By way of a small announcement

You might have noticed that I've changed the URL of this blog to my own domain. This is partly because of a glass of wine, a debit card and a late (as in not-on-time, not dead, touch wood) friend and partly because I had a thought. Thoughts are dangerous things.

Over the years, I realise my favourite part of this blog are comments and the reader feedback I get. So, as part of a little experiment--urban India crowdsourcing as it were--I'm throwing it open to you, every week as guest contributions. (Also, this means I have to write less, which, when you're on the internet ALL THE TIME, is a bonus, no?) I thought I'd do a little theme each week and see whether you guys had something to say.

So, as part of what I hope will be a LONG series (please? humour me?) the first theme is transport here in our cities. You could send me anything, a short piece (maybe 200 words?) a photo with a description? a song? about your experiences with transport.

Do you drive? Do you own your car? Do you like road trips? Met a chatty auto driver? Been felt up on a bus? Have a playlist for your ride to work? I want to know everything. WE (yes, totally speaking for all of us) want to know everything. Email me! Tweet to me! Facebook message me! Tell me your stories! Three of the best get posted with credit!

I want to do this on Mondays, so any time over the weekend would be awesome.
 

Four puppies, Mr Sunshine & a St. Bernard called Ingrid

Adoption Thursday on a Friday, because I've been super busy this week. Apologies, enjoy the puppy pictures!

Like the Brady Bunch but without annoying Jan.

Marshall, Barney, Ted and Lily are a set of four siblings who need homes--temporary or permanent. Take them all together and bury yourself in a cloud of puppies when you get home OR home one and you still win. Call Sanjay at 9873707071 or adorable quintet over there will have to go to a shelter. Boo. Save the puppies!

10 things I love on the internet this week

1) The Chat Roulette version of Call Me Maybe is pure awesomeness. A guy with a beard and a wig and access to several different bikinis dresses up and lip syncs to the song while talking to random strangers on video chat. What's not to love?
 

Fort-itude

I was at Neemrana for a wedding--my first time there! It was gorgeous.

Even Instagram couldn't ruin this view

My whole solution to getting around wearing a sari at weddings is now to carry a reasonably fancy lehenga. Because, reader, I have a confession to make. As a nearly 31-year-old Indian woman, who has worn her fair share of saris over the years, I still don't know how to put one on. I've tried YouTube videos, I've made my mother rehearse with me till she's sick of it, the learning just doesn't stick. It's totally shameful.

And because this was a wedding of an Australian-Indian friend to her American fiance, the venue was packed with their overseas guests, and so I figured a) no one would have the time to tend to me and my sari and b) really letting my country down by being "that" Indian girl, the one who doesn't know how to put on a sari. (As you can see, it's a matter of deep insecurity.)

But my lehengas were quite gorgeous. One is one I've had since I was seventeen and have been trotting out to every single wedding since. My grandmother in Hyderabad bought it for me, it's white with a silver zardosi and sequinned embroidered top, cut away at the navel in a slit, so quite modest, but also quite sexy. The other was a gold and cream cotton skirt with a red embroidered blouse that I also use for a red sari, when there's someone around to help me with it. The only thing I regretted was wearing heels, my feet kept sinking into the grass and at the end of it, I had to go back to my room and  change into my grubby daily wear chappals. VANITY.

Almost private upstairs swimming pool.

Then too, it was nice going to a wedding with someone. My Good Thing has been going on for a while now, but with long distance being a factor, it's never actually been a Good Thing at a wedding. And Neemrana is almost too romantic, you can't even turn a corner without stumbling upon something.

Although, one of my most exciting moments from this weekend was when we stopped to watch a hornet carry off a grasshopper, which it had killed and it was zooming about, but the weight was too heavy and it kept getting detracted from its path. And then, suddenly from the sky, down swooped a swallowtail and ate them both up. Very Discovery-Channel-in-real-life.


Another exciting moment was the post-sangeet unofficial after party when we all ran to our rooms (well, some of us), stripped out of our finery into our bathing suits and got into that pool for a midnight swim. It would have been far cooler if the water wasn't so DAMN COLD. I could barely do one lap (with a Bacardi shot for sustenence) when I had to get out again. Brrr. But still, quite an awesome thing to do.

I met some old Bombay friends, drank lots of wine and danced to old school Hindi songs from movies that were popular in my early 20s. It was a lovely wedding, a really good way to kick off this season (and officially break out the 13th Year Of The White Lehenga.)

And here's another Instagram picture of a mural. You guys should all totally go for a weekend. But, plan to go on Friday, because with the long ride, a 24 hour trip just winds up wearing you out. And the zip line looks boring, so really, just for a drinking/swimming/eating (REALLY good laal maas) weekend.

It was there and so I took a picture of it.

 

Gratuitous puppy and kitteh pictures, and now you can take them home

Just about to lick my butt, but I'm still adorable.

(This is the first of what I'm planning to make a regular series on shelter pets. I can't do much else, but hopefully, this will help?)

This is Professor Fuzzipants. I'm not sure whether she's a girl or a boy, but she looks a bit like a girl, so I'm just going to say 'girl'. She's fuzzy. LOOK AT THAT FACE. She has two brothers and one sister, mostly marmalade like her, but also grey tabbies. Getting a cat was the best decision I ever made, and it was on impulse too. To adopt the Professor, call Niraj 9818340571.

I'm totally manipulating you with my powers of manipulation, foolish human.

This is Dog. I'm calling him Dog because I believe if he could talk he'd sound just like Dog from Up. Dog looks like he's going to be small, and Dog also looks like he could get you to give him your last cookie. Or walk him at two in the morning. Or whatever the hell he wants, really. Oh well, you need to diet and exercise anyway. To adopt Dog, call 9818201987.

Champ looks like he'll always be a "good boy".

This is Champ. He looks like the kind of dog you'd get for your kid. In your lawn. With a ball. But in case you have no kids, Champ would be a good dog for the single girl because he is very handsome, but also part Lab, so a good watchdog and very trustworthy. Champ would be a good dog for the single guy, because, let's face it, he's more handsome than you. Or me. Or anyone. To adopt Champ, call 9958377803.

Little did she know I was rubbing her belly with a toilet brush. Muahahaha

And this is Helen. As in Keller. Helen is blind, and it's very sad, but Helen is perfectly healthy in all other ways. I read this one story by James Herriot about a guy with a blind dog and the dog was as happy as before. Stick Helen to a walking path she knows, don't move the furniture too much and you and she can have a long and happy relationship together. The first time a dog gets a seeing-eye human? To adopt Helen, call 9873013034.



PS 1: Special thanks to my friend, Supriya for all the puppy/kitten information.

PS 2: Yes, I will post pictures of the animal you need to find a home for, email me at thecompulsiveconfessorATgmailDOTcom

PS3: I will NOT now or ever post a picture of an animal you are abandoning, because you are a horrible person.

PS4: I've also taken the liberty of renaming all these puppies (plus the kitten) because I liked the names I thought of better. It's your dog though, so feel free to re-rename them something that you like. Although, if I might say so, I think my names are very good names, so if you'd like MORE help, email me and we'll think of something.





 

Yes, I'm talking about my hair AGAIN.

You guys all know the battle I fight with my hair. For the longest time I wore it long, just bundled up in a loose bun, and this was functional, if not attractive. Then, I bought a hair iron and spent a winter amusing myself by ironing it out. This took about four hours, and my shadow still looked like Hagrid.

Then, on one of my trips to Bombay, I went to Mad O Wot, and had it cut in a flattering short style that seemed to suit me, and showed off my curls in the best way. It's still big, but it's nice big. Or maybe the only difference is that I've learnt to like it.

But, getting back to Delhi, I found it hard to maintain. My friends who regularly get haircuts here have hair that is straight-straight-straight. You could chop it off to chin length and it would look sleek and sexy and Parisienne. I look like a mushroom. I wanted to find a hairstylist in Delhi who would get my hair, who would understand that it poufs in dry weather, that there's an insane amount of frizz and that it needs a certain style to be its own glorious self.  So far, all the hairstylists I'd been to had said, "Madam, aap toh straight hi karwa do." Which, no.

(Have you ever been the shortest person at  a party wedged between two women with freshly straightened hair? You can tell, because the ends look... battered. And they keep touching it, over and over, and flicking it over their shoulder, and those ends are HARD, and once I nearly lost an eye. I still have PTSD about that.)

So, I did what I always do when I want something. I asked my Facebook, and my Facebook delivered. I was given the number of a Martina Wu, with a salon in Shivalik who was apparently MAGIC.

Martina Wu used to work at Ambika Pillai or something before she started up on her own. She's teeny tiny. Her salon is always crowded. On weekends, she'll line up three people in a row and walk down the line, taking snips out of their hair. Except, when she FINALLY gets to you, it's like she's only focussed on you, you chat, she laughs at all your jokes (even the bad ones) and she listens. I can't tell you how wonderful a quality that is in a hairstylist. She commented on my hair being rather dry, I waited for the inevitable "why don't you straighten it?" and when she didn't, I suggested it myself because you know how I feel about my hair, I want to disown it, I want to wake up in the morning with shiny straight hair that BOUNCES and always looks good, and she wrinkled her nose and said, "I don't think so, but whatever makes you feel more secure."   

And she did a great job. My hair is shorter again (I have a wedding this weekend I need to tidy up for), I've been sent home with a shampoo and conditioner that'll get rid of the dryness. (We'll see, but such is my faith in Martina that I trust everything she says). And even though it was an extremely long wait, I got scarlet nails and toes to match, so all was not wasted.

Go, fellow curlies! (Wouldn't that make a great dystopian universe teen novel? A land where everyone's hair is straightened and curliness is a sign of rebellion?) Full disclaimer: she's better with short to medium length hair, like mine, but I also believe, having worn my hair in many different ways that for people with hard to please hair, shorter lengths are far more flattering.





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On the one night stand as a perfectly viable dating choice

(A version of this article appeared in Outlook magazine about a year ago. Or was it two? Here's to recycling!)

 

You know, it's not really a man's world any more. In most things, that is.  I can do pretty much as I please, as a woman, that a man could do—perhaps even enjoy some advantages over that gender. The one area, however, where we, as women are lagging behind, is sex. Now, I know there are new age men everywhere, men who like to ask about a bazillion questions before they lay a finger on you: “Does this feel good?” “How about that?” “Is this turning you on?” until you're really ready to go to sleep, but how comfortable does a woman—even if she is a powerful, 21^st century creature-- feel about being promiscuous? When words like 'slut' are bandied about like they're going out of style, is it any wonder that I (and my sisters in “sin”) feel very much like we're being guilted by society into feeling something for someone just so we can sleep with them?

 

I think she's having an orgasm or haunting someone.

I discovered how very liberating this whole sex-without-emotion schtick can be, about two years ago. He was sexy, and I had harboured a crush on him for the last four months, bumping into him at bars, giving him my classic eyelash lowered come-on, until finally my grand plan of seduction swung into place. (It's really simple. Lots of booze, some dancing, some leaning in to whisper, and voilà, seduction done. Most men are quite easy like that.)

We wound up back at his, him murmuring French endearments into my ear (of course he wasn't Indian, I am enough of my country's daughter to only associate promiscuous “doing it” with the big bad West.) me trying very hard not to giggle (what? It tickled!) and also restraining myself from reaching for my cellphone as we got intimate-r, to text everyone I knew with my great triumph. I had broadcasted my crush to all my friends, and I knew they'd be thrilled at this development.

At this point, he paused and looked at me, mid-endearment. “You know I'm an asshole, right? I won't call you in the morning.” I looked back at him, wondering what the correct response to this was. Did I slap him and flee? Did I say, “Oh, all right then, thanks for clearing that up” re-button my shirt and then leave? Did I cry and plead and say, “Oh, but you kissed me! And a kiss is a promise! And now you have to call me!”?

I chose none of the above. I had had a crush on this boy for four months, god dammit, and all my seduction was totally not going to go to waste. At that point, I could hardly understand what he was saying anyway, because of his thick accent, and I didn't think it would be a relationship for the long run.  I chose to shrug, and raise my eyebrows at him. “I don't want you to call me in the morning.” He looked a bit taken aback, maybe I was supposed to protest more or something, but anyway, the night progressed as I'd wanted it to.

The next morning, I skipped out of his bed and prepared to equally blithely skip out of his apartment and his life. “Wait, you're leaving?” he asked, lying there. Probably no woman had ever left so summarily before. I smiled cheerfully at him, said, “Errands!” and gave him a kiss on the cheek as I left It was a perfect morning, I sang as I walked down the street swinging my bag. I felt free, I felt light, best of all, I felt absolutely no need to check my cellphone. He said he wouldn't call, I didn't want to call him, win-win.

 
Okay, so maybe one night stands are soulless. And I'm hardly an expert, this was my one and only experience in that department. But something about that bright sunny day, that feeling of accomplishment, a man who thereafter was unfailing polite and attentive to me when we ran into each other, that's saying something. When your sexual destiny is in your own hands, not tied up in any way to messy emotions, that's saying something too. It's not what you want in the long run—a series of one night affairs—but for a short term fix, you could do worse.








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Delhi night, Bombay feeling

So, I went to Blue Frog over at the Kila near Qutub for the first time this weekend. I hadn't been going so far, because a) I'm a Bombay loyalist and b) it's just so damn far. I know it's meant to be always crowded, but seriously, how do people do it? People like me, I mean, who drive themselves, or take public transport when they feel like drinking, and you (by which I mean I) can't drive in heels, so you have to carry a pair of chappals which you very unattractively have to change in the car, while the valet guy is waiting patiently, or not-so-patiently, because he sees you have a small, beaten down old vehicle and that normally doesn't get him many tips?

But, I manned up, took a rickshaw to my pre-drinking location, got into a friend's car from there and off we went. I was wearing a dress I bought recently at an export surplus place--this dress actually--which I love, because it's decent enough that I can not carry a "modesty scarf" (Delhi girls, you know what I mean) and pretty enough that I can look dressed up at drinks or a brunch. I also was wearing this pair of Taramay shoes, which I'm going to totally plug here, because I love her and I love the shoes and they're much preferable to heels, because you know by drink four you're going to take off your heels anyway and walk around barefoot.

[I've become rather "into" clothes recently. I even spent real money on a dress a bit like this one by Masaba, which I have been wearing everywhere, so I can get my money's worth. Except mine is a shirt dress, in orange with green cuffs. (I can't find the image of it online, which I suppose is a good thing?) Designer clothes are lovely, but I love the bang for your buck you can get with a good export surplus shop. Three for the price of one!]

Right, there's my totally self indulgent clothes update. Apologies. Onward!

Blue Frog Delhi has none of the coolness of the Bombay branch, it's nice enough, I suppose, but the inside section was kind of lame, too sound-stage-y feeling, not the big space-pod feeling that the Bombay one gives you. There's also a separate section outside, with another bar and another DJ, which is where everyone who actually wants to talk and not freeze, stands. But, expensive! Rs 1900 for two glasses of wine? Oh. My. God. I don't know if I would go back. (Although, their house wine is Jacob's Creek, which is a bit better than the usual Sula swill.)

But I had forgotten the one thing about clubs--they are for single people looking to hook up. My friend and I were unattached ladies, sitting talking quietly to each other, doing a little dancing, hanging out with other friends--and we were like scam magnets. One man actually came up to us and said, "Are you free?" ("No, very expensive," said my friend.) Also, can we please retire two things about men: 1) "How do I know you?" as a pick up line. It's really old. And boring. I don't know you. and 2) SHORTS. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YOU ARE IN A NICE PLACE, STOP WITH THE COTTON SHORTS. YOU ARE NOT AT YOUR "FARMHOUSE, DARLINK." Also, while I'm doling out unsolicited advice, Delhi girls, I'm really glad you're embracing the curly and leaving your hair alone, but we need to talk about how cotton > Lycra. Promise.


A real Bombay evening ensued, because we went off to Shiro after that. There, Delhi pleased me a little bit. Despite being in the fairly impersonal banquet hall type setting that is the Hotel Samrat, Shiro over here is--much like the Bombay version--full of massive Buddha faces and fake waterfalls and high ceilings, but better music (I'm partial to any kind of remix of Somebody That I Used To Know.) slightly cheaper drinks, and all in all, a more convivial feel than Blue Frog. The crowd might have been younger, and it was, I think, I'm not one hundred per cent sure, because someone handed me a full glass of Jaegermeister, which I drank to be polite and then all bets were off. Yuck. I can still taste it.

So, if I had to go clubbing in Delhi, I'd basically pick Shiro. They have a massive cover charge I believe, but if you know someone who knows someone (which we did), you can dodge it. On the other hand, seeing as I spent close to (or more than. I deleted all my ICICI text messages out of guilt the next morning) 4k this Friday night,  a cover charge would have been pretty much the same thing. Drinking is expensive if you're doing it as a lifestyle choice, but Delhi turned out to be pretty fun at night. Plus, if you're public transporting, the guys at Hotel Samrat will very kindly call you a local taxi, which was nice and safe.

PRO TIP #1: My only advice to battle the next morning's hangover: two bottles of water before you go to bed, even if you feel full and sloshy and like you're going to puke if you drink any more.

PRO TIP #2: Never engage a chatty rickshaw driver, because he will not, then, shut up and will then start asking you all sorts of questions about your personal life just because you answered a perfectly innocuous statement about the weather.

PRO TIP # 3: Carry cash so you can keep track of what you're spending and not have a MILLION texts the next morning, which you open with great excitement only to find it's your bank stalking you.









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Say it with pictures

 Via a friend on Facebook, this awesome photo stream of Bad Children's Books. Some of my favourites:

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Sometimes, I read the newspaper and think things

I'm not a huge fan of Salman Khan. I'm actually not a fan at all--I believe he should have been held more responsible for running over someone when he was drunk (and no sign of compensation for that family yet). Or responsible for harrassing his ex (and rumours, unsubstantiated, but still, abound in Bollywood of his general mistreatment of women who happen to be involved with him. Put it this way: he's not the kind of guy I'd like to encounter walking up my steps at night.) Then, there's the killing an endangered animal, I mean, what has this guy got to do to get the country to hate him? Burn puppies?

Because no one hates him. And he has two million likes on Facebook.

The page has pictures of him flexing his back muscles. And his front muscles. And with his dogs (WHICH ARE CALLED MYSON AND MYJAAN AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO CRINGES AT THIS?)

But, y'know, after a while of going through this page, I kinda started to get drawn into it. ETHICALLY, I think he's awful. But there's so much Salmon love going on on that page, you get swept in. Like the feeling you get when you visit a holy baba. (Not that I have, but I live vicariously sometimes.)

Which reminds me of this story I read in Rolling Stone the other day. Amma, has, for some reason, always intersected with my life. I have family in Kerela who swears by her. I had an ex boyfriend who swore by her, and whose ex, in turn, was an Amma-ite. Therefore, anything she does is of great interest to me (although hugging people all day sounds like a terrible way to make a living.) I don't know, the whole atmosphere of the ashram sounds kind of claustrophobic to me. It's like being in school, except with a different set of rules, and everyone's drunk the Kool Aid so there aren't any handsome rebels sitting at the back of the class waiting to sing to you.

And then it struck me. Salman = Amma. For a lot of men who lurk underneath his Bandra apartment, his darshan is just as important as any they'd get from a holy man/woman. His shaking your hand in a crowd makes you feel blessed. His presence in the world makes you want to believe in something, that anyone can make it, so to speak. And his buff bachelor style is very appealing to millions of Indian men.

Also, they get super upset when denied access to him. Amma followers are a little less mobby (spiritual etc), so they started a Yahoo group instead, but hey, same principle, right? (You know I totally tried to join, but they have some moderator rules so it doesn't fill up with trolls, but once I have access, this post will be updated.)

UPDATE: Hurrah, I've been made a member of the Yahoo group!

Some forum thoughts:

"Yet, the hugs themselves were a let down. All that build-up and then pffft, nothing much when in contact with the woman herself."



"It later was revealed to me after I surrendered my emotions and romanticism about her, that Amma seduces you and then becomes like a bait and switch dark entity, that plays on people's fantasies and spiritual romanticism,gets into their hearts and minds, while putting them into its spell and enslaving them."  

There's more, but it takes some wading through. But you get the picture.
















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Move it, move it

Skies of blue

 So, I've moved again. You might recall my love for my old house was great and incomparable, but then, something weird happened. They broke down the house next to mine ("bhai-behen ghar," said the caretaker who lived downstairs) and it turned out that my cupboards, the cupboards that constituted most of my wall space had no wall behind them. It's a bit disconcerting to reach and pull out your clothes and see sunlight streaming through what is essentially the inside of your house. A place where sunlight has no business being. Plus, all said and done, I was getting a little tired of having a bathroom on the landing, and with last winter being so cold and shivery, I decided it was high time I got an attached loo. Move up in the world etc.

Office space

 I do love my neighbourhood though. Nizamuddin has history for me--personally, and city-wise. I was three, four, five, in a little house down the road, which has now been replaced by a massive birthday cake structure. One of the oldest mosques in the country is three lanes down. In the thirteenth century, poets sang and a river ran through the crowded basti area. The whole place resonates with writing and writers who have been here before me, and all sorts of creative people. It's conducive to creativity, having just the right amount of chaos to inspire you and times like this, late on a Sunday morning, very quiet except for some birds and the calls of the vendors. It's retro-Delhi.



 

So,  I asked the broker to look in this area and he found me three places, which were like Goldilocks' choices. The first one was too big. The second one was too small. And the third one, dear reader, was just right. Well, or so I thought. I was kind of hustled into moving quickly, it was the end of the month and in order to avoid paying two rents, the broker insisted I move ASAP, tomorrow, please. And amidst furniture and boxes and an absentee maid who I since had to let go, I found the flaws. The showers didn't have taps, the plumbing was iffy, a lot of lights had to be fixed again. Plus, there was all this cleaning to do, and no cupboards at all. PLUS, I was engaged in parking wars with my neighbours, a lot of very shouty men marched up the three floors to yell at me and my mum. You guys, I see why moving is so stressful.

Bedroom mornings

But things settled down as they have a tendency to do. Week one, I set up my office, hired a very sweet cleaning lady (who has since taken over the cooking as well, and isn't bad, except for needing a little supervision). I haven't gotten around to ALL the errands I need to do (where does the weekend go, eh?) but I'm trying. I spent Saturday alone by myself in my house, the first day I was able to just be, and I like it. It likes me. I have a lovely little balcony which keeps the wind blowing through the place and dapples morning sunlight over the dining table. It's TC's favourite place, as soon as I open the doors in the morning, he's on it. He's never had a balcony before, and I think the combination of inside and outside is just blowing his mind. Upstairs, the functional, cement lined terrace has an unobstructed view of the dome of the Humayun's tomb, and at night it shines, just for me.

I only moved two lanes but it feels like I shifted neighbourhoods. I was in the Punjabi section of Nizamuddin West and now I'm in the midst of the Muslim lanes, a mosque behind my house calls out the azaan regularly, filling the house with its melancholy sounds ("are you outside?" ask my friends). The names of people I meet have changed. Downstairs, the 29 year old girl with three children helps me with putting in the pipe for my gas stove, all the while in head-to-toe black, her headscarf never slipping, while her small son picks up each fridge magnet and replaces it, then inspects the house with a grave look upon his face. It's a smaller house but it's a solid house, I can't hear their sounds and they can't hear mine. We smile when we pass each other on the stairwell. I have neighbours now, but even better, I have one, two, THREE attached bathrooms and that makes everything worth it.
Plus, these blue and gold arches. Aren't they pretty? Hi, new house.

Messy drawing and dining room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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