Drugs, rock and roll, late night booty calls, shiny disco balls

Just returned from fashion show with lots of red wine and pretty people. Rina Dhaka's to be exact. What is with people and not wearing bras anymore? Granted I have gone without the support sisters quite a bit, but I'm..um.. perky ya know? Some of the models at this show weren't. And I'm talking about sag city. Breasts reaching till your toes and all that. Bras were invented for a reason, ladies! And while we're on the subject, Rina, Rina, Rina. Black bra, black top. Not white push-up under your transparent black top. Please.



Actually, it's a funny story. Priya met Rina Dhaka in the ladies loo of the Oberoi before I got there. (I asked her to come along to keep me company) And Rina Aunty was chanting away, you know, the regular Buddhist stuff, Nam Myo Ho and all that. And so, when we stood outside, she came up to us to say hello. Which I loved Priya for, because normally, the Dhaka-lady is very media shy. Which is just a polite way of saying she won't talk to us. Not ever. But this time she was all gushy and ooh-y and I just made the most of the situation. "Tell us something about your collection," I said while she went on about how she had only called the prime media groups. (I felt very kicked at this point).



Sharan Mishra was modelling tonight too. She's this short haired model, with a large ass and who perpetually has her mouth open while she sashays up and down the ramp. If it's open-mouthed, it's got to be Sharan. Or Amanpreeth Something-or-the-other.



Also, we had a pleasant surprise today, because just as we were bitching about the men in our lives, who should walk by but Damien. Priya lurves him, absolutely. And he was compering, which was really quite odd, because I've never had a friend who compered before. It was sooo cool. Damien had a cold, so he had this "straight" voice--very deep and masculine. It was most funny. And after that we all went for drinks to this place in GKII. (which I must recommend. It's called Flames, and dude, the rum and coke is for some thirty bucks! So excellent!)



I've been meeting a lot of fellow bloggers recently too. Met with Motheater and AB at TC, whichj was a big surprise because a) I didn't know they went to TC and b) I certainly wasn't expecting to see them there after all the TC abuse that AB has done EVERY SINGLE TIME I MEET HER. (Actually, I also expected Motheater to look green-and-white, but then we're not going into how I think bloggers should look like their templates because then I should look black and brown). Annieway. I also met with Jabberwock, the Duck of Destiny and the Letterhead for drinks the other day--but then, except for the Letterhead I have met everyone else before, so really nothing major to say there. Except that I always feel the need to be more compulsive confessor-y when I meet new people who read the blog. Bouncier, and I guess, more out there than I would normally be. Does anyone else have the same problem, or is it only me that feels the need to match her internet personality with real life?



What else, what else? Boston Boy and I are also going swimmingly. We spent a long evening in the pursuit of a hook-up and I'm happy to report that *ahem* things went well in that department. Very well. He is so sweet for not trying anything further. I don't know why I always expect guys to go further, to probe harder, to be assholic, to fuck with me. It's like Priya was saying the other day--we're addicted to people treating us badly. I think that's a problem with our entire sex. We can't just have a good time without waiting for the rejection and I know this is true for me at any rate, if someone doesn't hurt me, I always wonder what's wrong with them. I'm too used to the fuckwittage.

It has been brought to my attention that people I work with read this blog. (See, this is why I don't write about work!) But hello, hello to you and if you do read this and you do work with me, come up to my desk and say hi. Please? C'mon I won't bite. (Unless you ask me to, very nicely).

And Boston Boy and I went for the Marut Sikka book launch the other day. The food was bloody excellent, but otherwise it was a pretty uneventful evening. Boston Boy spent the entire evening looking for the men with snacks. (Here come the men with snacks, the ones that you remem-be-er, here come the men with snacks, the galaxy defe-en-ders!) Ooh, and it was at QBA, where I've never been. But that's all that I can find of interest to tell you about that. But I murmured into my wine, which I drink a lot of at these dos. I don't know why. Perhaps it's because it takes a lot of glasses of wine to get me drunk. Or perhaps it's because it's so bloody expensive everywhere else. I remember taking the Cousin out to TC and she ordered a glass of red and it was some 395 rupees! Dude! I only spend a hundred on my own Old-Monk-And-Coke. And she spilt half of it too.

And it must be said. My dad just came back from the Issttes of Umrica and he bought me Pleasures and I smell so good! No, really, this is not me being conceited. I really smell good, thanks to bloody Estee Lauder. It's funny how all my feeling of well-being comes out of a round glass bottle, but it really does. I love perfume. Isseymiyaki on men makes me want to love them in A/C cars and Pleasures on women makes me feel straight haired and armpit bagged. Nice, no?

An appetiser-type entry, before we move on to the main course. Think of it as chicken wings, or ooh, chip and dip

Reasons why being a grown-up is so much more fun than they told you it would be

1) Because you can drive. And I'm sorry, anyone who has crossed the age of 18 and has access to a car and who DOES NOT drive is a big fat baby who doesn't know what he/she is missing. It's incredible, driving. I mean it. Never have I felt so in control, never do I feel more like a diva, like someone with sparkles, as when I am driving. Plus, little girls hang out of school buses and vans and look at me with the same look I gave the big glamorous girls who drove when I was a little kid.

2) Because "Because I can" suddenly becomes a viable excuse. I've never had to argue so little in my life! Because I am a grown-up I simply state and no one can take that away from me. State, state-a-tate-tate.

3) Because I can buy my own clothes. And dude, if your mother paid for your clothes all your life, you'd know the agony of this. "Do you really need that?" she'd ask, when I'd look longingly at some creation that would probably look fabulous on me, and "Isn't that a little skimpy?" She'd put doubts in my mind, so even if I fought and bought something I'd have to wear it for the REST OF MY LIFE just to show that I was using it, yes, and I still loved it, and no, it wasn't a waste of money. Now I buy tank tops by the armload and tight t-shirts and fitted jeans and no one says a word because it's my money. Yay, me!

4) Because I can use words like "relationship" and "commitment" without sounding like someone out of Sweet Valley High. Really. You have to be beyond 21 to be able to say that with panache. Before that people just look at you with this "Oh you poor innocent" expression on their faces.

5) And ooh, because suddenly school and college are far enough away in my past for me to say, "Dude, I haven't done that since college" and no one blinks and says, "Um.. didn't you graduate yesterday?" Well, okay, so people still blink, but that's only coz I look younger than I am.


The top five cool things about being ill
1) My skin has cleared up
2) My hair is shiny
3) I look "rested"
4) I am my skinniest, ever
5) I've managed to watch a TON of movies I've been meaning to on TV


As you can no doubt tell, I'm feeling fine. I'm feeling on top of the world. My energy is back with a bang, I have been swamped in social engagements and fun work assignments and I've been for a play so I feel all cultural (even though the play itself was pretty bad. Starring an acquaintance of mine so I had to go) And tonight, baby, tonight I go to TC with Iggy and Seema and Boston Boy and I will claim it and make it my own again.

Even if He Who Shall Not Be Named will be there in all probability and now we are "friends", K and I which means he has the license to weep to me about his New Girl, who is tall and fair and has Lisa Loeb spectacles. Also a reputation for being quite promiscuous, but I'm not saying anything about that. Instead I am the wise, wry ex-girlfriend, with humour and sympathy who he calls with alarming regularity these days. I am the Sphinx, I am the Wise Woman, I am the Spirit Of The Earth... and it's so bloody cool.

Fee-vah! In the morning, fee-vah all through the night

It's been a bad couple of weeks for blogging. Nothing of monumental interest has happened, except that I spent some time sick and that's only of monumental interest to me. And we went to this place in Vasant Vihar yesterday, being The Cousin's last night in town and all, called Haze. It looked pretty shady from the outside--a brightly coloured sign with parasols and palm trees on it but the walk up had some nice old movie posters--tasteful ones too, not the Samantha Fox variety. There was this blues band playing, only I don't think they were really playing the blues, it sounded like what I imagine acid jazz must sound like, but I could be totally off because I've never really listened to any acid jazz and have someone tell me, "THIS is acid jazz."

Anyway. After the blues band there was this other rock band from Shillong and there was this woman playing the guitar and dude, I totally wanted to be her. Really. She had this Avril Lavigne thing going on and an excellent smoky voice and she played the guitar. I could be a rock chick too. I could wear loads of silver rings and raccoon-type makeup and leather wristlets and sing smokily and thin bottomed. Only nooooooooooooo I have to have a respectable job. (Though I'm not sure there's much respectability left in journalism anymore.)

We sat on the floor, because there wasn't place anywhere else and it was quite cozy. our backs up against the wall, listening to this woman sing about love and betrayal and chat with Samar's friend from Italy. He told me all about Naples and about his Italian girlfriend and then I asked him to teach me some Italian and he said, "Sure, what do you want to learn?" and all I could think of was "What time is it?" which he taught me and which I have now promptly forgotten. (But it worries me that I've become the sort of person who asks how to say "What time is it?" I mean, hello, I should be asking how to say "I love you" or "You're sensational" not "What time is it?" It's not even like I'm such a punctual person either. What kind of person asks how to say "What time is it?" in one of the world's most romantic languages? The kind of person who KNOWS they're never getting any for the rest of their lives, that's who.) Never mind. Samar tells me I'll be seeing a lot more of him in the weeks to come.

The illness has more or less gone but it has left me with a strange aversion to the idea of alcohol, sex and cigarettes. Now alcohol I can do without for some time, even though it'll be quite boring, the idea of any sex in my life is now entering the realm of the absurd, but please, please whoever's in charge, don't make me lost the cigarettes? Please? I've tried smoking a few but they taste really wierd--of old tea leaves and dried grass and all sorts of unpleasant things. But water tastes sweet.

*Sigh* See, now you know I'm not really as exciting and entertaining as I'd like for you to believe. And I'm definitely going to die alone eaten by alsations. But I try to have a good time till then and that's all I'm going for right now--a good time.

The Invalid

Clearly some people have no patience. And no, it's not the threat that got me to get out of bed to the computer, just that I was feeling a little better, having just had one of those steam baths that leave your fingertips and your toes all puckered and your bathroom mirror all fogged up and your skin almost, but not quite blistering, just exquisitely red. So my sinuses have cleared up a little, the fever has practically gone, and yeah, I do feel a little less sorry for myself.

My room is also looking a little nicer--it's been looking like I feel these days--you know, stuffy, because I couldn't stand the fan on more than one or two speed, and when you sleep from when it's daylight to nighttime and you wake up and put on the tubelight and your mouth tastes all metallic and you feel even worse than before.

So yeah, no really, really exciting stuff. Just that I've been reading a lot in my awake time, I just finished The Kite Runner yesterday, it didn't take me very long, quite nice too. And some old Mad magazines which I love. The new ones, the ones they make here now in India aren't nearly as good as the old ones are they? The new ones have Spy vs Spy in colour for fucks sake. And the jokes are terrible and the satires are barely funny. And they don't do 'The Lighter Side Of...' anymore, ever since that chappie who used to draw them died, Dave something. It's like the new Asterix comics All At Sea and all, which just didn't have the same humour they did when the other guy was alive (WHY can't I remember any names? I'm too young to be losing my memory!) And I re-read some Calvin And Hobbes--the indispensible I think--and fondly recalled my own imaginary friends.

Yes, I had imaginary friends. I was a lonely sorta kid, little wierd too, who preferred to read or talk to flowers or create zoos with caterpillars than play House-House or stapoo (hopscotch) or Mother May I. Once this other kid was giving me a hard time and instead of retaliating, what did I do? I made a voodoo doll of her and snipped off her legs and her arms. Gave me great pleasure too. Nothing ever happened to her though. Anyway, so my imaginary friends were called Sarah and Gaurav (and these are real names, not psuedonyms) and they could fly and they thought I was supercool. And then I forgot what happened to them. Oh wait, yeah, I made some "real" friends and learned to conform a little and play with Barbies and Sarah and Gaurav perished. I suppose if like Calvin was real and all, Hobbes probably has what? a year or two at most of existence. That's rather sad.

There have been people in my house too--many relatives, but because I'm sick and confine myself to my room, I don't see much of them. I have promised to take The Cousin out clubbing, since she wants to see some of Delhi's nightlife and flesh-and-blood get my upgraded Clubs-Of-Delhi tour, starting with, yes, TC tomorrow. :) If I'm not dead by then.

Okay, I'm going back to sleep. The picture is of my ceiling by the way, the view I have had for the past two days. Over here is another picture, but of me, not of my ceiling. At least me-in-the-eyes-of-other-people. Though my mom did look at it and go, "That's pretty good!" Hmph. :)

Life type things

I'm in a self-potrait-y mood these days and therefore have got all sorts of vague pictures of myself in the mirror. There is a nice one of my belly ring but I think it might be a little too much to go on the internet, so here is one I got Samar to take at Hookah the other day. That is my hand, yes, and if you look closely, you'll see a dolphin shaped ring that Damien gave me the other day. Well, he didn't so much give it to me as have me wrench it off his finger and say gleefully, "This is mine now, yes?" I love it though and it looks much better on my hand so there,

I've been in a strange sort of mood too, besides the self-portrait one. It's very odd. I don't feel like doing anything, and the littlest things make me want to cry. It's a the-world-is-out-to-get-me kind of mood and if you say PMS I will personally kill you.

I woke up at five thirty in the morning yesterday to get to the bookshops by six. I was doing a story on the Harry Potter thing, to see whether people would show up, but no dice. Only sleepy me and a sleepier photographer. By nine we wrapped up and I took my new book and went to Sagar for breakfast. Then, because it was still some obscene hour of the morning and no one was willing to wake up and hang out with me (hmph) I went to the Habitat Centre and sat on one of their benches and finished reading. Can I just say I was very disappointed with this one. I mean, hello, granted they're sixteen and all, but the amount of romance that was going on after the very tame Cho Chang kiss of the last book would put a fluff fic writer to shame. (Double hmph) And soooooooooooo predictable. Really.

When the last HP book came out I was still with He Who Shall Not Be Named and I sped read my way through the book so he could read it next and so we could have lively discussions. This time however, I have no one to talk to about the book, no one to have lively discussions with, no one who really cares about what I think and wants me to see their side of things and no one I want to convince that it's my way or the highway. So I shall do what single women everywhere do and just talk to myself.

(SPOILER ALERT: THE PLOT WILL BE REVEALED. SCROLL DOWN TO THE ASTERISKS IF YOU STILL HAVEN'T READ THE BOOK)
edit: sorry, sorry, sorry, if you saw what was written! At his suggestion I have now put the required blank text lines. So now we're all set, right?











Dude I mean, the whole Snape thing, wow.
Oh please, I saw it coming from a mile away.
Yeah? You saw him being the Half Blood Prince? Like hell you did.
Well, excuse me for being smarter than you are.
Smarter? Hah. You didn't see the whole Harry-Ginny thing, now, didja?
Wellllllllll...
And that was so obvious.
Okay this is getting depressing, let's stop.
Okay.
Okay.

***************** SPOILER ENDS*****************

We also went to Elevate last night, where DJ Ryan was playing and the sms that I got in the morning promised me "hip hop and bollywood" but really, he seemed to only be playing Kajraa Re in some kind of loop over and over again. I didn't mind because I like that song and I was consuming many kinds of alcohol in a large hookah shaped thing with a curly glass pipe that you sucked and magically vodka and rum and beer and red bull would apparate (since I've just finished The Half Blood Prince I'm using much Rowling terminology) into your mouth.

And Boston Boy returns on Tuesday night and just to show him that I'm busy and I have a life I've taken an assignment on Wednesday night--some fashion show at Olive--which I'm now massively regretting because I've been waiting for him to return since January and I'm so excited and I can't wait to see him and why, oh why am I so self-destructive?

I wonder whether we'll hook up, Boston Boy and I, while he's here. I wonder if that'll be such a good idea. I like him, I really do, but the fact that he's not here is a big drawback. And I don't want to just screw around and risk losing our friendship. And I don't want to be in this funny mood when he gets here. I want to be upbeat and normal and chirpy not the Ms. Sad Sack that I've morphed into. (By the way, if you're curious about Boston Boy, I think he's in my January archives)

I wonder if he'll make my pupils dilate.


EDIT: My good friend Ash whose budday it was the uzzer day (Re-happy to you!) and who, by the way, introduced me to the whole concept of fanfic (basically aroused my curiousity and inspired many Google searches till I found Schnoogle) has a great HP6 analysis on her blog which you should read if you follow fanfic at all.

But you can say baby, baby can I hold you tonight? Baby if I told you the right words, at the right time, you'd be mine

Just returned from night at Hookah with Samar, Priya's sweet ex-boyfriend and a good buddy of mine. We spent most of the evening leching at cute DJ (me) and drinking Budweiser (him) and talking about people we knew and how our love lives were just too boring for comfort. I also got my nails done, as in there was a nail art guy and so now two of my fingers have little red and blue flowers on them. They look quite bizarre, but two LITs later, I'm okay with them.

I was reading this article in Vogue the other day {no, I don't normally read Vogue, though I'd like to, it sounds so cool, doesn't it, the whole hey-so-in-this-month's-Vogue? I feel like one of those chickies with very thin eyebrows and Manolo Blahniks and little Hermes bags. I feel like one of those chickies who knows how to pronounce all those names. (this Vogue and a bunch of other magazines like Vanity Fair and Tatler, were actually a present from a friend of my mom's, the kind of person who actually buys all these sweet smelling foreign magazines from the Khan Market guy, but she's going to the US, the home of sweet smelling magazines so she gave them all to me. Yay)} Anyway so this article was by this woman who was talking about the first dress she ever bought and all the memories associated with that and I was thinking hmmm... what memories do I have with clothes? All that came to mind were my beloved 559 Levis which I practically lived in at that time, but then I always live in my jeans. Clothes are important to me, just not super important I guess.

There was also a blue FabIndia kurta that I bought for my first day at college which I still love. Now it's been washed so often the cotton is paper thin and clings delicately to my body every time I put it on. It's dark blue with a bold abstract blockprint in white all over it. There was the perfect tube skirt I bought in class 7 or 8, in black--a tiny little thing made of what seemed like entirely cotton and elastic. I lost that when I most wanted it, ie, when I was all grown up, but I managed to find a short back skirt at Benetton on sale about a year or two ago. It wasn't marked down very heavily but I still loved it so much that I bought it. And it was a sound investment, because I wear that skirt about once or twice a year and still look fabulous!

And then there are sadder memories, like the black and white striped Cotton World t-shirt that was the first thing in my cupboard I could find as I rushed for Puja's cremation. It's been washed since then, and once, once I used to love it and wear it all the time, but now it still looks and smells like death and a funny feeling in my stomach.

The first sari I ever owned is up there on my memory list too--a creation in lavender and silver, the lavender fading to icy white towards the inside. Bought for my cousin's wedding in the middle of my pre-board exams when I flew to Hyderbad for the weekend to rapidly partake of the festivities. And the dress I bought at GK once with Devyani, we were still in school and were window shopping idly when we saw it in one of the cheaper stores--blue, made of sweatshirt type material with red and white spaghetti straps, one of those sporty things you saw skinny models wearing. And I loved it and I tried it on and it seemed made for me, even Devyani agreed and she lent me the money I needed. I wore it for one of the popular boy's parties and it made me feel so much more like one of them thatI never wanted to take it off.

I could probably go on and on, but I'll stop. It is quite late and some of us have pages to bring out tomorrow. Does everyone have clothes memories I wonder, or is it just a girl thing?

By the way, that picture was taken at a traffic light. I haven't got it quite right I know, I don't know why, because I took at least seven shots of this old man trying to cross a busy intersection, but I like this picture. I like the way he's waiting patiently, his shopping at his side.

The soundtrack of my day

Clickety clickety.

Ph-ooooooooooooooo-one!

Hey, good story!

Does anyone have Satya Paul's number?

Does anyone have a Nokia charger?

Madam, chai.

Have you filed your story yet? The whole page is hanging just because of you!

Clickety clickety clicke-- oh fuck!

Okay, my story's not working out, I'm sorry.

Bringgggggggg, briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, briiiiiii--- hey, I said phooooooooooo-ooooooone! Where were you?

What stories are you working on for next week?

Rustle, rustle, clink, rustle, rustle.

I'm going for my assignment, call me if you need anything else for my story.

I need those pictures. Right now.

Has he given you the layout?

Does anyone know how to spell the French attache's name?

Guys, Google's down!

Shit, I'm late!

Clickety clickety clickety click.

Okay, my story's done.






Ah, the music that is a newspaper office at six pm.

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, they like it better than yours, damn right, it's better than yours

"I might be turning into a fag hag," I told Damien, the cute playwright I met and befriended the other day. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Most of my friends have fag hags. But I don't."
"Whee!" I said, "I'm a fag hag!"

Okay, so I probably officially don't count as a fag hag. I don't have enough gay friends, I meet them occasionally, more so over the past month than in my entire life and while I enjoy hanging out with Damien, it's more because he's fun and sweet rather than because he's gay. On the other hand, Priya and I were having this long discussion about this the other day--why we find ourselves drawn to gay men--and we figured it was because of the whole asexuality thing going on. It was refreshing to be with men who don't hit on you, even mildly, who you can flirt with, but know it won't lead anywhere and yeah, it's fun to giggle with a boy about other boys.

Why do gay men and single women make good friends? I'm not sure, but I do have a theory. (Jay, back me up on this one, okay?) Essentially, we're both lonely. All three of the gay men I have met (who are now serving as my general yardstick!) are restlessly searching for someone special, someone to spend their lives with, just as we as single women are. Perhaps not so much women my age, because we still know we have a few good years left, but I know women as they grow older, hit their thirties say, and even if they're doing fabulously in their careers and have fantastic friends, but they still yearn a bit, you know? Degrees of yearning vary from woman to woman, but still that yearning is something they have in common with gay men. That and the fact that I suppose after a while, we, the female sex, get a little disillusioned with boys who try to get their hands up your skirts, or do mind-fuck type things or slowly, carefully, delicately drive you mad. We want to hang out with men, because there is something there that your chick friends can't give you, but we don't want to spend an entire evening obsessing. Y'know?

Nikhil was the first gay man I ever met (the blog buddy from out of town who emailed me while he was here), but perhaps he set a trend, because now everyone I meet turns out to be gay. And if they're hot, the chances are greater. I was so hitting on Damien when I met him for a dinner interview and then after I was done asking all my serious questions we got chatting and it turned out we had a lot of friends in common and we had the same star sign even, and I was thinking that how we met would be such a funny story to tell people on our wedding day and then he asked me whether I wanted to go to Elevate on Friday. "Sure!" I said, grinning wider, "And will you bring some hot men for me?" (I was doing the whole 'play it cool' thing). "I'll try," he said, looking a little strange. "I'll bring some hot girls for you too," I promised, hoping he would say that I was enough and all that. "Um.. actually I'd rather go with what you said," he said blushing and I gasped, "Oh my god, you're gay?" Yes, well, we did go out and we did have a fantastic time, despite the fact that he's so pretty and I can't hit on him. *sigh*

Oh, by the way, in case you're wondering about the picture, it's of Sonu Nigam, who I saw in concert yesterday at some launch I went for. I would be convinced he was gay if I didn't see the way he was dressed--fake leather camel-coloured pants that clung to his legs, a shiny rexine black jacket and what looked like a tank top inside. Nope, definitely not gay, or gay and definitely not getting any.

Daddy come quick, the dreaming tree has died, I can't find my way home, there is no place to hide

It's been one of those weeks. Hell, it's been one of those months. Nothing really concrete, but still a sort of restlessness fills my soul. But really, who am I to talk of restlessness? What have I done, what have I forsaken, have I even any right to unhappiness? In the larger scheme of things I'm nothing, not even the dust speck, nothing. Who have I even made a difference too? And don't say my family, because I'm sure if I hadn't been me, if I had been someone else say, a boy, or a twin or something, I would have been equally loved. My being loved by my family is only because of a quirk of fate, because I happened to be born to them. And other than that, I can think of no one who it would supremely affect, whether I was on this planet or whether I simply never existed. And that is what is sad.

Forgive me the introspection. It's been raining a lot, usually just a steady damp drizzle and it's the sort of weather where your emotions are set on yo-yo mode. Sometimes driving along with the music high I feel happy-happy-happy, other times I'm all about the romance and I look at everything with liquid eyes and then there are times like this when I'm terribly morose and think about the whole who-am-i-and-what-am-i-doing-here.

Friends return this month, many friends and a cousin and her family will come to stay in our tiny apartment on Monday. She is my only girl cousin and she is supersmart and I think is studying medicine. Of course, you must know that I am probably the underachiever of the family, choosing not to do engineering or medicine or even be a pilot or do a double degree at Wharton but satisfied with my little B.A from my little Indian college. Luckily, this cousin is from my dad's side, where I am the oldest (she comes right after me, age-wise) and so the rest are all too young to be thinking about career moves etc. But I am assured that they are all very smart and will in all likelihood choose a profession that makes them money, rather than something like mine. A distant uncle asked me once at a family gathering how much money I made and really, what makes it okay for people to ask questions like that? I don't know him, sure, he might have once held me when I was a baby, or been at my parent's wedding, but still I don't know him and therefore it's not okay. It's not okay even from my own immediate extended family, but there at least I know they're asking me out of some modicum of concern, not because they want to use it over the next club meeting or something, looking up from over their Scotch and going, "Oh you know, so-and-so's daughter? The one who lives in Delhi? Well, she only makes this much money," and a whole variety of old men will shake their heads over my fate and congratulate themselves that their own granddaughters are married to NRI's with a six-figure salary in *hushed whisper* dollars. (In case you're wondering, I didn't tell him how much money I made. I used an old trick I had learnt in Reader's Digest, about when people ask you personal questions. I simply smiled at him and said sweetly, "Why do you want to know?" Unfortunately, this was too subtle for the old man, so he pushed some more. This time I switched off the smile and said, "I earn enough" and then my grandfather came to my rescue saying, "Now that's not a polite question" and all the other old men agreed.)

Tonight I go for an art-and-fashion-show, a concept which I haven't figured out yet. So you have serious stuff, like paintings and you have frivolous stuff like clothes and yeah, in what world do you club them together? (In a world where you want publicity from all sorts of media people, that's where) It's at some new mall, or as the invite says, "Delhi's newest entertainment centre" which is (hold your breath) right here in East Delhi, my side of town. I can't imagine designers here though, or the p3p type so used to their South Delhi cloisters actually venturing here or telling their drivers, "Lakshmi Nagar le jao". The drivers, who probably live in this part of town, will be amazed and awestruck that their five-star Madams are venturing into their territory.

And last night, very bored I went into a Yahoo chatroom where I spoke to three boys, all of whom wanted to have sex with me and I played a little game to see how fast I could get rid of them. The first one was easy, he asked me my "hight" and I said, "4'3"". There was a long pause. "And ur size" was the next question. "Large" I typed back and he vanished. Boy 2 wanted to know if I had ever had sex. "Have you?" I asked him. "yes" he said proudly. "Oh good for you!" I applauded and he said again "Have u had sex?" Persistant sort of chap. "Actually I'm gay" I told him. "But u said you were f!" he typed back alarmed and when I said "so?" he vanished. So much for them. Boy Three was a little harder to shake, he asked how old I was, I said 24, he said "married?" I said, "yes twice" he asked how that was possible when I was only 24, I said my first marriage was at 14 and my second at 20. Then I said it was part of my community. He asked why I left the first husband, I said because he beat me. There was a long pause and then he asked me hopefully whether I had ever had sex. I said no, my family didn't believe in sex. Then I added, "We're Catholic". "Oh" he typed and then "Are you virgian". What's a virgian?" I asked. "Someone who hasn't had sex or even mastyrbate". And then I left. Still two out of three isn't bad.

Now I feel a little more capable of facing my day. I think the venting helps. By the way, the picture was taken this morning, on my balcony, when the rain had slowed to a drizzle. I quite like it.

Link slut and now list whore. Clearly I am promiscuous

Top four things that made me realise I am finally over K.

4) I am more jealous of the fact that he has an iPod than I am over the fact that he might be sleeping with girls who are prettier than me.

3) I can get drunk around him and not want to hit on him

2) I am able to talk about his good points and nice times we had together in a perfectly mature manner, without saying "That rat bastard" more than once.

And the number one, ultra-reason I know I am over K is because Friday would've been our three year anniversary and I was sure I would be miserable and nerve racked but I so wasn't. I thought about it once or twice but as an aside not as something that would make me unhappy, just as an event that happened to a girl a long time ago. And I also realised that I would NOT in a million years, wish myself back a year. No way. I like me now too much.

Hear that K? You're an aside. Not only are you an aside but this is the last time I will mention you on this blog. These are the last words about you that shall be coaxed out of the keyboard by my chapped fingertips. No more will you have to dance in public view on the world wide web for hundreds of voyeurs. Go now.

(That being said, you're NEVER getting back your basketball jersey that I sleep in. EN-ever.)



Things about me I don't think I've mentioned yet on this blog

a) I am very uncomfortable in crowds.
b) The one drink that is my undoing is the Electric Lemonade.
c) The best Electric Lemonade I have ever drunk is in TGIF in Connaught Place. Dee and I used to try and make some for ourselves at home, and sit around every night in the sticky heat in our nightclothes and drink and smoke and talk.
d) I'm not very good with physical intimacy--and I'm talking anything even hugs from friends that go on for too long. This has sometimes led to problems with Boys.
e) But I'm working on it.
f) I like the smell of petrol, Erasex and pencil shavings.
g) I'm always a little envious of my friend's successes, even if I am happy for them. This makes me feel like a horrible person.
h) I used to identify with Ally McBeal.
i) I forget birthdays.
j) I suspect I might not be as pretty as I think I am.
k) Backrubs make me happy.
l) This is because I have very tense shoulder and neck muscles which are agony at the end of some days.
m) PMS is the only thing that can floor me.
n) I suspect I might be emotionally stronger than I think I am.
o) I sound a lot more interesting on my blog than I am in real life.
p) I also sound like I'm running myself down a lot, when really, truly, I have not THAT many self-esteem issues.
q) I can't stand beer. It makes me gag.
r) I like the smell of Pleasures and J'adore and Cool Water. These are all perfumes I would like to smell of.
s) I use T-Girl and Isis, but I'm getting a little bored of them.
t) I want a tattoo of a dragonfly on my lower back.
u) I watch mainstream romantic comedies and animated movies. Not much else. I am shocking illiterate when it comes to films. I am not ashamed to admit this NOW, though I used to be.
v) Some days I just want to drive and drive and drive and drive till I'm out of the city and somewhere I've never been.
w) I once wrote Valentines for all my friends, cut out little red hearts out of chart paper and put a song lyric on each one, to describe each person. This was first year college. The next year, Iggy and I wrote a public letter on how Valentine's Day was consumer exploitation and we xeroxed it and pinned it up on every department board.
y) Sometimes I show off.
z) I love blogging more than I think is healthy.

(Read the original post that inspired this one. I think everyone else should have a list too. Give it a shot, it's good fun)



Meh. P'raps I'm not as slutty as I thought I was. Can't think of any more lists, though I had thought of a whole bunch when I was driving home today. Oh well. Have a good weekend. It's 11.03 on a Saturday night and all I can think of is getting into my night shirt and going to bed. My weekend begins only tomorrow and ends tomorrow night. How sad.

My brain does this new thing where it remembers something I had to write about an hour after I posted the post making me edit and re-do
So today I came home and I parked my car and all and I saw the little girl who lives downstairs deep in conversation with her friend. I know most of the little girls who live in my apartments because they have this most disconcerting habit of yelling, "Hello Didi!" as I pass. Sometimes they'll do it as a chorus, other times individually, little "Hello Didi's" which I have to reply to. Sometimes only one will say it and the rest will watch me. (Once a bunch of the smaller kids came to my door. "Aunty, can we have some water?" they asked. Aunty? I looked behind me to see if my mother had suddenly appeared but noooooooooooooooooo, they were talking to meeeeeeeeeeee. I'm too young to be an Aunty! But I'm happy to sayI snarled at them as I gave them the water and they got very scared and scampered off and never came back. That'll teach them to call me Aunty)
Anyway, so these two little girls were much too engrossed in their conversation to notice me and I thought how sweet is the prattle of little girls and passed them. And then I overheard their conversation.
Girl 1: I mean, I'm forty. Look at me.
Girl 2: Ya, you look forty.
Girl 1: So I thought Sahira must be at least 40.
Girl 2: She's not?
Girl 1: No.
(Ominous pause)
Girl 1: She's fifty.

I don't think my friends and I discussed weight at that age. (Though I must admit a certain fierce pride at weighing less than poor fat unloved Sahira) And they call me aunty.

Have a happy Sunday.

IMPORTANT UPDATE, TUESDAY 12.40 pm:

I now own this.

So I can do this:

Say hello to Cookie! She's six years old--which would make her, um, 42 in human years and she's kinda wet because it's raining outside and she's been eating cotton wool, which you can see next to her, and she hates having her picture taken, but she'd still someone I love, and the one person I know will not care if her picture is posted on the internet.

Pictures I have taken so far include:

1) Two of my belly piercing which came out looking awful--the light reflected off the stone so I had to delete, plus I had to lean way over to look at the screen while I was shooting, so there's a funny angle.

2) One of my mother this morning, in her nightie.

3) One of a picture hanging in my room of me at nineteen where I look most hot.

4) One of me in the mirror last night with the flash bouncing off it.

I love it. I love it. I want to have silver babies with it.

And since all my shiny things have names (my car is Lady Marmalade, my computer is Oscar, my camera shall now be, um...Sir Clickalot. Or even better Lord Clickalot. I will say "M'lud" every time I take a picture. If you say Clickalot with a British accent, it sounds almost regal. Try it. Say "By jove, that Clickalot, wild sort of chap." See?)

Lots of pictures will now be taken since I now possess the technical skills to a) load pictures onto my computer and b) post them here. I love the fact that I am so tech-savvy. Although till last night, I thought it was a usP port and I thought that was such a good name. Like the USP is the usp, you know? What does USB stand for anyway?

Hear ye! Hear ye! *rings bell*

UPDATE: I'm making this post a sticky so more people see it. Since the underwhelming response of Sunday has been noted, how about next Sunday? It'll still work. And everyone has to come. People who want to make it this Sunday still can, because I will be at Mocha, personally. Motheater, AB, you've practically promised. So have you, Samit, so don't try getting away from it.
As for Silver Surfer, since there are questions. NO, he is not me, because, hello, who here thinks I would actually know comic book heroes? Raise your hands. He is friend I made on the internet (Forgive my lack of grammar, please, I'm very buzzed and have just been hit on by a woman for the first time in my life and have also been (very slightly) tempted. But I didn't do anything. (More about this later). Anyway, so Silver Surfer totally exists, and HE IS NOT ME, so stop asking, okay? I realise his first post might have sounded a little like mine, but HE ISN'T ME. Now that we've got that cleared up. Next Sunday, this Sunday, just let me know.
I'm most jealous at the Mumbai and Bangalore and every other city blogger's meets that have been happening. I want to have a "blogging-only" conversation too! Without people asking me "So.. um.. what's a blog? Like your personal diary or something?" I want to put faces to names I read regularly. I want a Bloggers Meet. Okay?

So lets. Lets, do! I propose Sunday evening, Mocha. Mocha is nice and central and you can smoke there and they have very nice shakes. Okay? Please? I'm very bored and it'll be such fun!

If you're bored too, and you want blogger type conversation, email me. My email address is on the sidebar. If you can't be arsed to email, comment. Yay! Okay, let's do this.

And since I do know some bloggers personally, I'm going to do some emotional arm-twisting. You know who y'all are. Mocha, Sunday, don't ditch.

ps. Must link to this post, which made me feel excellent that not everyone is scared of screaming. You should read it too. Some of the sisterhood are so very brave that it makes me feel wimpy.

Surfer dude

In the middle of the Oestrogen Ocean, someone's making a splash...
The Silver Surfer is here, ladies and gents.
Before you ask, SS isnt one of eM's Boys, though he occasionally dresses up as a tin-foil-clad love-slave at parties. And he doesnt always talk about himself in the third person.
Why Silver Surfer? Well, Silver, because he's bullet-headed and eM sometimes uses him to kill werewolves, and surfer because, well, if you cant figure out the connection between a surfer and the Internet you shouldnt be here, you should be in a self-help bookstore.
This blog is still firmly eM's territory; I'll just be making the occasional splash. I'm a bit of a pet of eM's: Think Dilbert and Dogbert. So I might be a world-dominition aspirant and totally cute, but the strip is still called Dilbert.

You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to

The mystery that is the male sex has always been fun to blog about. Like many other chick-blogs do. But I feel it's unfair not to let them (or you, if you're a male reader) present their side of things.

I could've just asked some of my guy friends for their opinions etc, but that would've taken too much time and effort. So, why not, I thought, just let a guy, a GUY'S guy, have a voice on this blog?

Keys to the blog have been given to an anonymous guest blogger, who chooses to be known as Silver Surfer, which he assures me is a comic book hero. Okay. :) And he will post here occasionally, on his thoughts and his life etc. It should be fun. I'm curious for one about the male voice.

And no, before you ask, I'm not going anywhere. My super-long posts will still be happening with regularity. This is just something that I thought, that we thought might work.

Everyone say hello to Silver Surfer! *raises a toast*