Notes from the Lit Fest that have absolutely nothing to do with literature

All of this past week I have been at the Jaipur Literature Festival which was even more of a circus than usual. I cannot sum up the last five days without devoting pages and pages to it, so instead, I’m going to offer you my (very random) tweets, with a little explanation to follow each one. I got into the habit of taking down time sitting by the fountain area near Diggi Palace’s Flow Cafe and tweeting whatever came to mind as I sat there with my coffee and a cigarette. MADNESS.

 

Feel v. virtuous because I managed to get the writing I had to do done before I go off to schmooze for a week at the lit fest.

It’s true. I did. I’ve decided my awesome alter ego Nina (has very short hair, may or may not be a lesbian, is very capable) is responsible for all my organised-y things. Post this, I fell asleep and didn’t wake up till my friend arrived from Bangalore, and I got into a major rush over packing and showering and getting to Bikaner House on time. Bikaner House being the place off India Gate where you get nice luxury buses to go to Jaipur or Jodhpur or wherever else in Rajasthan you fancy. We got lucky, because not only was our bus very nice, with reclining seats and a foot rest and everything, but also, we reached Jaipur in about five and a half hours.

 

Unfortunately, Nina didn’t step in in time for me to collect my newly made business cards from the place in Khan Market I ordered them from and there they languish, thinking of the might-have-beens.

 

this year's writer most likely to be mobbed award goes to... gulzar!

Girl on the bus to me, after I asked her whether she was going to the lit fest: “I’m only going for one session, because I have to go back to Delhi tomorrow evening. I MUST see Gulzar, I even tried to get into his house in Bombay and couldn’t.” Commitment? Or stalkeritude? You decide.

 

But seriously, everywhere the man went, he was followed by a literal TRAIN of people, including his own private personal paparazzi.

 

authors get separate eating section this year. I'm average Joanna this year so feel very left out. esp since that's where the bar is.

The lit fest’s biggest claim has been its egalitarianism, you get to lunch with the greats, maybe share a table with a Nobel Prize winner, but this year they all got their own eating area, and we (the great masses) were left to fend for ourselves, alone and un-famous-people-table-y.

 

still haven't spotted candace bushnell, I hope she's ready for a new bff.

Oh my god, I was so excited about Candace. I don’t know what I was expecting, that she’d throw her arms around me and be all, “Sister from another mother!” but I was expecting something. Which, if you’ll read on, you’ll find was not the case.

 

in today's awards also add writer everyone wants to seduce. winner is junot diaz, surprised no one actually threw panties on the stage.

Junot  Diaz was rather unprepossessing looking, but then he talked. And he did such a good job, all the ladies in the audience were in a collective swoon. You could see the sappy faces everywhere, and when I spotted him and went up to chat to him the next day at the cafe, he had the look of a man who was used to it, patting my shoulder, saying “that’s very kind” and moving on to brighter pastures.

 

On the plus side, SO MANY CUTE BOYS! Yay!

 

watch me on tehelka.com where I and @mriganayanika talk about the lit fest and hot boys. 

 

My friend Pragya, who is awesome, and I did a couple of “festival diaries” thing. They’re fun and funny, but I can’t find the links, so just check on Tehelka.

 

Today. I. Am. Interviewing. Candace. Bushnell. (inhale, Minna, inhale)

For Marie Claire stepped in at the last moment and made all my dreams come true. I was actually going to meet her! Face to face! The woman who revolutionised sex writing so long ago.

 

But while Ms. Bushnell was very articulate and intelligent, we didn’t quite get into the discussion I wanted to have—about sex writing abroad versus sex writing in India, about feminism and so on. It was probably my own fault—I did come with a prepared list of questions, and perhaps it was the time constraint, but either way, I felt it fell a little flat.

 

Of course, this means I have to dress very nice. I'm thinking grey cowl neck wool dress, with a lime tube top inside, tights, boots.

Either writers are finally dressing better, or the mild winter sun made for some interesting sartorial choices, but Jaipur was just like a fashion show. LOVELY outfits, beautiful people, it made my people watching all the more interesting—and of course, upped the ante on what I would choose to wear that day too.

 

I have to dress nice for Carrie.... er, I mean, Candace.

Author  Ira Trivedi did the session with her and made the same mistake on stage, which I thought was very sweet. We do always imagine Carrie Bradshaw when we think of Candace Bushnell, no?

 

only 10 am and the place is packed. this is going to be a crazy weekend.

I’m not kidding you guys. It felt like the Khumbh Mela or something. There was even the obligatory “has anyone seen a little lost boy?” announcement. I couldn’t get into any of the sessions, so I sat outside quite happily and eavesdropped.

 

someone just touched gulzar's feet.

Really.

 

people are certainly dressed better this year.

And you thought readers were nerds.

 

if everyone's here, who's attending the sessions? does anyone really come to watch the discussions or is it all about people watching?

What I didn’t realise is that I answered my own question, just by posting all these random tweets. Ah, irony.

 

dna this morning called kiran desai orhan pamuk's trophy girlfriend. wow.

She went on to be supremely giggly, and from all accounts, quite annoying, while he acted like quite a brat on stage, said my conscientious friend who actually, like, you know, watched stuff instead of schmoozing like me. So I take back my “wow” of amazement.

 

“aap heroine dekhne ja rahe ho?” auto driver to me when I ask to be taken to candace's hotel.

I wanted to answer about how she was the heroine of my heart, but I didn’t want to get into it, so I just nodded and smiled widely.

 

well that was interesting. don't think she'll be my new bff though.

Another hope dashed, alas.

 

since I'm at a table with no one else I know, let's play lit fest hot or not!

Unfortunately, with a sketchy signal and my Android acting up, I couldn’t actually do this, but it would have been SUCH FUN.

 

"What are you working on?" is the lit fest equivalent of "What's your sign?"

Then, we talk about agents and book deals and feel all shop-talk-y and cool and I was all flipping my hair and LOOK AT ME IN MY INDUSTRY DOING INDUSTRY TALK!

 

barkha Dutt being hustled into flow."don't worry," says her companion, "there's a celebrity hideout in the corner."

 

It’s where Rahul Bose skulked last year, looking around in his aviator glasses for someone to recognise him before he ducked his head and looked Private and Busy. Also, sundry other authors. It’s the “big table” in the corner and chances are, if you go next year, and want very much to celebrity spot, that’s where you’ll find them all.

 

and now there's a double mattress being shepherded out. this place is surreal

Again: really.

 

someone should write a book just on the happenings at flow cafe.

Remember, you saw it here first! I want a cut and a loving, thoughtful dedication. Along the lines of: To eM, without whom, not.

 

nursing my hangover and feeling very sorry for myself. all alone in a crowd etc.(dehydration makes me dramatic)

Writers drink a bloody lot. Three days of non stop partying (including one as soon as I got into Delhi) has made me grumpy and hermit-y today. I’m almost thankful it’s a dry day.

 

Hmph.

The grumpiness started early though. But soon, you’ll be happy to know, I met my friends, and all was right again.

 

I wish my hair just naturally smelt of hot buttered popcorn.

Um, yeah. If you do follow me on Twitter, I assume this is the time you unfollowed. I was so drunk on constant socialising (actual alcohol can only be consumed post sundown, this is my usual rule, though I break it for brunches, because really, what is a brunch without a nice cold Bloody Mary?) that I began to babble a little bit. And babbling on Twitter—well, I’d have unfollowed me at this point, so I don’t blame you if you do.

 

But wouldn’t it be awesome if they made buttered popcorn smelling shampoo? I’d always be hungry though, so maybe it’s for the best that they haven’t.

 

giving out Twitter awards again, @mriganayanika wins for best dressed.

She really was.

 

tell Sarnath banerjee you like his socks. they're very nice.

They really were too. I love interesting socks.

 

also @samitbasu has on the best jacket ever.

It had leather on the elbows! Awesomeness.

 

this band is truly awful.

The lead singer for Fire Exit was the best thing about it, and you could hardly hear her. Good lord, was I thankful when that was over!

 

certain writers about whom I wrote certain very loving blog posts have read it and mentioned it and now I want to DIE. stupid blog.

I was referring to this post, and yes, he did bring it up, and it’s all coming back to me now and I want to die anew. Stupid internet with stupid online archives.

 

it’s better to lose a lover than love a loser (via @avnidoshi)

This is my new favourite quote in the whole world.

 

yay for finally locating the elusive authentic laal maas I've been craving. go Jaipur!

Having searched all over Rajasthan (okay, just Jodhpur and bits of Jaipur) for this, I was THRILLED to finally find a version that were true to the stories I had been hearing about this mutton curry’s deliciousness. If you too have been looking for a good fiery hot meat curry, look no further than Copper Chimney, on Jaipur’s MI Road. Hint: order some raita too, it’s REALLY REALLY REALLY spicy.

 

and that's all from me about Jaipur. intrepid tweeter signing out!

Phew. ‘bout time, eh?

A very long post which should clear up the matter once and for all

Since I’m very cold and since EVERYONE AND THEIR UNCLE have asked me, “Oh you moved from Bombay? Which city do you like better?” I’ve decided to share two pieces of journalistic fabulousness that I did in the last couple of months, both around the same topic.

 

First, a piece for Marie Claire’s December “party” issue, on parties in Bombay vs. parties in Delhi: 

 

I used to be “that girl”. The one you might have passed on your Sunday morning jog,
as she’s teetering blearily home. The one you might glance at in a nightclub, where she’s
in the centre of the dance floor, shaking her straightened-for-the-occasion hair, singing
along to everything that comes on, appearing as though she’s tapping into an endless
source of energy. That was me, not even that long ago, but it’s not me anymore. Now-Me
likes nothing else but a place where she can sit down, have a glass of wine and be able to
have conversation with friends. Now-Me, in fact, is what Then-Me would have dismissed
as “boring”, but I’m okay with that.

 

So as part of this major shift, I decided a couple of weeks ago to hang up the glitter and take myself back to Delhi, the city I grew up in. Bombay—the city I was grown up in—suddenly seemed to be all about the sameness, and I craved a change, something other than little nightclubs with pulsing music being all that one can do on a weekend. Delhi, while lovely, seemed to have just the right amount of stodge to get me to do some serious work without distractions. Er. So, yes, not so much. While Thursday night in Bombay got me some sweet text messages from friends wishing I was there to go to Olive with them, Thursday night in Delhi saw me looking at pretty much exactly the same scene. While the venue was different (the Foreign Correspondents Club) and the drinks were much cheaper (Rs 400 for a small vodka at Olive, Rs 40 for a small vodka here) the crowd? Well, they could have been just about anywhere. The only thing missing was the familiar heartbeat of music, the lub-dub in the background that I am so used to, I only miss it when it’s not there and I find myself straining to hear it.

 

Ah, the Delhi-Bombay divide. That most beloved of debates, that every citizen of India
(and some non-citizens) love to weigh in on. Where Bombay wins: the complete and utter
independence for women, where else in this country can you take a rickshaw home at 4
in the morning without second thought? For a party girl, this one fact is of the utmost
importance. Yes, I think that is what defines my social life in Bombay, not having to depend on anyone else, being the mistress of my own fate, so to speak. I loved the fact that I could go to a bar on my own, just sit there with a book and a cigarette even if I wasn’t meeting anyone, and then go home, equally unburdened, no one to answer to, but myself. But, let’s examine the plus side of being a little less safe: one, it’s rather romantic to be picked up and dropped home by the object of your affections, two, it means that you do get to see your friends and spend more time with them than otherwise (long car rides being perfect for bonding) and three, it means everyone sticks to the plan. One of my pet peeves, and something that happens a lot in Bombay is when people are fluid about their evenings. Not I. I like a little structure, I like to decide a little bit in advance where I’ll go and what I’ll do and who I’ll see. Going with the flow is not something that has ever appealed to me.

 

And, I spent this weekend, a newly reinstated Delhiite, a new Bombay abandoner, in
Bombay, at a very popular club, where being one of the shortest people there, I was
invariably shoved and stepped upon by people in a hurry. From Delhi, I get a phone call:
did I want to go to a book reading? Reader, I did. It was at that moment, that I swapped
my fancy heels (beautiful but torturous) for plain canvas flats, said goodbye to my friends
and decided to go home and read a book. I’m not quite hanging up the high heels yet, but
I might put them into early retirement. I’ll be taking a little bit of Bombay with me though:  my fashion sense for one. In Delhi, they like you matchy-matchy, all accessories impeccable, in Bombay, the girls wear cotton in nightclubs, wear flat shoes pretty much everywhere and accessories are quirky and over the top. The crowds may look at me askance, sheltered Punjabi girls with straightened hair who only come to these things to get some alone time with their secret boyfriends and dress provocatively, but hey, I’m in my late twenties, I’ve earned it. In Bombay, they don’t care who I am, what I’m doing or even who I’m with— unless he’s a Bollywood star.

I sense there never will be a resolution between the two cities. But, I remain as a party girl— a Belhi-ite, a combination of the two cities I love, and all, uniquely, myself.

 

And this little guest column on my love life (or lack thereof) for The Sunday Guardian:

Delhi has always been a black hole. Not in terms of the stuff that matters—there's plenty of work, stuff to do, and nice people. No, when I say 'black hole', I mean the vacuous area of darkness that seems to envelop my love life each time I live in this city. Oh, you say, how many times have you lived in this city? To which I must (somewhat abashedly) admit that this is only my second try. My first try was a couple of weeks after I was born and it extended to a couple of decades after that. And okay, while I didn't spend those decades constantly single, for a while there, in the middle, it felt as though I was.

So, shall we then agree that Delhi is not to blame? I suppose I can allow that. Grudgingly. After all, my first “date” in a very long time happened in Delhi not too long ago, even though Mumbai (where I spent the last four years) seemed a lot more promiscuous. Maybe it's because for the first time in a very long time, I am in a position to start dating again, having just emerged from a very long, very monogamous relationship. This is something they tell you not to mention on first dates, the “pressure” might cause whichever unwitting gentleman is out with me that evening to run for the hills, but what about the pressure that's putting on a city? Delhi, which I left Bombay for, is now constantly up for comparison with my “old boyfriend”, Delhi's not as cool, Delhi doesn't let me take rickshaws at four in the morning, in Bombay people are nicer and so on and so forth. It makes me wonder though—am I letting go enough? Is this 'black hole' just something of my own creation?

My move back to Delhi is pretty fresh, a little over a week old, and I watch my interaction with this once-familiar city with cagey eyes. Will it be just the same city I left all those years ago? Does anything ever really change? Is the black hole waiting to swallow me whole? News of friends new relationships make me happy though, in some selfish corner of my heart, I feel their happiness is also mine. If they can find love in this unforgiving world, so can I—again. But, but (and again, I point to Bombay) in my old city I knew how to navigate the single world. I knew where I'd be likely to meet fun, interesting people, more importantly, I knew what fun, interesting people were out there. I wasn't like this, unsure of my next step, watching cautiously, wondering if what I'm wearing is too quirky, too loud, too OTT, too Bombay for Delhi.  (eM’s aside: I think I was very concerned about what I was wearing the first couple of weeks I was here. Winter wear has never been my strong point, and so, because it’s what I do, I obsessed like a mad woman, which sort of took over my writing as well, clearly. I’ve learned to accept it now though, you’ll be happy to hear.)

At the end of the day, however, I remind myself, as I walk around my apartment, talking to my cat (yes, I'm that single lady) that I'm still me. No matter what black holes I've known in the past, and however many potentially loom in my future. I'm still who I was about a week ago, and I know this sounds all very Gloria Gaynor karaoke moment but no black holes are going to get me down.

As for the inevitable comparisons, I suspect they'll continue to happen. Which of us hasn't compared a present to an ex, even if it is favourably? You have history, and then you base your future on your history. It's as simple as that.

These boots were made for walking

I had gone to Dilli Haat yesterday with my mum. A lovely bright sunny day, and I took loads of pictures which I didn't feel would fit a Facebook album, so I put them on Flickr.But they weren't getting as much attention as I wanted to, and I needed to put a new post up anyway, so here we are. A photo post about winter in Delhi.

If you're not familiar with Dilli Haat, you should be. It's been around for ages, it's a sort of handicrafts artists collective, you get things from all around the country, and the best part is that they have a food court where each state is represented, probably the most popular draw there. When it first opened, a friend's mum, who worked in Delhi Tourism, was one of the head organisers, and we used to go, and sit in this little machan like structure, where someone brought us momos (from Mizoram) and pao bhaji (from Maharashtra) all free of charge.

Among the lovely things you get there, are bits for your house. Back in the day, everything was very ethnic, but now with craftspeople sort of "getting with the times" as well, you'll get things like this lovely modern looking fish mobile, made of cloth and hand painted. I bought this for my house and it's now hanging just above my laptop, catching the sun. 

These little clay people, I loved as a child, I had a 'People Of India' set, and yesterday I bought one with all the freedom fighters, who are now lining my bookshelves. I also like the little nodding guys, in the top picture, and these gods and goddesses dolls immediately above. 

The nice thing about taking your camera to Dilli Haat is that there are so many things you can take pictures of.

Like these ladies from Arunachal, who very sweetly posed for me, staying stiff and not moving a muscle and then were delighted with the results.  I'm of the school of thought that asks before I take a picture, and usually I'm too shy, so I don't generally get lots of shots of people, unless they're my friends, but I got my mother to ask (yeah, very grown up of me, I know) and they agreed, so good.

I had a couple of pictures of these abandoned instruments, without the shoe, but then after going through them all, I decided this one was the one I liked best after all. It seemed to convey what I was going for: stillness and movement, all in one go. I like pictures like that. 

I was introduced to the pork raja mirchi in this stall about two months ago. They now have a stand alone restaurant in Green Park, called just Nagaland Kitchen, but it's the same guys who run this. The raja mirchi pork is brilliantly brutal with the spice, not fucks-up-your-insides hot, but makes-your-nose-run hot, which is much nicer. They don't serve it on the thaali, too much for most people, I suppose, so I ordered it with a side of steamed rice and sniffled my way through lunch.

\

Maharashtra is one of the most popular stalls at Dilli Haat, always with a crowd, no matter what time it is. Amazingly, the owners have been very short sighted by not including excellent Gomantak sea food, instead making it all about the veggie stuff. Even thepla, which I had to explain was Gujarati, not even Maharashtrian.  Oh well. It still does a good business on vada paos, pao bhaji and sabudana vadas.

The wind picked up a bit, so this is when we left, stopping only at a Kumaon knitwear place to buy a pair of awesome fingerless gloves for me. (Bulky, but SO WARM). And then home to my new boyfriend, my heater, and watching Up, with leftover pork for dinner. Mmmm. Winter.

ETA: Err. Upon re-reading, I realise it sounds like I have a new boyfriend AND a new heater, whereas in fact, my new boyfriend IS my new heater. Just wanted to clarify that. Carry on. 

You put the one-one in two oh one one

So Jezebel had a post up that pretty much succinctly described my previous year. Fuck you, 2010. Yeah. It was a shitty, shitty, shitty year and if my Facebook feed is to be believed, I’m not the only one who felt that way. My friends’ and random old classmates’ statuses read from, “Thank god, 2010 is over” to “2011, prepare to be owned.” For me, it says something that my two biggest life lessons from the year gone by are also pretty unhappy ones: 1) Lying awake in our bedroom in the UK, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was ever going to be happy again and promising myself that I would NEVER EVER EVER let someone make me feel that low and 2) having really, really, really low expectations of people and things so that now I’m all, “wow, that turned out better than I thought.”

 

I used to be an optimist, 2010, but now I’m really not. Now, no matter how sunshine-y I try to think, little cynical thoughts keep invading my mind. I’m no longer pure optimist like I was, nowadays my optimism is as about as real as a fake orgasm, and about that satisfactory too. Have you ever read that poem by Elizabeth Bishop? The Art Of Losing? Well, it describes my present status to a t, especially the lines:

 

“I lost two cities, lovely ones. And vaster,

Some realms I owned,two rivers, a continent,

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.”

 

I was in Delhi for New Year’s Eve, my first time Not In Goa in like, four years. Ah, Goa. I found myself searching for the smell of sea and unwashed hippy and hashish. And Bloody Marys. The winter somehow doesn’t make Bloody Marys as satisfying as they are on a nice summer’s day for lunch. Now I’m also idealising summer. Having not seen the sun in over a week and a half, I’m having pangs of what I suspect is Seasonal Affective Disorder (with its very cute acronym: SAD. Awww.) and yearning for sun, bare brown shoulders, even sweat sounds good to me right now.

 

But, let me tell you about my New Year’s Eve. You know I’m all like “what you do on New Year’s Eve is like a PORTENT for the rest of your year”? In that case, this is going to be an excellent, excellent year. A couple of friends and I, all with no plans, decided to call everyone else who had no plans and drink a lot. Previously mentioned Low Expectation Life Lesson From 2010 made me delighted that a couple of lovely people showed up, we cranked up the party mix on my iPod and danced like crazy people. Then around one, everyone prepared to go to other parties and I too, was whisked away to some fancy government bungalow for party number 2. This year clearly is going to be my year with old and new friends, making my own parties wherever I go. The year of not depending on other people. The year of being free.

 

Maybe there’s some hope of finding my lost optimism and in the process, my lost mojo along the way? I hope all your years are filled with success (because we all need money) and fulfilment (because money isn’t everything) and love (even if, like me, one of your main sources of love is a pretty awesome tabby cat). And because we don’t want to be all OLD! and BORING! before our time, dahlinks, I hope this is also a year of great stories and interesting times. Whaddaya know? The optimism is seeping back after all.