Wake me up perhaps not when September ends, but somewhere in the middle, okay?

Bad blogger, bad! *wrist slap* But honestly, you gu-uys, how am I supposed to stay motivated if no one comments on my posts anymore? Like, seriously? 13 comments? Are we for real? If you commented loads, I'd write loads! See? Win-win.

But, Happy Dusshera! I have spent the evening with my friend Vik's family, which was awesome. I was feeling the teensiest bit in the doldrums today, so I just got Ira out of her house, got us both into salwar kameezes and we said we'd go where the wind took us. Ideally, we wanted to find a Ravana burning thing, but I believe the only one in Bombay is at Shivaji Park which is miles away, so we settled for calling on Vik and cajoling an invitation to his parents house for dinner. Where we watched The Amazing Race and some show on Star Plus called The Perfect Bride. Have you seen this show? It is BEYOND hilarious. From what I can see, it's where women compete to be the perfect daughters in law, and they live in this house they share with (tan tara tara) their future MOTHER IN LAWS. No, seriously. The sons live right next door and then they get together and do stuff, and this tripe is what passes for entertainment these days. Holy crapola, Batman. Also one of the girls looked vaguely familiar. She might have gone to school with me, although all the reality show watching I have done recently has turned my brain into mush, so I could be wrong.

I had a pretty fun weekend all in all. Asides from a lingering fatigue which I haven't been able to shake (I don't know whether it's the weather or y'know, woman stuff, but wow, do I feel tired) I've been quite active. I did my FIRST FOREIGN FEATURE STORY, thank you very much and I'm all like duuuuuuuuuuude, why have I not tapped this lucrative side of freelancing before? And all the other freelancers I know are all like, um, duh? But, basically it involved me going to the Art Expo and running into Anjolie Ela Menon and having a nice cosy little chat with her.

Also, a little piece of "dirty" writing I did is now on the stands, and since no one wants to excerpt me (hmph) I'll just give you a little taste right here on my blog:

"Aditya’s sole experience until that point was Neelima, a shy girl in college, who he kissed at one of the hostel parties, kissed hard, working his tongue into her mouth. But at the merest hint of his hand slipping down past her shoulders, she had stiffened and pushed him off and he was nowhere closer to figuring out how they felt, her breasts, whether the shape stayed or whether they were malleable, whether they moved under his hand or whether they throbbed. It appreared he was doomed to be fourteen forever.

It tormented him, his virginity. He knew there was something fundamentally wrong with him. For the first time in eleven years, he started thinking about sex constantly again, and everyone was the subject of his fantasy. (....) And just as they had started, the fantasies had stopped. He was celibate, he was cerebral, he resigned himself to being a virgin forever. On his 27th birthday, just a few weeks ago, he had taken a few friends out to dinner, and they had come with their girlfriends or wives, and he had been able to talk to the women, really talk to them, without the constant slideshow of flashing images in his mind, how so-and-so would look naked, how another’s mouth would open when she came, how that one’s ass would feel. People assumed he was having sex, if not regularly, then at least a fair amount. And since he was reticent about it, they assumed he got some quite frequently and often included him in their wink-wink-nudge-nudges. The only person in the whole world who knew was his colleague Disha, who shared a cubicle with him, and who had taken him out for tequila shots the night before to celebrate his birthday. And who was now nakedly stretching across his bed. Naked. "

But besides my little foray, there are some other really good stories too. It'd make a good present, especially for like a bachelorette party or something.

And, before I stop pimping, could I direct your eyeballs towards Metrotwin Mumbai, the other blog I do? (Making the count eleventyhundred and fifty six, for those of you at home keeping track.) I write about Bombay and the stuff I like about it and so do a bunch of people and another bunch of people in London and it's very fun. Promise.

Anyhoo. I think that's a long enough post to inflict on you guys. I hope you had a great long weekend, and SERIOUSLY, COMMENT ALREADY, WHAT DOES A GIRL NEED TO DO FOR REASSURANCE AROUND HERE?

Where have I been? EXCELLENT question

Oh wow. Where to start? I have been everywhere this past couple of weeks and I don't know how to condense it all into one blog post. Therefore, bullet points of note!

> KAMSHET: Was beautiful. We took my car and I realised that I can in fact drive for four hours at a stretch without losing it. Tunnels still spook me out a little though. We were only there for 24 hours, celebrating one of JC's friend's birthday and there was lots of alcohol, a lake where you could swim (but I didn't, because it was kinda cold) and nice walks. I took loads of pictures (I'm really enjoying the new digicam) and on the way back, we stopped for chikki in Lonavala. Kamshet isn't far and I'd totally recommend it if you're looking for a weekend break. The road leading up to the cottage is fucked though, so that takes about an hour to navigate, factor that in.

> BRUNCH PARTY: Dudes, daytime parties are the way to go. I'm telling you. Okay, so mine was more like lunch than brunch, but still, it was so much fun. We had pot luck (I had just made a visit to Matunga, where I managed to source the puliodharai paste of my dreams, I'm happy to report my contribution was the first to finish.) Besides my stellar cooking, we also had pork chops, sausages, lots of alcohol, potatoes and pani puri. And, achievement of achievements, about 20 people showed up on a Sunday afternoon. Okay, so we wound up early, say sevenish and I felt a little post-party depression, like I always do. But it was nice and a good way to say farewell to JC and BB, both of whom were leaving the city.

> LONG DISTANCE: It sucks. And it's happening once more. JC is in the UK for another month or so and I'm all alone in the house. Which, okay, so far, hasn't been too bad. We're both slobs, so today I'm having the bedroom cleaned up of a massive pile of clothes and I'm doing loads of writing, plus I went to the Godrej Nature's Market place yesterday (on Hill Road) which is so brilliant, even if it is a little expensive and bought some fancy cheese and salami and cake mix and things like that. So you see, I'm keeping busy and according to my little countdown timer widget on my desktop, JC now returns in 57 days, 11 hours, 27 minutes and 46 seconds. I keep telling him about this countdown timer, he laughs nervously. But no pressure, sweetie! Take your time!

> CHANDIGARH: Was hectic, but major points for their nice Sarojini Nagar-esque market, where I bought two kurtas at this fabulous little stall (selling all sorts of export surplus kurtas, with labels like Next and Gap and so on) and two chunnis--one white with 'Lahori-work' and one blue with 'phulkari' work. I've become very into the chunni these days, just to toss over a dress or jeans and a t-shirt, they help when you want to travel in public transport in a less than public transport outfit, they're useful for preventing auto hair (which is dreadful) and in highly air conditioned places they make a pretty wrap. Plus, most of my outfits are black or a single shade, and it's nice to jazz them up. Ahem. Anyway. I also loved Chandigarh because they have these maps everywhere with You Are Here on them, and yes, I know it's a common map sign, I mean, I did call my book that, but it still felt very welcoming. I went to the Government Girl's College and Dikshant School and the English bookshop and met lots of young readers and talked about what it was like to be a writer for a living. I really like meeting younger readers, I mean in school or college, they let me slip into another persona, I feel more idealistic when I'm with them, unjaded, supercool, like the world is my oyster. I also really liked hearing what they had to say. With the school, the age group was 10 to 15 year olds, I made my talk very PG-13, didn't read from the book at all, instead I focussed on young adult reading and rules that I followed to write well. I think both the talks went well, the school gave me my very first 'momento', a large Buddha on a pedestal with my name on it! It has pride of place in my study now.

> DELHI: Where with Arti of Friends Of Books we did Kamla Nehru and IP College and I talked about blogging and how it can be used to hone your skills as a writer as well as being a good marketing tool. Again, the discussions were lively, the questions were thoughtful and I had a fabulous time. Also, I managed to squeeze some leisure time in and went to the Stiff Kittens Medicine Show variety act at the Mirage in the Surya. Unfortunately, it was a dry day in the Okhla region, otherwise the show was quite fun (look out for a review on the other blog soon) even if it did tend to get a tad draggy towards the end. Also met Small and Hobo and other people I love and talked till I was hoarse and Delhi was obliging enough to have lovely weather with the slightest nip in the air for the days that I was there, even if it did go back to being sunny later.

And now, back in Bombay, having my flat majorly spring cleaned. I bought some fish this morning, and TC got the scraps (he normally eats cat food, but I like him to get his proteins in fresh food as well) and so I have a supremely happy tabby cat, too full to even meow.

(grrr, Blogger Images is hideously slow today!)

Finally moving that ol' elephant

(Sunset outside my window coinciding with the call to indicate the end of the Ramzan fast for the day, lasted for all of three minutes, but I do love the colours)

I have been to Kamshet this past weekend and it was BRILLIANT, and you will hear all about it with pictures soon, I promise. (I have a new camera, which I love and which took today's photo. Reasonably priced and perfect for my night shot/portrait stuff that I do most often. It's a Canon Powershot A480, 10 MP) But today, I'm lazy and I would've just gone on sitting in silence and BEING lazy and then I remembered that I do sometimes put columns up here. And then I was all wheeeeeeeee, pre-written stuff! And you won't get all mad and leave in a huff because, hey, writing is WRITING, right? And not only is it writing, it's also writing about sex, which come on, everyone loves. (To read about, if not to do.)

This is from my (much missed) Mumbai Mirror column and it is a true story of me and a rickshaw ride and it is even more specially appropriate now because from my study window I can see straight into the flat of the people living in the building opposite and every evening, it's most charming, when the mosque sounds out end-of-fast time, I see my window people go and eat and it makes me feel happy to see people on a schedule. I just hope they can't see all our shenanigans (our house is lower than theirs and it's harder to peer downwards, something to do with physics) and me in my boxers and a t-shirt. I do avert my eyes often but they ARE right in my vantage point and they're this huge family, lots of kids, some young women, a matriach and a patriach. I love my Window Family. I saw Mr Window outside one day when I was coming home and he was parking his car (their boundary wall is the same as ours) and I didn't recognise him until he was in the window again.

This actually has very little to do with my column, in retrospect. Oh well, two stories for the price of one, eh?

****

“We call this stretch chor bazaar,” said an exceedingly talkative auto driver to us the other day as we put-putted our way past the Bandra Reclamation stretch. I don’t like talking when I’m commuting, so I made a non-committal mm-hmm noise, but he wasn’t to be discouraged. “Do you know why it’s called chor bazaar?” he asked, chortling at the thought of the punch line he was about to deliver. I shrugged. “Because it’s full of the thieves of love!”


It was an interesting way to look at it. At any given time—rain or shine or horrible mugginess—the picturesque stretch of ocean and land and the winking of lights from the promised (EDIT: This was back in the day, but you know what I mean) Bandra-Worli sea link call couples to it like homing pigeons. They’re everywhere, these thieves of love, sitting huddled under umbrellas on a bike or if they’re lucky, parked in cars, so all you can see is the silhouette of two heads leaning towards each other. And it’s not like they’re doing anything very raunchy either. They just add to the landscape—usually a man standing up and a woman lying across his chest, her arms around him.

“How does anyone in Bombay ever have sex?” I remember asking a friend of mine when I first moved to the city. There seems to be no empty spaces, and practically everyone who grew up here continue to live with their parents because of the astronomical real estate costs. Unless you’re an immigrant or are lucky enough to have inherited masses of property, chances are your scope for ‘action’ stops with the furtive grope behind Rizvi College.


Why are we as a nation so conflicted about sex? Sex is everywhere—it’s in the billboards you see on your way to work, it’s the cut of a backless blouse or the shimmer of a bronzed shoulder, it’s the patting your fellow player on the bottom after a game of cricket, it’s in the young men on roadsides and on buses who don’t hesitate to undress and rape you with their eyes and it’s even (yes!) in your parents, as fuddy-duddy as they may appear to you, the fact that you are here in a country of teeming millions surely is testament to how much people are having sex every day, every hour, every second? And yet we hide it away as much as possible, pretend it doesn’t exist, pretend that copulation is so far beneath us that a pure person of “good moral values” may never ever think about creating other pure people.


It’s the elephant in the living room mentality, I guess. Since it is everywhere, we feel no need to talk about it. Since we can take pretty educated guesses about the activities of couples on the Reclamation road, we feel there is no need to discuss it in polite society. And, possibly there isn’t. It doesn’t exactly make for excellent dinner party conversation (except most dinner parties I have been to make a career out of talking about this very thing) and it remains in the wink-wink nudge-nudge arena of dirty jokes. You are only permitted to think, talk about and actually have sex when you’re safely, happily married to a safe, happy person, but if you get knocked up? Uh-oh, the looks of embarrassment abound, sometimes I’ve even noticed the lecherous looks on trains and things, and I think, “Really? Maybe there’s a pregnant chick fetish I haven’t heard about.” Apparently, there’s masses of pregnant woman porn on the internet (why am I not surprised?). I guess the logic is, if you’ve had sex with one person, you should be okay with having sex with several.


That brings me back to Talkative Rick Driver. He continued his little Bandra tour as though he could not hear me muttering about how long I had lived in Bombay and how I already knew all this stuff. “The cops come and arrest them!” he said gleefully, “And all those poor chutiyas have to go to the police station!” He slowed down a little bit so we could gawk at this part of Bombay tourism. The couples didn’t even notice us. I felt suddenly like we were visitors to a zoo or something and at any time were about to toss peanuts to the performing monkeys. There were even some forlorn looking sets of boys alone, looking wistfully at all the loving that was going on around them, chugging Coke out of bottles and chain smoking. It was a suspended parallel universe which I with all my oh-I-live-alone-and-oh-I-am-liberated-and-oh-I-can-say-sex-without-flinching had no part in.


“This is where men line up every weekend,” he said next. I rolled my eyes. My fellow traveler laughed. “Do you know why they line up?” he asked, turning around to face us and narrowly avoiding hitting a cyclist. “Because it’s Salman Khan’s house,” I snapped, hoping to snub him. Far from it. He looked even more delighted to have such a well-versed audience. “Yes!” he crowed, “And then he comes out in his towel says hello-ta-ta and leaves! And these men just wait for that.”


I remember back in high school when my school building faced a row of flats, every day for a week (until a teacher intervened) there used to be commotion as all the boys gathered towards the gate and gazed up at the faraway houses. The reason? A lady known for doing yoga naked in her balcony came out just around the time we had lunch break. I could never see her, except perhaps a faint shadow waving in the distance but I was assured she was young and hot. (Later, the story changed to old and wrinkled, but these were teenage boys and she was a naked woman, you can hardly blame them). That, I can understand lining up for. But bare-chested Salman Khan? Really? When you can see him do that with less time wasted just by borrowing one of his movies? And when most of the men who line up outside his house would swear they were straight? Is this what our twisted passive-aggressive approach to sex is bringing about?


It’s a scary thought.