalist, I'd be a DJ. I'd have this really cool DJ name also, like Lotus Blossom and have pink and blue streaks in my hair. I'd only play rock and alternative stuff and no requests. I'm not a jukebox. You want Dus Bahane, go to a shaadi.
I'd have this bunch of groupies-- young, stoned men and idealistic young women. They'd sit as close to the DJ console as they could and grip their beer and bop their heads along to the music. Other people would listen to me also, but only the really brave would attempt to dance to my music, because the beats just wouldn' be typical. And from all over the place people would want to come to the club.
The owner of the club would be my best friend. At the end of the night, she'd bring me a drink and we'd play the winding down song-- usually something like Iris or Deep Inside Of You. Every July through September we'd take off and go to Argentina. Or Moscow. Or Kanyakumari. Wherever we hadn't been before. We'd bead our hair and draw mehendi tattoos spiralling out of our navels. And we'd always be near a beach, so that a man named Jojo would make us cheese omelettes and mojitos every day.
If I wasn't a DJ, I'd run a general store in a small hill station. Like Manali, or Dharamsala or perhaps even remoter--Lovedale. It'd be the kind of store that smelt of fresh bread and brown paper wrapping. I'd be the cool city girl, that no one knew much about, but everyone respected, coz I had made a niche for myself, on my own. And I'd have this farm, which I ran myself and a cocker spaniel, a beagle and an English sheepdog who were always at the store.
I'd have these huge homemade candies in these glass jars and kids would like be in and out every day to buy some. And I'd know about what everyone was up to, because the women, who came to stock up on bread and cheese and pickle and all (all of which I made myself) would tell me about their lives, and I'd listen and give advice.
At the back of the store, I'd have a small room, with a roaring fire and a sheepskin rug and a comfortable armchair and I'd curl up in that to read at tea time. Sometimes, the village vet, a young man who would be passionately in love with me, would join me for tea. But I'd be better off alone and I'd tell him that gently, with my eyes.
If I wasn't a general store owner, I'd be a Romanian movie star. The kind who is very, very pale and wears huge sunglasses and has a vampire accent. I'd be cast in all these 20s remake movies, because I'd totally look like a flapper, or any of the teen movies, because I'd be the foreign exchange student.
My big break would finally come when they made a movie called Chocolate Frosting For Ethel and cast me as Ethel. Ethel would be this chick, raised in foster families all her life who landed up living on a commune and falling in love with a bearded poet. I'd win my first Oscar for that movie and people would start calling me the Ravishing Romanian.
After kickstarting my career like that, I'd start working on a drama for television all about this family in a small town where the girl is a deaf mute. Deaf mutes everywhere would love me and sign that to me when I went to visit them--all over the world. I'd be like their poster girl and one of Time Magazine's "Moments Of The Year" would be a shot of me crying at a press con, going, "I can't feel your pain, but I can try."