Take a walk on the wild (but still pretty) side

Dude, man.

Am so tired, but it's morning (yay, morning) and since have slept heavily and deeply last night, despite strange pain near my hip and mosquito bite on my bottom. (Which is a very strange place for a mosquito bite, I realise. And it itches! And I can't look all ladylike and elegant as I am forced to do for the next couple of days, when I am concentrating fiercely on MAKING THE ITCH STOP. Stop, already, itch! In bathroom breaks, I entered stalls and with a great and humongous sigh of relief, yank my skirt up so I can scratch at said mosquito bite. Which is growing. Which is growing so much, it will soon be larger than my original bottom. Which is actually not saying much, because my bottom looks like Pippi Longstocking's. Oh, is this too much information? I do apologise, but I think hell would be being forced to have mosquito bites on strange parts of your body which you CANNOT scratch. Arrgh.)

The reason I can't scratch this bite, and the reason I have to take "bathroom breaks" as opposed to just plain old going to the bathroom, is because ta-dah, as a fitting farewell tribute to this career that has served me well, I have achieved the pinnacle of features journalism snobbery and I am covering the Fashion Week, here in Delhi. Fashion journos are another breed altogether, I realise, they're all po-ash as can be, very well-dressed, with snarky eyes and downturning mouths. No one smiles, unless you know each other and when you talk, you GOSSIP. It's rather fun. I'm covering it with super fashion expert from work, Anaya, who doesn't have a downturning mouth at all, or snarky eyes, but I think we might be one of the few exceptions. (Oh, and AB, before you get your panties in a twist, you're very nice too). I have been practicing my snooty look, which is fun, but not easy, especially since these Amazon, 100 feet tall women in HIGH HEELS keep walking blasely past me, all oh-look-I'm-a-model-and-I-will-toss-my-hair-in-your-direction. And then they toss their hair.

But seriously, you guys? Being in that hotel from morning to night, watching various fashion shows? Is harder than I thought it would be. It feels oddly like you're in an airport, in transit or something, waiting and waiting for the plane to finally take off. You enter all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and well-dressed and when you exit, you don't have the energy to pull off your media accredation passes (which by the way are very cool, and I'm SO proud of mine. Look, it's laminated! And it has me on it! I'M laminated! Whee!), let alone party afterwards. Actually, this is probably just me. As a first-timer, I see the wise looks on everyone else's faces as they wearily kick off their shoes and rub their heels and then they look at me pityingly and say, "It's only Day One." Um.. yeah. Did I not mention that? All this whining is about ONE DAY.

But there are good things. Sitting in the fashion shows are great fun, especially mmmm, the ones that use male models. Oh, yesterday? Arjun Rampal walked the ramp for Rohit Bal's show, and oh, I WANT. NOW. He just walked down it, whistling, and this one chick stood up and clapped him really hard and he walked off the ramp and gave her this very cute newsboy hat he was wearing. Bitch.

Also, have decided I want to walk like the models to, like there's a hook in my navel pulling me outwards and with my shoulders thrown back. Have just gotten up from my computer and done that, a couple of times, around the room, but no, sadly, I don't look anything like them. In fact, I look a little strange. Okay, a lot strange.

And since my role here is to basically cover the after parties, since Anaya the Effecient really has the shows tied up with a pretty blue bow(Blue is the new black. You heard it here first), I went for the Manish Arora party at Agni last night, which would have probably been more fun if I was less tired. Old age, dudes, it creeps up on you without any warning. But! Christopher was there! Hi, Chris! We're glad you were there, we are.

So must rush, darlings, things to do, people to meet. Plus must figure out what I'm wearing today. A Fashion Journalist must be well-dressed, said the Scriptures, and we don't flout the scriptures.

More updates later, I think.

Schmidt is such a nice word to say

a) Okay people, here's a quick quiz. If you were to throw me on a desert island which of these three things would you need to provide before I chewed my own arm off and threw the dismembered limb at you? Is it 1) cigarettes; 2) alcohol or 3) coffee? If you answered all of the above you're WRONG, and you THINK you know me but you don't really. I can survive without alcohol, even if I become dull and boring and a blotch on the face of the planet that would have to be picked out by blackhead tweezers. I can survive without cigarettes--if you wrestled me to the ground and said, "NO MORE CIGARETTES OR YOU WILL DIE TOMORROW!"-- and then there might be a chance that I will develop superhuman strength and say, "You will die, you stupid fucker, give me back my cigarettes!" but yeah, I will not eat own appendages. The correct answer, and now, pay attention, because I'm only going to say this once, is answer three; coffee. I cannot be expected to live on this planet without my daily dose of, oh, something like five hundred million cups of coffee, and there's no reason why I should live on this planet anymore when one of my God-given rights is being taken away from me. But you know, the thing about God? He/She/It/The-power-that-bes is MEAN. And nasty. Take that, God! I smote you! I smote you right here on this blog. (wait, sorry, didn't mean it, don't make nasty things happen to me, I'm sorry, I wuv you, twuly) Anyway, *ahem* where was I? Yes, so mean ol' nasty God, with all the mean ol' nasty powers and ha-ha-you-think-you're-so-smart-but-I-am-smarter-because-if-you-don't-believe-in-the-evolution-theory-I-MADE-you-so-suck-it-up type thinking, has in fact, taken away the one thing that I love and desire and that I think is mankind's coolest invention, right up there next to electricity and the telephone, ooh, and America's Next Top Model (which, in the spirit of honesty, I must admit, I love. There was an episode last night, which was very nailbiting and exciting, where one chick, who was very blonde and pretty burst into tears and said she was gay and she couldn't hold it in anymore and another chick, who, go figure, was also very blonde and pretty--I'm sensing a trend here--rolled up her eyes and fainted. Good fun. I love fainting people on tv. It's such excellent watching) which is coffee. How has it been taken away from me? I'm so glad you asked that question, because everyone must know of this conspiracy that surrounds me. If I drink more than three cups a day, I get a horrible, sharp, stabbing headache all over the front of my head and it isn't nice. It's not a very nice thing to do at all. I hope if god (see, I am so mad at you, I'm not even capitalising your letter. I smote you, I say again! I smotest! I smite!) is reading this, he/she/blah blah blah will take the goddamn (oooooh) hint and take away the headaches.



b) Since we are in rantifying mood, clearly, I think little note to anonymous commenters of last post should be inserted here, and maybe, I will not be angry, and maybe you will think this is humourous because you, my un-anonymous reader who leaves NICE comments, rock, and then everybody shall be happy, except the trolls and they cannot be happy because they are trolls and it is against Basic Troll Personality to be happy and why would you want to mess with basic troll personality? And maybe I should also say that I don't think writing about sex makes me promiscuous at all, and everyone does it, even your parents at one point and if you want to think your PARENTS are all these strange and really very unfeminist things you have called me, then, well, there is a slight problem with our perspectives and maybe you should go look at some other, very fine, blogs that deal with the lives of people much more expert at writing about sex than I am, but, I should warn you (because I am nice and you are not) you probably won't be encouraged to leave dirty comments there either. (Oh, and I'm also not going to sleep with you. Just clarifying. You have a nice day now!)



c) I went for karaoke night the other day and Mika was there and he sang I Want To Break Free and it was good. It was so good that I called people and held up the phone only they could only hear me giggling like a maniac in the background, which is a pretty noise, even if I do say so myself, but it blocked out the Glory that is Mika, and EVERYONE should hear a fat, young Punjabi singer with a gold and diamond necklace around his neck and a huge M pendant singing Queen at least once in their lives. Everybody. I was going to sing too, but I was too shy.



d) I have a new job! Starting next month! Where I will no longer be journalist! Who woulda thunk? (More details later)

~ eM could really do with an Ultimate Margarita right about now

Surgeon General's Warning: Nothing remarkable said, more like life updates and general witterings

* Having recently been informed of this, I now feel this unbelievable pressure. Such performance anxiety is never a good thing, because suddenly I'm looking at my previous couple of posts and going, "Really?" So since I am one of the many India representatives, I feel like I should be writing about relevant stuff, like oh, you know, our new nuclear policy or something. But, yeah, very cool to be nominated and all, but wouldn't it be even cooler if I won? I'm not sure of the etiquette involved with this things, so I'm not going to say the obvious (vote for me) but little subliminal messages, like they do for alcohol or something won't hurt. The Compulsive Confessor--better for you than alcohol. Yeah, baby.

* Have I mentioned my bathing products recently? No? Well, I have now graduated from shower gel to shower CREAM, thank you very much, and I feel all exotic and nubile when I use it, because really, the scent, teamed with a steamy shower, is enough to make me feel like I'm in a harem or something. Really. (subliminal vote for me message here) There's nothing like feeling you're in a harem to have an excellent rest of the day. As a result of this steamy shower, I'm always practically drunk by the time I exit and dress, so I get to work all dreamy eyed and pose langourously against the coffee machine. Good fun. Only I think the receptionist thinks I'm on something.
(By the way, previous references to products are here and here.)


* So, ever since the post about Other Party, I am re-reminded about how very small this city is. How does everyone know, dude? I thought I was being super-discreet and everything. But, yeah, random people know, and it's strange and somewhat scary (but also quite flattering, I must admit) that everyone knows everyone and your assumed secret liaison is not really such a secret and everyone's actually sniggering, because, really, WHY did I assume this was so hush-hush? (On another tangent, absolutely love the word liaison. I think I'm going to use it more. Along with twilight and soiree. Soiree, especially.)


* I've also realised that in the past two months of manic party attending, I've always been invited somewhere or the other on Saturday night, usually for a private party. This makes me feel very popular and wanted, sure, but it's also a little worrisome, because this weekend, so far, have not been invited anywhere. Which means my Grand Record of not having to spend any money on Saturday night might just be coming to an end. Quick, someone throw a party and call me! I'll be sitting by the phone, I promise. My need to have my weekends chalked out on, oh, TUESDAY, is a side of me I don't normally reveal, but if I don't have a plan for the weekend, I am physically uncomfortable. Going with the flow is not a term I like. Actually, I'll go so far as to say it's a term I HATE with a purple passion. A magenta passion, even. I think it's my deep, screwed up need to have control over at least some aspects of my life. You have OCD? Hey, I have obsessive planning. I even plan out conversations before I have them, which gets alarming when the other person doesn't respond exactly the way they did in your head. I wish I was like a puppet master or something. This is also why I always need to be the one holding the remote.

* Also got this email from Filmmaker Friend today saying: "Hello little eM.Read your latest blog. Nice, fun reading but there IS such a thing as tooooo much honesty you know..." To which I responded, "Oh, why?" and he said: "Sharing angst in public is a bit like having sex in public. Its very personal and should be shared with only those who're that intimate. Grief, ecstasy, angst, etc not for public consumption.Thats what I feel.." I never really thought of it that way, but perhaps he's right. Maybe I do purge much too much on this blog. Any thoughts?


(and because a subliminal message isn't a subliminal message unless it's repeated a hundred million times, vote for me!)

Confessions Of A Teenage Geek (subtitled: why blogging is cheaper than therapy)

Growing up, I realised at a very early age that I was never going to be stunning and superpopular and sought out for my charms. It wasn't a heartbreaking realisation, I mean, I was about 10 or 11 when I got pnuemonia and when I recovered, some four or five months later, I looked in the mirror and saw this skinny faced creature, all eyes and teeth staring back at me and well, that was that. I was never going to be like the swish set in school, all hair flapping and short skirted. Sure, I wore short skirts, but I looked gawky and uncared for, and they, even at twelve, looked sexy.

It wasn't always easy, knowing you were probably always going to be the one with the "nice personality". At 13 or 14, I rebelled against my body, hating it violently, refusing to look at myself naked, showering in the dark and then rapidly dressing. I developed around the same time as everyone else, I guess, but all at once, rather than gradually, so one minute I was as flat as an ironing board and the next it was like, hel-lo. It didn't help that one of my best friends at the time told me I looked stupid and vulgar and my breasts really WERE too big for my frame, and I should watch how I walked. I walked shoulders in for the longest time after that, crossing my arms over my chest, hunching, so I looked just like everyone else. She, this best friend of mine, also told me the way I danced was weird--"like a snake", I think were her exact words, but when she was being kind, she said anyone would fall for me--if they saw me from the back, that is.

Why was she my best friend, you may ask, gentle reader? Why? Well, because I adored her. She was everything I wasn't, smart and confident and attractive, with one dimple that danced in the centre of her cheek and long straight hair, that she wore with those flicks that were so popular then. I needed her, and sometimes, she needed me too. Of course she needed me, I say now at nearly 25. How could she not? I was her audience, her spectator, the one that told her she was beautiful and smart and very nice. We were friends from the time we were about 12 till we were 15. She entered the school I was in as a new girl and she lived right next door, so we struck up a walking to school and back friendship,
which continued well into our teens. But while, all this time, I didn't have very many friends, I was a member of many school clubs, like the Nature Club--where they taught you how to recycle envelopes--because of a letter to the editor I had written, The Asian Age, I think it was, protesting the fact that at the Trade Fair people were riding on tame bears. I think there was also other school activities I participated in, like the Elecution events, or recitation, stuff like that, things that didn't really toss me into the limelight, but in their own little ways, made me feel like I was a part of things, like a cog in the wheel or something. When my best friend joined, straight from a convent school, she leaned on me for the first few months, and I felt important and efficient, showing her around, introducing her to people and so on.

But she outgrew me soon. I saw her courting the popular set, people I barely spoke to, beyond just raising my eyebrows a little. They were the girls who rolled down their socks, and whispered in classes, the boys who actually spoke to the girls, and who were always in trouble, except when they were on the sports field. They knew all the teachers, and all the teachers knew them, for better or for worse. But I had a quiet little set of friends, boring, actually, but nice in their own way, who always carried washed and ironed hankies, and who gave me Tasleema Nasreen's Lajja for a birthday present. With the coming of my new friend, the old ones got forgotten, but I don't think they minded too much. I wasn't like them either, content in my anonymity. I wanted to shine, to know and be known, I wanted the world to acknowledge how fabulous I was. And if the world wouldn't? Then that fascinating set at school certainly would.

I have to hand it to her though. Singlehandedly, she dragged us both into popularity--and while hers was far above mine; being attractive and well,
not as weird as I was--I still lived in reflected glory. Now I had friends! People to go to the canteen with, share lunch boxes with, and as we got older, and eating was no longer cool, we went to the canteen together and bought orange or cola bars, which we sucked at till our lips and tongues were orange or purple, and all that was left was a stick of ice. Now, the phone rang at home too, and it was rather fun being yelled at by your parents for staying on the phone too long. Once we got the cordless, they never saw me anymore, because as soon as I got home, I took the phone off its charger and retired to my room, still in my uniform, chatting, legs up against the wall, head hanging off the bed, till finally I emerged, bleary eyed, for dinner.

When did things start to change? One minute, I was so surprised and happy with all this companionship. I was being invited to parties, quite a bit too, because, thanks to the fact that our "group" had about 20 people, everyone was always invited. Then, suddenly, in class 8 or 9, I think, the desperate games of catch up began, when suddenly I found myself, amazingly, out-of-the-blue, not quite as fantastic as I thought I was. Our group started splitting up, into mini-groups, or cliques, and really, I wasn't in any of them. This would not have bothered me, normally, because I still had someone to sit next to, or whisper to, but then, I wasn't first choice to be sat next to, or whispered at. One time, on a class trip to Jaipur, I felt my chin -- always the first giveaway for my tears --start to wobble dangerously, when I saw, as I entered, everyone already paired up on the bus, and only one double seater left, for me. I think the kinder girls of the lot noticed, and offered to switch seats with me, but I didn't want a pity seatmate. I wanted someone to WANT to sit next to me. And that wasn't happening. Not even my best friend, who was with her newly formed trio, two other girls, who seemed to somehow get her, way more than I ever had.

Kids can be cruel, but teenagers can be devastating. You can't be too different, unless you're really brave, which I wasn't. I wasn't brave, I just wanted friends. But more than I wanted friends, I wanted someone to be friends with me. And if that meant not talking about reading, or writing, or how I felt when I met my grandmother that year, or the soft feel of my new puppy, then that was what I was going to do.

I shifted schools when I was about 14, moved to a new place, where even if I wasn't as fantastic as I was when I was 10, even, they still thought I was pretty cool. And slowly, in a couple of years, I started believing that. Well, almost. I still don't dance though.

I can't help but be scared of it all sometimes, but the rain's going to wash away I believe it

Possibly the only good thing about having to work on Independence Day is the fact that all the roads are completely empty and you can zip rapidly over normally very crowded junctions. And parking is a breeze, I didn't even have to parallel park, reversing and re-reversing like I normally do, just swish-fwoosh and I was there, all parked and ready to face the day.

We had an Independence Day party last night (or Pakistan's birthday, take your pick). Luckily, the weather has been phenomenal, or at least it was yesterday; today is still horribly sunny. It stormed several times, but by the time the party started it stopped, except for a few bolts of lightening every now and then. There was quite a bit of booze--Small and Lily (who, hmph, DON'T have to work) bought Old Monk for me, and a bottle of Fuel (Seagram's new vodka that comes in this really cool bottle. It's fairly new, so everyone thought it was foreign stuff, avoiding it and sticking to the Smirnoff, until one girl shyly asked me whether it was okay to open it. Little do they know that it costs about one tenth of the Smirnoff, but it just looks fancier. Packaging is everything, I realise). And Filmmaker Friend (FF) had recently had a party so he brought over oodles of booze--at least ten Breezers and three other bottles. So, clearly, we're sorted for a WHILE.

Anyway, since all three of us had fairly hectic weekends, we looked ready to pass out by the time the party started. And it started really late, too. People in this city have no concept of time. Though I suppose I shouldn't be saying that, seeing as I have sashayed grandly into an eight o'clock party at eleven. (Although, I WAS the first one there). I don't know why we think late entrances are cool entrances. Who made up that social rule anyway? Why do we think we're going to look like losers if we actually show up on time? Alternatively, since I am never on time, this works for me, because then I look exciting and busy, like someone with a happening social life. Punctuality, said my good friend Evelyn Waugh, is a virtue of the bored.

Boy Next Door (no, really, he lives next door) who has this excellent terrace-balcony area, looked somewhat alarmed to see his home invaded. We had invited him, and sort of subtly asked whether he could leave his terrace door open. At first, he took it like a trouper, coming in every now and then to refill his drink (the rent, I guess, for his balcony) but then I noticed how he was increasingly retiring to his house, a bewildered expression on his face. So I told Small and she ushered everyone back into our house, leaving Boy Next Door alone with his terrace swing. I wish we had a terrace swing.

Anyway, so since last night was mainly Small and Lily's friends (where ARE all my friends, I wonder? Do I need new friends and no one's telling me? Am I suddenly unpopular? Is it my breath? Grah) I lurked in corner with FF and drank a lot, only I realise I'm not getting drunk anymore. It's quite sad. At one point, three drinks, no TWO drinks used to be it for me. I remember when I was with Golfer Ex (who was also present at last night's party, only much later) he used to call me a cheap date, because with one rum and coke, I was giggling into my glass and with two, I was all wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee! here we go! Last night, I think I had some four or five drinks, and not mild ones either, but still I sat soberly, having sober conversations about work and playing pool and movies and books and love lives and all through this I was wondering why in the name of fuck I was still in a space where I could HAVE this conversation.

It wasn't a very eventful party, as in, no great romances were formed and no secrets told (well, none that I heard at any rate), but I enjoyed myself. There's a certain sort of well-being that comes when you know all is right with your world, and your friends are gathered around in your living room and affection is being given and received and everyone knows you and is, essentially, looking out for you.

It's nice to be alive some days.

ps: A good friend recently confessed to me that she had started a blog too. The virus is spreading, my friends, and I'd like you to join me in welcoming Fortunata. Oh, and here's a post about me, too!

Oh, and also, while (whilst?) I'm pointing out new links, must show you this blog, from someone who commented a few posts ago, but whose style I really like.

A disgusting, almost diabetic type post on the state of my love life, which I suggest you skip

* True to the name of this blog, I must blushingly admit that Romance (with a capital R) has tiptoed into my world once more and is standing quietly in the corner with the umbrella stand. Normally with Romance (and you must FEEL the capital R) I choose to be more discreet than with, say, my regular exploits, but then I realized that if said Romance (has the capital R sunk in yet?) doesn't last, at least this will be a good place to chronicle that it once did exist in my life. Other Party, however, has passed a decree that I may not write about him at all, so, sadly, though I would love to tell you all the details---hell, I'd love to tell ME all the details---I must respect Other Party's wishes.
Damn. This is the point where I wish I was still completely anonymous and that no one who I knew read this blog.
But, the good thing about Romance, is that I had forgotten what a good thing it was. I mean, dude, the happy feelings? They're very good happy feelings. This is, perhaps, more addictive than smoking even. More people should do this, we should have a Bring Back The Romance club, where for 500 bucks a month, you get flirty texts, flowers on your birthday and late night phone calls with a nice voice. Sign up now!

* But, Romance also has its downsides. Like the simple fact that all of a sudden I am so very broke, I don't know where all my money is going, unless it's in Hutch recharge cards. Oh, the amount of recharge cards I have bought. I think I could build a little house with them and still have some left over for like a chimney and doors and things. Luckily, the Internet? It's free. I love the Internet. I wonder how Romance was conducted in pre-cellphone days. I mean, technically, I shouldn't have to WONDER, seeing as this happened when I was in school and stuff, but then there were landlines. Remember landlines? And blank calls that made you thrill with excitement because maybe, just maybe, it was that boy you had a crush on? And rushing to the phone before your parents could answer it so that they wouldn't know that the same boy had already called you thrice in two hours? And twisting the cord of the phone around your finger and doodling "U n Me 4eva!!" all over the telephone directory? While there is still a thrill at seeing Other Party flash on my phone, I think good Romance should have mystery, that only landlines can offer.

* Romance also is a great excuse to pull out your nice clothes from hibernation, that normally you'd only save for the weekend, but now can flash into work with, looking all Hindi movie heroine. I realise, after my last post, what a terrible mistake it is for me to write about clothes because CLEARLY, I know nothing, but still, I just want to say that feeling like Madhubala or someone, with the rain in the background and ooh, a brand new radio station that I love (95 fm, whose is it? what is it? why are they playing such excellent music) is doing wonders for my ego. Wonders.

* While all this is thanks to Other Party, I would like to also point out to Other Party that I haven't really said anything about him, and soooooo, technically, TECHNICALLY, I'm not breaking any rules here. (Note to self: In the future, try and pick Other Parties who DON'T read your blog).

But, before you worry, gentle reader, my life is actually pretty much the same. I went to two parties this weekend, one at Aura to say goodbye to Pieces (it seemed like she just came, too) and the other at Eau. Oh, and at Aura, I attempted to buy my friend a drink and the bartender gave it to me. On. The House. That's never happened to me before. I've been telling everyone, and everyone has been rolling their eyes at me, but I feel it should be recorded for posterity.

Don't you know about the new fashion, honey? All you need are looks and a whole lotta money

There is one pecularity I share with the rest of my sex. Actually, there are probably several, but this one puts me firmly in the GIRL-girl bracket. I very much like to shop. Shoe shopping, of course, is my idea of a really sinful afternoon spent, but regular shopping will do it for me as well. And not just clothes or accessories or anything. I'm talking food, books, music, groceries, all that just makes my heart a little bit happier.

I went with a friend from work to Modern Bazaar the other day, at the Priya Complex, which used to be THE place to hang out at in Priya when it first began showing English movies, back in the day. We used to eat channa-kulcha type things then, but then Nirula's opened up and Modern Bazaar was left to the firangs who bought ancient Oreo packets there. Now it's all snazzy with all these cool products, and pretty well-priced too! Friend From Work and I went a little mad, picking up everything we saw and tossing it into our basket. But then we shook our heads at each other and took out most of the unnescessary stuff, like this pancake mix and syrup I had been eyeing. Oh well. Feeling very grown-up (because NOTHING can make you feel as adult as fancy food shopping) I bought a) blue cheese (not the Brittania slices, but posh cheese with mould on it) b) bacon (which my mom never let me buy too often because she was scared I'd get tapeworm. Honestly) c) a loaf of cheese and garlic bread, just baked and smelling yummy d) Cadbury's drinking chocolate, which okay, wasn't so fancy, but I wanted anyway and as a piece de resistance, a crowning glory if you will, as I got to the cash register I tossed in one packet of Malboro lights. How cool am I, baby?

But clothes shopping has always been a different deal. I've been shopping for my clothes alone, since I was about thirteen or fourteen. I remember before that my mother came with me, or aunts from the States sent me matching tops and shorts which I thought were so terribly cool, till I joined a big new school and realised they really weren't. I was invited to my first birthday party at Big New School and happily confident, I dressed up in my favourite frock, a more adult one than my others, because the sleeves were till my elbows and tight and the skirt didn't pouf out like the other ones and even the sash was all muted and understated in this peachy-rose. My mother dropped me off in an auto, said, "Have a good time!" and left and I walked up the stairs, bearing my birthday gift only to find almost my entire class there. All in jeans.

I think that was probably the first (but sadly not the only) time I felt less than confident and amazing in a room full of my peers. Everyone paused to look at me and I blushed violently and turned for the door, hoping my mother would still be there downstairs so that I could leave NOW, but the eleven-year-old hostess, who even though we have long since lost touch, remains to this day, one of the nicest people I have ever met, stopped me and said, "Oh, what a pretty dress! You look so sweet!" And so I stayed, but my party frocks were retired forever, given to the maid's children eventually.

I moved from Weekender to Sarojini Nagar when I was about fifteen or perhaps younger. I'm not sure exactly when, but suddenly all my clothes were emerging from there. This was the time when short, flirty skirts had just about come into vogue and everyone was wearing them, suddenly, as was I, despite a pair of matchstick legs. I loved twirling and watching them flare out, I loved wearing them to Khan Market, teamed with a purple polo neck t-shirt that I bought off a friend for 50 bucks. My favourite skirt was red with huge flowers on it, that came till about mid-thigh. I wore that everywhere, and there is a photograph of me that Leela has had forever, where I'm sitting at Chona's (in Khan Market, which made the BEST french fries in the WORLD, in those pre-McD days) and I'm smiling fakely at the camera and my skirt is in all its full, red flowery glory, spread across my knees.

I was a bit of a slave to fashion in those days. What other people said was cool, was what I wore, perhaps just to fit in, to feel more like everyone else. Stretch jeans were the fad one year, and everyone had a pair, clinging to fat legs or skinny ones with an oversized sweater on top. (Those jeans came in very useful once I went to boarding school, because then they doubled as riding breeches). Another season it was all about the tights--remember those black lycra ones?--we wore them everywhere, some more experimentative, bought them in hot pink or neon green, but I stuck to black. I forget when exactly the trend moved from oversized tops and tight bottoms to the other way around, but suddenly, before I could even blink, parrallel (I KNOW I haven't spelt that right) pants were everywhere, in madras checks and here I came into my element, because they looked so much better on me than they did on the other taller, less skinny girls. You teamed them with a sleeveless top, and they did look rather nice. I loved my parrallel pants. I wore them till they ripped, and then, sadly, they weren't making them anymore.

But I gave up when the really ugly fashion statements started hitting the market. Does anyone remember those horrible towel-material type tight tops everyone was wearing one year? They came in hideous colours, all pastels and oh, they were gross. Why anyone would want to put something like that on their body is beyond me. Jeans were my only concession to style, but once flared jeans came into vogue, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven because FINALLY there was something that looked good on me. They say now that flares are so out and straight fit are back in but they can go screw themselves. I'm sticking to my flares, I have a lovely pair I bought the other day, admittedly not as large a flare as my older ones, but a flare none the less, which ride low over my hips and are this beautiful shade of dark, faded blue. I still haven't thrown them for a wash, because they fit so WELL, but I'm going to have to soon. Jeans just ride so much better when they're dirty. (Levi's new range, by the way, if anyone's shopping, 544).