Paper Moon

I never thought I'd  be much of an ebook person. I'm old school, paper addicted, still buy notebooks, still buy pens from the little boys at traffic lights. I like to sink into my books, devour them, check to see how much is left, lie in bed squinting at typeface till my eyes hurt, prop my feet up on the coffee table (painted red about two years ago and which still leaves angry-but-painless red marks on whatever I rest on it), maybe with someone I like very much, and they're reading too, and sometimes we laugh out loud, and sometimes we say, "Listen to this!" and quote, but mostly, I admit, reading is an alone thing for me. This Saturday, I spent with my mother and I ransacked my old shelves and came home with books, and I've been dipping into Hobson Jobson with a bowl of chip-dip and a Cadbury Fruit and Nut, and it is awesome.

But, back to my Kindle. I wanted it so I could travel with it, but then, more and more, it began to phase out the paper in my life. It was so convenient, I get ebooks by the kilo (the gigabyte?) and I line them all up and read, read, read, everywhere, whenever I have down time. I'm never afraid of running out of books when I travel, or having to lug around anything heavy, my Kindle fits into my purse and has kept me company at many tables. The only annoying thing is having to switch it off at take off and landing (you don't have to do that with paper books) but no matter how much you explain to flight attendants that it's not transmitting any signal, they still want you to do it.

Exposition over, let me move on to books I have read and loved lately. I think you might too.

Gone Girl is brilliant. It's sort of part thriller, part character development and part breakdown of a marriage. There's a bit in it which stayed with me, about the wife, how she has to play a certain part with men and she says (and you've probably already read this bit, but just in case you haven't:

"Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men -- friends, coworkers, strangers -- giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them." (emphasis mine)

Read it.

How To Be A Woman and oh my god, I am in LOVE with this woman, because she rails against many things: marriage and fashion and babies (pros and cons) and Brazilian waxing and it's everything you've sometimes drunkenly rambled about if you're a feminist and don't shy away from the word 'feminist' ladies, it's not a bad word. You know what Caity says about it? HERE:

"We need to reclaim the word 'feminism'. We need the word 'feminism' back real bad. When statistics come in saying that only 29% of American women would describe themselves as feminist - and only 42% of British women - I used to think, What do you think feminism IS, ladies? What part of 'liberation for women' is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? 'Vogue' by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES? Or were you just DRUNK AT THE TIME OF THE SURVEY?” 

Read it.

Song of Achilles for some good old dude-on-dude action, especially if all this 50 Shades of Grey is making you a bit sick (and yet so turned on! WHAT IS WITH THAT BOOK? DEVIL'S MAGIC!). It's historical romance set during the Iliad, the ILIAD, so you can feel all smart and remember your college education and oh yes, there were hints of homosexuality between Achilles and Petroclus weren't there? Huh. That's how that played out, and if you did read it in college, you'll fall in love with Achilles all over again, except, because you were a weird teenager, you'll wish there was more Hector, ALWAYS MORE HECTOR, because Hector was all noble and he reminds you a bit of Eddard Stark, and you always felt sorry he (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER) dies.
 Read it. But maybe when your boyfriend's out.

(Also, while I'm on the subject of Eddard Stark,  here's a video I've been watching all week. It makes me laugh each time:


And may I also offer up Hobson Jobson? My particular edition is purloined from my parents shelves (it's a lovely hardbound 1979 copy, which was a wedding present) and is described as "A Glossary of Colloquial Anglo-Indian Words and Phrases, and of Kindred Terms, Etymological, Historical, Geographical and Discursive." It's got some lovely out-of-fashion words in it, as well as the Indian (or in some cases, Chinese) root as well as a little story about the word. Particularly amusing to me, when I was flipping through it today was:
"Benighted, The, adj. An epithet applied by the denizens of the other Presidencies, in facetious disparagment to Madras." or the very solemn listing for "Crotchey, Kurachee, properly Karachi"
Read it.


And have a pleasant week with coffee and books.
















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Sentences.

The Word

 Down near the bottom
 of the crossed-out list
 of things you have to do today,

 between "green thread"
 and "broccoli" you find
 that you have penciled "sunlight."

-- Tony Hoagland
There are little round mirrors in my house now, the kind you see in parking lots, placed on a pole, so you can easily see cars and pedestrians rounding a bend. Mine are in my living room, placed behind a door, an unlikely place, because you don't notice them until you do, and when you do, you smile a bit, charmed by their unlikeliness. "Where did you steal those from?" asked a friend, because it's true, in my checkered past, occasionally I did take things that appealed to me, not big things, I'd never call it stealing, but like, an ashtray, fat and steel and adorable sitting on little legs. Two wine glasses on a night where it seemed the wine was endless, and they were so pretty, purple with embossed flowers all over them. Matchbooks and hotel slippers frequently. But nothing that had an actual price tag that I could buy. That was serious stealing, I knew someone who used to once, and then we had to hide our bags, slip them on our laps when we were driving instead of casually tossing them into the back seat where she was. But my mirrors, I bought my mirrors from a man in Chandni Chowk with a beard.

My life's a bit like those mirrors. Wonky perspectives, rounded angles, unexpected until you spot it. Beauty in retro frames. From which you'll gather I'm feeling rather satisfied with the state of things. It's mid-August, and my invitations are starting to trickle in. Summer is over and Delhi is ready to party. And weddings. So. Many. Weddings. By now, I know the drill, I know which outfits to wear for which person's party. I know what it'll feel like to be outside on a cold winter's day, walk up to the stage, say hello to the bride and groom, grab a snack and a drink and find the three other people I'll know and will be spending the next two days with. And the more weddings I go to, the more firm my decision to never have one becomes. I'm growing to love my spinsterhood, to hug it against me, although, I'm having way more fun than that term implies. I do have someone in my life, but you know. Que sera sera etc etc. I can tell you I'm quite happy though. In my old age, I'm growing into "go with the flow" and I do love days like these, not talking to a single soul, walking around the house in my kurta, drinking Coke and smoking cigarettes. Last night I was at a barbeque, and tonight I'm going down the road for a drink, but first, I'm going to make some simple, feel good penne arrabiata, and because it's only me eating, I'm not going to get into a state about fresh basil or tomatoes, instead working with what I've got (puree to the rescue!) and lots of Amul cheese. Yum.

I make piles of empty Marlboro packets and abandoned notebooks, which turn up after dusting, looking dishevelled. There's an old boarding card on my dining table. Headphones meet Kindle charger. A Teacher's box next to Absolut Watkins in which I'm growing a money plant. If I died today, what would someone make of me based just on this room?


 Introspecting, I can't make any more sense of me than I could yesterday. Perhaps my favourite time to meditate is in my car, on a clear road, with no thinking about the traffic. Point A to point B, some music on my scratchy speakers (toniiii-iiight, we are young). But I have positive feelings, and the air outside feels almost, despite the sweat running down my neck, like winter, and when there's winter, there's hope. The melancholy of my early twenties, on a day spent alone like this, has given way to meditation, I find I even enjoy it somewhat, a certain amount of poignancy. It gives my day the uplift and the heart tug of a well written verse. I almost cannot bear it.

I've stopped writing this for you, I've realised and am writing it for myself instead. Get on with it, urges my  Professional Writer side, the one who does this for a living, and don't leave me, begs the other half, the half who used to go in journals, and now has nowhere to be, because of long rusted longhand and not enough time. Everything I feel goes in a novel, or somewhere as "novel material" or here, when I'm not being facile, and so the girl who used to write 'Dear Dairy' almost every night in an exercise book is gone.

There's a short story in there, someplace.












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Texts from TC

(My cat isn't half so charming as Dog, but he is equally annoying.)



He isn't half as posh as he looks

girl
girl
girlllllllllllllllll
girl

WHAT?

whatcha doin?

working.
whats working
is it when you sit and stare at your screen for hours
do you look at other cats
i know you do
girlllllllll

don't be stupid.

i saw the cats
you cant lie to me girl
the cats were on your screen

oh THOSE cats.

yeah those cats
are they sexier than me
would you prefer if i was black
or a grey tabby
girl

i like you ginger, okay?

so it isn't true that you only got me because my sister, a grey tabby, was killed by a dog?
i heard you talking
i know it's true
you can't deny it

i might have wanted a girl cat, but then i got you, and i have no regrets
except for when you poop on the floor

that's not poop girl

it's not? if it looks like poop, and smells like poop..

hellz, no
that shit ain't shit
that shit is a way of me expressing that i'm the man in this relationship
i'm the boss cat
you have to clean it, coz you're the girlllll

that's not very feminist of you

it wasn't very masculist of you to cut my balls off
i know you left me with the sacks though
thank you
thank you for my sacks

i really am working though, so i'd rather not discuss your *sacks*

i've been napping all day
i like napping
you should try it
now i'm hungry
hungry
HUNGRY

there is food in your bowl, you stupid idiot

no one told me there was food
where's the food
where's the food

it's.. OH MY GOD.. IT'S RIGHT THERE, SEE FOLLOW MY FINGER? SEE? RIGHT THERE

you don't have to shout
oh there's my food
hi food
i'm gonna eat you now

you're welcome

you need to stop texting me so much, girl
that's not cool
it's kinda needy
i'm gonna eat
laters girl

The once-a-month post that I've become so good at

"She has a blog," people say at parties, and I want to say, "Had", because I've never taken such a long break from this before, it almost seems final, like I'm not coming back. But I've hit my wall re: social networking, I've finally learnt what my limit is on sharing, and with my own Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest, and now the job and the social media that entails, I just can't share any more than 140 characters when it's not work-related. And then I thought, "Hey, let's be lazy! Let's put up my Facebook statuses here, and decode them, so you all know what I've been doing!" See. Genius.



From yesterday: Um.. perhaps I should've clarified if it is a dry day today. Is it?

Decoding story: I was having a party last night, my first since I turned 30. I had a big party for my 30th, while I was still 29, but on the day itself, I asked over about 10 or 15 people and I cooked fajitas and it went quite well. Plus, in the winter, my flat is cozy and cheery, in the summer it's all dum lights or everyone dies of the heat. Everyone does anyway, despite the lights, and there are always three or four people chilling in my bedroom, because that's where the AC is. Anyway, I got chatting  to a couple of friends, and realised I hadn't entertained in a bit, so I called over 10 people again, and ordered food for ten, and then realised it was a dry day, so all I had to offer anyone was.. vodka. Now, I love vodka with a purple passion, but I don't think everyone else felt the same way, because most people left early and my food is now filling up the entire fridge. Oh well, more for me.


And then this morning I woke up to open the door for my maid, and who should trot in but ol' TC, who apparently, I had locked out all night, but looked none the worse for wear. Him and I both spent the day in quiet reflection of our hangovers.


From last week: City of culture, city of calm, city of chaos, and now back to the city that is all three. Delhi, I didn't miss you a bit, but it *is* nice to be home.



Yes! I travelled like a regular globe trotter last month for two. whole. weeks. Here's what happened: I had been planning this Paris trip for AGES, and by the time I finally got the funds and got around to booking my ticket etc, there were ten days to go, and I was practically vibrating with excitement. AND THEN, my travel agent says, "Uh, sorry, dollface, you can't go, because your passport isn't new enough." (She doesn't really call me "dollface" but it seems like she would, so, creative license). My passport was issued in 1999 and is valid till 2019, but stupid new Schengen laws say that you have to have a bar code scannable passport, and I don't, and so it was all very heartbreaking. With no time to get a new one, I stood weeping and bereft all over Facebook until Scout! took pity on me and invited me to Hong Kong.

Well, you don't have to ask me twice to go to one of the most exciting cities in the world and one I've never been to before. Here are some pictures:

Then, I flew to Bombay, where I met Mr. Good Thing, and we took the early morning train to Goa. I was taking a train during the day to Goa for the first time, and WOW, it is STUNNING. We took the "ghetto" chair car, no AC, rolled down--actually, pushed up--our window and enjoyed the monsoon-y bridge. We were both quite faded from our travels, so took many crick-necked-resulting naps, but it was totally worth it. We stayed in Goa for about five days and took a first class coupe back, thank you very much, also a first for me, and also quite an experience.

Then, I spent a couple of days in Bombay, catching up and feeling the city and getting back into the zone with work, and then to Delhi last weekend, and I've been immersed ever since.


In Hong Kong, I ate and ate and ate. Chilli Fegara was perhaps my favourite, a Schezuanese special place, also see above, the picture of the soup dumplings from a dim sum place. Also, we drank our weight in whatever was going around, and I think Hong Kong deserves a whole post of its own. Next time? I'm quite rusty, so this has been rah-ther ex-hausting, dar-lings.

But see? Still here, still confessing, although, compulsive might be a bit much now. How about occasional? The Occasional Confessor, who still loves you, despite being awfully remiss about the blogging thing.