(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.