Everybody go,
The party's over,
I want to be alone in my head,
In my bed tonight,
You never show
What's it like being around someone you no longer have a scene with and yet are attracted to at some level or another? Really, really weird, that's what it is. I don't know whether you do this, but I have all these porn flashbacks happening when I meet someone I once was involved with. Especially when the last time involved his tongue and my throat.
You must really love her,
You think I don't know,
But I do, yeah it's true,
I think over is over
It's the season for exboyfriends again. Winter does this to me, no matter what city I'm in. Thoughts of what once was, what once happened, thoughts of when I was the happy message on the cellphone, the one whose call you COULD NOT cut, whose calls you always picked up, even if you just picked up to say, "Hey baby, I'm busy, can I call you back?"
I'm right back where I started,
(when it comes to wanting you),
I can't have what I wanted
This is so not about you. Or you either. This is about the disembodied arms, this is about male cologne that stays on my fingers, this is about me sniffing my t-shirt and my palms, this is about me leaning forward to talk to someone that ONCE, once, I had something with and suddenly being assaulted by their boy smells, the sweat, the salt, the undertones of sweetness. The neck I bit, the mouth I touched. And being undone. This is so about me, more so when I think about my shoulder, the one you claimed for your own with a circle of teethmarks, my knuckles that you surreptitiously caressed underneath tables and in taxis. How can you give up a country you conquered?
But I did, I can I was, I am,
Only human, living, dying,
Just like any fool who ever breathed
With mascara-soaked eyelashes, I look up, my smile throbbing at the corners of my mouth. You will (because you once were my lover) touch my cheek, we have a physical intimacy, blessed to people who have been close, you are tender even as you are brusque. You might also kiss my forehead, the chasteness exuding from all pores of you, but especially the way you tuck your lips inwards. It will be as though I imagined it, us being together at all. There are moments, there are always moments. There are moments when I think of everyone I've ever loved--loved hard, loved with every atom of my being. There are moments when you and I exchange a look, or when I say something I think is funny under my breath and you're the only one who turns to me, and your laugh is reluctant, as though I'm forcing it out of you. There are moments where there is "unprotected eye contact" and I catch my breath, but you're always the first to look away.
I know where I'm going,
I'm tripping,
I'm sliding around,
That's ok,
At least I'm excited,
It wasn't how I planned it
I return home, and I know that till the next time I hear from you, my phone will be silent. We are platonic now, we are all platonic, you probably have someone else, who demands your time. Some of you do, and you're the ones who dance away the most. Some of you don't and you hold my gaze, you lean forward, you let our knees brush against each other. You will point out pretty girls, talk about your sex lives heartily, but all the while you'll have your hand on my shoulder, your eyes will linger over the expanse of throat or knee. Again, as I drink my drink, I will remember you unclothed (that is always mine), maybe you're thinking the same thoughts, but you smile, deliberately snapping the thread you tried so hard to establish when we first met. How am I different now than what I was? What made you want to be with me once and not anymore? How are you different?
Maybe it's the sanest thing,
Or just the sweetest kind of dream,
But love was surely made for fools,
Love was surely made for fools like me
We will laugh about this one day. I will laugh about this one day. Already, the idea of some of you is amusing. No, correct that, already the idea of some of you with me is amusing. But there are evenings, my love, there are evenings like this one, when I play music that is mournful and yearning and I think about you and I remember that I once was someone else, someone who bounced off your vibrations, I remember you were my happy text message, I answered your calls all the time even if I just said, "Hey baby, I'm busy, can I call you back?" I remember claiming you as my own, marking my territory into the hollows of your throat, and the side of your neck. I remember when I loved you, to whatever degree, and then I remember when I didn't anymore. As much as you gave me, I gave you. As much as you took away, I took away too. Here we are now, baby, here we are now. Isn't life funny?
(lyrics lisa loeb fools like me)
(the shoulder-biting, circle of teethmarks seemed very familiar in my head even as I was writing this and then I realised it's very God Of Small Things. So, credit to that as well)
Tales from urban India
27 November 2007
21 November 2007
Mostly At The Celebrate Bandra festival, but other locations as well
Some of this stuff was sent via email to Kalyan. Him and I have a daily email exchange thing going on, much nicer than the phone, because I am way smarter and more articulate with a keyboard. Seriously. My text messages are a work of art.
Oh, and this is mainly where I'll be chilling on and off for the next couple of weeks, so if you see me, say hi!
* Celebrate Bandra is a lovely idea, and it gives me many things to do in the evenings, all for FREE! YAY! but there are two things about it that annoy me:
a) The Celebrate Bandra song, which goes, let's celebrate, mmmm, let's celebra-ate, BAN-dra. It's annoying because though the words are so lame, the tune is fucking catchy, so I find myself humming it all over the place and then going aaaargh, make it stop!
b) Even though TECHNICALLY I live in Bandra, when they say Bandra they mean Bandra West which pisses me off. If you prick us, will we not bleed?
* There were these two kids opening for the jazz act on Sunday--young boys who couldn't have been more than 17, with vulnerable necks and too-large heads and still skinny bodies and they were playing Dave Matthews Band and one of their guitar strings broke, so he couldn't play the lead anymore so he just sat on his high stool and laughed through the rest of the song and I wondered for an instant, what it would be like to be 17 and be his girlfriend. Then I thought that perhaps he was one of those loners in school, with no other friends except the other chap on the guitar and me, of course, with braces and skinny legs that smelt of moisturiser. But then, from there I wondered what it would be like to be his mother, and watch him from the audience feeling all overcome with love and pride and somehow that was a more credible thought than being seventeen, and I think I'm aging far too rapidly for my liking. This is a little bit creepy.
* I went to Kohinoor Circus yesterday (somewhere in Sion, if you're interested) with a friend and we were all anticipatory and thrilled at Reliving Our Childhood and I even bought a box of the scratchy yellow popcorn I used to eat by the kilo when I was a kid and there were elephants playing football and a woman who balanced on her head and two men who whizzed around inside a wooden globe on motorcycles and then we realised the popcorn was too scratchy and the fireeater was doing stuff we had seen a million times before, and suddenly, instantly, we grew from six to 26 and 28 and we looked at each other and left. Growing up sucks.
* Shark Tooth is moving out and I'm looking for a new flatmate. A girl, I think, this time. Email me if you or someone you know is interested.
* I miss you most at live music concerts, when I think about how much you would have enjoyed it and how much I would have enjoyed it, being with you and how afterwards we could talk about it, perhaps I would be smoking a cigarette and you would be actually letting me and not making disapproving sounds and perhaps we'd not have any arguments at all--not one and I'd think how this is getting better, and for an instant, I am swept away at this live music concert, thinking of you, and then everything else comes flooding back and I remember that I'm not liking you very much anymore, so then I think about something else.
* Yesterday, I was making fun of my friend about something, and mid-sentence, just as I got halfway through my jeer, I tripped over a post on the road and badly bumped my shin and hopped up and down in agony and though he was sympathetic, he looked slightly smug and when I said, "Clearly, god is punishing me" he nodded and smiled.
* I would like to be a Saturday night on a Tuesday night, and do tequila shots somewhere anonymous with someone, and feel all full of energy and rapid and alive and swap stories about when you were little and how it felt when your baby sister was born, and can you roll your tongue like I can. And I would like to meet someone new, whose stories I haven't heard before, someone new to instantly get and instantly fall in love with and say OH MY GOD YOU DO THAT TOO. And I would like to meet someone old, who I have many in jokes with, and who I can let finish my sentences and who will roll their eyes at me affectionately and we will sit in an auto, and our jeans will rub against each other comfortably. I would like to finish by five in the morning, as the sun is just coming up, and we've spent the last hour staring at the lights reflected on the sea and not saying very much anymore and I would like for you to squeeze my arm as I leave and I would like to climb up the stairs and hear my phone beep and it will be a funny text message that will epitomise our evening.
Oh, and this is mainly where I'll be chilling on and off for the next couple of weeks, so if you see me, say hi!
* Celebrate Bandra is a lovely idea, and it gives me many things to do in the evenings, all for FREE! YAY! but there are two things about it that annoy me:
a) The Celebrate Bandra song, which goes, let's celebrate, mmmm, let's celebra-ate, BAN-dra. It's annoying because though the words are so lame, the tune is fucking catchy, so I find myself humming it all over the place and then going aaaargh, make it stop!
b) Even though TECHNICALLY I live in Bandra, when they say Bandra they mean Bandra West which pisses me off. If you prick us, will we not bleed?
* There were these two kids opening for the jazz act on Sunday--young boys who couldn't have been more than 17, with vulnerable necks and too-large heads and still skinny bodies and they were playing Dave Matthews Band and one of their guitar strings broke, so he couldn't play the lead anymore so he just sat on his high stool and laughed through the rest of the song and I wondered for an instant, what it would be like to be 17 and be his girlfriend. Then I thought that perhaps he was one of those loners in school, with no other friends except the other chap on the guitar and me, of course, with braces and skinny legs that smelt of moisturiser. But then, from there I wondered what it would be like to be his mother, and watch him from the audience feeling all overcome with love and pride and somehow that was a more credible thought than being seventeen, and I think I'm aging far too rapidly for my liking. This is a little bit creepy.
* I went to Kohinoor Circus yesterday (somewhere in Sion, if you're interested) with a friend and we were all anticipatory and thrilled at Reliving Our Childhood and I even bought a box of the scratchy yellow popcorn I used to eat by the kilo when I was a kid and there were elephants playing football and a woman who balanced on her head and two men who whizzed around inside a wooden globe on motorcycles and then we realised the popcorn was too scratchy and the fireeater was doing stuff we had seen a million times before, and suddenly, instantly, we grew from six to 26 and 28 and we looked at each other and left. Growing up sucks.
* Shark Tooth is moving out and I'm looking for a new flatmate. A girl, I think, this time. Email me if you or someone you know is interested.
* I miss you most at live music concerts, when I think about how much you would have enjoyed it and how much I would have enjoyed it, being with you and how afterwards we could talk about it, perhaps I would be smoking a cigarette and you would be actually letting me and not making disapproving sounds and perhaps we'd not have any arguments at all--not one and I'd think how this is getting better, and for an instant, I am swept away at this live music concert, thinking of you, and then everything else comes flooding back and I remember that I'm not liking you very much anymore, so then I think about something else.
* Yesterday, I was making fun of my friend about something, and mid-sentence, just as I got halfway through my jeer, I tripped over a post on the road and badly bumped my shin and hopped up and down in agony and though he was sympathetic, he looked slightly smug and when I said, "Clearly, god is punishing me" he nodded and smiled.
* I would like to be a Saturday night on a Tuesday night, and do tequila shots somewhere anonymous with someone, and feel all full of energy and rapid and alive and swap stories about when you were little and how it felt when your baby sister was born, and can you roll your tongue like I can. And I would like to meet someone new, whose stories I haven't heard before, someone new to instantly get and instantly fall in love with and say OH MY GOD YOU DO THAT TOO. And I would like to meet someone old, who I have many in jokes with, and who I can let finish my sentences and who will roll their eyes at me affectionately and we will sit in an auto, and our jeans will rub against each other comfortably. I would like to finish by five in the morning, as the sun is just coming up, and we've spent the last hour staring at the lights reflected on the sea and not saying very much anymore and I would like for you to squeeze my arm as I leave and I would like to climb up the stairs and hear my phone beep and it will be a funny text message that will epitomise our evening.
18 November 2007
We are black coffee and a strong constitution
I am sitting with my friend Kalyan in his very very posh apartment, and feeling him read this over my shoulder. We have just been playing a very drunken game of Scrabble, where ("disappointingly no dirty words came up," says Kalyan) I almost won, only I was being kind and not kicking his ass. ("LIAR!" says Kalyan, but who do you believe here?) We are drinking Chardonnay Viognier, and being as posh as befits his home, but really, we're just regular drunks. Returning from Zenzi earlier this evening, we decided we'd do Alibaug tomorrow morning, therefore the night spend as we used to say in school. Drunk blogging yet again, and we want you to interpret an email:
THE BIN
Kalyan, an eminent and well versed gentleman in the field of semiotics is, to put it quite bluntly, confuzzled. I'm just amused. This adds to the things that confound me, along with the fact that I can now raise my left eyebrow and that tonight at Zenzi I met a boy who looked exactly, but EXACTLY like Frodo (ie Elijah Wood). He told me he gets that about five times a day, and I really feel for him, because he is not unattractive in his Hobbit-like way.
It is now Sunday morning, and I'm rereading and editing this soberly. Always save drunk blogs as drafts is my advice to you, darlings, because you never know what you might say in a fit of fittiness. Alibaug was very fun, well, the ferry ride there was and I made many seagull jokes. ("They're very gullible creatures." "All the nice gulls love a sailor" etc) Once there, we had to look at some property for Kalyan's aunt's friend, which was somewhat boring, but after we retired for lunch, the house we were at had a pool, so we were all like, ooooh swimming, only we passed out nicely on the deckchairs and didn't wake up till the caretaker lady came out to tell us we'd miss our ferry if we didn't hurry back.
Of course, since I had slept only two hours the night before, Saturday night was a quiet affair. A friend came over, someone I hadn't seen in ages so it was nice meeting and bonding with him. Although the last couple of days I'm overcome with missing old friends, Hobo, Urvashi, Small, Diabolique, come to Bombay, I need you.
I must now go for the 50 cent press conference, which is a sentence I never expected to type, but it's true. Life is odd.
UPDATED Clearly no one's ever going to send me dirty email again: The Bin sent me another email which is as baffling as the first, but from which I get that he is quite peeved that I published the first one. I'm going to put the second one up also--and here's where I'd like to say, everything you email me, like comments, become something I might put up here. You can say 'please don't run this email' if you'd prefer I didn't, but if it's abusive and/or dirty, I might put it up anyway on a slow week. Anyhoo, here's The Bin's second email (el transalatore, you were brilliant, by the way)
From: The Bin
To: The Compulsive Confessor
Subject: stub me!!!!!
Em...Published?..
I didn;t expect from you...F*off
.I am not asking Y u did?...Ur blog..U would do whtever u wnt...
Em condiment blog tidings alrdy clicked in India..I just strted a blog inspired from u...ur opposoite Gender "Y I can't?"...Ur three tangled codiment (S-D-X).....its rocking more than RDX....All hmnbeings are semiotics thrgh life...I attrcted ur ...not slave I got mail "Teacher to a student: a=b, b=c means a=c. Give me an example. Student: I luv u - u luv your daughter - so I luv your daughter"
I just maild for my interest,but u evincely published....I more attracted by literal language..How beautiful even if u dnt so tht u says....hurt?
If u r in my town I would come to ur room,slap ur cheek....that much irritaed when I saw ur publish..U also dscussed wth Kalyan?
I like ur sentence"If u have good Breast,No one Boos"....If u meet a man with all things he cannot get eye contact..only (B-C)
I will sent personal mail like this way what I felt..If u started to publish I wouild "Delete" as u point out .
Life is odd..Hey one qestion "U dont need inheritance to keep ur heritage?..
Have good SS..
Ok..tendulaker out....bloody..Good Breathy Bed sleep
The Bin
Hi Em,
its amazing realistic blog.....I think ur blog seems An Indian wome's Ideal dreams....good..u piked up as a pickle and touches infront of others ..tasting some freakrs whom enjoyd wth XXX,Drink & Smoke
Yesterday dim light whn sat with "vodka"..ur smells come its like"vodka with lime cordial"....I Sucked at one time.....
I dont wnt to intrdce me 2 u..would be 28 (GM)...
All GM's can tackle one GFM mind easily..BRAIN also....all BRA-INs check in or out.....
Can I ask frankly..a random survey how many GM u enjoyed tll this time?..
When I have seen touches GFM abdomen ...body moved to Oval shape....So the radius was fully rounded within that circumference....When I bet to feel me...she told "Ho....U r in Traingle..I bewildered she would ran from me....like Archimedis........she proved as my body was straight and ..."ok"....then how U felt three point touches?"....she smelt my lips laid moustache "ur two eyes on the tip of pen..I laughed too much...
I dont know y i dsturbed........can u send me ur photo and phone number if possible?
One criticse frm me...do not write too dramatically..these days u r celebrating too much behind in celebrity strength of semen.
I can't love u...
keep it up
Take care
have a Nice Semens DAy..........................in all movement..If u have any time we can play dirty dance "Darde-disco" on dance floor?
THE BIN
Kalyan, an eminent and well versed gentleman in the field of semiotics is, to put it quite bluntly, confuzzled. I'm just amused. This adds to the things that confound me, along with the fact that I can now raise my left eyebrow and that tonight at Zenzi I met a boy who looked exactly, but EXACTLY like Frodo (ie Elijah Wood). He told me he gets that about five times a day, and I really feel for him, because he is not unattractive in his Hobbit-like way.
It is now Sunday morning, and I'm rereading and editing this soberly. Always save drunk blogs as drafts is my advice to you, darlings, because you never know what you might say in a fit of fittiness. Alibaug was very fun, well, the ferry ride there was and I made many seagull jokes. ("They're very gullible creatures." "All the nice gulls love a sailor" etc) Once there, we had to look at some property for Kalyan's aunt's friend, which was somewhat boring, but after we retired for lunch, the house we were at had a pool, so we were all like, ooooh swimming, only we passed out nicely on the deckchairs and didn't wake up till the caretaker lady came out to tell us we'd miss our ferry if we didn't hurry back.
Of course, since I had slept only two hours the night before, Saturday night was a quiet affair. A friend came over, someone I hadn't seen in ages so it was nice meeting and bonding with him. Although the last couple of days I'm overcome with missing old friends, Hobo, Urvashi, Small, Diabolique, come to Bombay, I need you.
I must now go for the 50 cent press conference, which is a sentence I never expected to type, but it's true. Life is odd.
UPDATED Clearly no one's ever going to send me dirty email again: The Bin sent me another email which is as baffling as the first, but from which I get that he is quite peeved that I published the first one. I'm going to put the second one up also--and here's where I'd like to say, everything you email me, like comments, become something I might put up here. You can say 'please don't run this email' if you'd prefer I didn't, but if it's abusive and/or dirty, I might put it up anyway on a slow week. Anyhoo, here's The Bin's second email (el transalatore, you were brilliant, by the way)
From: The Bin
To: The Compulsive Confessor
Subject: stub me!!!!!
Em...Published?..
I didn;t expect from you...F*off
.I am not asking Y u did?...Ur blog..U would do whtever u wnt...
Em condiment blog tidings alrdy clicked in India..I just strted a blog inspired from u...ur opposoite Gender "Y I can't?"...Ur three tangled codiment (S-D-X).....its rocking more than RDX....All hmnbeings are semiotics thrgh life...I attrcted ur ...not slave I got mail "Teacher to a student: a=b, b=c means a=c. Give me an example. Student: I luv u - u luv your daughter - so I luv your daughter"
I just maild for my interest,but u evincely published....I more attracted by literal language..How beautiful even if u dnt so tht u says....hurt?
If u r in my town I would come to ur room,slap ur cheek....that much irritaed when I saw ur publish..U also dscussed wth Kalyan?
I like ur sentence"If u have good Breast,No one Boos"....If u meet a man with all things he cannot get eye contact..only (B-C)
I will sent personal mail like this way what I felt..If u started to publish I wouild "Delete" as u point out .
Life is odd..Hey one qestion "U dont need inheritance to keep ur heritage?..
Have good SS..
Ok..tendulaker out....bloody..Good Breathy Bed sleep
The Bin
14 November 2007
Because we're bored of being unhappy
Since no one comments on my POSTS anymore anyway, I can write about whatever I like. Therefore, inspired by this blog, my favourite text messages on my phone right now.
1. It's laudae ka baal, his new creative swear
2. If anyone asks again, I'm going to say it was a one night stand!
3. Haha it's raining. hope the white top is holding up :) and the white boy too.
4. Filth that's what it is. Disgusting downright filth. I say burn us all at the stake.
5. Some people got me drunk and now im going home in a rickshaw driven by an even drunker man times like these i really wish i had a helicopter or jet pack are you feeling any better oh and this girl whose name i cannot remember said hi to me even though she was piti this racist asshole i hate but what are you gonna do you know?
6. Fuck wat u saying thats crazy long live facebook
7. We are also shiny. No laughing, all solidarity.
I have some two thousand messages in my inbox, so that's all I can find for now. Clearly, I am scraping the bottom of the barrel for blog posts now. I've been generally weepy and angst-filled recently thanks to a Saturday night from hell, but today, as my Facebook status update says: I'm snapping out of it. SNAP!
This is therefore one of those new-age interactive type blog posts, where you entertain me by posting your favourite text messages in the comment section. Out-of-context works the best, I always find. I'll add more to my own list later. It's early Tuesday morning, and some of us have work to do.
Oh, and exactly a month from today is my 26th birthday. Time to grow up, I think, no?
1. It's laudae ka baal, his new creative swear
2. If anyone asks again, I'm going to say it was a one night stand!
3. Haha it's raining. hope the white top is holding up :) and the white boy too.
4. Filth that's what it is. Disgusting downright filth. I say burn us all at the stake.
5. Some people got me drunk and now im going home in a rickshaw driven by an even drunker man times like these i really wish i had a helicopter or jet pack are you feeling any better oh and this girl whose name i cannot remember said hi to me even though she was piti this racist asshole i hate but what are you gonna do you know?
6. Fuck wat u saying thats crazy long live facebook
7. We are also shiny. No laughing, all solidarity.
I have some two thousand messages in my inbox, so that's all I can find for now. Clearly, I am scraping the bottom of the barrel for blog posts now. I've been generally weepy and angst-filled recently thanks to a Saturday night from hell, but today, as my Facebook status update says: I'm snapping out of it. SNAP!
This is therefore one of those new-age interactive type blog posts, where you entertain me by posting your favourite text messages in the comment section. Out-of-context works the best, I always find. I'll add more to my own list later. It's early Tuesday morning, and some of us have work to do.
Oh, and exactly a month from today is my 26th birthday. Time to grow up, I think, no?
9 November 2007
The evening before Diwali, we are filled with pleasant thoughts
I am full of memories today. Not sad, miserable memories, not memories of specific incidents even. But things from my past that keep swimming into focus.
For instance, I can recall the high, burnished teak bookshelves in the children's section of the Trivandrum public library. I remember the window seat there, the feel of the worn cushion underneath my thighs, a familiar book to be curled up. The biographies of famous people when they were children, in orange binding. Albert Einstein was my favourite. The woman who lived next door to our house then, with her three toy pomeranians that I loved to go play with. How once she lent me a Rupert annual, wrapped up in newspaper. How her grandson came to visit and called dinosaurs 'dinno-sours.' And how, because he was older and spoke with authority, I believed him.
I don't remember faces, but I remember being at the Meridian, talking to another friend. I must have been about fifteen. I don't remember the conversation either, but I remember the sentence: "She faints all the time."
I remember feeding an apple to a tonga horse. I remember being very small, and the horse being very big and feeling the pull of its teeth vibrate my arm.
I remember the taste of the pumpkin curry my maid used to pack with rotis for me after school. I remember (again!) a library, the Shankar children's library at ITO, and sitting in the back reading room, eating my pumpkin sabji and roti and reading a book. The books were bound in red and gold and they had a collection that I could only dream about.
I remember being sick with pneumonia, I remember the exact moment I got sick. I remember coming home from school and falling asleep and not waking for several hours. I remember sleeping a lot and losing a lot of weight and endless blood tests. I don't remember recuperating. Somewhere, buried behind everything, I remember being three years old and having chicken pox and sitting in a blue tub which had floating neem leaves in it. I know you probably won't believe me, but I remember being potty trained, and having a small red portable pot that I dragged around the house.
I remember the first time I held hands with someone and how I didn't realise holding hands could be such fun. I remember wondering what I was feeling when he ran his fingers over my knuckles, why I felt so odd and funny and yearning. I remember the same stomach flutter happening again, many years later, when a boy I thought was cute took my hand while he was driving, just took it, and continued the conversation as though nothing was unusual.
I remember a friend's boyfriend, who used to walk me to school some days, when she wasn't around to walk with me, and who would talk and talk about her. I remember listening to him and feeling a little sorry for him. He used to call me 'Little Freud'. Later, when they broke up, we called him one night, during a sleepover at my house and they fought and he asked to speak to me and told me he loved her and I made a derogatory comment. I remember regretting it instantly and feeling terrible for him. I'm sorry, if you're reading this now, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
I remember going for a tambola game in Hyderabad, where I dressed up in a salwar kameez, because underaged people weren't allowed and I was trying to pass for sixteen or eighteen, I forget which. I remember my aunt saying, "Look at her eyes shining" and I remember that's the first time I had ever heard that. I had read about it many times, but I thought it was just something people said, not an actual thing your eyes could do.
For no particular reason, I remember the theme from Three's Company. We used to rent the video cassettes of the episodes, and I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. Years later, when Zee English started to show it, I watched a few and wondered where the humour had gone. (Come and knock at our door, we've been waiting for you, where the places are hers and hers and his, three's company too.)
And the rest of the stuff I remember isn't quite so distinct. Practicing kissing at ten, the taste of sour figs--tender pink and white, a Russian ballet performance in the winter I turned six and the way a man yelled 'Encore' in the audience, watching Jungle Book over and over again, longing for pointy shoes, rolling down a hill of grass and promptly feeling itchy, watching my dog give birth, a birthday party with disco lights, learning to love music, mentholated cigarettes, being alive.
UPDATE: It has come to my attention that a Malayalam magazine, the name of which I do not know just yet, but I will post once I do, is claiming that I will be doing a column for them where I answer questions. I am NOT doing this column. My name is being used against my wishes, and against my knowledge. If anyone's read this magazine, I'd appreciate the name, and since I do not speak Malayalam, if the editors of the magazine are reading this, please publish a clarification at the earliest. I don't know which "Compulsive Confessor" they mean, but it is definitely NOT, repeat NOT me. Dear legal eagle type readers, is there any action I can take against this?
UPDATE TWO: I found out the name but I'm not going to mention it, they don't deserve the attention.
For instance, I can recall the high, burnished teak bookshelves in the children's section of the Trivandrum public library. I remember the window seat there, the feel of the worn cushion underneath my thighs, a familiar book to be curled up. The biographies of famous people when they were children, in orange binding. Albert Einstein was my favourite. The woman who lived next door to our house then, with her three toy pomeranians that I loved to go play with. How once she lent me a Rupert annual, wrapped up in newspaper. How her grandson came to visit and called dinosaurs 'dinno-sours.' And how, because he was older and spoke with authority, I believed him.
I don't remember faces, but I remember being at the Meridian, talking to another friend. I must have been about fifteen. I don't remember the conversation either, but I remember the sentence: "She faints all the time."
I remember feeding an apple to a tonga horse. I remember being very small, and the horse being very big and feeling the pull of its teeth vibrate my arm.
I remember the taste of the pumpkin curry my maid used to pack with rotis for me after school. I remember (again!) a library, the Shankar children's library at ITO, and sitting in the back reading room, eating my pumpkin sabji and roti and reading a book. The books were bound in red and gold and they had a collection that I could only dream about.
I remember being sick with pneumonia, I remember the exact moment I got sick. I remember coming home from school and falling asleep and not waking for several hours. I remember sleeping a lot and losing a lot of weight and endless blood tests. I don't remember recuperating. Somewhere, buried behind everything, I remember being three years old and having chicken pox and sitting in a blue tub which had floating neem leaves in it. I know you probably won't believe me, but I remember being potty trained, and having a small red portable pot that I dragged around the house.
I remember the first time I held hands with someone and how I didn't realise holding hands could be such fun. I remember wondering what I was feeling when he ran his fingers over my knuckles, why I felt so odd and funny and yearning. I remember the same stomach flutter happening again, many years later, when a boy I thought was cute took my hand while he was driving, just took it, and continued the conversation as though nothing was unusual.
I remember a friend's boyfriend, who used to walk me to school some days, when she wasn't around to walk with me, and who would talk and talk about her. I remember listening to him and feeling a little sorry for him. He used to call me 'Little Freud'. Later, when they broke up, we called him one night, during a sleepover at my house and they fought and he asked to speak to me and told me he loved her and I made a derogatory comment. I remember regretting it instantly and feeling terrible for him. I'm sorry, if you're reading this now, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
I remember going for a tambola game in Hyderabad, where I dressed up in a salwar kameez, because underaged people weren't allowed and I was trying to pass for sixteen or eighteen, I forget which. I remember my aunt saying, "Look at her eyes shining" and I remember that's the first time I had ever heard that. I had read about it many times, but I thought it was just something people said, not an actual thing your eyes could do.
For no particular reason, I remember the theme from Three's Company. We used to rent the video cassettes of the episodes, and I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. Years later, when Zee English started to show it, I watched a few and wondered where the humour had gone. (Come and knock at our door, we've been waiting for you, where the places are hers and hers and his, three's company too.)
And the rest of the stuff I remember isn't quite so distinct. Practicing kissing at ten, the taste of sour figs--tender pink and white, a Russian ballet performance in the winter I turned six and the way a man yelled 'Encore' in the audience, watching Jungle Book over and over again, longing for pointy shoes, rolling down a hill of grass and promptly feeling itchy, watching my dog give birth, a birthday party with disco lights, learning to love music, mentholated cigarettes, being alive.
UPDATE: It has come to my attention that a Malayalam magazine, the name of which I do not know just yet, but I will post once I do, is claiming that I will be doing a column for them where I answer questions. I am NOT doing this column. My name is being used against my wishes, and against my knowledge. If anyone's read this magazine, I'd appreciate the name, and since I do not speak Malayalam, if the editors of the magazine are reading this, please publish a clarification at the earliest. I don't know which "Compulsive Confessor" they mean, but it is definitely NOT, repeat NOT me. Dear legal eagle type readers, is there any action I can take against this?
UPDATE TWO: I found out the name but I'm not going to mention it, they don't deserve the attention.
4 November 2007
The one in which I'm very drunk, so you should skip if you're looking for coherent reading
It's 4:14 in the morning and I am REALLY really really drunk. This is drunk blogging 2007, ladies and gentlemen, something I haven't done in a while, so if there are typos in this post, you must excuse me. Yeh Mera Deewanapan Hai is on the computer, from The Namesake, a song both Shark Tooth and I are tripping on right now. It was introduced to me for the first time by Deepti and Neel and another friend, and I remember one of the first times I was at their house, they played this song so many times the CD almost burnt out. I was with them all tonight, being in a funk-like state, so I drank a lot and said very little. Haiwaiian Shack is the place of my undoing, I realise, I was there last night with Chrisann and Sameer and I was just sitting around, minding my own business when suddenly, I burst into tears. Like, really burst. The two of them looked so bemused and embarrassed at my display of emotions, but they only patted my shoulder and looked so kind, it made me cry harder. And earlier tonight I was at Busaba, talking to Neel about boys and why I hate them, and I almost started to cry again. I'm turning into such a chick, I tell you.
The song has now changed to Tere Bin Nahin Lagda. I'm the DJ, this early morning, and you can clearly see my state of mind. I went to another party after Busaba, back in Bandra and made everyone come with me, something I'm feeling very guilty about now, because they all left in like half an hour, which means they only came to make me happy. Don't I have awesome friends? I do. Maybe it's the universe's way of compensating for my shitty relationship history. Volt was at this party, and he might even read this post, so I'm wondering how much my drunken inhibition will let me say. I can't say it. I tried. Let's just say I'm sado masochistic and in my friends opinions tomorrow morning, totally without dignity. Digless, as we used to say in boarding school. Isn't that a great phrase? I'm bringing it out of hiding. Use digless in a sentence today!
Now, it's Dooba dooba. I'm in a Hindi music phase today. Anon snarky commenters can suck my cock. Well, my metaphorical cock anyway. One assumes if I had a REAL cock, no one would pick on me so much anyway. Let's try and translate the song for my non-Hindi knowing readers. One line I like particularly translates into: No one knows, no one recognises, how this turned out this way, I drown, I drown in your eyes. Isn't it lovely? Why am I blogging so randomly I ask myself. It's a question that has no answers. Shortly I will disconnect and leave you with this evidence of the things I do when I'm drunk.
I think this is the right Mahiya. I'm using Shark Tooth's computer. No, it isn't. Let's find something suitably depressing. Ah, Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits. Am I enjoying my wallowing? A little bit. The funny thing about break ups is that you think of all your other lovers, ALL of them, the ones that read this, the ones that don't, the ones I still love somewhere in my heart, the ones I don't have anything to say to anymore. The sweet Indian boy from the USA who kissed me back home in Delhi when I was 17 and didn't try anything else, the first boyfriend, the ones I tried to love so much in Bombay and in Delhi who didn't want to be loved.
All I do is kiss you---through the bars of a rhyme.
The song has now changed to Tere Bin Nahin Lagda. I'm the DJ, this early morning, and you can clearly see my state of mind. I went to another party after Busaba, back in Bandra and made everyone come with me, something I'm feeling very guilty about now, because they all left in like half an hour, which means they only came to make me happy. Don't I have awesome friends? I do. Maybe it's the universe's way of compensating for my shitty relationship history. Volt was at this party, and he might even read this post, so I'm wondering how much my drunken inhibition will let me say. I can't say it. I tried. Let's just say I'm sado masochistic and in my friends opinions tomorrow morning, totally without dignity. Digless, as we used to say in boarding school. Isn't that a great phrase? I'm bringing it out of hiding. Use digless in a sentence today!
Now, it's Dooba dooba. I'm in a Hindi music phase today. Anon snarky commenters can suck my cock. Well, my metaphorical cock anyway. One assumes if I had a REAL cock, no one would pick on me so much anyway. Let's try and translate the song for my non-Hindi knowing readers. One line I like particularly translates into: No one knows, no one recognises, how this turned out this way, I drown, I drown in your eyes. Isn't it lovely? Why am I blogging so randomly I ask myself. It's a question that has no answers. Shortly I will disconnect and leave you with this evidence of the things I do when I'm drunk.
I think this is the right Mahiya. I'm using Shark Tooth's computer. No, it isn't. Let's find something suitably depressing. Ah, Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits. Am I enjoying my wallowing? A little bit. The funny thing about break ups is that you think of all your other lovers, ALL of them, the ones that read this, the ones that don't, the ones I still love somewhere in my heart, the ones I don't have anything to say to anymore. The sweet Indian boy from the USA who kissed me back home in Delhi when I was 17 and didn't try anything else, the first boyfriend, the ones I tried to love so much in Bombay and in Delhi who didn't want to be loved.
All I do is kiss you---through the bars of a rhyme.
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