Who governs the man upstairs
I don't know if he sees me
I don't know if he cares
I ask him for coffee so many times
I even have minutes to think of these rhymes
Terrible poetry, I totally agree
But won't you feel a little sorry for me
All I want is some coffee to do my job well
With not too much milk, and please no onion smell
It's a small request, so stop being a tease
Coffee, coffee, coffee PLEASE!
Tales from urban India
30 April 2005
28 April 2005
People are strange, when you're a stranger
So yeah, a lot of people know who I am in real life. And I know who they are too. It's fun meeting other bloggers at events and gatherings because you can look at them and think, "Hmmm... I so know what they're going to say about this." Of course, with all the fun and excitement, you (and by you, I totally mean me) kinda lose some of your own anonymity, but that's a risk you have to take I guess. Plus, you can see them sorta sizing you up in their heads. I know I can hear the wheels in their heads going, "Ooh, so this is eM. Ooh, she's so not what she's like when she blogs."
Because I'm really not, y'know. In real life (and I don't know whether I should be telling you this, but it's really late and guess where I've just come from) I'm very reticent. I don't like talking about me or my life, unless I'm completely comfortable with the person I'm talking to. And this site is like, what, ten per cent of what actually goes on in my day. So I guess it sorta bothers me when people act like they totally know me, because of my blog. I'm sort of like two different people--eM and whatever-my-real-name-is, one spunky and spirited and the other really rather quiet with not much to say.
Cyber identities are wierd aren't they? I don't know what you, my regular readers, imagine me as, but I know I have a picture of each of the bloggers I read regularly. I can sort of see what they look like, imagine them to be absolutely wonderful people with strong opinions. But are you really? Aren't we just nicer on our blogs, don't we just project the best, most articulate parts of our natures?
Okay, so how many of you have friends who read your blogs? Friends who perhaps live abroad or far away and don't email and think the best way to stay in touch with you is to have your URL on their Favourites links. I know I do. I know many people I know and love read this and I know when I finally email them about something they'll say, "Ya, but I read it in your blog!" Are we losing the art of having conversation already? Perhaps, when my friends return, I'll only be able to converse with them in long monologues, rambling on and on and on about how I think and how I feel till they get totally sick of me.
Why do we read other people's blogs? We certainly don't want to listen to people holding forth on their passions, or on books they've read recently or on their exboyfriends. Then why do most of us, invariably start our day by quickly quickly checking the sites we've read so often that Internet Explorer completes them for us?
I've met some of the bloggers I read in real life and usually, but not always, when we meet, our conversations turn to blogging. Over and over we rehash posts and over and over we try to match the other person to their online identities. I've had blog gossip last me through entire booklaunches, or through drinks after the LIFW, and I'm always fascinated and I always want to know more about the "real" person behind the superstar bloggers.
Nw with articles coming out "revealing real identities" of people who really preferred to stay anonymous, I don't know how much longer this love fest with blogs is going to last. The media is glutting itself with blog stories, all over the fucking place, and pretty soon they will tire of it, just as everyone else will. But till then my hit counter and everyone else's keeps rising and we (the Bloggers) watch our growing numbers with a mixture of pride and dismay because really what do we say to this audience who expects new insights or developments every day?
And soon Blog Burnout, already prevalent in the US will filter down here and youandmeforever dot blogspot dot com will vanish and blogs will be just like personal journals which no one reads and we'll all go back to using pen and paper again. How sad.
Because the mystery, my friends, is the secret of a good blog, the pseudonyms, the personal asides, the feeling that you could know this person from somewhere because you're in the same city or country or planet, but you just don't know who they are.
Maybe I know you all : )
Because I'm really not, y'know. In real life (and I don't know whether I should be telling you this, but it's really late and guess where I've just come from) I'm very reticent. I don't like talking about me or my life, unless I'm completely comfortable with the person I'm talking to. And this site is like, what, ten per cent of what actually goes on in my day. So I guess it sorta bothers me when people act like they totally know me, because of my blog. I'm sort of like two different people--eM and whatever-my-real-name-is, one spunky and spirited and the other really rather quiet with not much to say.
Cyber identities are wierd aren't they? I don't know what you, my regular readers, imagine me as, but I know I have a picture of each of the bloggers I read regularly. I can sort of see what they look like, imagine them to be absolutely wonderful people with strong opinions. But are you really? Aren't we just nicer on our blogs, don't we just project the best, most articulate parts of our natures?
Okay, so how many of you have friends who read your blogs? Friends who perhaps live abroad or far away and don't email and think the best way to stay in touch with you is to have your URL on their Favourites links. I know I do. I know many people I know and love read this and I know when I finally email them about something they'll say, "Ya, but I read it in your blog!" Are we losing the art of having conversation already? Perhaps, when my friends return, I'll only be able to converse with them in long monologues, rambling on and on and on about how I think and how I feel till they get totally sick of me.
Why do we read other people's blogs? We certainly don't want to listen to people holding forth on their passions, or on books they've read recently or on their exboyfriends. Then why do most of us, invariably start our day by quickly quickly checking the sites we've read so often that Internet Explorer completes them for us?
I've met some of the bloggers I read in real life and usually, but not always, when we meet, our conversations turn to blogging. Over and over we rehash posts and over and over we try to match the other person to their online identities. I've had blog gossip last me through entire booklaunches, or through drinks after the LIFW, and I'm always fascinated and I always want to know more about the "real" person behind the superstar bloggers.
Nw with articles coming out "revealing real identities" of people who really preferred to stay anonymous, I don't know how much longer this love fest with blogs is going to last. The media is glutting itself with blog stories, all over the fucking place, and pretty soon they will tire of it, just as everyone else will. But till then my hit counter and everyone else's keeps rising and we (the Bloggers) watch our growing numbers with a mixture of pride and dismay because really what do we say to this audience who expects new insights or developments every day?
And soon Blog Burnout, already prevalent in the US will filter down here and youandmeforever dot blogspot dot com will vanish and blogs will be just like personal journals which no one reads and we'll all go back to using pen and paper again. How sad.
Because the mystery, my friends, is the secret of a good blog, the pseudonyms, the personal asides, the feeling that you could know this person from somewhere because you're in the same city or country or planet, but you just don't know who they are.
Maybe I know you all : )
27 April 2005
Shine On, You Crazy Diamond
Because I miss you. (But it's getting easier to talk about you)
Because I meant to write about you on Sunday (When I was at your house, talking to your friends and your mother and looking at your pictures, but when I got home my net was down)
Because I can only talk about you here, where I can't hear sympathetic noises.
Because you're the one person on this blog I don't use a pseudonym for.
Oh god, oh god, I hope I can write about this and have the balls to hit publish.
April 24, 2002
Our second year exams. 9 am and I was sitting at my desk, looking through Medea. The phone rang and my mom told me it was Pieces. Which surprised me, because she usually only surfaced around two.
"Hello," I said cheerily, "How come you're up so early?"
I thought she was laughing uncontrollably. I could hear her voice shaking and her breath coming in uneven gasps.
"Oh god, eM..."
"What's happened, dude?" I asked, still thinking, hmmm.. this has something to do with the exams.
"eM, Puji's dead."
You know whatever they say about people dying and they can't describe just how it feels, only that there's an immense gaping hole that appears suddenly out of nowhere, like a huge black vacuum and starts sucking in things. That sentence, if I had to pick any sentence that would forever change my life, that sentence would be it.
After a long time I said, "You're kidding." It couldn't be possible. Puja wasn't dead, she was probably ill or something.
"Would I joke at a time like this?" her voice broke then and she said hurriedly, "Listen, the cremation is in a bit, you can meet us at her house."
"Do you want me to call Iggy?" I asked. Good, focus on the mundane. Focus on getting the tasks done.
"Yes, yes, please call her. I called you first because you live the furtherest away." She didn't sound as calm as it seems when I'm writing about it. But I can't remember the tone of her voice. I can only remember what she told me. Do you know, I've forgotten Puja's voice? I realised this the other day. I've forgotten her voice and I feel like shit. How could I have forgotten? When I felt likemy world was crumbling then, how HOW could I have forgotten her voice now?
Iggy was asleep when I called her and she murmured grumpily into the phone, "eM, I'll call you later."
"No, Iggy, please, please wake up."
"What is it?" she snapped, and I felt for her I really, really did. This would be the last time she answered an unexpected phone call at a strange hour grumpily. The last time any of us put our phones off while we slept.
"Iggy, Puja's dead."
Like me she didn't believe it. But unlike me, as soon as I told her what Pieces had told me, she started to cry. And I envied the fact that she could cry. I didn't for a week. Not even at the cremation where my beautiful friend's body lay wrapped in a sheet. Her face apparently was unharmed, but there was this horrible guy who Iggy knew who told us her legs and her scalp had been sliced off. Iggy told me this in dry heaves and I comforted her but inside I could picture it, y'know? She must've died on impact, when the truck plowed into their car, but I wanted to think of her whole and safe, her dancer's body perfect.
Am I callous to write about this? Am I a terrible person for blogging about my friends death? Have I trivialised it somehow, by telling it to an audience? By putting it on this blog, the blog that people read hoping to knwo more about romantic escapades and being single and being independant. Not about things like death and life's questions. Me, the person who chose not to write about the tsunami or any other world crisis events, I am writing about "something serious".
On the other hand, by putting it on a public forum, I could somehow honour her. I could tell you that when we were in college and writing about what we wanted to do five years hence, she said, "I want to be happy. And in love." I could tell you that she had been offered Boom by Kaizad Gustad and was contemplating taking it, only she wanted to go on holiday with her family. I could tell you she was stunning and bloody intellegent and at the same time, terribly insecure. I could tell you she was a good, loyal friend and that she loved us and made it a point to say so. I could tell you she hated carbohydrates and loved coffee, that she always wore odd socks, that she always wore this faded denim jacket, that she couldn't speak Hindi or Bengali to save her life but attempted to anyway, much to our merriment, that she hugged hard and tight, that she always knew the right thing to say and that everyone, but everyone who met her, instantly fell in love with her.
Has it really been three years?
Because I meant to write about you on Sunday (When I was at your house, talking to your friends and your mother and looking at your pictures, but when I got home my net was down)
Because I can only talk about you here, where I can't hear sympathetic noises.
Because you're the one person on this blog I don't use a pseudonym for.
Oh god, oh god, I hope I can write about this and have the balls to hit publish.
April 24, 2002
Our second year exams. 9 am and I was sitting at my desk, looking through Medea. The phone rang and my mom told me it was Pieces. Which surprised me, because she usually only surfaced around two.
"Hello," I said cheerily, "How come you're up so early?"
I thought she was laughing uncontrollably. I could hear her voice shaking and her breath coming in uneven gasps.
"Oh god, eM..."
"What's happened, dude?" I asked, still thinking, hmmm.. this has something to do with the exams.
"eM, Puji's dead."
You know whatever they say about people dying and they can't describe just how it feels, only that there's an immense gaping hole that appears suddenly out of nowhere, like a huge black vacuum and starts sucking in things. That sentence, if I had to pick any sentence that would forever change my life, that sentence would be it.
After a long time I said, "You're kidding." It couldn't be possible. Puja wasn't dead, she was probably ill or something.
"Would I joke at a time like this?" her voice broke then and she said hurriedly, "Listen, the cremation is in a bit, you can meet us at her house."
"Do you want me to call Iggy?" I asked. Good, focus on the mundane. Focus on getting the tasks done.
"Yes, yes, please call her. I called you first because you live the furtherest away." She didn't sound as calm as it seems when I'm writing about it. But I can't remember the tone of her voice. I can only remember what she told me. Do you know, I've forgotten Puja's voice? I realised this the other day. I've forgotten her voice and I feel like shit. How could I have forgotten? When I felt likemy world was crumbling then, how HOW could I have forgotten her voice now?
Iggy was asleep when I called her and she murmured grumpily into the phone, "eM, I'll call you later."
"No, Iggy, please, please wake up."
"What is it?" she snapped, and I felt for her I really, really did. This would be the last time she answered an unexpected phone call at a strange hour grumpily. The last time any of us put our phones off while we slept.
"Iggy, Puja's dead."
Like me she didn't believe it. But unlike me, as soon as I told her what Pieces had told me, she started to cry. And I envied the fact that she could cry. I didn't for a week. Not even at the cremation where my beautiful friend's body lay wrapped in a sheet. Her face apparently was unharmed, but there was this horrible guy who Iggy knew who told us her legs and her scalp had been sliced off. Iggy told me this in dry heaves and I comforted her but inside I could picture it, y'know? She must've died on impact, when the truck plowed into their car, but I wanted to think of her whole and safe, her dancer's body perfect.
Am I callous to write about this? Am I a terrible person for blogging about my friends death? Have I trivialised it somehow, by telling it to an audience? By putting it on this blog, the blog that people read hoping to knwo more about romantic escapades and being single and being independant. Not about things like death and life's questions. Me, the person who chose not to write about the tsunami or any other world crisis events, I am writing about "something serious".
On the other hand, by putting it on a public forum, I could somehow honour her. I could tell you that when we were in college and writing about what we wanted to do five years hence, she said, "I want to be happy. And in love." I could tell you that she had been offered Boom by Kaizad Gustad and was contemplating taking it, only she wanted to go on holiday with her family. I could tell you she was stunning and bloody intellegent and at the same time, terribly insecure. I could tell you she was a good, loyal friend and that she loved us and made it a point to say so. I could tell you she hated carbohydrates and loved coffee, that she always wore odd socks, that she always wore this faded denim jacket, that she couldn't speak Hindi or Bengali to save her life but attempted to anyway, much to our merriment, that she hugged hard and tight, that she always knew the right thing to say and that everyone, but everyone who met her, instantly fell in love with her.
Has it really been three years?
25 April 2005
What Good Girls Don't Do
Dress in blue halter top that covers, oh lets say, 20 per cent of upper body and low rise jeans that begin at the end of the pelvic girdle. Wear lots of eyeshadow and mascara and lipgloss and spray perfume in unmentionable places!
Set out for a night on the town with gal pal, also dressed similarly. Drive at 11 pm, music high, heels on
accelerator, wind in hair. Meet up with Golfer Ex and about eight Korean men all called things like Eric, Greg and even Mario. (I didn't know the name existed outside the game!)
Drink two fairly large drinks and begin to giggle every time Korean spoke to you. Teeter still giggling into Elevate and immedeatly hit the bar hanging on to Golfer Ex.
Get to the dance floor and be introduced to cute longhaired photographer type. Are pulled away from batting eyelashes at Longhaired Photographer by Golfer Ex who begins to dance slightly closer than you would expect.
Go up to the second level and are introduced to Mohammed Kaif, who is delectable. Spend large amount of time smiling at him and trying to avoid talking about cricket because all you can remember is the fact that India lost the ODI and that he was in an ad with Saif Ali Khan. Begin to back away when he says, "I hope you're not in the media."
Dance some more with Golfer Ex, who by this time is coming on pretty strong.
What Good Girls Do
Confess to Golfer Ex regretfully and with a sigh, because he smells so nice and is being incredibly sweet, that you are very emotionally unstable right now and can't handle one night stands.
Leave with Gal Pal, just as party gets a little more rocking and let her drive you home.
Set out for a night on the town with gal pal, also dressed similarly. Drive at 11 pm, music high, heels on
accelerator, wind in hair. Meet up with Golfer Ex and about eight Korean men all called things like Eric, Greg and even Mario. (I didn't know the name existed outside the game!)
Drink two fairly large drinks and begin to giggle every time Korean spoke to you. Teeter still giggling into Elevate and immedeatly hit the bar hanging on to Golfer Ex.
Get to the dance floor and be introduced to cute longhaired photographer type. Are pulled away from batting eyelashes at Longhaired Photographer by Golfer Ex who begins to dance slightly closer than you would expect.
Go up to the second level and are introduced to Mohammed Kaif, who is delectable. Spend large amount of time smiling at him and trying to avoid talking about cricket because all you can remember is the fact that India lost the ODI and that he was in an ad with Saif Ali Khan. Begin to back away when he says, "I hope you're not in the media."
Dance some more with Golfer Ex, who by this time is coming on pretty strong.
What Good Girls Do
Confess to Golfer Ex regretfully and with a sigh, because he smells so nice and is being incredibly sweet, that you are very emotionally unstable right now and can't handle one night stands.
Leave with Gal Pal, just as party gets a little more rocking and let her drive you home.
22 April 2005
And I am floored, but I am cleaning up so well, I am seeing in me now, the things you swore you saw yourself
Ooh, just saw Hitch. What an incredible movie! It's the usual, sappy romantic thing, but really, really well made with a sharp script and great lines. And it reaffirmed my belief that there is really someone for everyone and if you truly feel strongly about someone, it won't matter how much you've been hurt before. Really. Go watch it.
In uzzer news, Lakme India Fashion Week is occuring as we speak. Well, I think the last show's probably over by now, but the Week has just begun. Nope, I'm not a part of it--damn--the one fashion show I want to attend and I'm not reporting.
Are you boring in bed asks my email and I look at it and sigh. I fear very greatly that I am. Not that anyone's ever said so, of course, but then would you tell someone you've just slept with that they're boring? I think not. Speaking of boring in bed, my great excitement these days is the fact that I've just downloaded imesh to go with Kazaa to download music. It's really cool and has some excellent songs and if you think Kazaa is limited, you should use both together. I don't know what that had to do with sex or with being boring, but it seemed to go in the same paragraph.
I went to TC last night with a whole lot of people. Well, technically I didn't GO with a whole lot of people, but since many people I knew were there, I sorta wound up hanging with them all. I met the Iggy, who is ecstatic at New Love Of Her Life and couldn't stop smiling dreamily over her beer, stopping only to fill me in on more details about Wonder Boy. And Tanya, whose boyfriend's in town and who also smiled dreamily through most conversations. I feel all old and cynical around these young dreamy types and I offered sage advice and many, Yay! Good for you's. I also met Golfer Ex, looking and smelling very dapper, who offered to buy me a drink just as I was leaving. "I can't," I told him wistfully, some of the dreaminess rubbing off, so he walked me to my car and said something about booty calls and I laughed and told him I'd let him know.
Speaking of exes (and this time the 'speaking of' is really relevant, I promise you), K called me this morning. I was feeling very blue and grouchy and nobody-loves-me and I guess he heard it in my voice, because he said, "What happened?" in tones of utmost concern. I almost started bawling right there but I didn't, giving myself a moment before I laughed a little shrill-ly and said, "No, no, just one of those days." It was a good conversation, though, one of the best we've had since we broke up, no mindfucks at all. Anyway, so the reason I went to Hitch in the first place was because I was feeling like shit this morning, Oscar The Grouch meets Madam PMS and I really, really needed to do something before I went mad. So I called Priya, who's always up for a plan and she brought Kabir and the three of us had a really good time--throwing popcorn around, laughing at Will Smith (who, by the way, looks yummy in his role as a commitmentphobe date doctor) and stopping off at this great shop in Centrestage Mall called Punk, which sells heavy metal accessories. They have a mens urinal mounted and filled with rings. Very cool but a little wierd to reach your hand into!
In uzzer news, Lakme India Fashion Week is occuring as we speak. Well, I think the last show's probably over by now, but the Week has just begun. Nope, I'm not a part of it--damn--the one fashion show I want to attend and I'm not reporting.
Are you boring in bed asks my email and I look at it and sigh. I fear very greatly that I am. Not that anyone's ever said so, of course, but then would you tell someone you've just slept with that they're boring? I think not. Speaking of boring in bed, my great excitement these days is the fact that I've just downloaded imesh to go with Kazaa to download music. It's really cool and has some excellent songs and if you think Kazaa is limited, you should use both together. I don't know what that had to do with sex or with being boring, but it seemed to go in the same paragraph.
I went to TC last night with a whole lot of people. Well, technically I didn't GO with a whole lot of people, but since many people I knew were there, I sorta wound up hanging with them all. I met the Iggy, who is ecstatic at New Love Of Her Life and couldn't stop smiling dreamily over her beer, stopping only to fill me in on more details about Wonder Boy. And Tanya, whose boyfriend's in town and who also smiled dreamily through most conversations. I feel all old and cynical around these young dreamy types and I offered sage advice and many, Yay! Good for you's. I also met Golfer Ex, looking and smelling very dapper, who offered to buy me a drink just as I was leaving. "I can't," I told him wistfully, some of the dreaminess rubbing off, so he walked me to my car and said something about booty calls and I laughed and told him I'd let him know.
Speaking of exes (and this time the 'speaking of' is really relevant, I promise you), K called me this morning. I was feeling very blue and grouchy and nobody-loves-me and I guess he heard it in my voice, because he said, "What happened?" in tones of utmost concern. I almost started bawling right there but I didn't, giving myself a moment before I laughed a little shrill-ly and said, "No, no, just one of those days." It was a good conversation, though, one of the best we've had since we broke up, no mindfucks at all. Anyway, so the reason I went to Hitch in the first place was because I was feeling like shit this morning, Oscar The Grouch meets Madam PMS and I really, really needed to do something before I went mad. So I called Priya, who's always up for a plan and she brought Kabir and the three of us had a really good time--throwing popcorn around, laughing at Will Smith (who, by the way, looks yummy in his role as a commitmentphobe date doctor) and stopping off at this great shop in Centrestage Mall called Punk, which sells heavy metal accessories. They have a mens urinal mounted and filled with rings. Very cool but a little wierd to reach your hand into!
20 April 2005
Y'know what I miss?
a) KitKats from phoren. That your cousins brought whenever they came to India for a holiday. Huge suitcases with the special 'foreign-returned' smell would be opened and these KitKat packs would be distributed along with the standard Hershey's Kisses and Snickers. Once in a while my aunt would experiment with other kinds of chocolate--Reeses Pieces, for instance--which always finished, sure, but with not as much love and intensity as the KitKat's were scarved. Then, they started making KitKat here, and it didn't really have the decadent taste that American chocolate seemed to. (Why is that?) But still, because it was available so freely here, the aunts stopped bringing it. Like Levi's. But my cousin-in-law remembers to bring me party bags of M&M's every time she visits. The KitKat is dead, long live the M&M! :)
b) Appu Ghar. I really, really miss Appu Ghar, which for non-Delhi residents used to be the biggest amusement park here. Way back, when I was much younger, Appu used to be a big craze. Nirula's did an Appu birthday cake, which was quite popular. (In fact, I even had an Appu cake. I think I was two or three. I also had a merry-go-round cake, an Asterix and Obelix cake, a mermaid cake and my favourite--a Hansel and Gretel cake. By the way, my mother and I always went to great pains to design those cakes and recently going back to the Nirula's Cake Shoppe, I noticed they've coolly added all MY designs to their catalogue! Too bad I didn't know about patenting or copyright notices then, no?) Anyway, so Appu Ghar was where we took all visitors to the city, including the foreign returned KitKat bearers. But we also went alone quite a bit, my parents and I, for an outing. They had this mechanical life-size clown, which sat in a glass box and held out a bar of soap in each hand and if you dropped one rupee in the coin slot it would start laughing. And that stupid clown would scare the shit out of me. They took it down later though.
c) Being able to blog from work. Really. Can you imagine if I still lived alone and I had no internet access at work? I'd be like the Bhutanese people who were the last citizens on the PLANET to get cable tv. That would be me. The internet deprived. The Google-less.
d) Having long hair :( Now, while I love my short hair and how easy it is to handle and how much better it looks, I still miss going swish-swish from shoulder to cheek. I miss reaching my hands under my nape and pulling all my hair back into a bun or a ponytail. I miss the soothing strokes of brushing. I miss ironing my hair and watching it become all straight. I miss washing it and watching loose long curls hang down my back. I miss hair accessories. But, my short hair does look nicer.
e) Having friends who are in town! Leela, Devyani, Nitya, why have you foresaken me?
f) Having a boyfriend.
b) Appu Ghar. I really, really miss Appu Ghar, which for non-Delhi residents used to be the biggest amusement park here. Way back, when I was much younger, Appu used to be a big craze. Nirula's did an Appu birthday cake, which was quite popular. (In fact, I even had an Appu cake. I think I was two or three. I also had a merry-go-round cake, an Asterix and Obelix cake, a mermaid cake and my favourite--a Hansel and Gretel cake. By the way, my mother and I always went to great pains to design those cakes and recently going back to the Nirula's Cake Shoppe, I noticed they've coolly added all MY designs to their catalogue! Too bad I didn't know about patenting or copyright notices then, no?) Anyway, so Appu Ghar was where we took all visitors to the city, including the foreign returned KitKat bearers. But we also went alone quite a bit, my parents and I, for an outing. They had this mechanical life-size clown, which sat in a glass box and held out a bar of soap in each hand and if you dropped one rupee in the coin slot it would start laughing. And that stupid clown would scare the shit out of me. They took it down later though.
c) Being able to blog from work. Really. Can you imagine if I still lived alone and I had no internet access at work? I'd be like the Bhutanese people who were the last citizens on the PLANET to get cable tv. That would be me. The internet deprived. The Google-less.
d) Having long hair :( Now, while I love my short hair and how easy it is to handle and how much better it looks, I still miss going swish-swish from shoulder to cheek. I miss reaching my hands under my nape and pulling all my hair back into a bun or a ponytail. I miss the soothing strokes of brushing. I miss ironing my hair and watching it become all straight. I miss washing it and watching loose long curls hang down my back. I miss hair accessories. But, my short hair does look nicer.
e) Having friends who are in town! Leela, Devyani, Nitya, why have you foresaken me?
f) Having a boyfriend.
18 April 2005
When The Road Is Hilly, Driving Fast Is Silly
That's probably the best warning sign I could come up with. I was very, very bored, slightly nauseated from the round-an-round-an-round that my taxi was doing, so just to keep myself alive and not barfing I thought of all those signs painted on the side of the road. Y'know, the kinds that say "Hair Pin Bend" and "God Is Life". And "Beware Of Falling Rocks, They Might Knock You Out Of Your Socks." Okay, I made the last one up. And it was terrible.
My whole trip was terrible. Okay, perhaps terrible is too strong a word. How about mind-numbingly-brain-fuckingly-chew-off-your-own-arm-to-escape BORING? Yeah. What made me think I could do this? Cover a golf tournament? What made anyone think I looked like the kind of person with "Can Cover A Golf Tournament Without Collapsing" label?
Oh, it had its moments. There were hills. But the hills in Uttaranchal are dry and thirsty looking. Not like the Himachal hills. The Himachal hills make me want to run down them, arms outstretched, yodelling, "The hilllllllllllllllllllls are alive, with the sound of myooo-sick." But the Nainital hills? Nada.
Servile-Little-Man-From-Uttaranchal-Tourism hovered around me for a bit. He showed me ‘Scandal Point’ where many people have jumped to their death off a cliff. He pointed out a nearby slope where students from Sherwood school fell to a gory end. I wandered curiously close to the precipice and he made worried noises, "Please to be stepping back. Please, madam. There are whirlwinds in the hills and they will carry you away." Finally, to stop his head from combusting with all those ‘Please to be’s I moved away, not even doing the whole Leo DiCaprio "I’m the king of the world" thing I had been dying to.
The hotel was ancient and had these three stuffed tigers in various nooks and crannies. It was rather disconcerting to walk past their motheaten snarls just to get to the reception. But it was a hotel with character, the rooms were HUGE and there was an antiquated bathtub and I curled up next to the heater in the huge bed, read Alchemy Of Desire and watched The Apprentice. And Koffee With Karan, if you must know. And various parts of Page 3 on Zoom.
And I suppose the weather was nice. Freezing actually. There was a "gala dinner" on Saturday night after the game, and everyone was dressed to the nines. Bunch of old men, some with wives and annoying little children in tow. But, but, after speeches had been made and dinner had been served and band imported from Delhi crooned, "You feel up my senses, come feel me again," I sat down at the nearest available table, teeth chattering, with rum and coke. And found the only young cute boys there. And flirted mildly, spoke of Delhi longingly, because even though I had only been gone for a day, I was homesick. And it was Saturday night. And people I loved were having good times without me. Young Cute Boys served purpose, made me feel a little less mindfucked, and were very sweet.
Besides which, I’ve got golf jokes coming out of my ears. My favourite wasn’t even meant to be a joke: this guy was making a speech and talking about the 16th hole which was apparently on a slope. So he goes, "So my balls kept going up and down no matter how hard I tried to stop them." Hee.
And I was doing just that, snickering softly to myself, the hood on my jacket up when he says something about, "the young journalist who is here" and of course, everyone turned to look at me and saw the semi-leer, semi-retarded expression that comes when you’re trying to surpress the giggles. And of course, everyone probably also guessed at the dirty routes my mind was taking. So much for my as pure as driven snow act that I put on all weekend.
But never again. Golf is so not my cup of coffee (which, by the way? People in the hills DO NOT know how to make. Seriously, everywhere I went I got the world’s worst cup)
My whole trip was terrible. Okay, perhaps terrible is too strong a word. How about mind-numbingly-brain-fuckingly-chew-off-your-own-arm-to-escape BORING? Yeah. What made me think I could do this? Cover a golf tournament? What made anyone think I looked like the kind of person with "Can Cover A Golf Tournament Without Collapsing" label?
Oh, it had its moments. There were hills. But the hills in Uttaranchal are dry and thirsty looking. Not like the Himachal hills. The Himachal hills make me want to run down them, arms outstretched, yodelling, "The hilllllllllllllllllllls are alive, with the sound of myooo-sick." But the Nainital hills? Nada.
Servile-Little-Man-From-Uttaranchal-Tourism hovered around me for a bit. He showed me ‘Scandal Point’ where many people have jumped to their death off a cliff. He pointed out a nearby slope where students from Sherwood school fell to a gory end. I wandered curiously close to the precipice and he made worried noises, "Please to be stepping back. Please, madam. There are whirlwinds in the hills and they will carry you away." Finally, to stop his head from combusting with all those ‘Please to be’s I moved away, not even doing the whole Leo DiCaprio "I’m the king of the world" thing I had been dying to.
The hotel was ancient and had these three stuffed tigers in various nooks and crannies. It was rather disconcerting to walk past their motheaten snarls just to get to the reception. But it was a hotel with character, the rooms were HUGE and there was an antiquated bathtub and I curled up next to the heater in the huge bed, read Alchemy Of Desire and watched The Apprentice. And Koffee With Karan, if you must know. And various parts of Page 3 on Zoom.
And I suppose the weather was nice. Freezing actually. There was a "gala dinner" on Saturday night after the game, and everyone was dressed to the nines. Bunch of old men, some with wives and annoying little children in tow. But, but, after speeches had been made and dinner had been served and band imported from Delhi crooned, "You feel up my senses, come feel me again," I sat down at the nearest available table, teeth chattering, with rum and coke. And found the only young cute boys there. And flirted mildly, spoke of Delhi longingly, because even though I had only been gone for a day, I was homesick. And it was Saturday night. And people I loved were having good times without me. Young Cute Boys served purpose, made me feel a little less mindfucked, and were very sweet.
Besides which, I’ve got golf jokes coming out of my ears. My favourite wasn’t even meant to be a joke: this guy was making a speech and talking about the 16th hole which was apparently on a slope. So he goes, "So my balls kept going up and down no matter how hard I tried to stop them." Hee.
And I was doing just that, snickering softly to myself, the hood on my jacket up when he says something about, "the young journalist who is here" and of course, everyone turned to look at me and saw the semi-leer, semi-retarded expression that comes when you’re trying to surpress the giggles. And of course, everyone probably also guessed at the dirty routes my mind was taking. So much for my as pure as driven snow act that I put on all weekend.
But never again. Golf is so not my cup of coffee (which, by the way? People in the hills DO NOT know how to make. Seriously, everywhere I went I got the world’s worst cup)
15 April 2005
All my baaaaaaaaaaaags are packed, I'm ready to go
No I'm not dead.
Or worse, absconding.
I've just had a terrible case of writer's block--made worse by the fact that since I do write for a living and all, I put in all my energy there--and usually there is some excess energy/creativity that I slough off here, but I seem to have run out of my quota.
So the other day I go into work and check my office mail and I have like five different messages from people I don't know. So I read them and it turns out I'm being sent on a junket.
So hurrah, I think and trot off to find out more details.
The good news: It's Nainital! I'm going to Nainital, which should be at least five degrees cooler than the soup pot (or rasam bowl, if we're being vernacular) that I live in. And the last time I went to Nainital was with a friend and her parents when we were about sixteen and I swear to god we saw this guy who looked exactly, but exactly like Peter Andre. (Hey, he was pretty hot. And Mysterious Girl had just released.)
The bad news: I'm being sent to cover a *gasp* golf tournament. What do I know about golf? Very little, but I suspect I will know more by the end of this weekend. Hell, I once dated a golfer and hung out with his golfer friends, how hard could this be? And I'll carry something to read, for when they're walking the course. or putting, or whichever it is they don't like to be talked to during.
So I leave tomorrow morning and I'm back Sunday evening. Which means I have tomorrow evening to putter around (hey, check out my cool golf pun back there!) Nainital and look for Peter Andre-lookalikes. And candles in the shape of fruits, which my colleague assures me are found plentifully in Nainital and for which I have already taken many orders.
And maybe I'll come back with lots of good stories for you :) Keep fingers crossed!
Or worse, absconding.
I've just had a terrible case of writer's block--made worse by the fact that since I do write for a living and all, I put in all my energy there--and usually there is some excess energy/creativity that I slough off here, but I seem to have run out of my quota.
So the other day I go into work and check my office mail and I have like five different messages from people I don't know. So I read them and it turns out I'm being sent on a junket.
So hurrah, I think and trot off to find out more details.
The good news: It's Nainital! I'm going to Nainital, which should be at least five degrees cooler than the soup pot (or rasam bowl, if we're being vernacular) that I live in. And the last time I went to Nainital was with a friend and her parents when we were about sixteen and I swear to god we saw this guy who looked exactly, but exactly like Peter Andre. (Hey, he was pretty hot. And Mysterious Girl had just released.)
The bad news: I'm being sent to cover a *gasp* golf tournament. What do I know about golf? Very little, but I suspect I will know more by the end of this weekend. Hell, I once dated a golfer and hung out with his golfer friends, how hard could this be? And I'll carry something to read, for when they're walking the course. or putting, or whichever it is they don't like to be talked to during.
So I leave tomorrow morning and I'm back Sunday evening. Which means I have tomorrow evening to putter around (hey, check out my cool golf pun back there!) Nainital and look for Peter Andre-lookalikes. And candles in the shape of fruits, which my colleague assures me are found plentifully in Nainital and for which I have already taken many orders.
And maybe I'll come back with lots of good stories for you :) Keep fingers crossed!
12 April 2005
And orange really doesn't rhyme with anything at all...
Because I have many things I want to talk about and not enough time to do full-on blog entries for each.
First I have a new haircut. I mean, well, not a new haircut, because there's only so much you can do with three inches of hair, but I told the hairdresser to make it thinner and shorter. I have very thick, very Malyali hair, so when I don't force it in the morning to sorta SIT DOWN ALREADY, it forms these wierd little spikes and tunnels and sticks out at angles for the rest of the day. Anyway, but new shorter haircut has left me with about an inch of hair on my head, and I just ran my fingers through it, and you can't even tell! I heart short hair. Seriously, everyone should do it. Get a haircut, I mean. I'm at present trying to figure out whether I look punk rock or Judi Dench. (Oh please, let it be punk rock)
Secondly, I normally don't blog about current events and such, still I must tell you this about the budget. (Okay, so it's ancient history now, but still) They've hiked up the prices on cigarettes and I read this and thought, "Oh they've hiked up the prices on cigarettes, so what's new" not comprehending that this was actually going to happen in real life, AND IT HAS!!!! My smokes are now two rupees more expensive, which may not sound like a big deal but it all adds up at the end of the month and I'm miserable because of it. Maybe I should start smoking beedis since they (humph-bloody-old-PC) have stayed the same price. (I beg of you, don't even suggest that I give up smoking)
Thirdly, I promised Dee I would do this, so here goes. NDTV Profit is now auditioning for a brand new sitcom, sorta like Office but about a call centre. If you're interested, email me your resumes and portfolios and I will forward them to her. Don't worry, it's all very legit, and I have absolutely no interest in stalking anyone etc, so you totally should, if you're interested in acting, because it sounds like a fun show.
Fourthly, Nitya has left town for three months to go to the Isstates for an assignment with work and she's going to have some party-type lifestyle in New Jersey and I'm very very jealous. Devyani will leave soon too, and wah that leaves only me, here, stuck in Delhi. : (
Fifthly, I know a lot of people I know read this thing, and I'm suddenly very curious, so if you know me in real life, please leave a comment saying you do, I mean, not with my "real" name or anything, but just so I can do a headcount. Please?
Sixthly, I've just revamped my Yahoo avatar and she is now a major hottie. Seriously, I wish I looked like her in real life. I've given her a white tank top, a pink belt, short hair and a city-at-night background. I want to be my Yahoo avatar, with big, blinking eyes and a body to die for.
Seventhly, my mum's back from Kashmir, and she bought me a leather jhola, two pairs of earrings and the most beautiful pashmina stole. It's purple. And soft. And so light, it feels like you're wearing nothing at all.
Um, yeah, I think that's it.
First I have a new haircut. I mean, well, not a new haircut, because there's only so much you can do with three inches of hair, but I told the hairdresser to make it thinner and shorter. I have very thick, very Malyali hair, so when I don't force it in the morning to sorta SIT DOWN ALREADY, it forms these wierd little spikes and tunnels and sticks out at angles for the rest of the day. Anyway, but new shorter haircut has left me with about an inch of hair on my head, and I just ran my fingers through it, and you can't even tell! I heart short hair. Seriously, everyone should do it. Get a haircut, I mean. I'm at present trying to figure out whether I look punk rock or Judi Dench. (Oh please, let it be punk rock)
Secondly, I normally don't blog about current events and such, still I must tell you this about the budget. (Okay, so it's ancient history now, but still) They've hiked up the prices on cigarettes and I read this and thought, "Oh they've hiked up the prices on cigarettes, so what's new" not comprehending that this was actually going to happen in real life, AND IT HAS!!!! My smokes are now two rupees more expensive, which may not sound like a big deal but it all adds up at the end of the month and I'm miserable because of it. Maybe I should start smoking beedis since they (humph-bloody-old-PC) have stayed the same price. (I beg of you, don't even suggest that I give up smoking)
Thirdly, I promised Dee I would do this, so here goes. NDTV Profit is now auditioning for a brand new sitcom, sorta like Office but about a call centre. If you're interested, email me your resumes and portfolios and I will forward them to her. Don't worry, it's all very legit, and I have absolutely no interest in stalking anyone etc, so you totally should, if you're interested in acting, because it sounds like a fun show.
Fourthly, Nitya has left town for three months to go to the Isstates for an assignment with work and she's going to have some party-type lifestyle in New Jersey and I'm very very jealous. Devyani will leave soon too, and wah that leaves only me, here, stuck in Delhi. : (
Fifthly, I know a lot of people I know read this thing, and I'm suddenly very curious, so if you know me in real life, please leave a comment saying you do, I mean, not with my "real" name or anything, but just so I can do a headcount. Please?
Sixthly, I've just revamped my Yahoo avatar and she is now a major hottie. Seriously, I wish I looked like her in real life. I've given her a white tank top, a pink belt, short hair and a city-at-night background. I want to be my Yahoo avatar, with big, blinking eyes and a body to die for.
Seventhly, my mum's back from Kashmir, and she bought me a leather jhola, two pairs of earrings and the most beautiful pashmina stole. It's purple. And soft. And so light, it feels like you're wearing nothing at all.
Um, yeah, I think that's it.
10 April 2005
Running With The Wolves
Tonight, I left work, very exhausted and ravenous--which is not a pretty combination, I can assure you, because you're starving and you're wondering whether you have enough energy to eat etc--also a little happy, because yay, it's the weekend and all, and that's one whole day not to think about work. (So who am I kidding? I'm going to think about work). Anyway, so I unlocked my car and did the usual 'fix-mirrors-wear-seatbelt-pull-out-music-system-plug-phone-into-handsfree' thing that I do, when I heard this enormous roar--not animal-like, but rather as if an extremely large generator had suddenly been put on. And checking the rearview mirror, I saw headlights and people gathering around. And then, the roar grew louder and almost deafening and like magic, about nine or ten Enfields all zoomed out of the narrow lane, one after another.
Those Enfields got me thinking. I'm not very excitable about many mechanical things--sparkplugs and cc engines bore me to tears. But I do get excited about zippy methods of transport. Cars, for instance, and motorcycles. I love Enfields. I love their heartbeat sound when you get on them and they go 'put-put-put' in a friendly manner. You can keep your silent machines, I like something that talks to me, when I get on, that vibrates gently when I straddle it. Did that sound sexual? It was meant to. Motorcycles excite most women I think, because of the phallic imagery they represent. And you're riding it. On the streets! A man who rides a motorcycle is therefore someone with equipment--packed full of horsepower and who isn't afraid to use it. Men ride motorcycles like extensions of themselves, women ride them with a sort of thrill--this is me, I'm doing this, I'm moving my body, I'm a goddess! Even if you're not driving it yourself, even if you're just sitting behind someone who's driving it, there's always sexual tension, brought on by the proximity of the person in front of you and the steady vibrating between your legs.
I knew someone once who had sex on a motorcycle. No, no, not while he was driving. But when it was parked and acted as a piece of furniture. Now, making out in a car is normal. It's something probably everyone's done. It's a little uncomfortable, if you're in the front seat, because the gear shift keeps getting in the way and in the backseat, hell, it's like being in your bed or something. But sex on a bike, now that must be different. The bike surely becomes an able and willing accessory , something to heighten your pleasure.
And as I drove home, I thought of the woman I had once seen when I was stuck in a jam, during monsoon season, with light drizzle threatening to turn into downpour. I was drumming my fingers impatiently and at the side of the road, where all the cyclists and scooter-guys are, I saw a woman on an Enfield. She was a small person, the bike dwarfed her, and her jeans were ripped and I saw a red bandanna under her helmet and a leather bracelet on her wrist, which had the tendons sticking out from her effort and I wanted to be her friend. Actually, no, I want to be the Woman On The Motorcycle. Even when I'm driving my car.
Those Enfields got me thinking. I'm not very excitable about many mechanical things--sparkplugs and cc engines bore me to tears. But I do get excited about zippy methods of transport. Cars, for instance, and motorcycles. I love Enfields. I love their heartbeat sound when you get on them and they go 'put-put-put' in a friendly manner. You can keep your silent machines, I like something that talks to me, when I get on, that vibrates gently when I straddle it. Did that sound sexual? It was meant to. Motorcycles excite most women I think, because of the phallic imagery they represent. And you're riding it. On the streets! A man who rides a motorcycle is therefore someone with equipment--packed full of horsepower and who isn't afraid to use it. Men ride motorcycles like extensions of themselves, women ride them with a sort of thrill--this is me, I'm doing this, I'm moving my body, I'm a goddess! Even if you're not driving it yourself, even if you're just sitting behind someone who's driving it, there's always sexual tension, brought on by the proximity of the person in front of you and the steady vibrating between your legs.
I knew someone once who had sex on a motorcycle. No, no, not while he was driving. But when it was parked and acted as a piece of furniture. Now, making out in a car is normal. It's something probably everyone's done. It's a little uncomfortable, if you're in the front seat, because the gear shift keeps getting in the way and in the backseat, hell, it's like being in your bed or something. But sex on a bike, now that must be different. The bike surely becomes an able and willing accessory , something to heighten your pleasure.
And as I drove home, I thought of the woman I had once seen when I was stuck in a jam, during monsoon season, with light drizzle threatening to turn into downpour. I was drumming my fingers impatiently and at the side of the road, where all the cyclists and scooter-guys are, I saw a woman on an Enfield. She was a small person, the bike dwarfed her, and her jeans were ripped and I saw a red bandanna under her helmet and a leather bracelet on her wrist, which had the tendons sticking out from her effort and I wanted to be her friend. Actually, no, I want to be the Woman On The Motorcycle. Even when I'm driving my car.
8 April 2005
Here I go again....
Obsessing.
Overanalysing.
Sometimes faking it.
Spinning.
Freewheeling.
Talking.
Bonding.
Rediscovering.
Bending.
Being a chameleon.
Darting.
Allowing.
Refusing.
Debating.
Writing.
Spiralling.
Emotion-full.
Happy.
Indifferent.
Blushful.
Annoyed.
Annoying.
Meandering.
All-over-the-place-ing.
Overanalysing.
Sometimes faking it.
Spinning.
Freewheeling.
Talking.
Bonding.
Rediscovering.
Bending.
Being a chameleon.
Darting.
Allowing.
Refusing.
Debating.
Writing.
Spiralling.
Emotion-full.
Happy.
Indifferent.
Blushful.
Annoyed.
Annoying.
Meandering.
All-over-the-place-ing.
7 April 2005
Living Page Three
I'm very sleep deprived. Spent till some four in the morning at a friend's house and then staggered home around four thirty and my sleeping cycle being as it is, had to read till at least five thirty to get myself sleepy. Then I had to wake up this morning and groggily down a cup of coffee, but I still don't feel human.
My best, most energy-packed hours start around six pm and go on till one in the morning. I'm a bit of a vampire that way, I can only start functioning once the sun is down or on its way to doing so. And I need a lot less sleep than most people. Gah. You know my life is boring once I start babbling on about sleeping.
I have to go for the Manav Gangwani fashion show tonight. The theme: An Evening In Paris. The main attraction: Sharmila Tagore and Shammi Kapoor, who in all likelihood will not even breathe on the press. I hate people like that. I mean celebrities who have some stick up their asses about not speaking to the media. Hello, the only reason you were invited was so that the press would come and the only reason the press will talk to you is because, buddy, the press made you. You are famous because you have been written about and spoken about. Really.
Now some celebrities are nice. The B-grade ones, obviously, poor things, make sweet love to the media every time they see them. Like model Neha Kapoor, for instance. Now I really like Neha Kapoor, she's sweet, she's polite and she always stops to chat with me. But it's a reluctant kind of liking, because I know she's playing me. And she knows I know she's playing me. So we have this sorta understanding, where both of us will smile and say hello and how are you and pretend like we really care. Among the A-list, I like Sushmita Sen a lot (no need to give a link to her, surely?). Now Sushmita Sen is funny, down-to-earth and the sort of person I can see myself gal-palling it with. Perhaps she's playing the press too? It's possible, but her friendly attitude beats that of the other smaller stars, like Zayed Khan or Hema Malini, who gaze at you snottily. Or even Konkona Sensharma, who I haven't met personally, but who I believe is a bitch to get a quote out of. And being with the print, like I've said before, I think, we don't have the authority that the chick waving the red NDTV mic does.
Some of our own page 3 types are pretty terrible too. Take Anoushka Shankar for example. I want to like Anoushka, I really, really do, because this one time way back, when I was still in college and going to the Mezz I saw her there and she said hi to the DJ who was also a nodding acquaintance of mine. And the Mezz at that time was for me like TC is now. I knew all the regulars. So to see Anoushka Shankar there was like she was part of my extended social circle. But nowadays she sighs, she flips her hair around, she reluctantly poses for pictures and even more reluctantly gives you one small quote that you have to practically drag out of her. C'mon Anoushka! You're more articulate than that, surely?
You have to know your celebs to get along as a features writer in this city. Designers, will talk to you depending on their social level. So Gauri and Nayanika Karan squeal and tell you about their new line, but with JJ Vallaya, you have to make an appointment with his PR just to get him on the phone. Authors are pretty much always ready to talk, but they can get really snotty, if they think you're too young, or just a hack reporter or (heaven forbid!) haven't read their "masterpiece". Unless of course, the author is Sir Vidia, who just says, "Na-ow, I reeelly don't know about that," to every question. The trick to Naipaul, I've realised, is to get to his wife. If you can get her to start chatting to you, she'll make sure hubby dear talks too. The art frat--artists, theatre people, musicians--varies. Jatin Das for instance, is almost obsessive about being called on his cellphone. So first you have to submit to his stacatto interrogation: How did you get this number? Who are you? What paper? Why are you calling me?. The theatre guys, thankfully, know me, so Vivek Mansukhani will make miles of polite conversation. Musicians I don't really interact with that much, but other than Anoushka and Daddy, I believe the rest are pretty co-operative. Oh, funny story about Ravi Shankar. So the other day, he was introducing this new jazz band and the media was talking to him. And this one, very young trainee-type reporter, looks at him, after all the rest of us have got our stories about his take on fusion music and whether jazz was catching on in India etc, and says, "Sir, will you ever do an album with Norah?" Our collective jaws dropped and we gazed at Ravi with delight. "With who?" he asked, puzzled. "Sir, with Norah, your..um... daughter?" she stammered. Now our eyes were shining and most people started to look away so that they could smile in peace. "Oh, with Anoushka?" he asked now. "No, no" we chorused as one entity, "With Norah! Your other daughter!"
Fun :)
My best, most energy-packed hours start around six pm and go on till one in the morning. I'm a bit of a vampire that way, I can only start functioning once the sun is down or on its way to doing so. And I need a lot less sleep than most people. Gah. You know my life is boring once I start babbling on about sleeping.
I have to go for the Manav Gangwani fashion show tonight. The theme: An Evening In Paris. The main attraction: Sharmila Tagore and Shammi Kapoor, who in all likelihood will not even breathe on the press. I hate people like that. I mean celebrities who have some stick up their asses about not speaking to the media. Hello, the only reason you were invited was so that the press would come and the only reason the press will talk to you is because, buddy, the press made you. You are famous because you have been written about and spoken about. Really.
Now some celebrities are nice. The B-grade ones, obviously, poor things, make sweet love to the media every time they see them. Like model Neha Kapoor, for instance. Now I really like Neha Kapoor, she's sweet, she's polite and she always stops to chat with me. But it's a reluctant kind of liking, because I know she's playing me. And she knows I know she's playing me. So we have this sorta understanding, where both of us will smile and say hello and how are you and pretend like we really care. Among the A-list, I like Sushmita Sen a lot (no need to give a link to her, surely?). Now Sushmita Sen is funny, down-to-earth and the sort of person I can see myself gal-palling it with. Perhaps she's playing the press too? It's possible, but her friendly attitude beats that of the other smaller stars, like Zayed Khan or Hema Malini, who gaze at you snottily. Or even Konkona Sensharma, who I haven't met personally, but who I believe is a bitch to get a quote out of. And being with the print, like I've said before, I think, we don't have the authority that the chick waving the red NDTV mic does.
Some of our own page 3 types are pretty terrible too. Take Anoushka Shankar for example. I want to like Anoushka, I really, really do, because this one time way back, when I was still in college and going to the Mezz I saw her there and she said hi to the DJ who was also a nodding acquaintance of mine. And the Mezz at that time was for me like TC is now. I knew all the regulars. So to see Anoushka Shankar there was like she was part of my extended social circle. But nowadays she sighs, she flips her hair around, she reluctantly poses for pictures and even more reluctantly gives you one small quote that you have to practically drag out of her. C'mon Anoushka! You're more articulate than that, surely?
You have to know your celebs to get along as a features writer in this city. Designers, will talk to you depending on their social level. So Gauri and Nayanika Karan squeal and tell you about their new line, but with JJ Vallaya, you have to make an appointment with his PR just to get him on the phone. Authors are pretty much always ready to talk, but they can get really snotty, if they think you're too young, or just a hack reporter or (heaven forbid!) haven't read their "masterpiece". Unless of course, the author is Sir Vidia, who just says, "Na-ow, I reeelly don't know about that," to every question. The trick to Naipaul, I've realised, is to get to his wife. If you can get her to start chatting to you, she'll make sure hubby dear talks too. The art frat--artists, theatre people, musicians--varies. Jatin Das for instance, is almost obsessive about being called on his cellphone. So first you have to submit to his stacatto interrogation: How did you get this number? Who are you? What paper? Why are you calling me?. The theatre guys, thankfully, know me, so Vivek Mansukhani will make miles of polite conversation. Musicians I don't really interact with that much, but other than Anoushka and Daddy, I believe the rest are pretty co-operative. Oh, funny story about Ravi Shankar. So the other day, he was introducing this new jazz band and the media was talking to him. And this one, very young trainee-type reporter, looks at him, after all the rest of us have got our stories about his take on fusion music and whether jazz was catching on in India etc, and says, "Sir, will you ever do an album with Norah?" Our collective jaws dropped and we gazed at Ravi with delight. "With who?" he asked, puzzled. "Sir, with Norah, your..um... daughter?" she stammered. Now our eyes were shining and most people started to look away so that they could smile in peace. "Oh, with Anoushka?" he asked now. "No, no" we chorused as one entity, "With Norah! Your other daughter!"
Fun :)
5 April 2005
Matchmaker, matchmaker
My mother's generation had it easy. There was no question--if you met a boy and thought he was decent enough and would provide for you, you married him. If at seventeen or eighteen, you met someone who caused groin-flutters and rapid heartbeats, you were in love with him and then married him.
Our generation on the other hand has so many choices of affection, that we might as well curl up into a ball and twitch. See, there's the initial, "Oh I'm attracted to you" or "Oh I have the biggest crush on you" and then, sometimes, very rarely, "Oh I love you." Why is so scary to say the words "I love you"? I mean, it seems like the simplest choice, surely? It doesn't convey the raw lustiness in "I'm attracted to you" and it effectively steers away from the wimpy commitment-phobeness of "I have the biggest crush on you." And really at one point in our lives, no matter how much we deny it later, we're in love with the person we're kissing, with the person we're dating, with the person we're calling despite mouthing terms like, "I'm really not ready for a relationship." Ready for a relationship indeed! Step up to the plate, young man! If your father had said "I'm not ready for a relationship" he probably wouldn't have lived for very long.
Of course, the whole idea of premarital sex complicates matters further. Our grandparents (and some of our parents) met under the benevolant eye of various family members. Family members hwo knew that if this worked out, the two young people in the room would wind up having sex pretty soon. How typically like India, shelter and guard someone all their lives and then *bam* encourage them to procreate with a practical stranger. Nowadays, it's more like girl meets boy, girl flirts with boy, girl and boy go out, it gets dark, he has his father's car and a packet of Kamasutra and well, yeah, I'm not going into the gory details. And with all this sex and no intention of settling down with this person you've seen naked, is it any wonder that the women of my generation are essentially screwed up? We have too many choices people.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're going to say. That I'm lucky to have a liberal family that lets me make my own choices. That if I really had to deal with the nightmare that is arranged marriages I would probably wish myself back in my situation in a heartbeat. Okay, well, yeah, I'm aware of all this. But still, I have some friends who come from strict families, who know that in a year or two they will have to settle down. And their casual ease, their certainity about the future is something I envy slightly. Oh, I know pretty much where my life is going. But I can't say, "So by the time I'm thirty, I'll be married with two kids". The alone-ness of my life as an independant, confident, professional career woman stretches in front of me and there are times when i want to sit down and have gold rings and go for kitty parties and be taken care of, y'know?
My generation has choices that no other generation has. It is possible to do a college degree in Creative Writing for fucks sake. And people accept that, applaud that as a sensible choice. No more lines of doctors and engineers, it is possible for everyone to follow their dreams if they have adequate resources. What else do we have? The highest ever divorce rates, rampant AIDS, lots of money going into therapy and the inability to sustain a functional relationship. Would I go back a generation? No. But am I a little sad with what mine has? Hell, yeah.
Our generation on the other hand has so many choices of affection, that we might as well curl up into a ball and twitch. See, there's the initial, "Oh I'm attracted to you" or "Oh I have the biggest crush on you" and then, sometimes, very rarely, "Oh I love you." Why is so scary to say the words "I love you"? I mean, it seems like the simplest choice, surely? It doesn't convey the raw lustiness in "I'm attracted to you" and it effectively steers away from the wimpy commitment-phobeness of "I have the biggest crush on you." And really at one point in our lives, no matter how much we deny it later, we're in love with the person we're kissing, with the person we're dating, with the person we're calling despite mouthing terms like, "I'm really not ready for a relationship." Ready for a relationship indeed! Step up to the plate, young man! If your father had said "I'm not ready for a relationship" he probably wouldn't have lived for very long.
Of course, the whole idea of premarital sex complicates matters further. Our grandparents (and some of our parents) met under the benevolant eye of various family members. Family members hwo knew that if this worked out, the two young people in the room would wind up having sex pretty soon. How typically like India, shelter and guard someone all their lives and then *bam* encourage them to procreate with a practical stranger. Nowadays, it's more like girl meets boy, girl flirts with boy, girl and boy go out, it gets dark, he has his father's car and a packet of Kamasutra and well, yeah, I'm not going into the gory details. And with all this sex and no intention of settling down with this person you've seen naked, is it any wonder that the women of my generation are essentially screwed up? We have too many choices people.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're going to say. That I'm lucky to have a liberal family that lets me make my own choices. That if I really had to deal with the nightmare that is arranged marriages I would probably wish myself back in my situation in a heartbeat. Okay, well, yeah, I'm aware of all this. But still, I have some friends who come from strict families, who know that in a year or two they will have to settle down. And their casual ease, their certainity about the future is something I envy slightly. Oh, I know pretty much where my life is going. But I can't say, "So by the time I'm thirty, I'll be married with two kids". The alone-ness of my life as an independant, confident, professional career woman stretches in front of me and there are times when i want to sit down and have gold rings and go for kitty parties and be taken care of, y'know?
My generation has choices that no other generation has. It is possible to do a college degree in Creative Writing for fucks sake. And people accept that, applaud that as a sensible choice. No more lines of doctors and engineers, it is possible for everyone to follow their dreams if they have adequate resources. What else do we have? The highest ever divorce rates, rampant AIDS, lots of money going into therapy and the inability to sustain a functional relationship. Would I go back a generation? No. But am I a little sad with what mine has? Hell, yeah.
3 April 2005
Linkslut.com
Since it's much too hot to go outside. Since I have run out of cigarettes. Since procuring DVD guy's number is not happening, here are some things I am doing to amuse myself, with airconditioner on and Pepsi mobile bottle.
(Item One: The Gamer)
Play this game and I guarantee you will be addicted. Like I am. I used to play it all the time a couple of summers ago. I remember K coming to pick me up for one of our nights on the town and I'd be sitting in front of the computer, still in dressing gown and towel and gazing zombie-like at the screen. He'd look at me, I'd give him a brief smile and finally with combined efforts of him and my mother, I'd get dressed and leave the house only to return later and switch on my computer immedeatly. And those were the dial-up days. Anyway so I replayed it again today and I couldn't stop. Really. Finally I closed the window because my eyes were beginning to blur over. The game has resonances of summer, eating beef jerky in the middle of the night and the rumble of my A/C in the background. When I was in college, during the summer holidays, when I didn' have to wake up early the next day for work. Good times.
(Item Two: The Smartypants)
I am also a trivia collector. I know all sorts of useless information, like for instance that it's impossible to lick your own elbow. (Okay, I'll wait. Go on, you know you want to try it. There. Happy?) So when I stumbled upon this blog, I thought my little trivia nodules in my brain would spontaneously explode from happiness. I also liked this post about favourite themes from Hindi cartoons. This kind of thing really floats my boat. (Psst, my favourite trivia site is this one, where you can do little online quizlets to prove how smart you are. And I really am. Quickie: Which episode of Friends had all the credits rolling as Jennifer Aniston Arquette, David Schwimmer Arquette etc.?)
(Item Three: The Biatch)
So the other day my friend calls me from work and goes, "Ya, so you know I was planning on giving you a long talk on how to manage your life and then I came across this site and it just said everything I wanted to say." After going, "Abbawibba" for a bit, I decided to visit it and really! such! fun! It really says everything, you know? Of course, still doesn't give anyone the right to tell me how to lead my life, because hello, my choices are MY choices however incredibly stupid or without dignity or really, really WRONG they seem to others. My life. Mine. But go visit anyway, especially if you're female.
(Item Four: The Helpless Damsel)
For a switch from that one, I must confess, I spend a great deal of my time on this one too.Despite the sexist title, I find quite a few useful (and mostly laugh-your-guts-out-at-stupidity-of-male-species) things to read. I stumbled upon it, because at my old job once we were putting together a Christmas supplement and my job was to do the page on drinks and hangover cures. I sat around racking my brains for a bit, because though I knew quite a few hangover cures, they all involved sticking your head under a pillow till the sun went away and muttering "Go away" to anything that dared enter your room. And consuming enough water to bathe a joint family for a week. But one of my male colleagues came to my rescue as I uselessly Googled "hangover + remedies" and told me about this very cool site. Hangover article done, headline: The Morning After, inspired by one of the Sweet Valley High's I used to read. This particular article gave me both a huge laugh and an inside hmm, because most of it sounded pretty much like the stuff I as an "insrutable woman", do. Which is perhaps not surprising because the author is a woman. Oh well, guys go read your heart out. :)
(Item Five: Ditto, ditto)
Because some things cannot be linked to enough:
1) Hysterical. I pee in my pants every time I read this.
2) I heart Google.
3) Yeah, so I'm bored with regular TV.
4)And you said I OD'd with the capital letters.
5) I loff za wodka.
Happy timepass, all.
(Item One: The Gamer)
Play this game and I guarantee you will be addicted. Like I am. I used to play it all the time a couple of summers ago. I remember K coming to pick me up for one of our nights on the town and I'd be sitting in front of the computer, still in dressing gown and towel and gazing zombie-like at the screen. He'd look at me, I'd give him a brief smile and finally with combined efforts of him and my mother, I'd get dressed and leave the house only to return later and switch on my computer immedeatly. And those were the dial-up days. Anyway so I replayed it again today and I couldn't stop. Really. Finally I closed the window because my eyes were beginning to blur over. The game has resonances of summer, eating beef jerky in the middle of the night and the rumble of my A/C in the background. When I was in college, during the summer holidays, when I didn' have to wake up early the next day for work. Good times.
(Item Two: The Smartypants)
I am also a trivia collector. I know all sorts of useless information, like for instance that it's impossible to lick your own elbow. (Okay, I'll wait. Go on, you know you want to try it. There. Happy?) So when I stumbled upon this blog, I thought my little trivia nodules in my brain would spontaneously explode from happiness. I also liked this post about favourite themes from Hindi cartoons. This kind of thing really floats my boat. (Psst, my favourite trivia site is this one, where you can do little online quizlets to prove how smart you are. And I really am. Quickie: Which episode of Friends had all the credits rolling as Jennifer Aniston Arquette, David Schwimmer Arquette etc.?)
(Item Three: The Biatch)
So the other day my friend calls me from work and goes, "Ya, so you know I was planning on giving you a long talk on how to manage your life and then I came across this site and it just said everything I wanted to say." After going, "Abbawibba" for a bit, I decided to visit it and really! such! fun! It really says everything, you know? Of course, still doesn't give anyone the right to tell me how to lead my life, because hello, my choices are MY choices however incredibly stupid or without dignity or really, really WRONG they seem to others. My life. Mine. But go visit anyway, especially if you're female.
(Item Four: The Helpless Damsel)
For a switch from that one, I must confess, I spend a great deal of my time on this one too.Despite the sexist title, I find quite a few useful (and mostly laugh-your-guts-out-at-stupidity-of-male-species) things to read. I stumbled upon it, because at my old job once we were putting together a Christmas supplement and my job was to do the page on drinks and hangover cures. I sat around racking my brains for a bit, because though I knew quite a few hangover cures, they all involved sticking your head under a pillow till the sun went away and muttering "Go away" to anything that dared enter your room. And consuming enough water to bathe a joint family for a week. But one of my male colleagues came to my rescue as I uselessly Googled "hangover + remedies" and told me about this very cool site. Hangover article done, headline: The Morning After, inspired by one of the Sweet Valley High's I used to read. This particular article gave me both a huge laugh and an inside hmm, because most of it sounded pretty much like the stuff I as an "insrutable woman", do. Which is perhaps not surprising because the author is a woman. Oh well, guys go read your heart out. :)
(Item Five: Ditto, ditto)
Because some things cannot be linked to enough:
1) Hysterical. I pee in my pants every time I read this.
2) I heart Google.
3) Yeah, so I'm bored with regular TV.
4)And you said I OD'd with the capital letters.
5) I loff za wodka.
Happy timepass, all.
2 April 2005
Celebrating The Randomness
> I have new jewellery! One is a ring made out of glass or ceramic, a huge fuck-off type ring, which I wear on my fuck-off finger. It's blue, with white stripes and is really very pretty. The other is a new belly stud with a glittery purple stone which I am inordinately proud of and have been showing off to all and sundry. Most of my audience has shuddered and said, "Doesn't that hurt?" in shocked tones but my favourite response so far has been of one of my colleagues who said, "Wow." and "You're my hero" in appropriately awed tones.
> I recommend Culinaire in GKII to anyone who lives in Delhi. It's a little way beyond the GKII market and is a well-kept secret from everyone who doesn't live in the area. Excellent, excellent Thai food at pretty reasonable prices and it's open-air and you should order the green chicken curry.
> It's April Fool's Day and I am reminded of the times way back when I was in elementary school, when we got great pleasure out of tricking fellow classmates, and then chanting, "April Fool! April Fool! Tell the teacher, you are beau-ti-ful." No one ever had any intention of telling the teacher that, of course, but it was a nice thing to chant even if it didn't scan well.
> I realise it's my last day before I'm on desk duty for the rest of the week, which means (AAARGH, AAARGH) no stories and hanging around office making pages, checking ad positions and general running around. I should carry a book.
> Went to TC on Wednesday and realised my beloved media nights are being taken over by chickies in very short skirts and high heels who look you up and down before they turn away. And boys in baggy jeans and gelled hair. Yuck. And it was really, really crowded. Time to look for a new watering hole, I think. I believe Carib in New Friend's Colony has media nights on Fridays, so that may be the next shift. But, while at TC I met Pieces' Mumbai gang who I spent a lot of time hanging out with while I was there. They were leaving for Manali but one of them said he'd be in town next week and we're going to catch up and go to Elevate. Also met Ex New Boy, who was being very sweet and is still as pretty as ever, but unfortunately I only feel sisterly towards him, so *sigh* no late night booty calls there, despite the shiny disco balls.
> And since everyone writes about the Google searches that lead people to their blogs, I want to too! The strangest keywords so far are:
give me idea about mca entrance exams
girdle hover pee
can dettol hurt my unborn baby
The last one is a little disturbing and can I just say, even though I'm not a gynae or anything, YES, Virginia, Dettol can hurt your unborn baby, so don't do anything that might involve Dettol and a foetus, okay? (Ew.. mental picture just happened)
> I recommend Culinaire in GKII to anyone who lives in Delhi. It's a little way beyond the GKII market and is a well-kept secret from everyone who doesn't live in the area. Excellent, excellent Thai food at pretty reasonable prices and it's open-air and you should order the green chicken curry.
> It's April Fool's Day and I am reminded of the times way back when I was in elementary school, when we got great pleasure out of tricking fellow classmates, and then chanting, "April Fool! April Fool! Tell the teacher, you are beau-ti-ful." No one ever had any intention of telling the teacher that, of course, but it was a nice thing to chant even if it didn't scan well.
> I realise it's my last day before I'm on desk duty for the rest of the week, which means (AAARGH, AAARGH) no stories and hanging around office making pages, checking ad positions and general running around. I should carry a book.
> Went to TC on Wednesday and realised my beloved media nights are being taken over by chickies in very short skirts and high heels who look you up and down before they turn away. And boys in baggy jeans and gelled hair. Yuck. And it was really, really crowded. Time to look for a new watering hole, I think. I believe Carib in New Friend's Colony has media nights on Fridays, so that may be the next shift. But, while at TC I met Pieces' Mumbai gang who I spent a lot of time hanging out with while I was there. They were leaving for Manali but one of them said he'd be in town next week and we're going to catch up and go to Elevate. Also met Ex New Boy, who was being very sweet and is still as pretty as ever, but unfortunately I only feel sisterly towards him, so *sigh* no late night booty calls there, despite the shiny disco balls.
> And since everyone writes about the Google searches that lead people to their blogs, I want to too! The strangest keywords so far are:
give me idea about mca entrance exams
girdle hover pee
can dettol hurt my unborn baby
The last one is a little disturbing and can I just say, even though I'm not a gynae or anything, YES, Virginia, Dettol can hurt your unborn baby, so don't do anything that might involve Dettol and a foetus, okay? (Ew.. mental picture just happened)
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