Behind my eyes

Purple-y days, these days, of summer, with hints of green and gold, at the very edges. i feel minimalist, in the way I am, the way I speak, short sentences, oh okay, is what I say. What I wear is not very different. I am flip-flop clad, skirts reaching thighs, bony shouldered, hand gesturing. Have you gained weight, a friend asks, and even though I want to smack him just a little, has he never met a woman before, I say oh maybe its my hair, oh maybe it’s what I’m wearing, oh maybe it’s the fact that I’m happy, well, happy-ish. Sometimes like last night I watch old people in bars, I see old people, still wearing cleavage, still smiling, still all whee and hurrah and I think maybe if I fold in my edges, maybe if I remember to always sit with my back straight and not stare directly into the sun and not let disappointment show in the corners of my mouth, maybe I will escape that and maybe I will be the only person to be always young. Being happy-ish is somewhat different from being happy, it’s a good feeling, don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely feeling, but at the same time, I’m aware, always, alarmingly, aware that this will end and that shortly, maybe in the not-so-distant future I shall be sad again, well, not sad, but sad-ish. I bought gerberas the other day from a woman at a traffic light and they were pink and orange and lovely, even as they did the end of the day droop and she said I could have them both, both bunches, for ten rupees, and even though I was shopping for an airconditioner and underwear and I didn’t have my car, I bought the flowers and took them with me, whispering into their petals about what I hoped they’d bring to my living room, about how I wanted to be the sort of person who bought flowers for themselves and put them up and I’d always have flowers because having flowers shows you’re the kind of person who does things like that on an impulse. Only I regretted getting those flowers soon enough, because I walked around and people stared at me and my wilting bouquet and I had to keep setting them down when I did things. And when I got home I put them into a Belgian crystal beer mug and tried to make them look pretty only the reason she had sold them to me so cheap in the first place is that they weren’t pretty, they were dying, and they died yesterday all at once petals exploding and I had to throw them away and rinse out the mug and maybe I’m not a flower person after all. Fairly soon I shall be free of encumberances of the emotional kind and free isn't the right word to use here, it implies joy at the fact that my relationship will end, that I will once more be single, because, did you think the expiry date wouldn't happen, oh, because it's happening, it's almost upon me, this is nearly done and it has been fun, I'm still having a good time, but soon we won't know each other anymore and that thought is just dismal. It makes my shoulders sag. Maybe I should have told you I was in love with you before we ended, maybe I should have kissed you that time in Delhi, maybe if I had tried harder we'd still be together and maybe I shouldn't be adding another maybe to my list, I should instead make room for none at all, I should let stars explode behind my eyelids, I should allow this to happen without fighting every single step. Do you believe in fate, in karma, do you believe everything happens for a reason, do you believe in spilling yourself over the internet, do you believe in dinosaurs, do you believe in coincidences, do you believe in compatibility and meant-to-bes, do you think everything is an accident, do you believe in god, do you believe in free will, do you believe that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, do you believe in sex for sex's sake, do you believe a man and a woman can ever be "just friends", do you believe that if you want something badly enough, it'll happen?

The post with a lot of fairly useless links, where I also sound like I'm a little stoned. But I'm not. Really.

It's my birthday!

(No, it's not, but wouldn't it be fun if it were? Or, p'raps not. I DO turn 26 this year, which I think everyone will acknowledge is High Time to be An Adult. High Time. Heh. Every night is high time.)

Anyhoo, I have nothing to say. Really. My life has been fairly calm and uneventful. I finished work on a Major Personal Project, which made me bounce all over the house, like Tigger. I wish I had a tail, some days.

I've decided to buy an air conditioner after several mornings, waking up feeling like I've had a warm shower.

Old Monk and Coke will have to be given up for the summer and this makes me very, very sad, because nothing does it for me like Old Monk. But, after several comparision night type drinking things, I've realised that Old Monk hangovers are now leaving me nauseated and dehydrated all day, while the several large vodkas I imbibed yesterday and a couple of days ago can still get me out of the bed in the morning feeling absolutely peachy. Old Monk, Old Monk, why have you forsaken me? You served me well for close to, oh, nine years now.

I might very well be a sex addict, according to Oprah. I'm not sure exactly what to do with this news.

And to get the link for the last sentence, I typed Oprah Sex Addict into Google, and this made me giggle.

Speaking of things that made me giggle, I happened to look at a cricket match being played the other day--England versus the West Indies, I think it was--and one of the players was called R. Sidebottom. Heh. The poor guy.

I'm not very much of a cricket fan, as you have no doubt guessed. I'll go so far as to say that it is the scourge of our nation and if we spent less time watching people with stupid bats and balls, running around like great Freudian Stereotypes, or six year old boys, and if we spent less time investing and actually giving a fuck about who wins whatever matches and more time paying attention to a country where a lot of things are still very fucked up despite the fact that we have now proudly upgraded from a Third World label to a Developing Nation one, things would probably be a lot better. *coughcolonialhangovercough*

Also, I think it's deadly boring, and I dread whatever major matches India happens to be playing because that means I have to LISTEN to people going on and on and ON about scores and who hit what and how many overs. Not over soon enough, if you ask me. And I don't know why people keep watching anyway, because the Indian team invariably loses. Boys In Blue, my ass.

I also realised as I was typing that last paragraph that it would probably bring the trolls creeping out from wherever they are in hordes. Hah, it's more like a troll magnet. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. Blogging is not a popularity contest.

Except it so is.

Have you ever noticed when you say things aren't popularity contests they usually are?

See? I told you I had nothing to say.

Maybe we could chat next week? Yes? Call me!

EDITED UPDATE: And because I'm home for the first time in a very long time on a Saturday night, I'm announcing a mini contest! Oh, don't roll your eyes at me, this will be fun. So I was listening to We Didn't Start The Fire and I did a bit of a desi version. Only it's not finished, because I can't quite think how to wrap it up. That's where you come in. Pretty please?

Robert Clive, the last Mughal, Mangal Pandey raising hell,
British killed, Indians spilled, no one left alive.

Mahatma Gandhi spun a wheel, Mohammed Jinnah sprung a deal,
Pakistan—east and west, divide and rule put to test.

Nehru came to power, his little daughter learnt by far,
Aim taken by Godse, Gandhi blown away.

We didn’t start the fire etc etc

Indira Gandhi, no relation, launched the colour television,
Family Planning came to be, that and the Emergency

The Golden Temple was invaded, Sikhs felt violated,
Bodyguards machine gunned, Indira was stunned

Sikh riots ’84, worse than they had been before,
Genocide, tales of woe, British said, I told you so

We didn’t start the fire (and so on)

Rajiv Gandhi sworn in, Congress in the loony bin,
Enquiries were made, Gandhi family’s rep saved

License Raj fell apart, the LTTE’s broken heart,
MTNL came about, Bofors cast him out

Chandrashekar came on stage, ended that golden age,
The widow declined, Narisimha Rao changed his mind

We didn’t start the fire (ah, you know the rest)

And this is the part I don’t know what to do with. So, I put it in your hands, oh wise and capable reader. Finish this, updated to present day and you win a prize! (Well, not a real prize. But fame and glory on this spot on the internet, which is nice anyway, don’t you think?)

Coffee break netsurfing has results

Despite the length of this post, it took me exactly fifteen minutes to put together, going to show that copy-pasting with humourous (or so I like to think) asides is the perfect way to blog. Filter blogs, stand aside for The One.

Oh Craigslist, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Firstly the different specimens of people you throw before me, which cover all of human archetypes:

From men seeking women:

The Is-This-Guy-For-Real stereotype:

MUSLIM AFRICAN AMERICAN MAN SEEKS INDIAN 2nd WIFE - 25

I'm a successful businessman, very mature, in the US looking to get to know a pretty indian woman with a good disposition for eventual marriage and immigration to the US. I'm married and looking for another wife. I'm tall (6'5"), 230 lbs, athletically built, and well-adjusted. I don't care if you're muslim or not. Just be attractive, intelligent, and have a pleasing personality.

Lalalalala... Second wifehood, here I come!

The Yeah-Right stereotype

IS THERE SUCH A THING AS A WOMAN WHO CANNOT GET ENOUGH SEX? - m4w - 31
Are you insatiable?
This one time, I ate an entire package of Emmental in one sitting
Do you wake up in the night dripping wet?
Yeah, man, I totally need to get an airconditioner, this weather is killing me
Do you always look at men with sex in mind?
Well, I DO notice they're men, yes. Well, most of the time anyway
Do you sometimes wear a skirt short enough that you are worried about getting arrested?
They can DO that? I plead the Right To Information act! Or something.
Do you want to be touched anytime and anywhere?
Sure, if you like a quick kick to the balls
Do you like being told what to do when you have sex?
If my MOTHER can't tell me what to do, then, well, no
Do you slip away to the lady's room during your workday to jerk off?
One of the many, many benefits of working from home! Yay, me
Do you wear sexy lingerie and no panties because it makes you feel sexier?
Or when I run out of clean underwear
Have you had forced sex in a dressing room, club loos, car or in someone else's bed?
You mean without the hand sanitizer?
Have you ever exposed yourself to someone while driving in your car?
Well once the seatbelt got caught in my top and there was Nipplegate, but I don't think anyone noticed.
Are you a risk taker, adventurer, imaginative, open minded, and creative?
I jumped on to the local train WHILE it was moving! I'm so proud of myself for that

dont waste time & reply to this post immediately for a mind blowing time..

The Let's-Just-Fuck-Already Stereotype

Wealthy professional seeks mistress - 35
I am 35 years old, married (but bored), wealthy professional running my own consulting firm. I am seeking a discrete arrangment with a single (preferably) or married/divorced (who's hubby is away) woman to be my mistress. You must have your own place, and be available daytimes and evenings. I like long chats over coffee and cake, flirting and foreplay, romance and naughtiness. I am a very open minded, liberal person and I seek the same.

About me: I am a warm, caring person, with excellent taste for the good things in life, and I know how to treat a woman with tenderness, dignity and respect. I am willing to provide some financial support (upto limits)

About you: You must be 30+, matured and inteligent. You must have your own place to meet (not at first, but later, if things work out) and must be open minded, and willing to try out new and fun things.

So wait, I quit my job (to be available daytimes) AND I let you into my apartment, risking my reputation in the neighbourhood, not to mention my marriage and you give me SOME financial support upto LIMITS? How could I ever refuse this?

The Not-Quite-Paying-Money-For-Sex-But-Almost stereotype International businessman seeks great sex - m4w - 37
Visiting first week of July for a month. Looking for an Indian girl, 20-25 years old, minimum 5-4 tall (taller the better), with large breasts (36C or bigger). Extra points for very large areaola/nipples. If you are a little chubby, I dont have any problems (be under 75kgs). Very good compensation and pampering while you become my companion. Possible permanent job in my Mumbai office, with opportunities to accompany me on foreign trips.
Send email with photos, age, height, breast size

75 kgs? Really? Will you be able to pick my boobs out from the tummy tyres? Oh wait, I guess my gigantic nipples will be a giveway. Smart, smart.

Secondly, the look into various cultures:

From the Casual Encounters section:

You guys take our american jobs away from us!

Dude. Twenty oh seven. Not Nineteen Ninety Nine.

From the Missed Connection section:

seen you fixin planes (delta mechanic) - w4m - 28

why you gotta be so sexy when you change them brakes?? i got some lunch for you down my place. i heard you like to fly kites and teach children and exotic birds about poetry, and how to treat one another with respect. i seen your gerber.

Location: bombay airport

Dear blog reader,
What is a gerber?
Sincerly,
Puzzled In Mumbai

Thirdly, the typos people make:

Airline Pilot Looking For Friends - m4w - 32
Hi i'm a pilot who flies into mumbai often with an international airline.i'm 322 yrs old.
5'10'' 82kgs.light brown eyes black hair and light tanned skin. looking for ladies between 18 and 35 to hang out with and maybe more if we click.. would like to meet smart, well dressed ,educated ,good looking and well spoken people.. i stay in santa crusz on my layovers..travelling within bombay is no problem. please e mail with interests and details. look forwad to hearing from you.

I would, I would, but you're a little old for me
Fourthly, the lovely randomness of it all.

From the Rants and Raves section, a conversation:

Judge Dinesh Gupta has sex with boys
Judge Dinesh Gupta is a homosexual.
That is why he does not like kissing between men and women. He must be charged and imprisoned for man love.
Spread the truth about Judge Dinesh Gupta, Judge manlove.

Re: Judge Dinesh Gupta has sex with boys
It's true...it's true.

I love having sex with young boys -- you and your brother were excellent in bed. Thanks...I'll never forget it. I'd be happy to reduce or dismiss your sentence again and again whenever you're willing to trade for "services".

I should also mention, you should really get that rash on your penis looked at.

Sincerely,
D.Gupta,
Judge Superior Courts

Oh, the giggledom. I have nothing to add that will make this one better. But while I'm asking mystified questions, who is Judge Gupta?

I'm glad to see my hometown is joining in the general weirdness. Don't let us down, Delhi!

Seeking wealth and compassion - 54
In exchange for marriage, I want a home in miami beach and to visit india and the dharamsala. Elegant and refined woman, a teacher, in the USA. Email photo and winning honest email. I prefer someone with a vow of chastity/

Of course you do. Right up there with my plan to marry a rich old man due to die in three months with a serious heart disease that keeps him from having any sex, but who will still leave me all his money so I can then marry the poor poet who's been waiting around for him to pop it. Ah, the dreams little girls have

White Hijra Sissy Seeking Indian Man - 28
Hello, My name is Christine. I have become hinduadopting the name Chandani and am undergoing self- instruction in the Hindi language. I am a transsexual, meaning that I was born male but am truly female, and appear female. In India they are called Hijra. I want a man to take me back to India, and let me be his housewife. I am female in all other respects, on hormones, with developed breasts
My Ideal Person: I am looking for an Indian Hindu man, to make me his Hijra housewife, and submissive love. I am naturally feminine and very traditional in my aspect, and am looking for a mature-minded serious man for this proposition

The photos for this one were scarily touching. Go Chandani! Go get your hijra humping on! *sniff*
Any Gay Guys Interested in Fake Marriage?
Hi, I'm a normal female, in love with my boyfriend. However, my family hates my boyfriend and wants me to marry a man from my own caste.

So... are you interested in a fake marriage for a couple of years to make our parents happy? Then we can get divorced and tell them it did not work, so to let us be happy in our own ways.

If you're interested, please write me and tell me about yourself -- your age, profession, caste (I don't care -- my boyfriend's not the same caste as me, obviously, but my parents care. What can I say?), picture, and anything else parents might look for in A Suitable Boy ; )

And if you think this idea is crazy, PLEASE DON'T SEND ME EMAILS WITH ADVICE

Wow. This is my new hero. YOU should start a blog. And stop watching so Akshay Khanna, Debra Messing, Jennifer Aniston movies


I trawl the internet for you, handpicking weirdos. Could anyone love you more?
I THINK NOT.

ps: Real Life while not quite the smorsgabord of fun that the internet is, sometimes comes very close. Chrisann and I stole this off the society bulletin board when we were visiting Sameer yesterday.

Crap, I seem to have lost it. But from what I remember it said:

To whomsoever has been leaving their trash bags on the ground floor, BEWARE. Someday your Dark Deeds will be found out.

Que sera sera

It's the season for ex-boyfriends. More specifically, mine. Golfer Ex was in town a couple of weeks ago, and we met and bonded most prettily, much to the amazement of everyone else there. "It's so nice that you and your ex are such good friends!" one of them said to me and I smiled, trying to look like I had always been super mature and super smart about these things. Which, of course, I haven't been. Even with Golfer Ex, we're talking about one rebound hookup with another boy (Emotional Scarring Type Damage); several drunken phone calls (Serious Ego Deflating Damage) and of course, ahem, the night, many years later when the two of us also got it on (No real damage, not that I can tell). And he's the only ex I have who's made the transisition between boyfriend and friend. (And by ex, here I mean people I was actually dating, not random hookups, because I remain friends with many people I have played tonsil hockey with).

K.? Not so much. We've tried, several times, but I think being in love with someone for so many years, means they still have the ability to get under your skin. And vice versa. We just don't seem to be able to get along, even though somewhere at the back of my mind, I really, desperately want us to go back to what we were right before we were dating. But he was my best friend, I sniffle, but he's so DUMB for not realising that we'd still make such awesome buddies. Not that I want to get back with him, not at all. Or do I?

While Golfer Ex appears in my physical plane, K appears in my dreams more and more of late. And it's always the same dream. I'm back three years ago, we're just about to but haven't yet broken up, except since I'm from the future, I know what's going to happen to both of us. And I tell him we can't end it, because we're NEVER going to get back together and three years later, our lives are so completely different and separate from each other in ways we had so not imagined when we ended it. And so we try to make it work and we do. End of dream.

And since my physical and subconcious planes are so easily taken over by ghosts of the past, it's no surprise that the internet follows quite closely. I got a message on Facebook from my very first boyfriend, Neel, the other day. Well, I had a boyfriend before him as well, but that one didn't count because I was twelve and he was nineteen and all we did was walk around Khan Market. Neel was the boyfriend I had when I was seventeen, my first kiss, my first making out session (though since I was still a "good girl" in those days, nothing below the waist) my first Valentine's Day with presents, my first movie date and hand holding surreptitiously. So many firsts. I met him when I had the hots for another boy, his friend in fact, and I sneaked out to attend the farewell party of the other boy's school, and Neel happened to be there and we exchanged numbers and spoke on the phone for like a week before he asked me out.

We dated for four months, which was fun in the beginning but rapidly became boring. I was tired of him after a while, not so much attracted to him as I had been in the beginning and finally at another party, this very swish one on Prithviraj Road, the eve of his birthday, I ended it rather tactlessly, just letting the words blurt out. He was so pissed and I was so guilty, because it was his birthday after all and in retaliation he started dating this girl who was a sort of friend of mine because the other boy I had the hots for was dating her. Seriously, my life in Delhi is like The Bold And The Beautiful. Except less bold. And only marginally beautiful. I do remember though the feeling of immense relief I had when it ended, I slept like I hadn't slept for weeks, and didn't bother to call him for ages after that. Maybe bad relationships now are a result of bad karma from that one. But seriously, how long can my bad karma last? One seventeen-year-old mistake? Universe, it's time to cut me some slack already.

I don't know how to respond to his Facebook message. Long time, he says, what's been up? Erm, about nine years, that's what.

Exes are a funny sort of relationship to have. Are you friends? Not really, right, because you've been intimate in a way you'd rather your friends not see. And then of course, if they're YOUR ex, you must be theirs and I find it so hard to think of myself as an exgirlfriend. It doesn't sound like me at all.

Influenza-za

I's ill.

I'm not fun ill. I'm not all oh-chin-up-old-girl, or even gently ignoring my sorrows, knitting bravely.

When I'm ill, I want the WORLD to know about it and sympathise. I am grouchy. I blow my nose with defiance. I droop melodramatically over any surface I might be occupying. My voice goes all grainy so I have to repeat everything I say about six times, my expression going more and more martyred. "I said I'd like some soup."

But still. You should feel sorry for me. My nose is sore, my throat hurts, and I feel like I might be getting a fever constantly, which I can assure you, is far more annoying than actually having a fever.

Being sick sucks. It sucks even more this weekend because waaah Hobo is in town! And I can't be all rah-rah-Hobo with the level of enthusiasm that the situation deserves, because I'm all sick and coughy. So now I'm going rah-cough-rah-Hobo! So awesome to have her here though. I went to go get her from the airport, her flight being four hours late. (NEVER EVER fly Indian. EVER. It's the crappest airline in the world, and I've even flown Uzbekistan). The nice thing about this city is that it's okay for a woman to be hanging around the airport in the middle of the night, chilling, smoking a cigarette, drinking Coke and no one will bother her. Well, no one bothered me. I was left comfortably alone. At one something, she finally came out of the airport, looking like a model or something. She's recently had laser surgery, so there were no spectacles, her hair was blowdried straight and shampoo-ad inspiring, and I felt most grubby and sweaty.

We drove to Pieces' friend's house, closer than Pieces' actual home, where they had decided they would stay for the duration of her visit. And then I went home, only to meet with Hobo the next afternoon, when I took her out to lunch to The Bagel Shop, which I love, even if it is rather pricey. Salmon and cream cheese filled, we went back to mine and napped. (In separate beds, oh ye of lesbian porn minds) and then went to meet some of her friends at a restaurant that serves really cheap alcohol, and an excellent Bloody Mary. My cold had returned with full force, and I was sitting on the other side of a fairly crowded table, and since I couldn't make myself heard, I ate my french fries and sniffled loudly. We were all for going somewhere exciting at night, but wound up trudging to Toto's instead, where we spent a couple of hours. Around eleven thirty Hobo wanted to go elsewhere, and not knowing where we could take her, we went to one of the shadiest places I have seen, a place called Boat Club, which was sadly packed to the brim, and full of smoke, which killed her eyes. By this time, I was ready to fade away and die quietly somewhere, so when we went back to Pieces' friend's house, I snuck away into one of the bedrooms and napped till my ride home was ready to leave.

This morning, I still feel all stuffy faced, but having just got a text from Hobo going: "Let's go get early dinner tonight, I'm heading out, so will meet in town ie Marine Drive and Colaba." I feel once more ready to take on the day. When Beloved Friend From Over The Seas is in town, my immune system can handle itself on its own, because I'm not pandering to it. I'll be ill tomorrow. Oh wait, I have work to do. Fine, I'll be ill next weekend, where as far as I know, no one is expected. Today, I will be excited and rah-rah and energetic. So help me God. Yeah.

In Many Ways I'm Just A Giggly High School Girl

EXHIBIT A: The hickey

I love hickeys. I love both giving and receiving these hickeys. I know it's a very sixteen year old thing to do, but still, I love the battle scars of being loved recently. And I give awesome hickeys. They're huge--not the wussy red blotchy things--but ENORMOUS purple-y blue things. They look like bruises, these hickeys. And, no, they don't hurt at all. Here's how I do it:

INGREDIENTS: One willing and able boy
One mouth
One hour of making out before that so that boy is willing and able

Pick an erogenous zone. The neck, of course, is the traditional spot for love bites, but you could also go for the shoulder or the pelvic girdle.

Find a slightly loose bit of skin, not attached to bone or anything.

Using your lips, get a hold of said skin. DO NOT use your teeth.

Apply suction, similar to getting the last bits of a really really thick milkshake into your mouth for about three to four minutes.

Sit back, and watch the glory that is your hickey.

(Then of course, there are the hickey excuses. Most frequently used: "It's a mosquito bite!" Most imaginative: "I hit myself in the neck with a hanger!" Most likely to get you into trouble with your mother: "It's a highly allergic reaction to something I ate.")

EXHIBIT B: The teenage high school romance chick flick

My favourites:

Can't Hardly Wait
Ten Things I Hate About You
Mean Girls
Freaky Friday
Clueless
Never Been Kissed
American Pie

The question is, where were all these yummy, delectable Heath Ledger types when I was in high school?

EXHIBIT C: Make up

Here, the question for the defendant is, "Why, when you decide to wear make up, do you always look like a paint-by-numbers experiment?"

Every adult woman should have some basic knowledge in this field. All I can do is kajal. And shiny lipgloss. And there are some people I know who have been able to do shiny lipgloss while they were still foetuses.

EXHIBIT D: Low alcohol threshhold

Normally, I can drink quite a few people under the table. But of late, something very strange is going on. Maybe it's because I don't go drinking as often as I used to, and even when I do, I nurse like one or two drinks all night. Whenever I happen to consume more than three drinks I'm flying, so happy, doing, "I'm the king of the world!" hands and giggling all over whoever happens to be with me. I also notice I blink more when I'm buzzed, and then since I'm noticing that I'm blinking, I concentrate on the blinks, till I'm sitting there with my eyes half shut and almost fall off my chair, at which point someone or the other says, "Okay, let's go home". Oh wait, what am I saying? My friends are as alcoholic as I am. That sentence should have read, at which point someone or the other says, "Okay, let's do shots!" Is it any wonder then, that my liver has just about given up on me?

(This part of the post needs a little disclaimer to all you holier-than-thou types who are going to attempt to say something about my hedonistic lifestyle and to remind you of two things a) I exaggerate sometimes and b) you're awfully boring, so please, I appreciate the thought, but just consider all your Wisdom already imparted, yeah?)

Why I'm actually NOT a high school girl:

> I'm twenty five, which, if I was still in high school, would make me a retard

> I don't look good in cargo pants

> Or those little pleated skirts everyone above twelve seems to be wearing

> I look like I should belong to the Good Girls clique, but seeing as I smoke so much, I'd be placed in the Disturbed Angsty Girls Who Are Actually Really Hot And Smart As You Find Out Towards The End Of The Movie clique

> In real life, I flitted from clique to clique, not really belonging to any of them

> This was good, because I got invited to all the parties and didn't have to participate in any of the politics


The defence rests, your honour.

I think we're alone now

So the other day Virginia (a psuedonym inspired by a) a large Old Monk and Coke and b) her rolling tobacco) and I were chilling at Zenzi, talking of this and that, when this guy came up to our table with two hot pink shots, which perfectly matched my newly pedicured toes, now in the shade of Delicate Dygiene. Virginia and I met in February, at the Kitab festival. Actually, at one of the Kitab fest's uber posh after parties, at the Good Earth Store, with loads of free booze, and I was standing by one of the candlelit pillars, and she was standing next to me and in that instant I got my period, and you know how you can feel it suddenly descend? And you know how you get that odd look of concentration on your face as you try to figure out whether this is a false alarm or the real thing? And you know how this sometimes happens when you're wearing your friend's very lovely off shoulder dress? And how you have to quickly think back to recall whether or not you're wearing a thong? Anyway, Virginia was standing next to me, and in the same way, I imagine, men bond about erections or some such, women bond about their period. So I asked her whether she had anything, and she didn't, and then she recommended using tissue paper, which I did, and that led to us exchanging our worse Caught-Out-In-Public stories (I was 12, meeting my 19-year-old "boyfriend" at Pat-a-Cake, a bakery in Khan Market, where all my pubescent friends and I used to tryst, and I was wearing this really short tennis skirt, and drinking a glass of Coke and I got up to say goodbye, and I noticed him giving me a funny look. But he looked kinda funny, anyway, so I put it down to that. And I wandered around Khan Market and when I went home I noticed the entire back of my skirt was scarlet. I died. But, to be fair, then, I had only been getting my period for a couple of months, not like now, after 13 years, when I am able to tell). And then we exchanged All Men Are Assholes stories, and this was fun, and so, after Kitab ended, we wound up staying friends.

Anyway, so we're at Zenzi--and I have some friends in Bombay, who I meet only once every month--and this guy comes up with these shots. We regard them and him, and I am seized with a desire to giggle, because really he looks so absurd with his pot belly and straggly beard and an earnest expression on his face. "Is my request," he says, "These are for you." We nod, and try to go back to our conversation, only he takes this not rejection of the shots as an invitation to talk. "I am Anil from Bangalore," he says, "And you are?" Virginia rolls her eyes. Really, she is so much better at this than I am. "I'm Virginia from Bandra," she says. I'm really beginning to giggle at this point so I get out, "eM from Delhi." We're hoping the fact that neither of us is from Bangalore will make him go away, but mentioning Delhi was a bad idea, because instantly he turns to me and goes, "How long you have lived there?" "Erm.. 25 years?" "I also am from Delhi, I have lived in IIT Gate, Saket, blah di blah blah."

Virginia's starting to get cross at this point. "Look, could you leave us alone?" The Burly Boys at the next table look up, eyes alive at a chance to defend some hot honour. AnilfromBangalore decides Virginia is the woman for him (I am much too giggly) and turns devoted eyes to her. "Would you--you two--like to come back to the Marriott with me?" he asks, "For a quickie..drink." My mouth is hanging half open, but Virginia who is using all her body language signals to tell him to fuck off, shakes her head. "How about coffee then? Just half an hour?" "Look, we're in the middle of a serious conversation here!" she says and he raises his hands and leaves. Burly Boys settle down.

He's baa-ack, though, in the next five minutes. "Could I have a cigarette you have rolled with your own hands?" "Take this one," she says, thrusting her half smoked cigarette at him. "I am not doing this for f-f-fucking lust," he says, turning to her, "If you want to be friends, it's okay. If you don't want to come to the Marriott, it's okay." "Yes, I know," she says, "Because we're not coming." I decide to intervene at this point. "Um, Anil?" He half-turns to me. "Firstly you should know we're both in serious, committed relationships. Secondly, if you want to make friends in Bombay, this is not the right way to go about it." He is hurt now, and I feel bad. But he leaves.

Only to return fifteen minutes later. "Can I buy your drinks? It's just a request." "If you buy our drinks, will you leave us alone?" asks Virginia. I don't think he gets it though, because he says, "It's just a request" again. "It's this f-f-fucking city, I have no friends," he gets out. Aw. I feel a sort of fellow feeling with all other migrants. "We're sorry for being rude," I say, "But really, you don't have to buy our drinks, just please leave us alone."

"I am buying your drinks," he says, and takes off to the bar, coming back in a bit to get another cigarette and then a light. One of the Burly Boys gets up and intercepts him, putting one hand on his shoulder and blocking him off from us. Virginia sneaks a quick peek. "He's paying the entire bill with a thousand rupee note," she tells me. "At Zenzi? Wishful thinking," I say.

He straps his laptop bag around his shoulders and comes up to us. "I am going to the Marriott," he says. "Okay!" we say. And then he leaves.

After he's FINALLY gone, I sigh. "That has never happened to me in Bombay," I tell Virginia. "Um..eM?" she says, "That was a Delhi man."

ps: No, he didn't pay for our drinks after all.