> The WTF department: My blogger compose page is for some reason blue. Is this normal? Is Blogger fucking with me? Why blue if they have to change the colour anyhow? I hate how people pick blue whenever they change the colours of things. I'm sick of seeing blue on every webpage I visit. Previously, the compose page was a nice shade of a sepia. Nice. Non-instrusive. Not fucking with my sensibilities. But blue? And this shade of baby blue also, I'm sorry if you like baby blue you're either a 15-year-old girl or really, really gay.
Speaking of really, really gay--so the Worldspace is all fixed up in our house. It belongs to Shark Tooth, but, really, since I'm working from home, it's pretty much mine. And my favourite station, at least one I used to love back in Delhi was Spin, the campus rock station. And since in Delhi I actually had to shower in the morning and leave the house for long periods of time, I never listened to it in the daytime. And thankfuckinggod too. Do you know what they just played? Two Become One by the Spice Girls, Sweet Child Of Mine by GNR--probably the most overrated song EVER and now John Mayer. I like John Mayer as much as the next premenstrual girl, but really, who is this station aimed at in the afternoon? Baristas, I know, play Worldspace all day, but if I was sitting at a Barista at 3.55 in the evening, I totally do not want to listen to Are you as good as I remember, baby, get it on, get it on. Two become one, my ass. Maybe it's like the Gay Takeover, where secretly the station has been invaded by Evil Homosexuals From Mars so that no one on earth can procreate and the human race will eventually die out.
> While we're on the subject of crappy music: So last night, I was out with Shark Tooth after looking for bookshelves and being overcharged (950 for some piece of crap that looked like it would fall apart if it had more than two books on it, and 16 and a half k for getting one made. Out of mahogany and gold inlay, you ask? No, bamboo) and then out of depression we went and got a drink and then the bar started to play Bed Of Roses by Bon Jovi, you know the song you thought was uber-romantic when you were 12 and then I was listening to it last night, in the way you only listen to music when you're a little drunk, and the words suddenly make sense in this huge the-universe-is-parting-to-reveal-the-meaning-of-life-to-me way and I realised that Bon Jovi was an asshole. I mean, take the words of the song. "Tonight, I won't be alone, but know that won't mean I'm not lonely"? "Some blonde gave me nightmares, I think that she's still in my bed"? "When you close your eyes, know Ill be thinking about you, while my mistress she calls me, to stand in her spotlight again"? So then DON'T FUCK HER, JON. It's very easy. If you're horny, go do the woman you're singing about in the first place, who you want to lay down in a bed of roses (thorns removed, I'm assuming). No wonder you have to sing sad songs about her.
> Lest You Think I've Become A Sad Bitter Old Lady: There are quite a few things to rejoice about this month. For one thing, my car is here! And it is awesome, even though I keep getting lost, I now know my way to at least two spots in town, and some bits of the suburbs. And it's FUN, zipping around, in air conditioned transport--though I only drive at night, because Bombay traffic in the daytime is more than I can take. Ooh, and there are some sexy boys and that's always fun. And there are friends in town from Delhi, and happy reunions, and I'm having a party tomorrow night, which should also be very drunken. And I have a sunwarmed kitten rumbling purrs around my ankles. (He is now fucking HUGE. I think his dad was like a puma or something.)
> Linkslutting my way to the future: Check out this website. It's like the lowdown TRUTH on relationships. So awesome. Go read it. (I got it off Zigzackly's other blog.)
(This is my non-disclaimer disclaimer saying that I'm tired of being all pc, and if you don't like what you read go whine to someone else, because it's MY blog and I can do what I want. Oh, but before you go, say hello to my finger!)
(And don't tell me Worldspace doesn't have this whole huge gay conspiracy going. Now they're playing Justin Timberlake.)
Tales from urban India
31 March 2007
28 March 2007
My Old Wise People
I love my friend the Duck Of Destiny. No, seriously, I do. And I'm even proposing marriage right here on this blog because of my great and passionate rush of feelings towards him. There are many reasons to love him (in fact, we're going to have a passionate affair in New York when we are both 40 and old and wise), but one of the biggest reasons is that he is a consistent nail-on-the-head-hitter. Every story I tell him--if he's listening listening and not just making fun of me--gets the most marvellous insights.
Like, recently? We were chatting about men, more specifically the men in my life, and he said, "Well, you're lovely till you have your first meltdown, so you should avoid that." And I was just so struck by that. My meltdown! How awesome! It had a word then, the drunk calling at three am, the weepy smoke breaks at work, the need to ask why why why don't you feel the same way about me. And such a succint word too.
Anyway. So Samit is awesome. Other people who know him will vouch for this. But now it's time to kick him off my blog and bring on an email I got from my mother this morning. I had mentioned the "meltdown" conversation and I was in a general snit about the State Of My Love Life. (Hey, if I can't whine to my mother who can I whine to?) and she sent me this (edited, of course, to save whatever little anonymity I have, but I did check whether I could post it):
Dear eM,
Have been sitting here for the last half-an-hour trying to formulate some golden advice on how to avoid a "meltdown" (what a wonderful word!) --a brilliant insight, in fact, of the mysterious way we women over how many generations yearn to abdicate all power and responsibility for our lives. Many years ago, when you were still a teenager (This bit I do object to, I'm only 25 in case my mother has forgotten, it wasn't that long ago I was a teenager!), you declared one day, half in fun, that what you wished most of all was to lead a dog's life. To my mind, what you were wishing for was the desire to surrender all your hard-won independence and self-empowerment to the idea of making yourself lovable. It's an innately suicidal thought that women have probably been nurtured on for ever, almost as inescapable as our genes: this idea of making ourselves lovable. I keep thinking of how we mothers, while training our daughters with such solicitude on how to grow into financial independence, yet fail in the more important task of making them as emotionally tough as men. How many men do you know, for instance, no matter how callow or how old, who are susceptible to this lethal meltdown? This need, this overwhelming hunger for a man's love, this readiness to strip off all our plans and dreams as if these were only unwieldy clothes we donned for the sake of propriety, and which we put on only for the joy of taking them off again.
When we can admit to ourselves that it's mostly women who have these meltdowns--and the few men we know who are prone to similar meltdowns are men we secretly despise, as someone weak and needy and clingy--how can we then believe that women are as emanicipated as men? All that talk of sexual equality--isn't it just a load of rubbish? Are we really ready to enjoy casual sex the way men do and move on, taking pleasure only in the conquest and onwards to fresh adventure? Are we ready to forgo the Great Dream of the charming prince who will sweep us out of our life--so humdrum and tedious and hard-won, it seems--and will bear our cross for us for the rest of our life, saving us the trouble of those decisions, so troublesome and yet so exhilarating.
Baby, until you give up that dream and truly embrace your life for what it is, the meltdowns will keep recurring, no matter how many Princes and their shadows keep coming into your life. Put your ardour and passion into something more lasting than boys, dear heart. I know this is easier said than done, but you have so many gifts that deserve your passion: reading and writing being only two of them. There's your compassion for animals, your curiosity, your need to explore, your need to play more than games of love and your need to excel at something---the hard, satisfying enviable pleasure of accomplishing something arduous to your satisfaction. Be a man, my dear, and battle that urge for meltdown, and you'll have done something worthwhile for all of womankind.
Love, Ma
I hope you all have such excellent Wise People in your tribe too.
Like, recently? We were chatting about men, more specifically the men in my life, and he said, "Well, you're lovely till you have your first meltdown, so you should avoid that." And I was just so struck by that. My meltdown! How awesome! It had a word then, the drunk calling at three am, the weepy smoke breaks at work, the need to ask why why why don't you feel the same way about me. And such a succint word too.
Anyway. So Samit is awesome. Other people who know him will vouch for this. But now it's time to kick him off my blog and bring on an email I got from my mother this morning. I had mentioned the "meltdown" conversation and I was in a general snit about the State Of My Love Life. (Hey, if I can't whine to my mother who can I whine to?) and she sent me this (edited, of course, to save whatever little anonymity I have, but I did check whether I could post it):
Dear eM,
Have been sitting here for the last half-an-hour trying to formulate some golden advice on how to avoid a "meltdown" (what a wonderful word!) --a brilliant insight, in fact, of the mysterious way we women over how many generations yearn to abdicate all power and responsibility for our lives. Many years ago, when you were still a teenager (This bit I do object to, I'm only 25 in case my mother has forgotten, it wasn't that long ago I was a teenager!), you declared one day, half in fun, that what you wished most of all was to lead a dog's life. To my mind, what you were wishing for was the desire to surrender all your hard-won independence and self-empowerment to the idea of making yourself lovable. It's an innately suicidal thought that women have probably been nurtured on for ever, almost as inescapable as our genes: this idea of making ourselves lovable. I keep thinking of how we mothers, while training our daughters with such solicitude on how to grow into financial independence, yet fail in the more important task of making them as emotionally tough as men. How many men do you know, for instance, no matter how callow or how old, who are susceptible to this lethal meltdown? This need, this overwhelming hunger for a man's love, this readiness to strip off all our plans and dreams as if these were only unwieldy clothes we donned for the sake of propriety, and which we put on only for the joy of taking them off again.
When we can admit to ourselves that it's mostly women who have these meltdowns--and the few men we know who are prone to similar meltdowns are men we secretly despise, as someone weak and needy and clingy--how can we then believe that women are as emanicipated as men? All that talk of sexual equality--isn't it just a load of rubbish? Are we really ready to enjoy casual sex the way men do and move on, taking pleasure only in the conquest and onwards to fresh adventure? Are we ready to forgo the Great Dream of the charming prince who will sweep us out of our life--so humdrum and tedious and hard-won, it seems--and will bear our cross for us for the rest of our life, saving us the trouble of those decisions, so troublesome and yet so exhilarating.
Baby, until you give up that dream and truly embrace your life for what it is, the meltdowns will keep recurring, no matter how many Princes and their shadows keep coming into your life. Put your ardour and passion into something more lasting than boys, dear heart. I know this is easier said than done, but you have so many gifts that deserve your passion: reading and writing being only two of them. There's your compassion for animals, your curiosity, your need to explore, your need to play more than games of love and your need to excel at something---the hard, satisfying enviable pleasure of accomplishing something arduous to your satisfaction. Be a man, my dear, and battle that urge for meltdown, and you'll have done something worthwhile for all of womankind.
Love, Ma
I hope you all have such excellent Wise People in your tribe too.
23 March 2007
It's not me, it's you
I'm going through a very I-hate-men phase in my life right now. No, no, not sour grapes, grapes are actually fairly ripe and crushed into delectable red wine even. It's just general fuckwittage that I'm being made party to, men who aren't straight with you when you ask them things and so on. So, in honour of that, and as a guide for men who read this blog (two? three? hello out there) I'm doing a list of myths about women that absolutely are not true and if you are propogating these myths then you are probably guilty of being the fuckwitter to some poor unsuspecting woman.
Myth One: Oh-Baby-Let's-Get-Married-And-Have-Our-Own-Babies (the all women are looking for commitment myth): Um, no. So not true. There is a point in all of our lives when we think about marriage and children and so on. But come on, so do you. In today's day and age, when we are taught in our fucking cradles that to murmur "So, where is this going?" on a first date is a strict no-no, unless you want to get rid of the guy. (And, ladies, I have used this one with EXCELLENT results, perfect for cutting ties with a boy you don't want to see anymore). Why is it so hard to understand that women might be commitment-phobic too? I want to be in a relationship, yes, but these are things I will only figure out after I've spent some time with you, after like a couple of months of hanging and getting to know each other. And just because YOU suddenly want to date and have all these rosy ideals by like day six, doesn't mean I'm going to jump at the offer. And to express surprise at this: "But I thought you wanted to be in a relationship" will just mean that I will run even further and yes, no.
Myth Two: Is-That-A-Gun-In-Your Pocket-Or-Are-You-Just-Happy-To-See-Me (the if I tell a woman the truth she will either cry or throw something at me myth): We're grown up. Just like you. We normally work in professions as demanding if nor more demanding than yours. We've been to meetings too, we've had our off-days, our break ups, our massive hangovers and still managed to work without losing our cool. Seriously, we are not going to burst into tears if you say you're just not that into us. We get it. We've all been just not that into people before. It's hurtful for our egos, and we might go home and bitch to our best friends about it for the next three days, but we're sure as hell not going to take it out on you. And yes, yes, I know we've all had the psycho ex who just refused to listen to what you've had to say, but then, we've known men like that also. And it's not because we like you any MORE for telling us the truth. Oh, we're going to hate you for at least six months. But the whole not losing our cool thing? We're doing it for ourselves so you don't think of us as a) weepy, b) clingy, c) psycho or d) all of the above. We have delicate egos (and we're not that used to being rejected) too.
Myth Three: And-The-Academy-Award-Goes-To (the in order to get some action I must tell the woman what I think she wants to hear even if it isn't the truth myth): Puh-leese. At least let us remember you as the nice guy who didn't fake it. Here's like a secret: women get horny too. Who knew, right? So, yeah, one night stand? Cool. Just don't tell us you're in love with us or go into iambic pentameter about how smart and funny and beautiful you think we are. Coz tomorrow we will know it's bullshit. Even if, as lonely people, we want to believe it a little bit today.
Myth Four: Where-Are-Your-Eyeballs-Again? (the if I do a rapid up and down she won't notice that I'm checking out her breasts myth): Look, I'm pretty short. And in order to talk to me, most men have to look downwards. And YET, yet I can tell when someone's looking at my face or at my cleavage. Which is okay, if you're not being shady about it. Just know that We Are Not Fooled.
Myth Five: I-Was-A-Teenage-Workaholic (the if I say I'm really busy at work and shit she should take it as a valid excuse myth): Sigh. We work too. We still text, even if it's just to say we're going to be in a meeting. We still call, even if it's only on a cigarette break. We still manage to keep you up-to-date on what we're up to. So we know that when you're playing the I'm really busy dude card, you're lying. Here's another secret (see, see how much you're learning. This blog aims to be educational if nothing else): Woman's intuition? Not a myth. We Always Know. We know when you're attracted to someone else, we know when you like someone else and we also know when you've cheated on us. It's actually not that hard. Men cannot multitask, and so we can see the energy you've been putting into us going elsewhere, and we know that that amount of energy will only be invested in something that you think will get you laid. You did it with us, didn't you? We're just waiting for you to slip up a little bit (and every large city in India might as well be a village) so we can use it in ways that you will totally not have fun with. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Five is always a good number. And I do feel so much better after my rant. Whatever would I do without blogging, I wonder? Or without men actually, because then, who would I bitch about? Oh well, I hope the wine doesn't turn into vinegar because THEN I will be seriously pissed off, not just whiny and snarly.
Myth One: Oh-Baby-Let's-Get-Married-And-Have-Our-Own-Babies (the all women are looking for commitment myth): Um, no. So not true. There is a point in all of our lives when we think about marriage and children and so on. But come on, so do you. In today's day and age, when we are taught in our fucking cradles that to murmur "So, where is this going?" on a first date is a strict no-no, unless you want to get rid of the guy. (And, ladies, I have used this one with EXCELLENT results, perfect for cutting ties with a boy you don't want to see anymore). Why is it so hard to understand that women might be commitment-phobic too? I want to be in a relationship, yes, but these are things I will only figure out after I've spent some time with you, after like a couple of months of hanging and getting to know each other. And just because YOU suddenly want to date and have all these rosy ideals by like day six, doesn't mean I'm going to jump at the offer. And to express surprise at this: "But I thought you wanted to be in a relationship" will just mean that I will run even further and yes, no.
Myth Two: Is-That-A-Gun-In-Your Pocket-Or-Are-You-Just-Happy-To-See-Me (the if I tell a woman the truth she will either cry or throw something at me myth): We're grown up. Just like you. We normally work in professions as demanding if nor more demanding than yours. We've been to meetings too, we've had our off-days, our break ups, our massive hangovers and still managed to work without losing our cool. Seriously, we are not going to burst into tears if you say you're just not that into us. We get it. We've all been just not that into people before. It's hurtful for our egos, and we might go home and bitch to our best friends about it for the next three days, but we're sure as hell not going to take it out on you. And yes, yes, I know we've all had the psycho ex who just refused to listen to what you've had to say, but then, we've known men like that also. And it's not because we like you any MORE for telling us the truth. Oh, we're going to hate you for at least six months. But the whole not losing our cool thing? We're doing it for ourselves so you don't think of us as a) weepy, b) clingy, c) psycho or d) all of the above. We have delicate egos (and we're not that used to being rejected) too.
Myth Three: And-The-Academy-Award-Goes-To (the in order to get some action I must tell the woman what I think she wants to hear even if it isn't the truth myth): Puh-leese. At least let us remember you as the nice guy who didn't fake it. Here's like a secret: women get horny too. Who knew, right? So, yeah, one night stand? Cool. Just don't tell us you're in love with us or go into iambic pentameter about how smart and funny and beautiful you think we are. Coz tomorrow we will know it's bullshit. Even if, as lonely people, we want to believe it a little bit today.
Myth Four: Where-Are-Your-Eyeballs-Again? (the if I do a rapid up and down she won't notice that I'm checking out her breasts myth): Look, I'm pretty short. And in order to talk to me, most men have to look downwards. And YET, yet I can tell when someone's looking at my face or at my cleavage. Which is okay, if you're not being shady about it. Just know that We Are Not Fooled.
Myth Five: I-Was-A-Teenage-Workaholic (the if I say I'm really busy at work and shit she should take it as a valid excuse myth): Sigh. We work too. We still text, even if it's just to say we're going to be in a meeting. We still call, even if it's only on a cigarette break. We still manage to keep you up-to-date on what we're up to. So we know that when you're playing the I'm really busy dude card, you're lying. Here's another secret (see, see how much you're learning. This blog aims to be educational if nothing else): Woman's intuition? Not a myth. We Always Know. We know when you're attracted to someone else, we know when you like someone else and we also know when you've cheated on us. It's actually not that hard. Men cannot multitask, and so we can see the energy you've been putting into us going elsewhere, and we know that that amount of energy will only be invested in something that you think will get you laid. You did it with us, didn't you? We're just waiting for you to slip up a little bit (and every large city in India might as well be a village) so we can use it in ways that you will totally not have fun with. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Five is always a good number. And I do feel so much better after my rant. Whatever would I do without blogging, I wonder? Or without men actually, because then, who would I bitch about? Oh well, I hope the wine doesn't turn into vinegar because THEN I will be seriously pissed off, not just whiny and snarly.
19 March 2007
On Working From Home
You awaken thrice before it's actually time for you to wake up. If it's your turn to open the door for the maid, you do. Some days, you forget whose turn it is and do anyway, so that the reproachful sounds of your flatmate's footsteps don't reach you. The cook asks you what she should make for dinner, you are aware that she is noting how you sleep, on your stomach, one arm curled around your pillow. You murmur something, she says you haven't touched the rotis she made yesterday. You apologise. You try to go back to sleep. It is ten am and your cat needs to be fed. He makes this known by sitting on your back and meowing into your ear. You lift him up and kick him out of the room. Your alarm goes. You press the snooze button. Your alarm goes again. You surrender and wake up.
The house is all yours. You cherish this. You go to the bathroom with the door open. You put the kettle on for coffee. Your cat twines himself around your legs, with accusing meows. You feed him, he follows you back to the kitchen to see if you have anything more appealing on offer. Still sleep bleary, you switch on your laptop and plug in the cable wire. A slight flaw in the internet and your day is undone. Your computer hasn't been working so you rely on your flatmate's. Other people are commuting. You are in your boxer shorts and t-shirt, smoking your first cigarette of the day and checking your email. Other people who commute can afford to spend the day just surfing the internet, by virtue of the clocking in. You feel guilty. You don't allow yourself any breaks beyond lunch. You check if your story ideas have been approved. If they have, you start making your phone calls. Still, you are at home after all, and your body takes this as a cue to relax. Your mind however, doesn't. You feel guilty on a week you don't have any stories. You feel guilty on days when you don't have to meet anyone. Guilt, guilt, guilt. You are racked by it. You contemplate some days, just taking the train and going into your office, but discard this as impractical. At office, you are legitimately allowed to have weeks where you have nothing to show. Weeks where the weekend feels like an excuse to do what you've done all week.
You forget what it's like to have conversations with people who are not your cat.
The days when you have to meet people are filled with glory. You waken early, with a sense of purpose. You dress early, finish your mail checking and head out of the door. You ask questions you've been framing in your head before. You hear the uhs and the ums in your voice, coming from not asking questions all day. Coming from typing questions instead.
You file your story. You research it. Your writing skills have been honed for this is your only form of communication for the most part. You like the way your stories look now. You sometimes wish you had admiring colleagues around you to see how rapidly your fingers move across the keyboard.
It is seven, it is eight. You need to leave the house. To go back to bed in the same nightclothes you are still wearing would be depressing in a way you cannot even imagine. While elsewhere in the world, people commute home, you commute outwards. You are lucky you know many people. You drink more. You smoke more. There is nothing else to do. You are only eating one meal a day most days. Your body does not seem to need any more. You feel cliched.
You tell people you work from home. You hear envy in their voices. This is what you have wanted to do all your life. You are happy. You are guilty.
The house is all yours. You cherish this. You go to the bathroom with the door open. You put the kettle on for coffee. Your cat twines himself around your legs, with accusing meows. You feed him, he follows you back to the kitchen to see if you have anything more appealing on offer. Still sleep bleary, you switch on your laptop and plug in the cable wire. A slight flaw in the internet and your day is undone. Your computer hasn't been working so you rely on your flatmate's. Other people are commuting. You are in your boxer shorts and t-shirt, smoking your first cigarette of the day and checking your email. Other people who commute can afford to spend the day just surfing the internet, by virtue of the clocking in. You feel guilty. You don't allow yourself any breaks beyond lunch. You check if your story ideas have been approved. If they have, you start making your phone calls. Still, you are at home after all, and your body takes this as a cue to relax. Your mind however, doesn't. You feel guilty on a week you don't have any stories. You feel guilty on days when you don't have to meet anyone. Guilt, guilt, guilt. You are racked by it. You contemplate some days, just taking the train and going into your office, but discard this as impractical. At office, you are legitimately allowed to have weeks where you have nothing to show. Weeks where the weekend feels like an excuse to do what you've done all week.
You forget what it's like to have conversations with people who are not your cat.
The days when you have to meet people are filled with glory. You waken early, with a sense of purpose. You dress early, finish your mail checking and head out of the door. You ask questions you've been framing in your head before. You hear the uhs and the ums in your voice, coming from not asking questions all day. Coming from typing questions instead.
You file your story. You research it. Your writing skills have been honed for this is your only form of communication for the most part. You like the way your stories look now. You sometimes wish you had admiring colleagues around you to see how rapidly your fingers move across the keyboard.
It is seven, it is eight. You need to leave the house. To go back to bed in the same nightclothes you are still wearing would be depressing in a way you cannot even imagine. While elsewhere in the world, people commute home, you commute outwards. You are lucky you know many people. You drink more. You smoke more. There is nothing else to do. You are only eating one meal a day most days. Your body does not seem to need any more. You feel cliched.
You tell people you work from home. You hear envy in their voices. This is what you have wanted to do all your life. You are happy. You are guilty.
16 March 2007
So, where you are putting up?
In every city, the poshness of your address is determined by your location to the nearest water body. Like Paris, or Delhi, or Bombay. Sadly, it is my fate to never be on the right side of the water. From East Delhi to East Bombay, I am resigned to always give my address with the slight defensiveness that comes over all of us with not-so-hip addresses, but who rub shoulders regularly with super hip people.
I fled East Delhi as soon as I could, moving in to the South, to an address that was not only acceptable, but also on everyone's way, so no one could roll their eyes at me and say, "Duuude, man, not your house, you live too far away." Okay, so my houses in South Delhi were in the ghettos of posh colonies, with very low rents because of their addresses and yet close enough to everything. But by living in the ghettos, us young single women, we had a certain factor of cool, my last house was always abuzz with activity, people loved to come by and just sit around, despite the four floor Mt Everest style walk-up you had to do to get in. In Bombay, the ghettos of the nice addresses are here, in the East, and crippled by the awesome rents and so on, also faced with a choice of being either here, in a fairly central East suburb or staying in the West and moving way down the line, we opted for this. There is no escaping my non-posh address now, though I am rather fond of it, it's a lovely neighbourhood.
What's not so lovely are my neighbours.
Who lives in the East? Middle class families, that's who. Middle class families who regard me as I walk by at night trying to find an auto, drawing their daughters closer to them so I will not pollute their tender minds. Middle class panwaris who shake their head bordering on rudeness when I ask for my brand of cigarette. Middle class shopkeepers who aren't used to single people, and the ordering of just milk or just coffee, and so won't deliver unless you've placed a mammoth order and hang up right after saying so. I met one set of my neighbours once--we live in a building full of old people and what they must think of all the comings and goings is something I don't even want to imagine--and the wife was combing out her hair, and the husband was all jovial. I had gone to ask for the cable guy's phone number, but they sat me down, gave me tea and watched as I nervously shifted in my shorts, no doubt still wearing half the kajal I had on from the day before.
I don't know actually how to classify my family. My parents weren't exactly middle class, in fact, I used to think it was a term of insult, the way they said, "That's so middle class." But they weren't, aren't, moneyed either. We were comfortable, they had parties strangely similar to the ones I have now, and like me they had rich friends and poor friends and no one really talked about like Family Values and all that jazz. In fact, my mom even had two Naxal friends, who lived a life of poverty with pride, then they had a daughter and joined everyone else. Except for the fact that they didn't have a car--they bought an auto instead.
So my parents and their friends shrugged off definition about where exactly they belonged on the social scale. But I find increasingly, in my generation, more and more people who actually give a fuck about where you're from and where you live and how to classify you than I've ever noticed before. Is this some peculiar form of rebellion? Pick everything your parents didn't? Or do these young people really care about what side of the train tracks I live on?
Addresses are so important. Someone told me before I moved to Bombay, "Oh, you know, there no one cares where you live." And I thought oh fantastic, because that's one of the things I don't like about Delhi. (I had friends because even though I lived in the East, I fit a certain amount of guidelines making me a South Delhi type--the right education, the right accent, the right looks even.) But it's not true. Here, that's the second question you get asked as well, immediately after, "What do you do?" And you can see them making social maps, whether it's worth being friends with you at all, whether you'll fit in with their lives. Here too, I see them puzzling over whether or not to "add" me, because I have a non-posh address, sure, BUT I live alone, which gives me ten thousand coolness points in a city where most people, even at the age of thirty are still living with their parents.
Sigh. Does anything beat the angst of being cool in a non-cool neighbourhood? It's awesome angst though, even searching for the right ATM yesterday was like a little expedition.
I fled East Delhi as soon as I could, moving in to the South, to an address that was not only acceptable, but also on everyone's way, so no one could roll their eyes at me and say, "Duuude, man, not your house, you live too far away." Okay, so my houses in South Delhi were in the ghettos of posh colonies, with very low rents because of their addresses and yet close enough to everything. But by living in the ghettos, us young single women, we had a certain factor of cool, my last house was always abuzz with activity, people loved to come by and just sit around, despite the four floor Mt Everest style walk-up you had to do to get in. In Bombay, the ghettos of the nice addresses are here, in the East, and crippled by the awesome rents and so on, also faced with a choice of being either here, in a fairly central East suburb or staying in the West and moving way down the line, we opted for this. There is no escaping my non-posh address now, though I am rather fond of it, it's a lovely neighbourhood.
What's not so lovely are my neighbours.
Who lives in the East? Middle class families, that's who. Middle class families who regard me as I walk by at night trying to find an auto, drawing their daughters closer to them so I will not pollute their tender minds. Middle class panwaris who shake their head bordering on rudeness when I ask for my brand of cigarette. Middle class shopkeepers who aren't used to single people, and the ordering of just milk or just coffee, and so won't deliver unless you've placed a mammoth order and hang up right after saying so. I met one set of my neighbours once--we live in a building full of old people and what they must think of all the comings and goings is something I don't even want to imagine--and the wife was combing out her hair, and the husband was all jovial. I had gone to ask for the cable guy's phone number, but they sat me down, gave me tea and watched as I nervously shifted in my shorts, no doubt still wearing half the kajal I had on from the day before.
I don't know actually how to classify my family. My parents weren't exactly middle class, in fact, I used to think it was a term of insult, the way they said, "That's so middle class." But they weren't, aren't, moneyed either. We were comfortable, they had parties strangely similar to the ones I have now, and like me they had rich friends and poor friends and no one really talked about like Family Values and all that jazz. In fact, my mom even had two Naxal friends, who lived a life of poverty with pride, then they had a daughter and joined everyone else. Except for the fact that they didn't have a car--they bought an auto instead.
So my parents and their friends shrugged off definition about where exactly they belonged on the social scale. But I find increasingly, in my generation, more and more people who actually give a fuck about where you're from and where you live and how to classify you than I've ever noticed before. Is this some peculiar form of rebellion? Pick everything your parents didn't? Or do these young people really care about what side of the train tracks I live on?
Addresses are so important. Someone told me before I moved to Bombay, "Oh, you know, there no one cares where you live." And I thought oh fantastic, because that's one of the things I don't like about Delhi. (I had friends because even though I lived in the East, I fit a certain amount of guidelines making me a South Delhi type--the right education, the right accent, the right looks even.) But it's not true. Here, that's the second question you get asked as well, immediately after, "What do you do?" And you can see them making social maps, whether it's worth being friends with you at all, whether you'll fit in with their lives. Here too, I see them puzzling over whether or not to "add" me, because I have a non-posh address, sure, BUT I live alone, which gives me ten thousand coolness points in a city where most people, even at the age of thirty are still living with their parents.
Sigh. Does anything beat the angst of being cool in a non-cool neighbourhood? It's awesome angst though, even searching for the right ATM yesterday was like a little expedition.
13 March 2007
Healthy, Natural Tasting Biscuits
> So I had like an epiphanic moment Sunday morning. The night before at this girl's BEAUTIFUL flat--I'm talking huge spaces, marvelous view, pink and red walls, oh, most posh, and of course, I spilt my red wine in the first five minutes--we consumed two and a half bottles of wine (naturally, it was not an Old Monk and Coke sort of house) and mouth red I teetered home and the next morning, I get a call from a friend asking whether I wanted to do lunch and blearily I open my eyes and I'm feeling great. No, more than great, I feel FANTASTIC and full of energy and ready to spend a Sunday about town rather than loll around in bed. No hangover. No dehydration. Red wine is now my new drink. I think I will even have a very posh wine and cheese party soon (although the house smells of kitty litter). At twenty five, I have decided to renounce my college cheap days and embrace being a yuppie.
> Although I find it very hard to make my house look all glamourous. It has the potential, sure, it's a good looking house and it doesn't have much furniture, but as soon as I clean up and scatter candles (well, switch on the lamp at any rate) it gets dirty again. There are still cartons of books that we have no space for occupying floor area in my room, which are now serving as general clean laundry dumping area. And our maids are underworked which means they do the laundry EVERY DAY and so no matter how much I fold there's always more things. It's like that dude with the stone, what was his name? Dionysus? I have to now purchase a nice writing table and a swish bookshelf because my books are stacked on my windowsill and are also in danger of toppling over and smothering me in my sleep. Where can I get nice (and yet cheap) furniture in this city? Anyway, I'm resigning myself to being unposh. Some people are born posh, some have poshness thrust upon them and some achieve poshness. I am secret option d: some people will never ever be posh. My room is a mess, the ashtrays haven't been emptied in forever and there are things everywhere. I can't even blame this on the size of places in Bombay, because my room back in Delhi was exactly the same. "Put some things on the balcony," my mother says and I laugh for quite some time on the phone. Sigh. I miss balconies.
> My love life STINKS. It started out so promisingly and yet now it's all fizzled out. Meh. And you wonder why I don't blog more often. Ooooooh, but Celebrity Date Type Thing (part two: the return) is going to be staged tonight. I wonder what I should wear?
> I went to see Dream Girls yesterday, which was only quite nice. They kept breaking into song, I know it was a musical, but Chicago say or Moulin Rouge had songs I'd like to keep listening to. I even watched Chicago twice. The songs in this were rather boring, and there wasn't much of a plot line except that in the end enemities were resolved and everyone was happy, except for the good guy turned bad. The first half is way better than the second half though. Ooh and it has that American Idol chick, Jennifer Hudson. I love the movies though, and I seldom do it often enough.
> Tourist Season has clearly still not ended. I might as well never have left Delhi at all--only, it's odd, but I spend more time with people when they visit Bombay than I ever did when we both lived in the same city. Now, I've got people visiting over the last two weeks of March, and I just had a friend leave this morning. I'm getting into my stride though, with out of town visitors, the first couple of times I ran myself ragged trying to get optimum use of their time, but now I'm much more chilled about it, going about my life. And also, except for like two people, most of them have other friends in Bombay who they're staying with, so it's much more relaxed for all of us.
> Although I find it very hard to make my house look all glamourous. It has the potential, sure, it's a good looking house and it doesn't have much furniture, but as soon as I clean up and scatter candles (well, switch on the lamp at any rate) it gets dirty again. There are still cartons of books that we have no space for occupying floor area in my room, which are now serving as general clean laundry dumping area. And our maids are underworked which means they do the laundry EVERY DAY and so no matter how much I fold there's always more things. It's like that dude with the stone, what was his name? Dionysus? I have to now purchase a nice writing table and a swish bookshelf because my books are stacked on my windowsill and are also in danger of toppling over and smothering me in my sleep. Where can I get nice (and yet cheap) furniture in this city? Anyway, I'm resigning myself to being unposh. Some people are born posh, some have poshness thrust upon them and some achieve poshness. I am secret option d: some people will never ever be posh. My room is a mess, the ashtrays haven't been emptied in forever and there are things everywhere. I can't even blame this on the size of places in Bombay, because my room back in Delhi was exactly the same. "Put some things on the balcony," my mother says and I laugh for quite some time on the phone. Sigh. I miss balconies.
> My love life STINKS. It started out so promisingly and yet now it's all fizzled out. Meh. And you wonder why I don't blog more often. Ooooooh, but Celebrity Date Type Thing (part two: the return) is going to be staged tonight. I wonder what I should wear?
> I went to see Dream Girls yesterday, which was only quite nice. They kept breaking into song, I know it was a musical, but Chicago say or Moulin Rouge had songs I'd like to keep listening to. I even watched Chicago twice. The songs in this were rather boring, and there wasn't much of a plot line except that in the end enemities were resolved and everyone was happy, except for the good guy turned bad. The first half is way better than the second half though. Ooh and it has that American Idol chick, Jennifer Hudson. I love the movies though, and I seldom do it often enough.
> Tourist Season has clearly still not ended. I might as well never have left Delhi at all--only, it's odd, but I spend more time with people when they visit Bombay than I ever did when we both lived in the same city. Now, I've got people visiting over the last two weeks of March, and I just had a friend leave this morning. I'm getting into my stride though, with out of town visitors, the first couple of times I ran myself ragged trying to get optimum use of their time, but now I'm much more chilled about it, going about my life. And also, except for like two people, most of them have other friends in Bombay who they're staying with, so it's much more relaxed for all of us.
7 March 2007
Keeping My Options Open
A couple of nights ago--Friday, I think it was--I was happily slumbering in my bed in Delhi when my phone rang rather loudly. It was 1.43 in the morning, and I was exhausted, not to mention fast asleep, and since I had lost my phone recently I didn't know the number that was flashing on the screen. It turned out to be a friend of mine in Bombay.
"eM, duuuuuude, where you at?" he asked.
"I'm in Delhi," I told him, "Asleep."
"Ohh, okay, but hey listen, this friend of mine saw you at the Alan Parsons concert and she's been bugging me to get in touch with you."
I opened one eye blearily, about to tell him that I could not possibly talk about work at this time in the night and I would just call him back when I returned to Bombay. But he preempted me.
"Um.. are you, by any chance, bisexual?"
"I'm dreaming this conversation aren't I?"
"No, no, you're awake."
"In that case, sorry, no. I'm quite straight."
That said, I turned over and passed out again.
The next morning I checked my cellphone, and sure enough, this conversation had happened.
Right. Anyway. Last night at Toto's, I was sitting with a friend by the bar, twirling around on my stool, and this girl comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, I'm lesbian, are you?"
I shake my head and return to my conversation.
"There, there," says my friend comfortingly, "They were playing some sort of drinking Truth or Dare, see. she's gone back to her friends now."
I know some homosexuals. Mostly men, but there are the few women thrown in. And the long standing belief is that you can normally tell when someone else is One Of You, making it that much harder for you to be rejected.
Two years ago, I'm very drunk and at a party and chatting with a very friendly woman. I don't know many people at this do, and so I'm grateful to her for being so nice. She twines herself around me.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, "I always hit on straight women."
Not being equipped for a situation like this, since it has never happened before, I blush and stammer something.
"But you're not straight, are you?" she asks themn, lifting her eyes to my face.
I take a long swig of my drink: Actually, I am.
The point is, therefore, seeing as they Can Always Tell, do they know something I don't? "You're either bisexual or you're not," says a friend in Delhi. "Yes, but I was never a cat person till I got a cat," I say. (Insert obvious pussy joke here). Am I attracted to women? Well, no. The reason I'm attracted to men is because their bodies are different and therefore the fascination. With women, meh, I have the same equipment. On the other hand, if they can sense some sort of vibes from deep inside my subconcious--assuming ie that gaydar IS gaydar and not just wishful thinking--then maybe I should reconsider saying I'm straight.
You never know till you try, right? And god knows, I'm sick of men.
ps: I know homo/bisexuality isn't something you just "try" and so on, and I do know it's a definite orientation, something you're born with or can't deny and so on. I was just *thinking* of perhaps experimenting a little bit. Maybe they DO know something I don't.
"eM, duuuuuude, where you at?" he asked.
"I'm in Delhi," I told him, "Asleep."
"Ohh, okay, but hey listen, this friend of mine saw you at the Alan Parsons concert and she's been bugging me to get in touch with you."
I opened one eye blearily, about to tell him that I could not possibly talk about work at this time in the night and I would just call him back when I returned to Bombay. But he preempted me.
"Um.. are you, by any chance, bisexual?"
"I'm dreaming this conversation aren't I?"
"No, no, you're awake."
"In that case, sorry, no. I'm quite straight."
That said, I turned over and passed out again.
The next morning I checked my cellphone, and sure enough, this conversation had happened.
Right. Anyway. Last night at Toto's, I was sitting with a friend by the bar, twirling around on my stool, and this girl comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, I'm lesbian, are you?"
I shake my head and return to my conversation.
"There, there," says my friend comfortingly, "They were playing some sort of drinking Truth or Dare, see. she's gone back to her friends now."
I know some homosexuals. Mostly men, but there are the few women thrown in. And the long standing belief is that you can normally tell when someone else is One Of You, making it that much harder for you to be rejected.
Two years ago, I'm very drunk and at a party and chatting with a very friendly woman. I don't know many people at this do, and so I'm grateful to her for being so nice. She twines herself around me.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, "I always hit on straight women."
Not being equipped for a situation like this, since it has never happened before, I blush and stammer something.
"But you're not straight, are you?" she asks themn, lifting her eyes to my face.
I take a long swig of my drink: Actually, I am.
The point is, therefore, seeing as they Can Always Tell, do they know something I don't? "You're either bisexual or you're not," says a friend in Delhi. "Yes, but I was never a cat person till I got a cat," I say. (Insert obvious pussy joke here). Am I attracted to women? Well, no. The reason I'm attracted to men is because their bodies are different and therefore the fascination. With women, meh, I have the same equipment. On the other hand, if they can sense some sort of vibes from deep inside my subconcious--assuming ie that gaydar IS gaydar and not just wishful thinking--then maybe I should reconsider saying I'm straight.
You never know till you try, right? And god knows, I'm sick of men.
ps: I know homo/bisexuality isn't something you just "try" and so on, and I do know it's a definite orientation, something you're born with or can't deny and so on. I was just *thinking* of perhaps experimenting a little bit. Maybe they DO know something I don't.
4 March 2007
The Long Awaited Homecoming
So I'm in Delhi as I write this, on my father's laptop, at my mother's dining table, about to go eat dinner and call a cab for my abnormally early flight tomorrow morning. I can't believe the weekend is nearly over, well, over now, technically, seeing that all that is left to me is to pack some books that I miss desperately in Bombay, and have some clothes ironed. Already I am homesick, and yet, and yet, I feel this sense of disconnect, like when you're wearing clothes you used to look really great in once, the way your ass looked fantastic and so on, and then when, full of excitement you try them on again the next season, somehow you don't look so hot in them anymore. I have this funny stretched feeling that I don't know how to explain. It's like the classic migrant's problem I believe, this feeling of being suddenly without a home. Delhi will never be the same.
But, when I landed, slightly out of sorts because my flight was a full three hours later than what I had expected, and that meant that TC on Friday night anyway, was out of the question, I looked around at the vast roads, the roundabouts that were so familiar, so burnt into my brain, the last vestiges of winter that hung in the air and pulling my jacket tighter around me, I inhaled all the smells of Delhi, listened to a Haryanvi taxi driver yell something at someone else and the Delhi hole in my body, somewhere near my oesophagus filled out for just a moment and I sighed with all I had. Home. And not. I found myself at 4S tonight, meeting some old writer friends and I bumped into a friend from college. "How long are you here for?" she wanted to know. "I go home Monday morning," I told her, and then caught myself. What was I saying? This was home, right, and not Bombay? When did that happen?
I did finally wind up going to Turquoise Cottage, Saturday night, after a very full day, spent with Fariha, Iggy and Ranvir at Flavours, Sarojini Nagar, another friend at Khan Market and later, Fariha's house for a quick drink before we headed out. The three of them have become friends in my absence, they were friendly before, but now they hang out quite a bit and I watched as they spoke to each other, about plans that had happened, or stuff they were planning for the future weekend, and though they were all there to see me, I knew that they existed without me also. What did I expect, right? Like their lives would be on pause? Just because it's as if Delhi is on pause for me? Even TC, after two months of waiting for it, going out every Wednesday night in Bombay because "it's TC night!" was, well.. different. Not the same people, except for like five or six who I greeted with glee. The manager asked me where I had been, which was nice. And I learnt as I was dropping Iggy home, that Def Col now has a 24/7, where we got some food, and that the Moolchand flyover isn't so fucked anymore because the underpass has finally been built.
It's not like this weekend wasn't awesome though. It was. It was lovely meeting old friends again, bonding with my parents again, in a way I haven't done since boarding school. But I need to wrap my head around the fact that I am temporary. Not living here. And the Delhi in my head exists now, only in my head. When I eventually move back, it'll be the same I know. In some ways, nothing has changed.
Only me.
But, when I landed, slightly out of sorts because my flight was a full three hours later than what I had expected, and that meant that TC on Friday night anyway, was out of the question, I looked around at the vast roads, the roundabouts that were so familiar, so burnt into my brain, the last vestiges of winter that hung in the air and pulling my jacket tighter around me, I inhaled all the smells of Delhi, listened to a Haryanvi taxi driver yell something at someone else and the Delhi hole in my body, somewhere near my oesophagus filled out for just a moment and I sighed with all I had. Home. And not. I found myself at 4S tonight, meeting some old writer friends and I bumped into a friend from college. "How long are you here for?" she wanted to know. "I go home Monday morning," I told her, and then caught myself. What was I saying? This was home, right, and not Bombay? When did that happen?
I did finally wind up going to Turquoise Cottage, Saturday night, after a very full day, spent with Fariha, Iggy and Ranvir at Flavours, Sarojini Nagar, another friend at Khan Market and later, Fariha's house for a quick drink before we headed out. The three of them have become friends in my absence, they were friendly before, but now they hang out quite a bit and I watched as they spoke to each other, about plans that had happened, or stuff they were planning for the future weekend, and though they were all there to see me, I knew that they existed without me also. What did I expect, right? Like their lives would be on pause? Just because it's as if Delhi is on pause for me? Even TC, after two months of waiting for it, going out every Wednesday night in Bombay because "it's TC night!" was, well.. different. Not the same people, except for like five or six who I greeted with glee. The manager asked me where I had been, which was nice. And I learnt as I was dropping Iggy home, that Def Col now has a 24/7, where we got some food, and that the Moolchand flyover isn't so fucked anymore because the underpass has finally been built.
It's not like this weekend wasn't awesome though. It was. It was lovely meeting old friends again, bonding with my parents again, in a way I haven't done since boarding school. But I need to wrap my head around the fact that I am temporary. Not living here. And the Delhi in my head exists now, only in my head. When I eventually move back, it'll be the same I know. In some ways, nothing has changed.
Only me.
1 March 2007
Keeping Score
Things I have lost this week: ATM Card (1 item)
Cellphone (1 item)
A shitload of brand new friends contacts (I forget how many items)
The thought that my cat was a female (Two testicular items)
My mind (who knows how many grey cells still remain anyway?)
Things I have gained this week:
Celebrity crush date type thing (ONE HUGE MOTHERFUCKING ITEM)
Invitations to posh parties (four items)
Tickets to Delhi (well, not this week, but I leave this weekend)
Brand new shiny cellphone (Such a very pretty item)
New friendships (Two, quite cool, items)
News that Solidarity Sister Soulmate Leela will be in Delhi exactly the same weekend I am (I'm-so-excited item)
Pink shiny shoes with a killer heel (They make my feet feel like they're dying but oh, such a sexy item)
Things my cat has gained in this week
News that he is a boy (he looks so proud of himself)
News that he is exceptionally good looking (I could have told you that anyway)
News that he's going to be a really, really LARGE cat ('ims is a big puttytat, 'ims is!)
Things my cat will lose in the next month
His balls (Though my male friends seem to be taking personal affront to this one, almost as if I'm suggesting murder. I don't want him spraying all over the house, I explain reasonably. But they look wounded nonetheless. To tc, I say, "I know you've just discovered your balls, but don't get too attached." I think he'll live)
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