I'm Not Trying To Break Your Heart (it just happened)

When's your thinking time? Mine's usually when I'm commuting. That's when I catch up with all the niggling things that have been on my mental checklist of 'Must Resolve' for ages. Also, I use travel time to return phone calls, but when you're on a train it's hard, because of the changing signals and the fact that no less than three old aunties will be totally not disguising staring hard at you and eavesdropping on your conversation.

Luckily, because I NOW HAVE A BOYFRIEND I CANNOT SAY THIS ENOUGH BOYFRIEND BOYFRIEND BOYFRIEND my little Romance Must Resolve List is a lot less full. It's now less "Oh my god, will he call?" and more "So Zenzi or Janta tonight?" (Being broke, it's been mostly Janta). Which is not to say we have the perfect relationship or anything. We think quite differently about several things, but I think we're reaching a happy medium of understanding and you know the whole love will keep us a-liiiiiiiii-iiiiiiive thing.

So now the free space that's in my head is used to come up with new writing ideas. I do three columns now, as some of you know and between that and the blog and maybe the new book (can't talk about it yet, but I do have an opening paragraph! Well, two openings, but I like the second one better) I have a lot of new ideas to think about constantly. I love it, by the way. Beats the hell out of a full-time job anytime. The other day, I was talking to someone about ending a relationship and it struck me that I've not always been Little Miss Perfect about ending things. Annnndddddd that brings us to a list! The top five ways I have been an asshole (bitch doesn't begin to cover it) about breaking up with someone.

1) Class nine. Being 'proposed' to in an empty classroom. The boy was shy and awkward and I think he was asking me out for the same reason I said yes, because everybody else was dating and we were perhaps the only un-couple. It lasted one weekend. Exactly. After agonising all through Friday and Saturday, I finally called him Sunday evening and said, "This was a mistake. I changed my mind, goodbye." And then avoided him and his hurt looks in school for the next month.

2) Class eleven. Dating someone for two months until I finally realised he wasn't for me. I picked a huge fight the eve of his birthday and ended it at midnight, avoiding him for the weekend too. Oy. I am horrible. He didn't talk to me for ages after that--and really, I can't blame him.

3) Twenties. Dating two men at the same time, while trying to make up my mind about which one to get into a relationship with. Dinners, movies, lunches, parties etc with both. Picked one and changed Facebook relationship status. Yeah. The other guy doesn't talk to me either.

Gah. This list is depressing. But the good news is, I think there were only three. If I think of more, I'll add them. In the meanwhile, it's your turn now.

EDIT: So, the first post at the other blog is up. You remember, the one I mentioned in the previous post? To get your post in there (and a chance to win a signed copy of le book) write to adminATinDOTpenguinDOTcom. /end plug/

The Post Where We Shamelessly Plug Ourselves In The Hopes Of Rising Royalties

So post Goa recovery this week was enhanced by a visit from the mother, who stayed for a nice long five days, tut-tutted at my general disorganisation, met JC and argued happily about world issue type things over coffee, came to school with me to watch me in 'action', and took me along to two parties--one, afternoon and drunken, one, nighttime and not so drunken.

We--JC and I--also did many, many, many birthday parties this last weekend (and one tomorrow!). What's with everyone being born in July? A little backwards calculation tells me that nine months ago was October, which means what? Diwali? Slight nip in the air? A time for a little rumpy-bumpy? I was born in December, the only sensible month to be born in--and I was conceived therefore, in March, springtime in Delhi, and Holi. (Ohhhhhhhh, now I get it.)

But this post is actually a post with a purpose. The book is out next month as everyone knows (and if you don't, hi! I have a book coming out!) and the dudes at Penguin are doing this online campaign (aren't I posh?). To read the first chapter, before the book comes out, go to the Penguin website, become a member of the Penguin Club and you will be emailed a part of *ahem* my magnum opus on August 1. (It's free, by the way.)

And while I'm on shameless promos, there's a bit of a contest going on as well. YOU confess, *I* comment. Fun, no? And the five best entries get a signed copy of the book (hang on to it, you can sell it on eBay in a couple of years and make lots of money). This stuff will be up on another blog (URL later), I'll choose the best emails to go as posts every day, and you can choose to be anon as well. (You can specify in your emails that you don't want to be named, although you should leave your contact details so you can be mailed a copy of the book.) Think stuff like sex and drugs and rock and roll. It could even be a problem you have that you want general feedback on.

Click here to email. I know, and I hate writing it like that as well, but a) I don't know what to do to make mail links look like URLs you can click on and b) I don't want spam troll people. (Edit: thanks to techie boyfriend, all sorted now.)
Lalalalalala... I can't stop singing I Just Can't Wait To Be King. So exciting, all this! Everyone should totes write a book, I recommend it highly.

And it was never quite the same again...

We almost missed our train. If it was left to BB and me, we'd still be sitting at Just Around The Corner, smoking our cigarettes and talking about how we should really leave Bombay soon. Ira was the Travel Nazi, the one who got the tickets done, who made sure we were at the station on time, who switched bunks with the person in the same bogey so we could all be in the same line. Although, I'm sure the whole train was really happy when we got off. We were loud, not just noisy, but LOUD loud, and giggly and we kept talking to each other the entire time. When the lights went off, I swear I heard everyone breathe a sigh of relief.

Our coach number was B3, which I saw as fortituous. B3 as in Babes Three. What a great name for our first all-girls holiday. Well, kinda cheesy, but in our excitement and psuedo-road-trip movie mood we were ready to agree to everything. Seriously, the entire trip felt like we were in a movie. There was this one point where we were waiting for a bus (coz we took buses!) at a closed bar called Moonlight which was small and painted yellow and blue, and we had our bags piled up near us and our shades and our bathing suits on under our clothes and we weren't talking much, just passing the cigarette back and forth and then a bus came by and I stuck out my hand and yelled, "Taxi! No, wait, I mean.. BUS!" which the other two found hilarious and getting on it, all seriously very Darjeeling Limited. Or Dil Chahta Hai minus random foreign girls stealing our money.

Oh wait! There WAS a random foreign girl! Sunday night after an evening that has unfortunately been lost from memory (twelve tequila shots, one not-so-large person, it's a wonder I'm still alive and talking to you) we went to sing cheesy angry lesbian karaoke at St Anthony's, a beach shack in Baga. When I say "we" I really mean me, because the other two kept volunteering my name to sing things to "liven things up". Everyone else was taking it all very seriously and doing all these senti, sappy numbers and I got up there and rocked I will survive and Lean on me and Like A Prayer. (Tolja, angry lesbian). We were sitting behind a group of three foreigners--a guy and two women and one of the women turned around and asked whether they could join us. "Sure!" we said, being friendly people and they pulled up chairs and then it was revealed that one of them was a Swedish Goddess. No, seriously. She was absolutely stunning, the kind of beauty you can't look directly at, so we kept sneaking peeks and every time she made eye contact, we'd look away. The other girl was a lot more fun, the boy was clearly into the Goddess, but the Goddess was quiet and let us revel in her beauty. By the time we got back to our hotel, we had full blown girl crushes, enough to make us wake up at 7 am so we could meet them for breakfast the next morning. And the next morning? Well, she didn't look so much like a Goddess anymore. The illusion that candlelight and a roaring sea can create went away. We had sort of developed a crush on all three of them, and I guess they had on us as well, because our disillusionment was palpable. Then they went their separate ways (ostensibly to shower and change and we got bored of waiting so we left.)

I wish I could tell you more about the Twelve Tequila Shot Night, but really, the last thing I remember is projectile red vomit that I totally had no control over. We tried to piece together the rest of the evening, which included walking about three kilometers to another club, coming back to our resort, me being tucked into bed while the other two continued and some very strange bruises. Oh, and several THOUSAND drunk dials to JC. (Which I think is endearing, but I'm pretty sure he thought was annoying. Still, it means I MUST be in love, eh? Who woulda thunk?) Actually it was rather nice having someone to miss and having someone miss me AND he spent the night before I was due to come back at mine so I got to see him at five in the morning. And there were roses. Red and pink. Say it with me, ladies: awwwwwwwwwwwwww. (I had some clean clothes left and the bathroom is outside my room so I managed to smell and look less gross and train-journey-ey before I opened my door.)

Anyway, we're back now, planning more trips (I still can't say the word 'tequila' without feeling ill. I'm saying The Alcohol That Shall Not Be Named) We have Girl Pacts (duh, this WAS a road trip movie about three friends finding themselves etc) and we rocked Goa off-season. Pretty damn good, I'd say.