Tick tock, tick tock, goes my biological clock

Last night at Buzz, where I wasn't particularly buzzed, I ran into Rhea. This was unusual in many ways, primarily, because I hadn't seen Rhea since the night of our graduation dinner from college, after which we all went to We 2 and got wasted, and even that night, I don't remember hanging out with her too much. We had been close---as close as it's possible for two people to be, who don't have very much in common, but who still belong to the same circle of friends, and I heard she got married last year, but that was all. She was from a traditional family, and her wedding was inevitable.

She was wearing a short summer dress, which I noticed, because I was freezing, really, even though I was in a leather jacket, with a scarf around my neck and three rums nestling happily in my stomach and she threw her arms around me and we rocked back and forth for a bit. "All your drinks are on me!" she said, smiling widely, and I said, "Why?" and she said, "Because it's my anniversary! I've been married for a year!"

And then, of course, I met her husband, who looked a little bemused at her affection for this random, wild haired stranger and then I went and sat down at my table and promptly felt like I was going to burst into tears.

"I could've picked that option," I told my friend.

He looked puzzled. Men always look puzzled, dude, they totally don't get it.

"Haan, but it'll happen, no? Even all my friends are getting married."

"But you don't understand," I wailed, "I could have picked that route! I could have been married straight out of college and all this looking for love business would have never happened."

Any Indian woman, okay, fine, most Indian women know that once you hit a certain age, your parents gently (if they're the liberal sort) or not so gently (if they expect for you to have babies immediately) start enquiring of you when you're planning to start dating again. Or whether you'd like for them to introduce you to someone nice. Or how they're going to get old someday and there was this really nice boy, and he read and stuff, and so good-looking and oh, did they mention he was also an investment banker? And what's the harm in meeting him anyhow? "The harm," I told my mother the last time she brought it up, "Is that if I wound up marrying a man my mother found for me, I would kill myself instantly. And blame it all on you."
Luckily, she hasn't brought it up since.

But still. I have a good job, nice friends, supportive family, upwardly mobile career path (quickly touch wood! Quickly!) and I suppose it's only natural to want to fill the one space in my life I haven't really got much control over. Here I am, rapidly approaching mid twenties, and I haven't got a clue where my love life is headed. And I know for a fact I'm not the only one with the same problem.

If you're unfortunate enough to find yourself single at 24 or 25 or 26 (somehow it seems to hit men much later, only in their 30s) without even a prospect of someone you would consider dating, the world starts to look slightly alarming. According to my ideal life plan, which I drew out when I was about 22 or 23, I'd meet someone by 25, date him for a couple of years, maybe live with him for like a year and see how that went and then by 28 or 29 we'd get married, so the kids could start coming along by 30. So I wouldn't be too old to deal with a teenager later. Of course, this plan was also made fresh after the Breakup with the boy I thought I was destinied to be with (and now seriously I LAUGH at myself then. Ha ha. See me laughing? See? I can totally see the humour in this situation! TOTALLY.) Now I've made a few modifications, which include getting the kids anyhow (or kid, whatever) by the time I'm thirty with or without a man, because I really don't want to be dying or something, with no one to stand and weep around my bedstead. I used to want a Reader's Digest family, where we made happy co-decisions and I could have had that too, if only I had conformed.

The truth is, while oestensibly, I'm not a conformist, I think somewhere in my secret soul I am. I like the idea of the happy family, father, mother, three kids (seeing as I grew up an only child, I've always loved the idea of large families. Most of my friends have siblings. And so do most of the boys I date, in fact, sometimes my favourite part about dating them is sitting around and being included in their huge, eventful households. Not that that happens anymore, of course, because now meeting the parents is a completely different ballgame). I like the idea of romance, and white roses and champagne and walks on the beach. Sigh. I even sound corny to me.

I know I still can. I can cave and call my grandmother and say, "Oh remember that engineer/doctor/based in the United States you wanted me to meet? Well, I know I'm officially on the shelf now, seeing as I am no longer a young and nubile nineteen, but I'd love to meet with them. Noooooooo, I don't smoke. Nooooooo, I don't drink either. And yes! I'd love to come and learn how to cook from you, seeing as the only thing I can make is coffee and cheese Maggi." (It's superlative coffee, really. Words cannot describe it. Any man would be lucky to have me and my coffee. And my cheese Maggi.) The thing is, while I made my choices, many years ago, my choices also made me. And really, I know while I'd love to celebrate my anniversary at Buzz, surrounded by people who wish me well, and introduce my poor single friends to my husband (look at him, isn't he fine?) it would mean having to go home and then do another year with him and not whisk off whenever I wanted to, and have to at some point sleep with him, and by virtue of being a doctor/engineer/person with a green card, he would think it was okay to grow a paunch and burp loudly after dinner and not ask me why I needed all those sleeping pills in the first place.

I'd make a pretty corpse though, if never a pretty bride.

How much drink can a dipso drink if a dispo could drink drink? (the super long holiday recap post)

Yay! Home! And the internet! I feel like I've been away for AGES now, instead of like four days, only, vacation time is so so short. Returned from Bombay Tuesday night, after spending three of the four days I was there, fairly drunk and happy. I love it when I can do that without feeling guilty about the next day and how much work I have to do and blah di blah blah. Ooh, and I saw Sushmita Sen! Who won my respect and admiration just by how deftly and adeptly she parked her huge car in a tiny parking space.

(I was fully meaning to add that last fullstop and continue, but then, well, friend/date type person arrived and we had to leave and so blogging was sacrificed on the altar of actually getting some. I'm sure you understand.)

Moving on, then. I've realised I like that city even though I know that going somewhere on holiday is totally not the same thing as actually living there, and moving your comfort zones takes a certain amount of time and effort and actually being comfortable somewhere else. Pieces was busy, as expected, so when I landed and made my way to her house (which was right by the sea! Which was Good Omen One, by the way, for those of you who are at home and keeping track of the score) where Noor, her soon to be ex-flatmate, kept me company as we tried to decide what my evening's entertainment would be. Noor and I took a walk to the boundary wall of the apartment complex, where there's this gate that lets you get out and sit on a reasonably clean bench and watch the sun set over the ocean. It all looked so pretty and fairy tale-ish, that I begged Noor to come and take a walk so we could dabble our toes in the surf. "Uh.. trust me, dude, you don't want to do that," she said, settling back and she wouldn't be moved, until I saw exactly what she meant as this dude took a crap on the shore, letting the waves work as a potty shower, right in front of us. But if you overlooked the turds and the smell, really quite pretty.

Since Pieces was probably going to be tied up till like midnight, I called this dude and asked him to take me out somewhere. We went to another place overlooking a beach called Eleven Echoes, which made very nice margaritas so I was most happy. And on the way back, several places were pointed out to me, including Amitabh Bachchan's house (the Egyptians would collectively orgasm, I think) and the place where Fardeen Khan, was it? got picked up for buying cocaine. These Bombay people are repositories of information, I tell you, I don't think I could do a similar homes-and-landmarks-of-the-rich-and-famous here. (Although, someone once told me a story about how once in the middle of the night they were looking for a friend's house and they wound up ringing Satish Gujral's bell instead. But I don't know where the house is) By the time I got home, Pieces was asleep, and when she left early the next morning, she saw my foot from under the bedcovers and left an eyemask by my pillow, but that was the only interaction we had really.

Till about three pm the next day, when the movers arrived, seeing as Pieces and her boyfriend, Gautam are moving out and Noor is returning here, when I (helpfully) scotchtaped boxes together, till I realised I was doing such an inadequate job, that I became the official scissor holder and snipped tape. And then chilled by a rolled up mattress while all around me, people were being very effecient. I'm not much help in situations like this, I realise, but I am ornamental. And I seldom lose my temper, both excellent qualities, I think. Now that that's justified, back to the recap. Interestingly all the movers wore these white Nehru caps, which struck me as quite odd, because all the while they were hoisting up boxes to their shoulders, the caps would teeter and almost fall off till they adjusted it again. Surely, so much easier to not wear the caps at all? And white? To move stuff? No one seemed to know why exactly they were wearing them though, the only explaination I got was, "Oh, they all wear them."

And then the Pieces came home, and we had a joyful, if slightly rushed reunion and she and Noor walked sniffly eyed around the remnants of their old home and finally everything was gone, and the three of us, plus three of Pieces's friends finished a quarter and some of vodka with Thums Up and lay back giggling slightly. So. Good Omen Two. (Only the weather was all hot and sticky and now as I write this, warming my frozen feet under the blanket and tucked under my ass, I'm all siiiiiiiiiiigh. So maybe Good Omen and Bad Omen cancel each other out).

Then we moved to Pieces's friend's house (which was where, for interested people, I saw Sushmita Sen) and drank some more, and another Good Omen happened (well, part two of Good Omen Two) coz dude! You can call for booze! At midnight! And they bring it home to you! What a great city for alcoholics. And so Sunday passed with an almost twelve hour binge of drinking. (And Pieces's friends very sweetly said, when I complained that I had very few friends in their city, "Don't be silly, any time you want some company, you have us." At which point, thanks to all the drinking, I was all overcome.)

Monday, by the time I emerged all bleary eyed, Gautam and Pieces had left and Noor was sitting on the balcony, drinking a glass of tea and she looked surprised to see me. "I thought you had died," she said, and "Order some lunch for yourself and get out of the house, do." But being an essentially lazy person, I chose instead, to raid our absent host's bookshelves, because he had an excellent collection of graphic novels and the ENTIRE ASTERIX AND TINTIN series and I just died. Oh, but then another Bad Omen happened as I was channel surfing and Noor said, "What are you looking for?" and I said, "Some movie channel, Star or HBO" and she said, "Oh those have been banned" and I said, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME." but it was true. So, you can get booze at midnight, but you can't watch Lara Croft. Strange. (But I went to Palika yesterday with Small and bought 11 DVDs to prepare myself, and I feel slightly better. Oh dude, there will be no Palika Bazaar in Bombay. And no TC. And no place where waiters will know me. Why am I moving again?)

Then Pieces came home and she was early for a change, so we all gussied up and decided to go out, to this place called Zenzi, I think it was spelled, which was quite nice. Oh, and just like previously in Gurgaon, I was given a disposable glass to take away my drink in when they finally threw us out.

Phew. Getting quite tired now. But like, one day to go, so I shall perservere. By the time I woke up Tuesday morning, Noor said, "Okay, get out of the house NOW" so I did, and made it as far as the closest train station from where I was planning to go into town and walk around a bit, perhaps drink a little more, before I headed back and caught my flight at 9.30. But by the time I reached the station Curly (who now wants to be referred to as Shark Tooth, so fine, Shark Tooth) called me and said, "Let's have lunch." And I was all like, nooo, we should go into town and now I have company, but he was insistent so I got into a cab to go meet him, only to be stuck in the Biggest Traffic Jam in the world. (Quite a few Bad Omens, I see) It was such a bad jam, the taxi guy turned around and said, "Maybe you should walk." So I did. I walked and I walked and I walked and finally I reached and Shark Tooth reached, but by the time we got to the Goan restaurant he wanted to go to, it was shut, and so both of us Delhi exiles lunched happily, on, um, Punjabi food. Sigh. Then we took a cab back and walked around on a beach promenade thing, and I got home and Pieces called and said to wait till she got home so she could say bye, and since it was only seven forty, it was all cool.

By eight fifteen, I finally left and got to the airport by 8.45, where the outraged Spice Jet people told me the flight was actually at 9.10, NOT 9.30 and I was the last passenger. So I galloped through security check and galloped on to the plane and when I got to the Delhi airport, Small and Tall were waiting for me and we went and ate keema paratha.

Good trip, yeah?

Breaking news type item, before we return to our regular programming

It's funny how your life can change so very drastically in a month, in a week, in a conversation. October I was running wild, all the lights were changing green to red, and so on in a very David Gray-ish way. And now, looking at the compose post page, I'm wondering how I can break the news to you, to the internet, and whether it is yet time to make things public. But why not? Everything's settled--well, almost everything--and all that remains to be done is to confess all. But, I don't know. Once I tell you, there will be no going back, no two ways about it. Not that I want to go back now, but perhaps I might? In the not-so-distant future?

Right. I should probably stop blabbering and get on with it. Although, wouldn't you much rather be amused by TC stories and how last night I counted two men I have tongue swapped with on the same table that I was on, and realised that I have exhausted this city's supplies of eligible, sweet, young boys. (That last sentence made me sound a little bit like a paedophile, no?) Anyway. In all great relationships, there is only one thing that makes things work, and that is space. I need space, and usually, the other person does as well. Even an inanimate subject, like say, a manuscript you had been working on, always looks either so much better or worse, once you return to it after a couple of months. And soooooooo, I've decided the only single constant long-term love affair that I have had, ever since I was born even, might benefit if we were away from each other for some time.

In short, dear reader, I am moving. I'm leaving this city, which makes me very, very sad, but also strangely all fluttery-stomached with anticipation. I've never left it for longer than five months at a stretch (in boarding school, we returned home for two month summer and winter breaks. And boarding school totally does not count, because there you don't have to look for housing or like, figure out where you're going to work or even WORRY because you have NO friends, and in Delhi I know everyone.) and I'll miss so many things about it. In fact, I'm homesick already. Where am I moving? Well, I could never be out of a city, so I'm not doing the whole discovering myself in rural India thing whilst making friends with the local villagers and finally getting my arms hacked off. And I considered all the metros--Calcutta would be a distinct language problem, besides I don't think they have much of a nightlife, Bangalore is nice, but too close to too many of my extended family members for comfort, Hyderabad is like the HEART of most of my family, besides the minute I landed my grandmother would probably start looking for a suitable boy, which left me with, um, Mumbai. Yeah. I feel like a defector.

It all happened very, very fast, in fact two weekends ago, I was chilling at my friend Curly's house, and it was his birthday and sort of a farewell shindig, because he was moving to Bombay, and I was all, "Oh dude, I'm in such a rut." And he was like, "Well, why don't you move to Bombay too?" And I was like, "Okay!" And seriously, that's all there was to it. Then I woke up the next morning and said hmmmmmm, do I really want to go? And half of my head was all no, how can you leave Delhi? But then, the thrill of the thought of just packing up and leaving got to me, and before I knew it, the best laid plans were all awry, because apparently, I was moving to Bombay in January. In fact, Curly and I will be sharing a flat and our friends are convinced we're dating, but this is all part of the Grand I Can Live Away From Delhi Experiment, like a subsection, which I'm going to call the Semigrand I Can Live Platonically With A Boy experiment. Also, I'm going back to the media, joining an organisation with a bureau there, which will be yet another subsection called I Can Do Stories In A City I Barely Know experiment.

I'll be back though, in Delhi. I'm giving myself a year, just to prove that I can do this and not come crying back to my mummy's with my tail between my legs. I've been told, also, that I'll like Bombay, which I really hope I do, because it's harder to be homesick and friendless in a place you like. But I don't know whether I'll love it, the way I love Delhi. People I'm telling now say, "Dude, you can't leave Delhi! You are Delhi!" And it's really nice to be synonymous with a city, but that may also be a good reason to leave.

But I don't go for a good while yet. I have a month and a half of absolutely nothing to do, which I'm so looking forward to. I'm still going to Bombay this weekend, because those tickets were bought before this plan was made, and eventually, I'm going to have to start thinking logistically with things like where do I stay, and what furniture should I bring and should I take my car and so on. For now, I'm enjoying myself. Living the good life.

I just thought I'd let you know.

What to do when you miss people

(We have debuted before)

In all this debate about my "anonymity", and how many people know my real name, it was quite a relief to spend the weekend bonding with many friends, who actually know my stories, in real life. Had dinner with Leela's two sisters and their friend, and we spent a lovely time do-you-remembering, and oh, when you were 16 and I was thirteen and so on. Maya and Dearmost (she did ask for another name on this blog, but apparently an ex-boyfriend gave her a book once, with "dearmost" in the inscription and we thought it was so perfect, and too nice a name not to be used all the time, therefore, say hello to the Dearmost) read this blog a lot, in fact, I'm beginning to suspect a little too much, because Maya began quoting back details to me which even I had forgotten. Anyway. We all went to TC, Gurgaon, and sat in a very loud corner and played drinking games, which soon disintegrated into "tell all your secrets and giggle wildly" game, and oh, dudes, I felt so old and wrinkled and like Mother Earth or some such and it was not pleasant feeling maternal. Maternal feelings have not come upon me for some time. But the cool thing about TC Gurgaon, is that when they called the last order and finally began breathing over our necks to get us to leave, we said piteously, "We haven't finished our drinks yet!" And then they gave us disposable glasses to take with us, and I felt most cosmopolitan and grown up. (But in a good way, grown up, as compared to MATERNAL grown up. I'm feeling many family feelings these days, even a sisterly pang towards a former hook up, which we both found most alarming. (Fortunately, it didn't last very long.))

Then, there was a winter setting in party at the Pirate's house. Which was nice, because I went with Fariha, and we haven't had much time or opportunity to just talk, you know? But this time we did, speaking of our lives and our friends and so on, and in the middle of all this my cellphone started to flash, "Unknown number" and I picked it up and it was Leela! Calling from London, to tell me all. I had sent her and Urvashi a long, sad, pondering email the other day, and she felt for me, and we spoke till her calling card ran out. But finally I now know all about her wedding and the proposal and so on, but as soon as she hung up I missed her even more than I was. Which over the last couple of weeks has been an intense, strange sort of missing, for all the people who aren't here--but her and Urvashi especially. They're not very alike, as in, I'm sure they'd get on like a house on fire if they ever met--but you know, they're different people. But they both have this marvellous resting quality about them, you could spend hours with them, and not be bored, coz you could both do your own thing. It's a funny thing about missing your friends who have taken off for better shores, you know somehow, that things aren't going to be the same, that you can't fit it all in into a half an hour conversation or a long email, that they're not going to know that you were in a two hour long traffic jam that morning, or the incredibly frustrating thing that happened to you at work--there's only room for the important things. Except, I don't know. Hobo and I grow closer despite, or perhaps because of, our distance, we meet online almost every day, and she knows a lot about my life, even more than some people here. Speaking of Hobo, Fariha had to leave the party early, so when I got home, I was still wide awake and all wheeeeeeee, Saturday night! And I logged on to Skype, and got Zaphod, and another college friend, Amulya, who switched on the webcam and put me on speaker so I could speak with her and Hobo, and it was such fun. Almost like we were in the same city, almost as if it was a sleepover again at Pieces's, and we had all been drinking till five in the morning, and were sitting on her balcony and smoking cigarettes and looking at the stars and in that bewitching moment, there exist no secrets, nothing you don't tell, and nothing you get judged on either.

What is it about old friends that makes me think so much about them these days? I realise they hold my past, they know me through (as cliched as it sounds) love and heartbreak and denial and idiocies (oh, so many, many, MANY idiocies) and you fight with them and you sulk and you think you'll never talk to each other again, but at the end of the day, there you are. As we grow older, and a lot less forgiving, friendships are harder, somehow, there's a lot more investment that you have to do--suddenly, there are a whole new set of expectations. But with people you've known for about five years or longer, there's a different zone, like resignment, but not quite so negative. I feel like sighing a lot around my old friends, just sighing, because I know I don't want to be elsewhere. And then, in the rare times that we happen to be in the same city, and we talk over each other, no one even waiting for their turn, because there's so much to say, and we're all like, "You did what?" And then we shake our heads, or laugh and say good for you, and either, that is SO you or dude, that is SO unlike you, but it's nice that they know this. No?

In which my deformities are brought into light (and the reason why this blog doesn't have any pictures of me)

(You know where this post has been.)

On an anon blog, the rule of thumb, the rule of forefinger actually, is never to post anything that can be too easily traced back to you. Nevertheless, seeing as this picture is all blurry and hard to make out features from, I think it might be safe to let it go out there. Yup, that's me. Age two, I think, up in the Himalayas, wearing a sweater that belonged to my mum, looking cross at having to pose for one more picture. The reason this picture is important, the reason it's being posted at all, is because I think this was the last decent picture ever taken of me.

I was a rather good looking child, even if I do say so myself, she said completely modestly. Well, not good looking, so much as photogenic. I'm telling you, whenever I'm overcome with a nostalgia trip, I'm all wonderstruck with my beauty. I mean really, the smile, the hair, the eyes? I should've been a child model, at least when I could, so that I would have some money to spend in my old age. Once (and this is a high point so pay close attention), I was even the kid in the Life Insurance ad. Sure, they pixellated my face, and sure, you could barely make out it was me. But still. I was the face of Life Insurance, dude, were you? were you? I didn't think so.

Anyway. Then I grew older and my face got bonier, and my teeth came out, and I just wasn't good looking anymore. I had too many teeth and too small a face, but still, I photographed okay. I wasn't the Vision of Splendour I used to be, but I was okay. And then things just spiralled downwards from there.

See, I hate my nose. Absolutely hate it. In profile, I look like a duck. Really, no kidding. It's sort of bumpy at the edges and flattens out over the tip and any picture you take of me sideways makes me look like a cross between a rat and a duck. Oh, and a hermaphrodite. I make sure most people take only full frontal pictures, and even those are touch and go. Sometimes, my eyes disappear if I'm laughing. In others, I look vaguely constipated. The worse ones are where I look like a boy, because I'm not wearing any earrings, and the picture taker has only taken neck up. Oh, and let's not even go near passport pictures. One of my eyes is smaller than the other, so if I'm smiling I look something like a serial killer. The kind with a twitch.

From all this, you must have gathered that I'm not terribly photogenic. The picture I like most of myself hangs in my old room, where I'm doing this model thing at 19 and scooping my hair away from my face. People have seen this picture. People have laughed at this picture. People have said I look like a Malayali porn star in this picture. So when even my sexy pictures fail, you know, I'm really a lot better looking in real life. I have to be. There's no way someone could be that unattractive. Sometimes, the rare times when the camera decides to take pity on me, I get photographs where I can actually look at me and not flinch and those pictures are safely in a vault somewhere in Geneva. Even my own mother prefers to hang up pictures of me as a baby, all Unicef-y, rather than put out the more recent ones. I offered her the sexy one? The one I like so much? And she looked at it and looked at me and said, "I think this would look better in your room! Go hang it up there!" And I did just that.

Anyhoo. Maybe there was something about being a kid that just made me a better subject. Even now, it's so much easier to take a nice picture of a child, even a really ugly child, than it is to take of a good looking grown up. We dissect our smiles, do our picture faces, stop sitting in profile, make sure our hair is not sticking up at strange angles and when we finally get the picture, we're always disappointed. Surely that's not me, we say, surely that's not how the world sees me? Do I really look like that?

No, actually, you don't.

The One In Which I Have Nothing To Say (so I strongly recommend, no URGE, you to read something else for a bit)

(Posted here yesterday)

Do you ever wish you were an heiress? (Or an heir, whichever one is applicable.) (Incidentally is it an heir or a heir?) I know I do. I wish I was Paris Hilton—well, not her precisely, I wouldn’t want her life—but I wish I had lots and lots of money and I didn’t have to work for it. I wish I could, if I chose, take off somewhere exotic, like, oh, Bali. And sit on the beach with my Givenchy shades and my YSL bikini and my Loius Vuitton tote bag and watch the waves. I wish I could spend my days waking up lazily at noon, ringing the bell for the first of a series of maids to come in and bring me a cup of coffee. And not just any coffee either. It would be cappuccino, finely whipped, so the foam would come off on my upper lip. Then I’d call my rich friends, and get into my car (depending on my mood, it would be either that big fancy SUV type car that everyone seems to have, or a little zippy one) and go somewhere posh for lunch. Like 360. Where we would eat sushi with chopsticks, because we’d know how to use them without getting the sauce all over our chins or dropping the damn things a hundred times because they’re too slippery. Mmmm.. sushi. And we’d be all shiny haired and clear skinned, and things like weather would never bother us at all—because really, we’d only have one kind of weather—air conditioning.
Then, perhaps, I’d go home, and slip into my soundproof studio—with a Bose system and ocean blue wall-to-wall carpeting, the kind that sinks under your toes when you walk across it, and I’d curl up on the couch and pull my laptop up to me and write all day—pausing every now and then for refreshments. And I wouldn’t need to do anything else—because I would be an heiress, so I could exhaust whatever creative spurt I had and then go shopping to like Mango.

And because I was an heiress, I’d buy me something exciting to blog about. A weekend abroad, perhaps. And you would gasp, and say oh my, what a fascinating life you lead. And I would be all modest and say, it’s not so much really. And because I was an heiress, I’d buy me some love—because the Beatles were wrong and money can so buy you love---and he would be all pretty and kind and supersmart and he’d sharpen my pencils and bring me coffee and talk over story ideas with me and when we got married, he’d take care of the kids while I worked. And sure, people would whisper that he only married me for my money, but we would hold hands everywhere we went and we’d have private jokes and five dogs and I wouldn’t care even if he did marry me for my money, because he’d be like the employee of the year. Of the century, even.

But I’m not an heiress. I’m not even close to being an heiress. And my weekend consisted of being fairly sober this time, at birthday parties, and going shopping to Sarojini Nagar—where I picked up some excellent clothes. And some of them actually had Mango tags on them. So there. But I am whisking myself off for exotic holiday. Well, not quite so exotic, and not quite a holiday either. More like an, um, weekend break. To Bombay. Because I’m bored out of my skull, because suddenly Delhi, this city I love so much is acting like a big fat pain in the ass, and I think a little distance would do us both some good. So it is to Bombay I go—to spend time with the beloved Pieces and perhaps help her move house (read: stand around and offer suggestions). But because I’m not an heiress, I can’t just drive by to the airport all packed and leave and I need to do all sorts of things like book tickets in advance and seeing as I’m not an heiress, again, I don’t even own a credit card, so I need to go by the office of the airlines and pick up my tickets in person and oh, being an heiress would make my life so much simpler. I need to wait two weeks now, in anticipation of Party Expedition type weekend, just getting out of Delhi would be fun, even if I only was going to Chandigarh and I wouldn’t go to Chandigarh because they wouldn’t let me smoke. If I had company, maybe I’d go to the hills, but my friends feel differently about weekend breaks, and they don’t quite need the weekend break. I haven’t had a holiday in forever, not since May, not since Egypt and May seems so far away, like it belongs in another lifetime.

Sure, I’ll be very, very broke when I return (because why? Because I’m not an heiress) but that’s okay, right? Tickets to Bombay: 5,500 rupees, money spent in Bombay: 3,000 rupees (okay, I’m reaching here, I realize); an impulse-filled weekend vacation: priceless. Tra-la-la, if only I had a MasterCard.

ps: Pieces will probably be superbusy, so if you're in Bombay and you're free, totally email me and we'll hang out and get shitfaced somewhere nice or something. Go on, do, you know you want to.

Little Red Driving Hood

(These guys got the first look!)


Once upon a time, in a city plagued with doubt and despair, there lived a beautiful maiden called Little Red Driving Hood. She was called that because she drove a chariot (which was black, but still, small detail) and she wore a red shawl. Little Red Driving Hood loved her city, despite the doubt and despair and she was happy living in it, with her woodland friends and comrades.
One morning, Little Red Driving Hood woke up and made herself a cup of sustaining brew as was her custom, before she picked up the daily gazetteer that the town criers put together to give the citizens of that city a fair and not so fair view of what the day had to offer. She noticed shops with locks on them, and watchmen snoozing outside and wondered what had happened to make it so.
But because Little Red Driving Hood was a frivolous creature—which is what let her be happy in the first place---she soon put thoughts of her city’s apparent shut down out of her mind and prepared her toilette so she could go across the fields to the neighbouring town where she worked.
That morning, the other fair maiden who resided with her was giving her a ride back to her car, parked at the other fair maiden’s parents castle, not very far away. On the way, they stopped to pick up another young lad who also worked with Driving Hood in the neighbouring town.
Once she reached her chariot, Driving Hood noticed that her fuel chart appeared a little low on supplies. With the young lad, she drove to a nearby filling station not noticing the Big Bad Wolf coming up from behind her and carefully removing the air from her front left wheel. The chariot started listing a little to the side, and the Young Lad stuck his head out of the window and confirmed that indeed, the tyre was flat.
“Oh no,” said Driving Hood, “Now what shall I do? Especially since the spare tyre is flat as well.” But being a maiden of great resources, as well as beauty, she managed to drag her flagging chariot to the filling station, where, she hoped like most filling stations, they would be able to repair it. But alas, she hoped against hope. All they could do, was fill a little air in the tyre and send them on their way to another wheel place, that would be able to do the trick.
“Never fear!” said Driving Hood, “I will get us there! Carry on, oh trusty chariot!” The chariot tried its very best, moving forward slowly, and trying not to cause any more damage to its tyre, and they reached the lane where the Tyresmiths lived, strange mysterious creatures, who puffed on their leaf cigarettes and watched the two of them with hardened eyes. Young Lad looked slightly nervous, but Driving Hood rolled down her window to ask the Tyresmiths whether they would be so kind as to attend to her chariot. “We’re shut,” said one. And it was true! All around them, shutters were down, and with a sinking heart, Driving Hood remembered that morning’s gazette. “All the places are shut,” she breathed and Young Lad looked even more alarmed.
The chariot just barely made it back to her own stone hut and there it stood sadly as the two of them regarded it. Time was ticking fast, and in order to complete their first task of the day they had to be in the neighbouring town soon, or risk being turned into toads. “We could,” faltered the Young Man, “Take the tyre with us to the neighbouring town and ask them to repair it there.” Though the idea seemed foolish, it was also the only option that seemed feasible at the time, and so they opened the back of the chariot and removed the spare tyre. And, then the Young Lad, with great gallantry, half-rolled, half-carried the heavy thing to the road, where Driving Hood flagged down a haycart which would take them to the very edge of the next town.
The tyre was old and dirty and the Young Lad’s hands and clothes got badly stained, but still he persevered, and Driving Hood meanwhile sent up a signal to her place of employment, letting them know that they were on their way, and whether another chariot could be sent to meet them. But by the time they got to the very edge of their next town, another signal was sent saying that no chariots were presently available. Driving Hood could have cried. Especially since her red shawl was now muddy and dirty. And the walk from the edges to the main town was quite a distance, even rolling a tyre.
The town’s official security guards looked at them a little curiously, as the duo pushed the tyre past their check post and stood at the side of the road, hoping to get a lift with another chariot. But though most chariots slowed down to have a look, no one stopped and their hearts filled with despair.
But then hope! In the form of a shining steed on a bicycle cart, sent by their place of employment. The Young Lad and Driving Hood clambered gladly into it, resting the tyre against their legs. And sure enough, they found Tyresmiths open, who fixed the tyre and sent them on their way. And by the time they reached their place of employment and left the tyre with the reception, news of their adventures had spread and they weren’t turned into toads after all.
“All’s well that ends well,” sighed Driving Hood, when she reached her stone hut that evening and sank thankfully into bed.

What, you still want a moral? Fine, here you go. Taking a flat tyre with you from Delhi to Gurgaon is never a good idea, no matter if it may seem that way at the time.

Meh. Not a good week.

My life is a prime time drama

(Posted here first!)

Previously on The Compulsive Confessor:
“I’ve decided to have a Halloween party!”
“Halloween’s on a Tuesday, dude.”
“So, I’ll have it on the weekend before that, and call it a post-Diwali, pre-Halloween party.”
***
“Um.. Small, I think I have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“I think I might have gone overboard on the inviting.”
“Soooooo, how many people are we expecting?”
“Close to fifty six?”
“Okay, then.”
“Yeah.”

***


(Scene: eM is standing in front of the mirror, wearing a black sheath and yellow wings. Carefully, she smooths down her hair and then sets on her head, a thin black metal hairband, with aluminium foil twisted around it. Stepping back, she surveys the effect and smiles at herself. There is a knock on the door).

eM: Come in!

(Enter Fariha, a friend of Small’s originally, who then became a friend of eM’s. And who is still dressed in jeans and a green top, carrying a large case.)

eM: Dude, you’re not dressed yet!

Fariha: Chill, Small’s in the bathroom, I’ll go when she’s done. Do you want some help? (holds up case) I can do your makeup!

eM: Okay! How do I look, by the way?

Fariha (sitting down and busily unpacking her case): You look really sweet.

eM: I’m aiming more for sexy than sweet here.

Fariha: Once I’m done with you, you’ll look sexy, I promise.

(There is much makeup slathering and eyeshadowing and rouging and glittering cleavage and in the meanwhile, Pirate arrives! Dressed as, um, a pirate. Duh.)

(Theme song plays:

It's getting so lonely inside this bed
Don't know if I should lick my wounds or say woe is me instead
And there's an aching inside my head
It's telling me I'm better off alone
But after midnight morning will come
And the day will see if you will get some
They say that girl ya know she act too tough tough tough
Well it's till' I turn off the light, turn off the light
They say that girl you know she act so rough rough rough
Well it's till' I turn off the light, turn off the light
And I say follow me follow me follow me down down down down till' you see all my dreams
Not everything in this magical world is quite what it seems
I looked above the other day
Cuz I think I'm good and ready for a change
I live my life by the moon
If it's high play it low, if it's harvest go slow and if it's full, then go
But after midnight morning will come
And the day will see if you're gonna get some.
Credits roll.)

eM: Well, here we are, the five of us. Pirate, it’s your job to make sure I get mind blowingly drunk.

Pirate: (keeps his word, faithfully, though really I don’t think it was all his doing)

Small: (is dressed as a gypsy)

Tall: (is dressed as an 80s aerobics instructor)

Fariha: (is dressed as the Goddess of Love)

(Doorbell! Yay!)

(Enter Frida, Mrs Havisham, a Hunter Photographer, a hippy and Frida’s flatmate wearing horns and a suit)

Frida: (has to play twenty questions with eM before she is discovered)

Horned-Suited flatmate: (holds up tag on his suit that says Prada, thus revealing himself as the Devil Wears Prada and eM’s most favourite costume EVER.)

eM: (falls promptly in love with The Devil Wears Prada)

The Devil Wears Prada: (looks a little bemused at this love)

Everyone: Drinkety-drinkety-drink-drink

(Enter People Who Didn’t Bother To Come In Costume)

eM: (scolds)

eM: (ushers towards bar)
eM: (forces drinks down people’s throats)

(Enter Pirate #2)

eM: (forgives Pirate #2 for not being completely Pirate-y, when he hands her a bottle of wine)

Much Time Is Spent: (looking for a wine bottle opener)

(Ooh, more people!)

Pimp: (is pimplike)

Tree: (Cannot make up her mind whether to be Tree or Hippy #2)

Vampire/Sorceress/Elvira type person: (is blackly dressed)

All three: (unpack fancy glass thermos thing with vodka and cranberry juice)

eM: (looks longingly)

eM: (is not offered any)

eM: (chases people out of the kitchen because of the Nasty Lurky Rat)

Nasty Lurky Rat: (lurks)

Nasty Lurky Rat: (avoids rat poison)

(Enter Pirate # 3, also known as the Best Pirate, because she has a) a headscarf, b) permanent marker chest hair c) an eyepatch and d) a hook. Also enter Big Bottle Of Beer, who is competing with The Devil Wears Prada to be eM’s favourite costume EVER.)

Big Bottle Of Beer and The Devil Wears Prada: (are oblivious)

Best Pirate: (is shown to the two other pirates and held up as an example)

Best Pirate: (examples)

eM: (is still not drunk)

Everybody: (starts moving upwards to the terrace)

eM: (looks for everybody)

eM: (cries at splitting up of party)

eM: (doesn’t REALLY cry)

eM: (goes upstairs and chases people downwards)

People: (refuse to be chased)
(Camera pans over crowd to reveal that the majority of the guests are foreigners, as in, non-Indians)

Foreigners: (are foreign)

Foreigners (speak in foreign languages)

Foreigners: (don’t really speak in foreign languages but accented English which SOUNDS foreign)

eM: (wonders how she knows so many people)

eM: (feels very popular)

Editor-Poets: (arrive)

Editor-Poets: (are not in costume)

eM: (is STILL not drunk)

eM: (is cross at lack of costume)

Mr Editor Poet: (takes off spectacles to reveal himself as Man With Makeup)

eM: (scoffs)

eM: (needs another drink)

eM: (fetches more alcohol for people)

eM: (is DONE being a hostess)

eM: (is FINALLY drunk)

eM: (is all wheeeeeeeeee!)

eM: (forgets the rest of the evening)

eM: (is kissed on the mouth by many people)

eM: (wonders why people keep kissing her on the mouth)

eM: (thinks maybe mouth kissing is the new cheek kiss)

eM: (doesn’t want to seem like she’s behind the times)

Everybody else: (become blurry dots)

eM: (loves blurry dots)

eM: (blows kisses at blurry dots)

eM: (feels at one with the universe)
eM: (perhaps makes some drunk calls)

eM: (should have her cellphone taken away from her)

eM: (cannot stand straight anymore)

Blurry Dots: (look vaguely amused)

Blurry Dots: (turn on the music)

eM: (dances alone)

eM: (still dances alone)

eM: (drags people to the dance floor)

People: (recoil in horror)

Blurry Dots: (leave)

eM: (kicks passed out friend from bed)

eM: (lies down)

eM: (is asleep)

eM: (is loving writing like this)

eM: (finds it strangely addictive)

(End credits)