My latest book is The One Who Swam With The Fishes.
"A mesmerizing account of the well-known story of Matsyagandha ... and her transformation from fisherman’s daughter to Satyavati, Santanu’s royal consort and the Mother/Progenitor of the Kuru clan." - Hindustan Times
"Themes of fate, morality and power overlay a subtle and essential feminism to make this lyrical book a must-read. If this is Madhavan’s first book in the Girls from the Mahabharata series, there is much to look forward to in the months to come." - Open Magazine
"A gleeful dollop of Blytonian magic ... Reddy Madhavan is also able to tackle some fairly sensitive subjects such as identity, the love of and karmic ties with parents, adoption, the first sexual encounter, loneliness, and my favourite, feminist rage." - Scroll
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31 August 2006
Take a walk on the wild (but still pretty) side
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.