I don’t want to be your doctor if the wound is not mine

Let one thing be known on the outset: I like kids. MOST kids. I like kids who are sweet and articulate. I like kids who can amuse themselves and who don’t need constant praise and attention. In my own far-off childhood, I was the kind of child who got lugged around to a lot of adult only dos, and I took a book, and was usually asleep by the time the party really got rocking. My parents didn’t have many friends with children, so I learnt early on how to make my own amusements and I’m pretty certain I never got in the way.

 

Reading a lot about kid free spaces online gets my goat though. People think that they should have the right to take their child everywhere and not get flack for it. I don’t know many people with children, and the ones I do know are stellar examples of parents. Their kids are friendly without smearing you with sticky fingers, sweet and if they act up, they are instantly told to quiet down. Of course, there are a few inconveniences, like if I want to smoke, I will have to go outside and I have to watch my language. But a lot of my child free friends are non smokers anyway, and I don’t use the F-word with that much abandon, unless I want to make a point. So far, so good.

 

But in a culture like India, what I hate is that I am expected to be an on hand babysitter for kids I don’t even know. No, I will not amuse your child on a train journey. No, I will not be appeased if your child knocks over my coffee, no I will not be happy with having to step over the racing body of your toddler as I pay good money at a restaurant. I was a quiet child, I know, and not everyone has to be the same way. But I don’t want to answer a billion questions. I want to be left in peace. Typically, in our culture, we’re all about the family. People LIKE children. People want to be near kids. Granny and grandkid all in one house, it sounds idyllic. BUT, I am not one of those people. If I am reading my book, minding my own business, I don’t want your kid gazing up at me, with his fingers on my knee, with his or her shiny eyes. He’s very cute, yes, but I’m not interested. There are other people who want his attention, let him focus it that way. That’s no reason for you to shoot me dirty looks either. I don’t have a problem with your kid stumbling around as long as they stay out of my way, why should you have a problem with me not engaging with him?

 

I don’t even have the complaint most people do about kids on planes. Of course, if I could pay a little more and be guaranteed a child free flight, I’d do that, but eh, economy means we’re all stuck together, including the fat farting man next to me, so what can I say? Flights aren’t easy on anyone, so I don’t blame your infant for bawling his head off. He has to fall asleep sometime, right? No, what I really have an issue with is entitlement. The “I’m a parent and so I can get away with anything”. I will give up my seat for an obviously pregnant woman, I will appreciate that the woman in front of me in the queue is balancing a baby and a bag and her other things. But I don’t think that your child should have a free for all pass just because he or she is a child. I don’t want to see him in a bar (which thankfully, is rare in India, thanks to the miracle of domestic help), I don’t want to talk to him in a train (we’re both there, buddy, now let’s just pretend the other doesn’t exist) and I don’t want to skip over him at a restaurant. How hard is it to sit still for an hour? But if we have to coexist in this city, your child and I, I think we need to have a talk about boundary issues.

White lies, fairy tales

I am Bloody Mary-d and broken, thinking about the lies we tell. In no small part, I owe my recent obsession with what-are-you-thinking-really to this show I’ve been hooked on to called Lie To Me. Just like doctor shows make me yearn to be a doctor, shows about people who are human lie detectors make me peer deeper into people’s faces, often startling them, to see whether they really mean what they’re saying.

 

On the other hand, how much do I say that I really mean? How much do I soften a blow with my tone? How much do I use qualifiers like “seems” and “maybe” to avoid giving my absolute one hundred per cent honest opinion? How much truth is too much truth?

 

This is one thing JC and I argue about all the time. Yes, he is still in my life and we’re still figuring it out, we’re trying, for lack of a better word, even though that statement makes me cringe. It’s trying to keep trying.He believes in the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I believe in not saying anything if I can’t say something nice. I won’t lie to you, I’ll never lie to you, but I am skilled enough in my words that I can make you believe that I feel the same way you do about something that you like. This is lying, isn’t it? Yeah, I think it is.

 

What people don’t get about me, maybe what most people don’t do, is that I’m quite clued in, for an amateur, to the expressions on your face. If you’re hesitant, I can see it. If you don’t like something, I can see it. If you pause before you answer, I know why you’ve paused. Maybe it’s an only child thing, I learnt to be quite skilful at navigating my way around playgrounds, maybe it’s a writer thing, because I am always looking at people to come up with thoughts and phrases that I will use later. People have commented about my tendency to zone during parties, when I just sit there and watch people, watch the interactions and feel the ups and downs of their voices. It teaches me a lot, this little observer thing that I do. It may not make me the chick in the middle of the party, drawing all eyes to her, as I sometimes long to be, but I find the things I learn when I am the only silent being in a room full of chaos crop up later when I didn’t even know I had them.

 

Lying is weird, it seems no two people have one opinion on it. Most people will agree that to save someone’s feelings, they will lie or conceal the truth in one way or another. There is another school of thought that believes its for the better good of all mankind to be absolutely, radically honest in every way. Think of all the harm that would arise from that though. Think of your mind as an open window, think of all the petty or selfish thoughts you have, and think of using them to hurt your nearest and dearest. That doesn’t sound very nice at all, does it? I think absolute honesty would only work if you HONESTLY had no bad thoughts about anyone, ever. Therefore, you would have to genuinely believe that your best friend’s blue dress is the most delightful creation you’ve ever seen, that the meal your boyfriend’s painstakingly cooked you with so much love is DELICIOUS and you have to be prepared that the only excuse you might have to be late to a meeting is: I’m sorry, I was drinking last night and hungover today.

 

At the end of this very rambly post, I have to confess I have reached absolutely no conclusions. I want to be more honest—both for my sake and for others, but really, since we’re being more honest, honesty is REALLY for your own sake than anyone else’s, so let’s drop the “I’m doing you a favour” bullshit. What price though? Am I—by telling the truth, something that’s supposed to be always applauded—doomed to live a life friendless and loveless with no job? Maybe I should have a pact with someone—I’ll tell you the truth and you do the same. Tell me I’m being an ass and I’ll tell you that last thing you did was insensitive and selfish. We may wind up killing each other, but it’ll all be in the name of truth.

A Saturday Surprise

It is only in the aftermath of a party that you can tell how successful it was. For me, Sunday morning was maid-less and I was battling a not-so-bad hangover (orange juice! it is the answer!) and feeling generally fragile, having only been to bed at 7 am. So I crawled around, doing clean up as best as I could and coming across the debris of my party. Some things heartbreaking (a fridge magnet that I loved having lost its magnet and half of its contents) some things bizarre (why is there cake smeared all over the coffee pot and rice cooker?) and some things nostalgic (ah, look, that’s where I put my last glass of vodka orange.)

The party was a surprise birthday one and one of the most successful ones in that genre that I have ever pulled off. That being said, I was just the house provider, the real host (and mastermind) was my friend Apple, who wanted to do something special for her boyfriend, Rodrigo. The trick to a surprise party, I have learnt, is to have it in an unexpected location. Rodrigo was not expecting to find a room full of people with masks on (more about the masks in a bit) leap out at him in my living room. He might have been more suspicious if it was his own house. There’s my party tip for you today: location, location, location.

Anyhoo, the back story/lie was that Apple was at a do, and her shoes had broken. So she called Rodrigo (putting on her “I’m your girlfriend and I’m stuck and I’m annoyed” voice while the rest of us tried not to giggle)  and asked him to pick up a pair of shoes from my house. I greeted him with my best “It’s about time! I was just about to leave.” Impromptu acting is clearly my forte. Then he stayed a LOOOOOOOOOOOONG time just talking to me, his hand on the doorknob, while I smiled and nodded and willed him to just OPEN THE DAMN DOOR ALREADY BEFORE SOMEONE LAUGHS AND GIVES IT AWAY. And finally, when I thought all this impromptu acting was going to burn a hole in my brain, he opened the door and “SURPRISE!” was yelled so loudly, I’m sure everyone in the neighbourhood heard it. Sadly, I missed the “surprise” face because I was standing behind him, but there were lots of photos and I think I pieced them together.

Oh yeah, the masks. So, Apple decided to print out a bunch of pictures of Rodrigo’s face and cut them out, mask style for people to hold up. What it must have been like for him to enter a room with more hims I can’t imagine. In the party aftermath though, I find his face everywhere, and it is a little disconcerting. Although, he’s now my coaster, which is oddly cool.

I figure in the universal scheme of things there are hosts and there are guests. I am one of life’s hosts. There is no feeling that gives me greater joy than a room full of people enjoying themselves in my house. I like to step away from the socialising for a couple of seconds and survey what I have wrought. I like people to be having a good time, everyone drinking and chatting, no one sitting alone and bored in a corner. I do love parties, aftermaths? Not so much.

And speaking of after parties, and parties in general, Confessions Of A Listmaniac is launching in Bombay this Friday (July 23rd) at 6.30 pm at the Landmark bookstore in High Street Phoenix, Lower Parel. I can't promise you booze at the thing itself, but we are all going out after to celebrate. Plus it's a good book (even if I do say so myself) and it's funny and you'll like it, I promise. Come!

Clothes maketh the girl

Inspired by Swasta Ani Masta, here are some pictures of stuff I bought recently.

 

I love, love, love the Simpsons. This Maggie t-shirt is soft and worn looking and feels lovely. Also it makes me look very nice and skinny. I like clothes like that. Scored for Rs 50, off one of those little cycle stalls on Hill Road where the guy yells, “Fif-tee, fif-tee, FIF-TEE!” and the other guy tosses loads of t-shirts into the air and there are women shoving you and rummaging. My trick is to go by feel, so I grab and if I like the material of what I grab, I pull it out and look at it. Quicker, and usually gets me some really nice stuff.

 

Everyone needs a plain black cotton skirt. Especially for period-y days, when you want to look pretty, but your pants just make your bloated stomach look all that more bloated and you feel blah and your thighs hurt. THAT is when you’re like, oh look, my long, black cotton skirt! Let me add my pink tank top and I will not look period-y at all! Yay! (I think ahead like that.) Scored for Rs 150 from another little shop on the pavement on Hill Road, next to a stall selling underwear. This skirt stall had some GORGEOUS Zara tunics, but alas, all much too big for me.

 

Checked playsuit, which I SWEAR looks better on than off. See that elastic waistband near the bottom? Well, you sort of pull the top down so it hides the waistband and stick your hands in your pockets and voila! You have the cutest summer outfit ever! I was a little sceptical about playsuits, I admit. It was all too “what am I? Three?” for my liking, but then I saw this one, and I took it home and tried it on, and oh my god, you guys. It is SO flattering. Especially for someone short like me. It actually lengthens my legs and gives me the impression of actually having a longer torso. The only hitch is that it has no zip or anything, so you have to crawl into it. Scored for Rs 200 at the little shop near Elco.

 

 

Gorgeous, gorgeous dress, and just look at that fancy back. So you’re all like, oh, look, I’m in a summer dress and then you turn around and hey, it’s backless (practically.) I like the colours on this one particularly. It’s a little long, but I’m going to wear it with my calf length silver glads or my black wedge heels and be the belle of the ball. Or the wherever. It has a lining, so you’re not all panties showing, and it is so pretty, I’m dying to be asked to some nice monsoon house party so I can swish around it. Scored for Rs 250 at the same shop as the playsuit, and I saw loads of the same all over Hill Road, so just look and you should be able to find it.

 

Shopping is one of my favourite forms of exercise. What have you bought recently?

Let’s get physical, physical

Operation get my life in order is in full effect. About a week ago, I joined a gym. It’s a really good gym for anyone in the market for one in Bandra, called 10 The Health Spa and what sold me on it was their steam room. I know the weather outside is practically a sauna, but this is CLEAN steam. Pore cleansing etc.

 

Now the problem with gymming is that at some point you actually have to exercise. Which means, oh, the unbearable pain of it all. Right now various parts of my body are screaming out in protest including the back of my knees (I did squats yesterday) and my shoulders and upper arms (bicep curls with weights). Not to mention each time I laugh, my stomach (ab crunches). If all this pays off though, as Dilip, my trainer, promises, in about a month I should be Lara Croft. With Madonna arms. Okay, his promise was more like, in about a month, it’ll stop hurting. Google tells me this hurt is called DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness) which basically means my old muscles were torn and my body’s building new ones. Pretty cool, right?

 

But it’s become sort of my daily routine. I plug in some Ingrid Michaelson or The Sneaker Pimps into my ears and stroll along, some days with an umbrella, some days getting my own sneakers really wet. I take a different route every day (there are two) so I don’t get bored and I look around me, like really look, at things I’ve never noticed before. It’s a sort of meditation for me—my pre and post-gym walk—a time when I am alone with my thoughts and the music is pulsing in my ears and the entire world looks like a soundtrack.

 

It’s the same feeling I get on a treadmill, pushing the numbers higher and higher, watching my exercise face in the mirror, feeling the monotony of the track slide under my shoes. You never go anywhere on a treadmill, but it does tell you how fast your heart is beating and how many calories you’ve burned. Which is not even one of those little M&M’s I’ve been sneaking.

 

And afterwards, once Dilip has stopped looking so chirpy even as I gasp in pain, I go back to the locker room, collect my things and start the slow stroll home. By this time, I am STARVING. Beyond hungry. The last time I was hungry like this was when I was a child and used to play in the park near my house. Then I’d come home full of health and vigour and good old fashioned hunger and somewhere along the way, as a grown up, I stopped feeling that exercise hunger. The oh-my-god-my-body-actually-needs-food hunger. Now I just eat, coz meh, it’s lunchtime. Sometimes I stop at Candies or Cinnabon to get myself a snack, most days I go home, drink a glass of juice and have an early dinner. And then equally early bedtime. This gym thing is terrible for my social life, but it’s weird how it’s become part of my daily routine. Even today, even though I’m bunking (having just come back from MALAD, I am in no position to exercise) I’m already planning on making up for it on Sunday afternoon and quite looking forward to it too.

 

What all this has taught me—besides an intimate knowledge of muscles in my body that I didn’t even know existed—is that I like my quiet time. My shut off from the world time. Just me and my aching body, just me and the feel of my shoes and the tightness in my arms and the flexing of my calves. A time when I am not available to anyone else. Coming home, having my quick fix meal, and jumping into a warm shower (which almost makes the pain go away). Exercise is like really aggressive meditation. You should try it too.