Yet another year-end post

I'll miss you, 2005.



You were a good year. You were a fast year. You sped along at all the boring moments, at all the depressing moments, but you slowed down just about enough for me to take a breath and look back with wonder, and sometimes anger.



You were, without doubt, a year of discovery. You were the year my "creative outpourings" happened to the hilt. You were the year I made new friends, with people I wouldn't even have considered 'like me' in the past. You were the year I learnt to tilt up my chin again, to hold my head high, and finally, to be able to be okay with being by myself.



You were the year of independence. Of learning that I can, in fact, do this. That I can live alone. That I can have fights with once-beloved friends, and not break. The year that I learnt to just let go, and how marvelous, how liberating letting go can be. You were the year in which I partially unclenched my fists and let down some of the walls surrouding me.



You were a weird year, 2005. You were the year when happy things and sad things coexisted. You were the year that moved me from a rut to high places and back to the rut. You were the year all my relationships stood on their heads and made faces at me for ever presuming I knew anything about them. You were the year I began to question what it was I wanted and why, even in moments of exquisite aloneness, I felt lonely. You were the year that made me feel at least five years older than I am, but you were also the year that I felt about six years younger.




You were the year of the broken toe, of boys who don't call back, of new offices and new people, of learning that kisses seldom mean promises. You were the year of violence, of several bomb blasts, of the end of some of my favourite haunts, of the end of some of my favourite traditions. You were the year I learnt to listen. You were also the year I learnt to forget.



2005, the one thing that will mark you, for me, more than any other year, is because you were the year of Internet relationships. Of blog meets like this one. Of seeing for myself how minute the world is, especially when my virtual world and my real world collided at several times. The year when people finally began to scratch their chins and think seriously about the power of the world wide web.



How many people have I lost this year? How many people have I gained? How many of my relationships, even now, hang in the balance, waiting for the jury to come in?



But while I will miss you 2005, you superspeedy year, you. And while I will be regretful that yet another year has gone by and now I am faced more so than before with a sense of my own mortality, I am looking forward to see what 2006 has in store for me.



Let it be a good year, 2005, year that I have loved. Let me be happy, happy, happy in 2006. Let me learn how to be loved, how to be wise, how to reserve judgements. Let some of the things that I wish for with crossed fingers and eyes clenched shut come true. And the other things, which you don't give me, let me see why they haven't been given to me. Let me be a good friend in 2006, and let me enjoy good friendship. Let me make good descisions, this year and let me not want to undo a single thing. And in the more frivolous line, let my stomach be flatter and let me be kissed several times by someone I love, before I forget how to do that.


And then I read this, and I say thank you, for making it happen. Pretty please, make it happen for 2006 also? Please?

This could be Rotterdam or anywhere, Liverpool or Rome, coz Rotterdam is anywhere, anywhere alone (The Holiday Special Bonus Post)

A) How cool am I?

I am ensconsced in my mother's house on my two-week vacation. She's out of town, so it's sorta like living alone except with the luxuries of cook and warm dog sleeping on my feet. Oestensibly, this is so that I can rejuvenate, get some chores done and all that jazz, but the electricity went all morning and the computer wasn't working so I curled up on the couch and read Rohinton Mistry for the hundredth time and when the electricity finally came back I started watching Friends Season 10 and those things are bloody addictive.


So here it is, 5.57 pm on Christmas Day. Elsewhere in the world, people have probably just woken up and started opening up a flurry of presents and preparing for family dinner and I am alone.



Strangely though, I'm not sad. I'm quite enjoying this solitude and resting, it doesn't really feel like Christmas. It's been like that all December, usually the month I'm most depressed because of my birthday and Christmas and New Year's Eve, because I always feel terribly let down once the day is over. Sorta blah. Sorta, was this what all the fuss was about? This year, though, I must've done something right, or else acquired zen like qualities, because I expected nothing. And because I expect nothing, everywhere I go, every party I'm invited to, I have, if not a really good time, an enjoyable evening. Last year, I was morbidly depressed. I wept at midnight on December 31st and called K in Goa and demanded to know why he had broken up with me. I begged him to reconsider and for us to get back together.


Last year this time, I was a wimp.


B) In which nostalgia figures in a big way


Oh, rooteling through my stuff the other day I found this notebook I used to have in college for my * ahem * creative outpourings. It had some terrible short stories, about this girl who loved a boy who had cancer and he died and about twins who were adopted by different families only to be reunited.


But it also had this list of New Year's resolutions, with a doodle of a mermaid in the corner.
1) Not let anyone matter too much.
2) Not get irritated easily.
3) Say yes to every opportunity
4) Catch up on old friends.
5) Write a lot.
6) Make a BUDGET (or beg for more money)


I'm still working on those, as you can see. Except the irritation one intrigues me. Did I really lose my temper once upon a time? Now my temper is so repressed, I burst into tears when I’m angry. I smile tightly when I'm pissed off and I go into my room and simmer alone with my rage.


Also within this glorious notebook, which is green and has Daffy Duck on the cover, is this work of genius.


Called the Singles Christmas Carols Selection, here it is for your edification.

* Jingle bells, what the hell
I know you don’t care,
This season sucks
And if that ain’t ‘nough
You’re fucking her as well.


* Joy to the world,
The Loser has come,
Let Earth receive her Queen (receive her Queen!)
She sits at home,
Alone by the phone,
And waits for it to ring,
And waits for it to ring,
And waits, and wa-aits for it to ring.


And my personal favourite:


*Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaa,
Why am I so melancholy?
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
Everywhere I look I see them,
Fa-la, la-la-la, la-la-laaaaa,
Happy couples, ad nauseam,
Fa-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaaa.



Ek Chhoti Si Love Story

My TC conversion is almost complete. Vignesh is in town, bringing with him a purty zippo for moi, with, get this, eM engraved on it! Yay! Anyway, so he couldn't be in Delhi and NOT go to TC, which is exactly what I told Gamesmaster as well.


Anyway, so Vignesh came once on a Wednesday with me and then, surprise surprise, he went there AGAIN of his OWN volition on Friday, which was also the day the Gamesmaster happened to be dropping in.


I might be single and alone this Christmas, but the vibes that flew back and forth between those two had to be seen to be believed. There was lots of arm-touching and cheek-kissing and at one point, much to the general merriment of Small and I, Vignesh picked up the Gamesmaster and sorta carried him around for a bit. Good fun was had by all—well, at least by me and Small. I can't vouch for the other two, but they looked all happy and mushy.


Ah, young love. The blogsphere conspires to bring two hearts together and all in the smoky, rather noisy, but still so romantic atmosphere of Turquoise Cottage. See, I’m not the only one who gets lucky there. Even though, as far as I know, both men are straight, stranger things have happened right? (And I should probably stop writing right about now or risk being beaten up by either. Or both.) Ooh, one last thing and I’ll stop, I promise.


We here at The Compulsive Confessor do hope you will join us in wishing the happy couple much luck and success in their future.


Hehehehehehehehehehehehe.


Okay, I’m done. But say the word and I'll post the picture.*


Have yourselves a very merry little Christmas and I hope you're all having as good a time as I am.


* You did, so I did :)

The horror! The horror!

Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.



My back hurts. My tummy hurts. Little rhinosauruses (rhinosauri?) are dancing up and down my shoulders. All I want to do is go back to bed, and curl up quietly under my blanket and die.



See. most times I love being a girl. There's nothing cooler. I mean, hello, what's not to love about being of the "fairer sex"?



I'll tell you what's not to love, buddy. The time when your body says, whee, let's drop out half the contents of your uterus through that little hole! Wheeeee! And oooooooh, what does this muscle do?



Twelve years now. Twelve years of "being a woman". Being a woman, my ass. How come no one told me when I signed up for this how painful it was going to be? If you're a guy, you're lucky. You don't feel fat and unattractive and oily skinned and bloated once a month. You don't weep at commercials. (No, really, I've been doing this. That diamond ad where the little kid draws a picture of his mom with some seven arms? I cry like a baby every time that comes on. I even caught myself sniffling at American Pie 2 last night.)



I remember being twelve and back then it was like a competition with me and my friends to see who'd get "down" first. So many nicknames. Down, chumming (Which I hate), that time of the month, (feel free to add more if you know them). And three of my friends alreayd had, including my best friend who came scampering over after school to tell me the fabulous news. We read Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret and Have You Started Yet? only I HADN'T. And I was pissed off. Every morning I'd go to the bathroom and check and nooooooooo. Nothing. Nada.



My mom told me not to worry and that when I did actually get it I wouldn't enjoy it very much, but who listens to their mothers? I didn't. And every morning I'd crawl into my parents bed and tell her, "It still hasn't come. What if it never does?"



Oh, but it did. And for a while I felt grown up and cool and my grandmother sent me money but then, it just became a pain in the ass. Literally. Getting stains on your school skirt was annoying, not being able to swim was annoying, those horrible bulky sanitary towels just interfered with everything.



The cramps started when I was about sixteen, horrible, painful cramps that feel like someone's punched you in the stomach and then goes on and on and on punching you even when you curl up into a ball and whimper. They got so bad I went to see a doctor who said I wans't getting enough exercise. Exercise??? Did she not realise how much effort it was just to crawl out of bed to go to the bathroom?



Screw the exercise, I thought and discovered this fantastic painkiller called Cyclopam which erased the pain in about 15 minutes. Only it was really strong so it made me quite groggy. And I was popping about two or three a day.



My cramps finally vanished around third year college. Well, not vanished, but lessened. Now, all it took was a hot water bottle across my stomach and oh, a hot shower.


Grah. I hate Mother Nature. If after all this I find I am unable to have children, I will sue.


UPDATE, UPDATE!: It will mean all sorts of choices for the next generation of adolescent girls. It will mean being able to customize their cycles to suit their lives. (Maybe she's an athlete who doesn't want to bleed during swim meets. Or maybe she just likes to wear white cotton capris.) It will mean no more tampons, panty liners or maxi pads with wings. No more Midol or hot water bottles. No more feeling not-quite-fresh -- even after a shower.

Thank you, Manu J.

'Tis the season to be hungover

It's been ten thousand years since I last posted, dear Reader, and if you're still out there, I ask forgiveness. I'm really sorry, truly I am, but real life has been happening at such a frantic pace that it's hard to keep virtual life updated.


First of all, there was the birthday. Thank you all so much for remembering and sending kind thoughts and emails and all. But I haff one small question--how did you know what date it was on? Did I mention that somewhere? The birthday in itself couldn't have been better if I had actually sat down and planned it. I took the day off from work, went out for lunch to the Big Chill, where we used to hang out regularly in college. After which, the Kind Duck being my only friend who didn't have to khisko back to work, put on Pirates Of The Caribbean and we watched that, since (horrors!) I haven't really ever seen it. Dude, man, Orlando Bloom is so fine in this movie, and why didn't I realise this before? Sadly, though, the movie-watching was interrupted halfway by dreadful mewl from his cat, who had managed to get itself stuck in a neighbouring balcony.

Anyway. The evening was my party, which I had been planning for some three thousand years. I had this excellent outfit-- a black halter dress from Voi and new! strappy! shoes! I was most pleased with myself. And everyone got very drunk and at around three a.m, by which time the party had more or less wound up and we were sitting around drinking Bailey's shots provided by TTG (yay!) and Small managed to lock herself and her two friends out of her room (we have these press lock doorknobs, so if you're not careful you can lock yourself out). Much time was spent trying to crawl in through the teeny bathroom vent into the other bathroom, and finally, I pulled out my futon and we arranged some sleeping bags and they all slept in the living room.

TTG wasn't the only blogger at my party though. The infamous Gamesmaster has landed on Delhi shores and was there as well. We have been having energetic discussions on everything from what superpowers we would pick to pornography. :)

Oh, got a really good set of prezzies this year also. From the parents, a WorldSpace radio and the iPod nano, both of which I want to have babies with. And books. From Small, a new handbag, small and strappy and very cool. From Priya and her boyfriend, Randeep-- a beautiful handmade paper scrapbook and stationary. From Duckmeister, Pictionary! (which Small, her friends and I have been playing drunken rounds of) and from Dee, a new sweatshirt which says on the back, "I'm so gonna blog this!" :) As well as this hot pink top with Blogger on the back.
There were also assorted things like a pashmina shawl and a Marks and Spencers top, which is cut so low I have to keep checking if the ladies are still in the house. Good birthday.


The next day, after all this drunken revelry, was yet another round of drunken revelry, as you might've guessed, what with the Duck's book launch and all. Plus it was also his birthday, so there was another round of alcohol consuming, after which I almost collapsed with fatigue and sleep-deprivation and nausea on Thursday and swore I would never drink again.

We all know that's not going to happen, right? Just last night, feeling chipper and at peace with the world, after oversleeping like a bitch, I went for the Kapoor book launch thingie at the Habitat, where I *sigh* consumed more alcohol.


But my holiday begins on Christmas (nope, not going anywhere, just taking a sabbatical) and I will not do anything hectic. I will instead spend the time constructively and purely, working on strengthening my chakras and eating a lot.

I'm telling you.

Evening hunger pangs

Just down the road from my grandparent's house in Hyderabad was a fast food joint called PickenMove. PickenMove was where we went, every summer or Diwali holidays for a treat. It was only down the road, but my oldest cousin had just about learned how to driive, so we clambered into the broken-down 800, sitting in the front or the back, depending on age and elbowing power. I could elbow with the best of them, but I was a girl, and sometimes in a ladylike mood, so I mostly watched my four boy cousins jostle with each other, usually ending up with one of the younger ones in a death grip by the older one's elbow.



PickenMove wasn't known for its hygiene. Once, on a takeway order, my cousin found a dead cockroach sleeping gently on the pepperoni. But it was the only place in Hyderabad we could go to for pizzas in those days, and though my aunt's homemade pizza was much better, it just tasted different if we were eating the stringy cheese off a restaurant plate. Once in a great while, the adults would come with us, and then we diudn't need to count out the money in our older cousin's pocket. The adults added a different atmosphere to the whole thing, but we loved PickenMove when it was just us, who knew the menu, and knew exactly what we wanted to order and who threw scornful glances at the fat families who took YEARS to make up their minds.


With our respective parents and aunts and uncles, we went to How Wein's (at least, I think that was what it was called). How Wein went down in family history, because one of my cousins. now a staid and propah pilot, shimmied up an electric pole to pass time while the family waited fora table. Sadly, I was in Delhi while this happened, but I do have it on good authority. How Wein had an enormous aquarium, which I used to spend hours in front of while the grown-ups fought about what to order and who was paying the bill. We were a large and loud gathering, the kind at whom I roll my eyes these days, but then, it was so exciting not eating at home.


Sometimes, my phoren cousins would visit too, but they did the posh stuff. Like the Cellar at the Krishna Oberoi, where we rushed through the main course to get to dessert--toffee bananas. Actually, Hyderbad was rolling in sweet stuff, at least in my memory. There was the strawberry Fruitella packet, my mother bought me every summer, which still remind me of rabies shots, because I got it to make me feel better about yet another round of injections. (Seriously. I got bitten by a dog every. single. summer.) And there was the grand kaju barfi making day my grandmother did, and we'd eat the batter raw out of bowls. Mmmm.


We returned the hospitality whenever the family came to Delhi though, but as much as I pointed out the new food places, they'd stick to the tried and tested. Gulati at Pandara Park, where we always ordered kaali daal, butter chicken and tandoori chicken. I've realised now that everybody who's been born here has a Pandara park restaurant they've been going to for years. I went to HavMore with friends and totally felt like I was cheating on Gulati. Then we'd go to the Nirula's Chinese place, even as recently as two years ago, when I begged my aunt to let me take her somewhere nicer. But no, Nirula's it was, and Sweet Corn Soup was ordered.


Where else? Oh, Nathu's in Bengali Market, for paapdi chaat. Now I order aloo chaat, but then paapdi chaat was TRADITION. And you don't fuck with tradition, buddy.

Brown girl in the rain, tra-la-la-la, she looks like the sugar in a plum, plum, plum!

I should totally stop doing midweek parties, she said weakly, taking a large chug of her coffee. Grarh. Went out last night to this do at Monica's house, where I drank several large screwdrivers and consequently woke up this morning with a mouth of fur, a terrible cold and several mysterious bruises on my body. I wish I was still in college or school or something, when you got winter holidays, and the next day was off, and your last thought at three a.m as you stagger home and wake up your flatmate to let you in isn't "Fuck, I have to wake up in six hours."



Now, six hours may seem like a lot of sleep to most of you, but trust me, it isn't. I think if I were a fairytale character, I'd be Sleeping Beauty. Oh, the luxury of sleeping and sleeping and sleeping without worrying about whether you were late for something and knowing that your alarm clock was a kiss from a hottie who was also the love of your life. I once played Gretel in a school production of Hansel and Gretel and most cool I was too. Gretel was a fully empowered chick. Her brother was a bit of a dumbass, you know, what with getting lost and eating the witches house and everything, but she was all like, "Oh, don't worry, I marked the trail" and "Oh don't worry, I pushed the witch into the stove, so we're sorted." I once even had a Hansel and Gretel cake (the design of which, by the way, Nirula's STOLE from me. Hmph. I ought to sue) and my crowining moment was lifting up the marzipan witch and biting off her head with great gusto.


Winter parties are such fun, though. Even if you're cold, you warm up eventually. You have so much more energy to do everything and though you can't wear tank tops, you can pull out all your pretty full sleeved tops. Everyone smells good, not sweaty at all, there's a certain snugness to it all. No wonder my socialising quotient has gone through the roof this month. I feel flippant and frivolous and butterfly-like and incapable of serious conversation. My normally short attention span has now become minute, unless of course, we're talking about me. Which is as it should be.


In winter I also usually switch my drink, from Old Monk and Coke to vodka and coke. Vanilla Smirnoff when I can get it, because that, my friends, is delicious and warming. A lot of people have been saying how much they hate winter, but I don't get it, because this is so my time of the year. I come alive in winter, I dance up and down stairs, my heart is filled with well-being, I lie in bed and watch the sunlight from my window dance across my rug and feel happy. It's funny though, this, my first winter of being without ANYONE, even anyone prospective, and I should be feeling lonelier than ever, but I'm okay. I'm better than okay. I don't know how I'll feel on my birthday, considering it's the first birthday in oh, four years, that I'm solo, but my plan is to get very drunk. And look hot and celebrate being conceived and being here and being young.

But that'll be another midweek party. *Sigh* It seems like it's in my karma.


ps: The post titles usually have no other special significance than that I was singing the song before I posted. That's all. No special mystery :)

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow, everybody needs a bosom, mine's on the 45

> It's been quite the hectic weekend for me. Saturday I spent watching a play at the BCL Closer, which was remarkably well done, especially since it was the director's debut venture and all. The director himself was pretty cute, though rumour has it, not so much inclined towards my sex. Oh well.

From the BCL we went to Turquoise Cottage, Gurgaon, where Indian Ocean was playing and we had free alcohol the entire evening. Well, 450 a head for unlimited booze and food, so pretty free. Highlights include the adorable three-week old Lab puppy someone brought (WHY would someone bring a DOG to an alcohol filled environment?). But the puppy was outside, and we hung with the lead singer of Indian Ocean and played with him. He was very black and called Ebony and despite us getting him some water, made a beeline for our vodka every time we left it on the floor. Much time was spent lifting our glaases out of the way of the dipsomaniac puppy. In time, his rightful owners appeared (the guy who brought him was dogsitting and made it a point to mention he was happily married. I was thinking secretly, please, like I would ever hit on you, buddy. Some men, I tell you). The second highlight was, of course, Kandisa, which they played at the very end, and everyone raised their glasses in the air and yelled, "Alam, alam, alam!"


> By the way, please stop correcting my spelling. I may be in a hurry, I may not have time to check how KERALA is spelt, for fucks sake. It's getting a little annoying, because while I value your feedback, I'd rather you spent more time with the content than the form.


> Did a polo match with Small on Sunday and it brought back many happy riding memories. I used to ride, once upon a time in boarding, and good fun it was too. It was also the fattest I've been ever at any point in my life, which is wierd because that was also the only time in my life I got exercise. As soon as I got back to Delhi and stopped exercising, I became the lean, mean unfit machine I am today. Ergo, exercise is bad. And it took about a year for my biceps and forearms to look proportional to the rest of my body. But the polo match and feeling all propah and hat-wearing and Gayatri Devi-shoulder rubbing was good fun. I was doing a complete Brit accent in my head and the whole Eliza Dolittle scene at the races came vividly back to me. What was her boyfriend's name in that movie anyway?


> Also Sunday was the day of the Delhi Blogger's Meet, which I attended and which was most fun. Aanchal has the deets on who attended here and my cyber/real life flirtations can be evidenced here. I do so love the internet, even though in some ways I'm sure it makes me look fat. :)

"Mine? Mine? Mine?"

Turquoise Cottage last night after what felt like years. I've gotten a little bored with it these days, so I've stopped visiting as often as I used to. But last night, Priya, Small and I were all in the mood and there was a general feeling of bonhomie as we left the flat together, giggling, singing, "This is the story of a girl, who cried a river and drowned the whole world, though she looks so sad in photographs, I absolutely love her.. when she smiles" at like the tops of our voices. All is well with the world, and I love the winter.


We met K and his New Girl at TC, which was a little awkward for me. Okay, make that VERY awkward. To the point of tears. Because right in front of me, she stretched up and kissed him and he looked at her with that expression, and it's not like I'm into him anymore or anything, but that just made me feel even more alone. So after a little weeping, done subtly in the bathroom, and a little kajal touch-up, I reemerged to find my friend (and one-time kiss buddy) Vivek with his new girlfriend, this Spanish chick called Laura. We teased Vivek about it for quite a bit, but he did look sweet with his arm around this girl. "We met right here, at TC," said Laura and I almost squealed, "Me too!" I don't know whether that'll work out in the long run, because they don't seem to have very much in common, besides, there's always the language problem, her English is a little shaky and I'm guessing she doesn't know any Hindi. But for now, they're damn sweet and she introduced me to this cute Austrian guy called Hans and we spent the evening chatting.


Turns out Hans hasn't seen the one movie that I connect with Austria, The Sound Of Music. "Everywhere I go people tell me this," he said, laughing, "And it is so famous in the rest of the world, but no one in Austria has seen it!" I told him he absolutely must watch it. "Isn't it for children?" he asked. "Well, not exactly, but it's very good!" I don't know whether I convinced him though.


Hans had a very strong German accent, which I think might have been the root of the dream I had last night about Hitler wanting to have coffee with me, but he explained the accent, "I speak English pretty well, but always with the German accent. Everyone confuses the Austrian accent with the German one, we are such a little country."

After finishing his studies in Austria, he wants to return to India, move to Kerela and become an English-German transalator for tourists there."That's a good idea," I said, and he nodded excitedly, "And so simple!" I could've probably hooked up with Hans if I wanted to, but I wasn't that into him and I saw him later in the evening, snugged in a corner with another girl, who I happen to know and he waved awkwardly at me when I said hello and goodbye to her. "See you soon?" he said and I laughed, "Sure." Men are the same all over the world, clearly.


Oh ya, also hung with K and New Girl for a bit and was thoroughly ashamed of my bad behaviour, because she is very nice. No really. She's damn sweet and there was much bonding happening there. In the middle of this bonding, every now and then I' keep stopping and going in my head, "Wow, I'm being so grown up!" It's a good feeling. She's nice looking too, I admit grudgingly, but (and another five cool points for me) I told K how happy I was for him and that she was really nice and he beamed at me so happily that I guess it was worth it. What does she have that I don't? Um.. I'm not sure, though I was burningly curious about it. She's more docile I guess, a little more mellow, not as hyper as I'm prone to be. Oh, and she's tall. While I can be mellow on occassion, it's hard for me to be naturally tall. Perhaps that's it.


And that's the end of the K story. Except I asked her in a drunken moment whether she hated me and she gave me a hug and said, "Of course not, please don't ever think that." Ya, she does sound nice, no? A lot nicer than I would've been, most definitely.


And then they turned off the music and Small and I came home and ate toast and talked about how adult I was. :)