It's not always rainbows and bu'flies, it's compromise that moves us along

Some general witterings about my state of mind

I wish I could pause some parts of my life. Or cue them. Happy Ending... cut! Like a season finale. No worrying about then what or hang on, while I go to the bathroom or were you looking at her breasts? I don't want to have to worry about that. I don't want to think about people in the past or worry about looking like I'm trying too hard or sometimes come face-to-face with my loneliness, which hasn't really gone away, it's just in hiding inside my being. And sometimes when I look into the mirror, I see it, peering out at me, in the corners of my mouth or the tilt of my eyelashes and I feel sad.

Though, don't get me wrong. I'm not sad sad. I'm seldom sad about things I cannot change. I'm happy that the weather's changed, I'm a little snarky that I'm on desk duty this week, I'm pissed off that some friends have left town and people who were due back haven't returned, I'm pleased that certain relationships are settling into happy humdrum-ness without long drama queen type situations, and yeah, see, I'm not sad.

I just wish something would happen.



This is getting ridiculous

Now while I like my job and all, I'm a features reporter, right? I should be eating caviar and gliding gently down five-star lobbies and lunching at Olive or somewhere with someone famous. I certainly should not be sustaining injuries.

Remember the broken toe? Also got in the line of duty? Well, Saturday night I managed to pratically get a black eye. How, you ask? Well, I was at Elevate with Dee and she was most upset because someone had flicked her phone, right out of her bag, and c'mon, if you're going to be partying at Elevate you don't need the money from stolen phones.

Anyway, so in an attempt to make her feel better, I parked her at the railing of one of the VIP enclosures. (Elevate has a VIP floor, where you have to be a member to sit. Or the press. Each enclosure has a velvet sofa, a low table, and a railing which you can peer over and look at the masses. And fits about five people comfortably, cordoned off with glass doors) So I trotted off to the bar to get us some drinks and headed for Dee and promptly walked into the glass partition, really HARD too, so my drink splashed all over it and my head felt all wobbly. And someone, said, "Oh my god are you all right?" and I growled and said, "Why can't these doors be a little dirty?" and now I can't raise my eyebrows. Gah. (And it's NOT funny, so stop laughing!)




But you're just so hot, DJ

Juggy D. Mmm. Juggy D. Not hot hot, but I could see us being nineteen and naughty.

(Interviewed him at Elevate, by the way, which is why I was there. In pink halter. And girl with foreign accent came up to me and said, "Are you a reporter?" "Why yes," I smiled and she said, "Well, you totally don't look like one." It was the halter, I tell you.)



Fried stuff with cheese
We have gargantuan cravings for this deadly snack they serve at MB's in Defence Colony Market. You get very cheap booze at MB's (short for Malik Brothers) which is why we go, even if they do play that Saath Samundar song from Chameli about a hundred million times. You also get this thing called Dyno Bites, basically cheese and jalapeno peppers batter fried and sooooooooooooooo GOOD. With sour cream dip.
They give you like six on a plate which is barely anything, so we always wind up ordering more. And more. If you're ever in the neighbourhood, be sure to check it out. You'll probably see us there, most days.




Ooh, there's a button! And the photos just appear!

Yeah, well, I've discovered how to post pictures. And being the moderate creature that I am, I think I shall post a picture before every post. Why? Because I can! :)

*here's to a more exciting week ahead*

a/s/l?

When I was young, but not as young as you'd think, and the Internet with a capital 'I' had come to India, my friend Deepti and I would spend long hours in chatrooms like Mirc and ICQ and Geocities and (mostly) go to the rooms marked #Delhi or #India. ICQ was something we loved, I used to remember my ICQ serial number by heart, strange, and I can't even remember my user name now.

The first time I encountered a "chat room" was at a friend's place and he was one of the first to get the internet, sorry, Internet and he said, "Hey, have you ever tried chatting?" and we (another friend and I) said, "No" and "What's chatting?" So he signed us into a chat room and said, "Now people will talk to you." But no one did and we looked at him, exasperated. "Wait," he said and typed anyone want to chat with two 14/f? We are hot! We are horny! Okay, I totally didn't know what horny meant at the time, at least, I didn't know what the connotations were if I typed in "I am horny" into a chat room, but it seemed to work, because everyone started to chat with us. Good fun.

Anyway, so by the time Deepti and I used our Mirc and ICQ, the Internet had grown up a little, most people said the net now, all cool and all and we were a little more sophisticated. Okay, so sometimes we pretended to be hot swimsuit models, but mostly we stuck with the truth. We both had a string of Internet boyfriends for a while, Jared from the US Navy, who "couldn't communicate with anyone in India after he signed on" thus ending a beautiful romance. And there was Rick from Melbourne, who was 25 and called me and had a great accent. (Speaking of accents, I once emailed Jared saying, "Yeah, great talking to you and you have a nice accent" and he wrote back going, "I don't have an accent! I'm American!" Heh.) But soon Deepti started to talk to more and more boys from Delhi and obviously they wanted to meet her.

By this time, I had outgrown my passion for internet romances. They were proving too fickle, I had so much else to do etc, but it seemed like Deepti was just getting started. Pretty soon she was meeting boys in M-Block Market all the time (McDonalds had just opened there and it was a popular, 'cool' hangout) and I was the unwilling chaperone. Also because I looked so much younger than her, boys automatically ignored me, or treated me as the sidekick, which I was getting a little tired of. There were two boys we met, I remember, best friends, 19, I think, to our 15 and very, very cool. They smoked and all. They bought us Coke (as in Coca-Cola, not cocaine), they dropped us in their beaten up Maruti 800. But I was reluctant, hanging back, because, hello, we had met them on the internet and god knows what was wrong with them. Deepti couldn't see this point though, or she chose not to, I'll never know which. She was always way more excited than I was. I was a skeptic, looking out for potential rapists, she was enthusiastic and full of raptures. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she was in an all-girls school, whereas boys were really not that big a deal for me. I mean, I had grown up with them, and they seemed, well, okay. Classmates, perhaps. People you shared lunch with. People who smelt after Games. The only people who seemed surprised to see you dressed up at dance parties and who huddled in a corner skidding their too-new sneakers.

Then Deepti met FerrariBoy and our lives changed. Hers and mine. Hers because FerrariBoy became what she had never had--a guy best friend. And mine because I developed a violent crush on him. And yeah, though FerrariBoy flirted with me, eventually he and Deepti wound up together. Dating for about oh, five or six years.

And we outgrew Internet Friends and laughed about that stage in our lives. And, now, in an age where you can never be too sure about anyone, I'm beginning to discover Internet Friends again. I have friends who I have known for years and other friends who I meet through work etc, but I also have some Net Buddies, who by virtue of the fact that we read each other's blogs say, or something, I feel close to, too.

I was thinking about that today, watching Friends Season 10 which he sent me (thanks!) and wondering how my perspective has changed. From 14/f and horny to I love you overseas even to... this. Companionship from people you've never met.

I heart the internet!

And underneath her wimple, she has curlers in her hair! I even heard her singing in the Abbey

Today was a good day.

I prize my good days.


On my good days I forget that I ever had bad days. On my good days I feel smart and sexy and funny and I lope instead of just normal walking. On my good days I wear bright colours and my hair behaves itself. On my good days I am an energy machine at work and multi-task like a goddess. On my good days I sing along to sad songs and think poor things, and what a fuss they make about nothing.


On my good days I meet old friends for coffee and grin a lot and feel like an independant working woman. Usually, on my good days, I wind up with so many social engagements for the next two or three days that I'm swamped. Because on my good days the days are too short and I want to meet everyone, even old flatmates who I barely speak to anymore. And I want to do everything--get a tattoo, buy cargo pants (which I admit, regretfully, are too young for me). On my good days I am forgiving and a fountain of serenity and wisdom. I give good advice, I listen hard, I pat shoulders. But also on my good days, I trip over my sentences because I'm in such a hurry to tell the next story.


On my good days, I'm sleepy at a normal time, like now it's 10.30 and I'm ready for bed. My insomnia vanishes on my good days. I think only of pleasant things--like the fact that the new Harry Potter releases next month and that Boston Boy returns next month also. When I think of unpleasant things, like filing tax returns, which I should do, I'm all gung-ho about it. Because, (and stop me if I've said this) on my good days I vibrate with energy.


On my good days, I think in terms of tomorrow and the day after that. I think about the stories I have to hunt tomorrow and instead of thinking of the heat, I think of the thrill of fixing up an interview. Today was an exceptionally good day because when I stepped outside my office into the balcony for my post-lunch cigarette break, there was wind, the kind that smells of rain, and the trees were swishing and I raised my face up to the sky and saw the grey clouds and felt so glad to be alive.


I've had so many good days this month. Little joys are being handed out to me and I feel half-apprehensive as I accept them, because really, how long will they last? But that's not a good day thought, so I stifle it and wonder instead, if I'm going to have so many good days, what on earth shall I blog about? The Adventures Of Merry Sunshine may not make for very interesting reading, but I should also warn you, on my good days I blog a lot.

Drunk home from Turquoise Cottage part 256

So buzzed tonight that I can barely see the computer screen. Monitor. Sorry.

Two friends have started blogging--Someol'guy over here and Skim over here. Both of whom I met tonight at TC.

TC on Wenesday is now so fucking crowded it breaks my heart. Really. To see real teeny-boppers, I mean, they couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen, dancing around in little tops and short-short skirts is not pretty. Where is our adda? asked Iggy, grabbing me by the arm and I couldn't answer her, not really. When did TC get so popular? I know I bring a couple of hundred people every time I visit, but that's just me, right?

Went to Roli books party tonight which was very strange. There were olives in abundance on all tables, which I loved, but there was also this one journo who kept going "I like you. I don't like very many people on just the first meeting." I smiled and tried to shoo him away but he just went on, "I suppose it isn't reciprocated?" "Um... it usually takes more than one meeting for me to make up my mind," I told him and then he followed me around. Even when I went to the loo.

It's so hot these days that it seems to be all that other bloggers are talking about. Brief respite today, with a slight drizzle, but that was about all. I'm thinking of retracting my whole post about how much I love Delhi, because in this weather, when you feel like you're inhaling liquid, no really, there's not much to love. But still I like my city. I like my city still.

Today met two exes. K and Golfer Ex. K was looking very, very hot, he's lost so much weight and he was with this other chick with long hair and big eyes and a mole on her chin. She had soft angles and a wide smile and was everything I am not. "This is eM," he said introducing us and she seemed to know who I was. Later he asked me for a light and said hello to all my friends, to all our friends and they gave him big hugs. And then this girl who I haven't met since the break-up came up to me and said, "Hey, where's K? I hear he has the joint." And I felt like weeping.

Things with Golfer Ex went better though. He slipped his arm around my waist and murmured flirty things into my ear and we fixed up to meet on Saturday. Why does everyone love my exes so much? Ragini cooed, "Oh K's here?" and scampered off to meet him. TC is my territory, how dare he come there? How dare he come there with another girl, if he's so incapable of love?

Maybe it's just me, maybe I'm just unlovable. And unattractive. And clearly, not someone anyone wants to be friends with.

Luke was also there tonight and Someol'guy (whom I shall now call Nikhil) agreed with me that he was so hot! (By the way, for explainations sake, Nikhil is blog reader who emailed me while he was in Delhi wanting to meet up. We've had many drinking sessions, a couple of drunk sessions and blog readers are now my homies. I lurve you all. Still not sleeping with anyone, before the propositioning emails start pouring in though!) Anyway, so I smiled at Luke, BECAUSE MY CAST IS OFF, DID I NOT MENTION IT BEFORE, I AM SITTING CROSS LEGGED, and said, "You've totally forgotten me, haven't you?"
And he bent forward and said, "Why do you think I'm at TC tonight?" *sigh*

But he still has his girlfriend and I still have enough bad karma to last me the next twelve lifetimes.

And so with smell of cigarette smoke in my hair and sundry cologne on my clothes, I shall attempt to go to sleep.

That's me in the spot light...

A year ago today, I sat at work, very bored and decided to start a blog. Things were different then, I was younger, god, so much younger--even though it's only been a year.

And now, June 21st 2005, I pat myself on the back. I've made it. I've seen a voluntary project, something I don't even get paid for, imagine, to a full year. Wow.

It sounds terribly cliche and loserlike to say it, but I must. Blogging has helped me realise the importance of online community, re-realise the significance of words, meet some pretty fantastic people, come into contact with others who I wouldn't have known. My friend, who by the way, I became reacquainted with, only because of this blog, told me the other day, that I've become "the girl who does that blog" and though I laughed at the time, now it feels good! I had practically stopped writing when I started blogging, writing for myself that is, and then I fell in love with it all over again and it was like revisiting an old lover, y'know? "Oh, you still do that to me!" and "Hey, when did you become able to do that!"

And I read the archives and I sometimes wince at my voice back then and sometimes marvel at how I can see an entire year of my life unfolding over the internet. It's pretty cool.

Anyway, enough of speech, on to celebrations :)

I hope y'all like this template, it still has a few bugs to iron out, but all in all, can I just say, I LOVE it. I have never loved another template so much.

And you know how in some Friends shows they'd do this little recap of all their best episodes? Here's my version. (If you've read the archives, sorry, sorry, but hey, it's always fun going back right?)

>The firstest postette
As of now, I'm 22, I'm a journalist like I said before and I work in a tabloid! I live, work, love in New Delhi, the capital of India. I'm single (ie I'm not married) but I have a beautiful boyfriend.




> The first mention of TC

This weekend I'm super-busy. I have three (count 'em: THREE) booklaunches in the span of two days. I have to meet my 'Manali Gang' tonight for drinks at my favourite pub in the whole world: Turquoise Cottage.



> The first Bridget Jones reference :)
You see, usually when I go for parties, they're small affairs. Someone's computer is blaring out music, drinks sit on top of a table, most people bring their own and you settle comfortably in your jeans and t-shirts into conversation groups.



> The only post without a title
this is what heartbreak feels like--- not the pain and hurt i thought i'd feel-- but a numbness, which thankfully allows me to go about my day, not caring till a sudden blast of memory leaves me feeling like a great big chunk has suddenly been scooped out of my stomach.




> Enter the ex
Me: Hey
Him (rather too enthusiastically): Hi!
Me: Just wanted to... y'know... check in and things. See how you were doing. Coz we should stay friends and all (realise I am babbling and trail off)
Him: Yes, that's what I want as well.



> The Compulsive Confessor
She said, "You know what your problem is? You're a compulsive confessor."

Ooh, very late! If you like, I could do an update later :)

Happy Blorgthday to me.

Rid-a-ding-ding-ding let me hear you sing

Less is more these days. Zats why pretty minimalist template. And that's also why I'm going to try, at a reader's suggestion, to shorten my posts. This is going to be very tough, because I am, by nature, a blabbermouth, but bear with me here, okay? Here's my weekend in three sentences.

At the L'Oreal show, we realised Decibel wasn't made for fashion shows or for people running down it--boys and girls--shaking Encino Man-type curly blonde hair.

Turquoise Cottage is the Chinese and Thai Cafe in Gurgaon but it's only an imitation and doesn't have the real TC feel, even though they play the same music and everything, it's still an imitation and one of the walls is a Rock 'n Roll Mount Rushmore and Jim Morrisson who is normally sex on toast looks like a girl.

I was tremendously excited about meeting Saif Ali Khan today when he was interviewing for Parineeta, because I've had a crush on him since I think Hum Saath Saath Hain which I saw a really late show of in Varanasi or Benares, whichever you're more used to, but his stupid dad just had to surrender today so my grand seduction plan failed.


Okay. That. That was a lot harder than it looked. Phew. I don't think this whole less is more thing works for me. You're talking to someone who's never been on a diet. On the other hand, you're also talking to someone who believes in minimalism for her clothes. So...

Oh well. Feedback on new template? Isn't it purty?

Six fifty eight, are you sure where your spark is?

People ask me often why I like Delhi so much. It's been a source of amusement for my family for years, as a child, returning home from Cochin or Hyderabad where I spent my summer, I'd wake up with the early morning sounds of the train and rush to the window to see the first grey contruction sites, the yards where the big compartments with MAERSK on them were stored, the posters, fraying at the edges advertising 'Sex Doctors' and the glorious Hindi script which I had barely seen all summer. My aunts would laugh at me, "You and your Delhi!" but I couldn't explain the feeling of utter, uncontrolable joy that came out of seeing the first signs of my home.

Now people look at me sceptically. "You like Delhi? Over Mumbai? Or Bangalore?" "Yes," I say simply and most often they leave it at that, not bothering to argue with someone so clearly mentally challenged. Sometimes they argue, Mumbai-people are the worst, extolling the virtues of ANY OTHER CITY in this planet, and then I bristle and say, "Well, if Delhi's so bad, why do you live here?"

Why does anyone choose to live in Delhi? I can understand the Punjabi immigrants from Pakistan. They have fully claimed this city, it is theirs, they have made it what it is today. Even the UPites and the Jats, with their refined Hindi and their string of vernacular abuses. It is not mine in the way that it is theirs, it can never be mine, a person from the South has no connections to this soil.

In school, we all defended our original birthplaces. I got a lot of "Oh, idli-sambhar," and demands about why I wasn't dark with oily hair. "You don't look South Indian at all," Punjabi mothers used to tell me when I played with their offspring. I didn't fit the stereotype certainly, with my accent so 'pukka-Delhi' with the fact that I could speak Hindi, that we ate, yes, rajma-chawal at home most days, instead of sambhar. But I never belonged to the South either. There my halting Telegu and Malayalam was greeted with scorn, there my accent was so not theirs, there my clothes, the way I talked, the way I behaved and expected to be treated was too Delhi. My parents seemed to straddle both worlds effectively, but I guess they could. They grew up in the South, their roots were there and at the end of the day, that's where they belonged more than Delhi. People referred to us as 'Madrassis' no matter how often I corrected them. I wanted an identity of my own. Something that didn't have to do with my distant Southern roots, something that would be tied up with this city that I belonged in, that I had been conceived in (but not born. Few people are born in Delhi from my generation. Most people's mothers, like mine, returned to the place they truly called home) and that I had grown up in. But no one was willing to give me that.

Delhi can never be a 'motherland' in the way some places are. It belongs truly to itself, the National Capital Region, not part of a state, independant and floating along happily. And no one can truly belong to Delhi. If someone asks me where I'm from, I know they're asking where my anscetors are from. I say, "My mother is from Andhra Pradesh and my father is from Kerala." Most people stop there, but some, curious or trying to make a point say, "And where are you from?" And then I say proudly, "Delhi." They laugh at that, some smile, no one really believes it.

No, Delhi isn't a motherland. It's more like a cool big sister. Or a favourite aunt. Someone you know isn't going to pick you up and kiss your wounds away, but who will show you a good time. And let you be independant. Someone who will give you your first lessons with reality and temper that with perfumed air-kisses. Maybe there's something wrong with me for warming to that rather than something you can always depend on. But Delhi's selfish little soul draws my own, and there are some things which are familiar. There's bhutta for instance in the rainy season and the sharp woodsmoke smell of the winter and there's Daryagunj with it's second-hand pavement bookstores and tonga wallahs and there's the green corridors of the posh India Gate colonies. There's memories everywhere I look, a restaurant where my parents trysted, Priya cinema complex, way back, when it was the only place that showed English movies and where my classmates and I went for our first movie on our own (Jurassic Park), and there's the schools I went to, and Khan Market where we made our first attempts at dating and so many things.

I don't think it's something I can explain, the way ex-pats from Mumbai or Calcutta or Bangalore or wherever can. They have fixed reasons, concrete reasons for hating my city and loving their own. But what other city would take them in? Sure, it won't mollycoddle you, it'll leave you alone to learn your own lessons, the rough men on the road might bother you a little, but I know that at the end of a year, or six months or whatever, it'll be hard for those people to return to their own (rather wussy) hometowns. Delhi spoils you for other places. I can now confidentally manage in any other part of this country. I am, after all, a Dilli-wallah, someone your mother warned you about. :)

The Party (part two)

"So ask me then," I said, smiling. I was sitting on the telephone table in our living room with my cast up, resting across Luke's legs. "Is it heavy?" I asked him before, and he shook his head and looked at me luminously.

"I'm not going to ask you now," he replied, looking up at me, one eyebrow raised, "I think I need to have another couple of drinks before." By then we noticed that the room had quieted down, somewhat and people were looking at us with amusement and curiousity.

Nandini had already falled asleep around 11 pm, and I think, at about 1.30ish, everybody else left too. Leaving Ragini and Saif, who murmured to each other, and me and Luke and Daman. I really don't know what to say about Daman. He was just there you know? He oscillated miserably between Ragini and Saif and Luke and I and when he said, "I should go" we only made medium-sized protests.

And then, there was Luke and I, standing near the bar and I laughed and said, "So, dude, what did you want to ask me?" And he inhaled sharply and busied himself with making a drink and said, "I wanted to ask you whether you would be willing to wait."

"To wait?"

"Yes, because, you know my situation, my girlfriend leaves in a month and my hands are tied till then."

Somewhere at the back of my head, people were letting out loud war-whoops.

"I thought Ragini said you weren't interested?" I looked at him, teasing. It's true, Ragini did say something along those lines, a friend thing, "eM, be careful."

"Well, she was wrong," he was looking at me now and in control, you could totally tell.

Later, we drifted into my room. The original plan was that the boys would spend the night also. I assumed Ragini would crash in my room with me, since I have a futon that rolls into a bed and that the two of them would fend for themselves. But she appeared breezily, said, "I'm just getting my nightsuit!" and vanished. Hmph.

And there was Luke lying across my bed, his eyes dancing with amusement at my obvious discomfort, and there was I, sitting up, arms crossed. "Come here," he said, stretching out an arm.

We spoke about his girlfriend at length. How "innocent" she was, how she had never been with a guy before, how he didn't want to be the one to break her spirit. And all the while, I'm nodding and going, "Mmm hmm." and inside my head I'm thinking, "But what about ME???" He took it for granted that since I was older, I was more experienced, hardened in a way that his innocent soft girlfriend clearly wasn't and I played up to this image. I blew streams of grey smoke across the room, I gave him advice in a voice hoarse with tiredness and I didn't kiss him or touch him or anything.

"Look," I said, switching off the light, "It's sunrise. The birds are chirping. And I'm tired. So, yeah, I'm not going to make a move, because that would be wrong, but I'm going to count down. And if you don't do anything by the time I reach 10, we will go to sleep like normal human beings."

I'm sorry if that sounds like hypocrisy. I'm sorry if that was even a blatant move couched in passive terms. But I don't care. YOU try not hitting on hottie lying with only an inch of space between you, when you have nothing to lose. Try it. Go on. Then give me a lecture.

"T minus 10," I said out loud. He was quiet.
"9"
"8"
"7"
"6"
"5"
By the time I got to four, I figured he was asleep, but just to finish, I went to "2" in my head.

And then.

"3?" he asked.

"No, two," I answered.

And when I got to one, I said nothing.

And then he kissed me.

The Party

Sunday Morning Accounts:
Alcohol units: 3/4
Cigarettes: 25
Weight: Stable
Hours slept: 2
Bad karma amassed: Rebirth as slug


It was a purple sort of evening. Three of us were dressed in purple--me, Ragini and Urvashi. The conversation was mostly purple. The coke took on a purple-y hue at some point. And my mood was shining, shimmering purple--dancing between sparkly lavender to royal plum.

I decided to wear my Mango spaghetti finally, after many hours in front of my cupboard. One of my sole designer tops, it's gorgeous and snotty to all my other clothes. And it doesn't sit in a comfortable pile with the rest of my spaghettis, where they gossip about where they have been and who they have been with. My Mango spaghetti with its discreet MNG label hangs by itself. Which is probably a good thing, because it has a lot more stories than the rest. It's super-tight though, would probably show even an extra mole on your back, so I gasped as I squeezed myself into it. Hey, if I was going to be handicapped, I might as well be a hot handicap, right? That's what I thought.

My guests, all of them, with the exception of Ragini and her friend Nandini (who came at 8.30, which is a GOOD time to come for a party) were all very, very late. By the end of it, the three of us were ready to curl up on the couch and go to sleep. I made myself a drink though, and Ragini was constantly on the phone, which is a staple for her at parties. Then, I think, by around 10.15-ish, after I was ready to cry because so many people had cancelled (honestly, does no one believe in a good old-fashioned house party anymore?) in trooped Urvashi, her boyfriend John, the Jabberwock and Samit. They all looked a little taken aback to see empty house and the three of us looking mournful, but recovered remarkably and even made themselves drinks. (Urvashi and Samit had formed a 'Put-Much-Alcohol-In-One-Drink' club. They kept doing that and huddling in corners and giggling.)

Then, then, in came many young pretty boys, Ragini's boyfriend Saif, who she greeted with a squeal and his friends Daman and Luke.

(Quick back story: Over the past couple of weeks, I've been spending an exceptional amount of time with Ragini and Saif. We've been going out a lot, mostly for coffee, couple of times to TC, sometimes they come over. Usually, with Saif's best friend, Luke. Luke is very, very hot, but young (21) and worse, he has a girlfriend. There has been some mild flirting, combined with Saif whispering things like, "Dude, he really likes you and all." Luke's girlfriend leaves in a month, for foreign shores and so I pretty much thought that perhaps, maybe in a month things might happen there. Only he had been behaving a little off, not quite so friendly, not quite so flirty, so I thought that perhaps he had changed his mind. We hit it off great though, we like the same music, he's in a band, he seems to really listen when I'm talking, that kind of thing. Of course, the pure unbridled lust did have a part to play, but hell, I'm grown up, I can handle it)

So the evening went on, and I think most people had a good time, or even if they weren't, were too drunk to care. I seldom get drunk at my own parties, too many things to do, but on Saturday I was comfortably happy, in the giggly phase and I loved everyone. Ragini and Luke and I even sang loudly and off-key to To Be With You much to the horror of my less-drunk guests.

And *ahem* Truth Or Dare was played and I felt about 17 and people were saying the silliest things and in the midst of all this merriment, Luke bends closer to me and goes, "I have to ask you a question."

... to be continued

Her name is Tiffany Twisted, she got the Mercedes Benz, she got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, she calls friends

> Will you forgive me, dear reader, for posting every day? I suppose posting every day wouldn't be that bad, if only I had something to say. (Hey that rhymed!) But I really do have nothing to do, Sims 2 has lost its enchantment from having been played till 2 or 3 in the morning, I watched a lovely show on Star World called Adventure Divas--a travel show all about these chicks who go everywhere and meet interesting women. Today's episode was on Cuba and my favourite part was where the anchor, a tall blonde American in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, said, "Cuban women own their ass." There was such poetry in that line and it got me thinking about women who don't own their asses or for that matter any other part of their body. You see them everywhere, beautiful women, tall women, shapely women, regarding their breasts or bottoms as detached objects, not really part of them at all. Though I have this friend, Sumitra, who's not exactly pretty in the conventional sense, but she's an athlete, or at least she used to be and she has a lovely toned body and she works it. You can tell, even when the rest of us are all dressed up and eye shadowed, she'll prance in in shorts or a denim skirt and the way she throws her shoulders back and stands very very straight usually makes her the centre of attention.

> You may wonder why I've chosen to disable anonymous comments. It wasn't just that last cyber-debate type post that got me to do that. It's something I've been toying with for a while. Before, the offensive comments were just deleted and then I decided I didn't want to do that anymore. I mean, after all, though this is an interactive space and though this blog would not be the same if it weren't for the comments, I feel a little bad when I spend time and energy typing up something only to have it completely negated by people who say, "Oh you're so self-centred" or oh, "You'd sleep with anyone", y'know? I used to have a tag-board, and then when people started using that as advertisement space, I took that down too. Now, instead of anonymous comments, I get email, which I like far, far better, because people don't generally send hate mail, they send thoughtful responses, things they have thought about. Not that that means you should stop commenting, of course! I loves the comments!

> I'm having a parteee today. My mum's out of town, my toe is broken and I thought those two were good enough reasons to have a party in the first place. I've invited tons of people, from the journos to the just-barely-out-of-college types and I think it should make for an interesting evening. Plus, since my Saturday night plans, thanks to cast and all, involved sitting at home, I thought it would be a brilliant idea to bring my Saturday night to me (If Mohammed cannot go to the mountain etc). I've been having these sort of get-together type parties for as long as I can remember. My mom's been travelling and leaving me to hold the fort since I was in first year college and then everyone welcomed the idea of a house with no parents, where they borught their own alcohol and where they could do their own thing. Now of course, as we grow older, the get together have changed from the drunken I-don't-know-who-that-person-is to quieter affairs. But still, very fun. And no doubt, plenty of fodder for post-hangover blog.

> And ooh, most exciting. It has recently been revealed to me that I have readers in MIT and Harvard. Hello, hello! And of course, hello, hello to reader in Oxford. Look at me appealing to all these supersmart people :)

>One more thing, I think before I go. Shivam asked me in the post with a gazillion comments, why I chose to stay anonymous. (I'm not really super anonymous anymore, but why fight over small details). The reason I choose to cling to my last shards of anonymity is because, well, very simply, it's fun!

> And absolutely the last thing now, this has kept me entertained for a while, if you think you know your 80s music, give it a shot.

Th..th.. that's all folks! (I suddenly miss Looney Toons. Not the new Cartoon Network avatar they've gotten but the really old ones. My favourite was the one in which Bugs gets nominated for an Oscar and they show flashbacks from some older toons. Too funny. And my favourite Tom And Jerry one was when Jerry gets his big muscular cousin to beat up Tom. Ooh, and the one where Tuffy, that adorable grey mouse in the diaper and Jerry fight with Tom over the Thanksgiving dinner) *We're tiny, we're tooney, we're all a little looney, and in this cartoony, we're invading your tv!" (A prize for anyone who can identify that. Promise!)

EDIT 1: Funny on a day when I really thought I'd barely manage to scrape together enough material for one teeny-tiny post, I keep remembering new things I meant to post. When I first read this I thought, hey cool, another blogger writing about TC. THEN I read on, and *sigh* very wicked, but still very funny. Go look.

EDIT 2: It's been pointed out to me by Kalyan (thanks!) that the "real" lyrics for the title of this post should go "Her MIND was Tiffany twisted, she got the Mercedes BENDS." Is that true? In which case I've been singing the wrong lyrics all my life. Ooh, you guys should totally tell me what lyrics you've always gotten wrong, I think it'll make for a fun follow up post, don't you?

Coz you're there for me too-oo-oo

To diffuse the tension and all from the last post (and boy, there was a lot of tension!) I think it's time for a happy post. A happy post about good people.

I could write for instance, about my friend Leela, in London now, but my soul sister and comrade for many years. Leela's an Amazon--her 5'11" dwarves my 5'3" effectively. And she doesn't walk like some tall women do, all hunched up as if a little ashamed at just how tall they are. Leela strides and when I walk with her, I feel like striding too. We've known each other technically since we were about two--my apartment building bordered hers and we'd walk to nursery school together-- "a tall baby and a small baby" as my mother says when she talks about it now. It was at Leela's house that I have one of my first coherent memories, of staying too long there and returning to find my parents in a panic.

Then she moved and I moved and we didn't see each other for many years. In fact, I had forgotten all about her and when she resurfaced in my new colony, with her twin sisters and their dogs, my "best friend" and I privately thought she was a snob. Then, by some quirk of fate, it turned out that my friend's parents and Leela's parents knew each other and she had to go there for dinner. She came back raving about how nice Leela was and how many books she had, which is what made me want to be friends with her. (Okay, I'm sorry Leela, but you already know this. I love you now don't I?) We got along immedeatly, though I wasa little antsy about her reserve and her height and she thought I said 'Fuck' at the end of every sentence. But those things apart, we raved about each other to our respective parents and well, they recognised us even if we didn't and so on.

And Leela is brilliant. She's not a very regular correspondant and she won't bother to call for days or weeks or months, even if we're in the same city, but every time we meet it's like we never left off in the middle. Everyone should have friends like that.

My memories of growing up all involve her--how we sat on the lawn outside her house and listened to a sweet boy who was in love with her play his guitar, how we attempted to make marshmallows out of an old recipe and wound up sticking the bowl, pink mess and all into the freezer (her mom had to throw the bowl out eventually, with the spoon still sticking in it). And how we sat up till late in the night, with two of her friends playing cards, and how we wept about bad boyfriends, and how we can just sit, in two corners of a room reading and not talking.

And now look at us, all grown up. Of course our relationship has changed, but it's a good sorta change, you know? We know the word "best friend" really has no meaning, that the idea of a best friend is not the person who you talk to 24/7 or who you call immediatly after momentous events, but someone you can be quiet with or fight with and know that they'll still like you. Someone who will be" happy for you", and not spoil it by jealousy or indifference.

I am blessed with my friends. The old ones who I am not even aware of loving, because it's like breathing and who share all my stories and the new ones who remind me how many nice people there still are. And who have brand new stories to tell me.

A life update and stuff I WOULDN'T do, even if you made me 'Queen For The Day'

I've been sitting at home for the past two days, getting terribly bored and morbidly depressed. When you're lying in bed there isn't much to do except read and think. (I got sick of watching television after a while). A couple of friends have come over to see me, but they came at night and left swiftly. I've been playing Sims 2 like a maniac, and you'll be happy to know that one of my Sims has reached the platinum level. (Gosh, I'm such a nerd!) My net was down all of yesterday which sort of added to the depression AND to make matters worse, my cellphone bill arrived yesterday. *Sigh*

But today, today I will go to work. Which means that instead of wearing shorts like I have been, I'm going to have to force my plaster into my jeans.

There really isn't much to blog about, so instead I shall share with you an email I have recieved. I get quite a few emails these days, on my blogs email address too, many more than I get in my "real-life" id. Anyway, to protect this guy, I'm not going to share his name or email id, but if he's reading this, I guess this would suffice as a reply, no?

Hi,
I like your style. U r so readable and your writing is full of humour, makes one feel light in the head and if one ruminates about it later, one feels a bit sad. I think u r missing out on something and u do not know what. So the eternal search goes on and on.
Right okay, Zen Master. Any more words of wisdom?

There r many more like u out there. I dont blame them. It is the age and time we live in that makes us so. I think u should let go of yurself and enter into a relationship instead of gong in for one night stands and casual sex. U cant say "NO" i can make it out.
Just saying 'no' has always been a problem for me. What an insightful guy!

So, what if i proposition u now? I am sure u wont say no. But the problem is i live in Bombay and u in delhi but we can build a relationship nevertheless. If interested, please respond, but not in your journalese, be a bit more formal, candid and serious.
Bye baby.
Um. Um. I'm sorry if my blog gives the impression to ANYONE that I would be willing to sleep with them. Coz I'm not gonna, you know. And yeah, of course, Mr. Anon, your being in Bombay IS the ONLY reason I wouldn't accept your kind offer. Even though it's sad, and we could most definitely "build a relationship". Even though your lack of grammar totally turns me on, revealing the maverick in you. Who needs to type out y. o. u when you can just say 'u'? Oh well, shit happens.
What exactly is my "journalese" by the way? Anyone? No, but since he's asked me to be "formal, candid and serious", here goes:

Dear Mr. Loser,
I'm sorry, but I have to decline your proposition. Better luck next time.
And yeah, DON'T call me baby.
Regards,
eM

Why are all the crazy people in the world drawn to this site? No, really, WHY???? Is it some kind of "crazy meter" or something that I've set off unknowingly? If you guys have any insight about this, please let me know.
Oh yeah, and henceforth emails should be sent keeping in mind this disclaimer.

1) I have a real life.
2) I might post your mail or refer to it on this blog.
3) Hate/junk mail will be deleted, pronto.
4) I cannot be guaranteed to respond.
5) I WILL NOT sleep with you, your brother or your dog. In fact, if you ask me, I will in all likelihood, make fun of you here.

There we go. Happy emailing, folks. :)

On being handicapped

You know the old saying about how you can never know what someone else is experiencing until you walk around in their shoes? (To Kill A Mockingbird if I'm not mistaken) Well, I am truly experiencing what it must be like for people who are permanently handicapped, for whom this isn't just a two-week thing that you endure, it's their lifetimes.

The worst part is having to think about all your actions. Even going to the bathroom becomes a production. You can't be lazy about it and dawdle till your bladder's ready to burst, because you can't do the 100 metre bathroom sprint. And don't even get me started on taking a bath. I sit on a chair, a plastic bag around my cast, which is elevated on the pot, thankfully within distance. Since I can't let the cast touch the floor, it becomes another deal to switch from the leather cast `foot' that I'm wearing (it's a sort of shoe, big enough to fit around a cast, with velcro straps. Not high fashion, but, hey, it works) to the green plastic bag, all the while doing a flamingo type thing with my other foot. Because my toe is fractured, the plaster raises that and so I can only walk on my heel. Walking up stairs takes me, oh, twenty minutes. Answering the door, about seven. And I'm not bothering to answer the landline. My cellphone is travelling everywhere with me.

But it struck me yesterday how handicap unfriendly this country is. There are no wheelchair or slope options, everything has stairs. And most stairs don't even have a railing, so you hold on to the wall for support. And forget about using a public loo, I'm talking non-five star, coz most five-stars have a handicap option. Squatting is incredibly hard to do on one foot, with no railing. I even realise how terrible the roads are in parking lots--try hobbling and avoiding potholes at the same time.

Mine is a fairly minor injury. I even have a fair amount of mobility (I haven't had the balls to drive yet, but I'm sure soon I will risk it). But, with the sudden startling insight I have recieved, I begin to look at things as stuff I can do and stuff I can't. And of course, stuff that people who have a permanent disability can't. I think I'm going to do something about it. The next time I'm somewhere with stairs and no slope or railings, I will speak to whoever's in charge. I mean why shouldn't I and my fellow cast-ridden bretheren have a good time, right?

Oh and by the way, I hurt it when I tried to balance on a rotating barrell, slipped backwards, feet in the air. For a story, I promise, I'm not a barrell fetishist.

The One With The Meme

I am thrilled and delighted that the Duck Of Destiny should think I was intellectual enough to qualify for the little book meme that's been travelling the world of most of the bloggers I read. I had been watching it jump from person to person, certain that it would never land at my doorstep, coz dude, the Compulsive Confessor just isn't that kind of blog. (Or so I would have you think.)

Anyway, here goes my set of answers for posterity.

How many books do I own? Ooh, that's a toughie. I'm presuming we're not counting the books that are owned collectively by my family, though I have inherited all my mother's old gray paperback Salingers. Okay, so just in my room, not counting books that I've had to review--say, um.. 2,000? My maths is terrible, so I see many many books on shelves and in cupboards and give you a rough estimate. There is no table space in my room anymore.

The last book I bought? Damascus by Richard Beard. I don't buy very many books, unless they're secondhand, because thanks to the fact that both my mum and I are in the literary journalism business, we get a lot of free stuff. So one day, when I was in Khan Market, waiting for a friend, I pottered into Full Circle and decided I would buy a book I hadn't heard of, based on the blurb at the back. Like Russian Roulette or something. I wanted to make a judgement totally and completely on my own, without reviews and friends telling me about this "new great author I had to read." I took a chance on Damascus and it's really very good.

The last book I read? I've been so zoned these days, I head straight for my children's literature shelf for some really easy reading. Re-read an E. Nesbit trilogy--Five Children And It, The Phoenix And The Carpet and The Story Of The Amulet. I love E. Nesbit. She makes me feel all warm and safe.

Five books that mean a lot to me? Hmmm, okay, I'm a pro at this, because I often do "If-you-were-stuck-on-a-desert-island' type questions.

>Totally The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Like discovering Holden Caulfield was a woman. I mean, come on, how can you not love this book?

> And while we're on the subject of good ol' Holden, would it be terribly cliche to say The Catcher In The Rye? Because I loved that book. I didn't know people could write like that. At the time I was just out of Little Women and so on and seeing people saying "Fuck" and all on the printed page was like discovering your most respected teacher didn't wear panties.

> Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume. Oh, Judy, Judy. How I loved Judy. How Judy could just about crawl into my mind and sorta rinse out my thoughts and then use them in her books. My copy of this book is in tatters--dog eared, pages falling out and my name in tipsy cursive on the title page.

> Um.. um, Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. Yes, yes, laugh away. Make comments about chick lit. But I'll have you know, this book was very cool and very funny when it first came out, way before the term 'chick-lit' was ever invented. It still is very funny and I still read it, so hah! And watching the movie so does not count as reading the book, by the way, if that's your parameter for judging it.

> And finally, glorious Swami And Friends by RK Narayan. Brilliant and the first bit of Indian-writing-in-English I read. And loved the fact that they ate lime pickle by the river, instead of kippers and scones in the meadow.

Five more people to tag.
Jeez. Is there even anyone left who hasn't already been tagged? In an attempt to push circles outwards, here goes: (And yes, I can count to five, but I don't feel like it and you can't make me)

Vignesh
AB
Mint Chutney
The Box
Jay
Fuego

and writer in exile

There. Now no one should feel left out. And 'confessor' type blogs can be brought into literary circles. Yay!


UPDATE, Sunday, 5 pm: I beg for your sympathy, kind readers, having just returned from the hospital with my entire foot in a toxic-green plaster cast. "Fibre-glass," the doctor tells me, "Easy for walking and you can drive with it too." Only it makes me look like someone with clubfoot, because the weight on my left foot drags it downwards and I limp slowly everywhere. "Only essential walking," he tells me later as I glare at him, dragging my leg behind me like the fucking Hunchback of Notre Dame.

It's a broken toe--actually a toe with a hairline fracture. Fucking painful. How did I hurt it? I'll blog about the whole story later, but it involved a barrel and a mechanical bull.

Oh, ow. My body is unused to having something attached to it and now my back hurts, my toe throbs and my chest where I fell off the bull has a nasty bruise.

Things I cannot do now include running away from prospective rapists/mass murderers/people out to get me; wear high heels; wear a salwar kameez; take a shower and get any action, unless I sit down and elevate my foot. Gah. Not a pretty picture.

So won't you please feel a little sorry for me? :(

Now you just say 'Oh Romeo, you know I used to have a scene with him.'

I like being single, I discovered last night in a drunken moment of clarity. Has there ever been a time when you're so very, very drunk that you're actually very sane and very wise and things around you start to make sense suddenly? This is usually the point in the party where you crawl towards the nearest available wall, to just lean against it, feel the cool plaster against your cheek, murmur sweet nothings to the paint. Before there was a wall, there was a boy who stood there patiently while I crash bombed against his chest, his hand supporting my back, his mouth smiling. But boys are complicated. The walls never ever expect me to behave in certain ways. They don't get pissed off if I stagger from them to other walls. They don't snap at me and say, "You know I really have to get home." They don't get all cold (well, I suppose they already are) and moody and silent and move away from you. The walls are just always there.

K was a little bit like that. He was always there. This is the season I miss him most, well, actually, this is my first summer in two years without him. Last night, almost I called him, and then reminded myself that it wasn't K now that I missed, it was K then. And my phone is pretty cool and all, but it doesn't call 2003.

Why do I like being single? Well, for one, I love the endless possibilities every day can bring. I love the fact that I make plans and break them as I please, without having to worry about hurting someone else's feelings, I love the fact that I can go out in a large group and just focus on me and on enjoying myself, without always having an eye out for someone else. I like being Just eM, not eM-and-anybody-else.

I realised at the beginning of my period of singledom, that I don't really know myself at all. If I were my friend, I'd have no clue how I'd react to a situation, say, or whether I'd like someone I just met. And now I do. Now I know myself and as narcissistic as it may sound--I like myself most days.

I still get lonely. I still yearn after people. But once I realised my essential fear was not being lonely, it was being alone, it got better. I recognise it for what it is, and I try to meet it head on. I would still like to meet someone special and be happy, but I don't want to go into the little bubble of isolation that seems to surround all couples. I like being with the crowd, being me and being absorbed by everything around me, not just one person.

And so, yeah, maybe the break up was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Smokey The Bear

It is a truth universally acknowledged that smoking at work isn't just a "break type" thing you do, it's where you make your strongest bonds, it's where relationships can be broken, it's where gossip happens and it's where your boss suddenly becomes your equal when he asks you for a light.

And since it is anto tobacco day and all and I must do my bit to commemorate it (no, I'm not giving up smoking), I think an entire post on the art form should do the trick. (And yes, it is an art form. I'll tell you why also, if you hang around for a bit)

Why smoking is cool

1) It's fat free

2) You can flirt with other smokers. Example: "Um, hi, do you have a light?" Click. Fwush. "Oh thanks. Hey, that's such a cool lighter! Zippo?"

3) There is an entire book that can be written about the way people exhale. Do you do it in short puffs? Do you let the smoke langurously escape your mouth in one steady stream? Do you do a Puff the Magic Dragon thing and exhale through your nose? Do you blow smoke rings? (If you do, please teach me, I really, really want to learn) Do you do the 'french curtain'? (Exhale through nose, inhale through mouth till it looks like a white smoke sheet between the two) And of course, there's the sexy sexy way Ethan Hawke did it in Reality Bites where he dangled a cigarette out of one corner of his mouth, inhaling and exhaling without taking it out. Mmm. Ethan Hawke. Mmmm.

4) Then of course you can tell a lot about the person by the brand they smoke. In college, my friends and I were often called elitist by the Goldflake smoking crowd. We smoked Benson and Hedges Lights, one some days the sweet Godang Garam, clove cigarettes, which after you finished smoking them, left your lips tasting pepperminty when you licked them. I smoked Mores for a while, long thin brown mentholated cigarettes and felt like Simone De Bouviear or someone when I waved them around. Now of course, it's my faithful Silk Cuts--cheap, filtered, mild and small.

5) I have spoken about the post-coital cigarette before, but let me remind you again. Brilliant.

6) They make things taste so much better! Like coffee, or alcohol. Or even when you've just eaten a heavy meal. NOTHING is better than a cigarette after you've eaten.

And you non-smoking types can rant and rave and fume all you like, but all I have to say to you is: simmer down. Relax. Smoke a cigarette :)