Dear Indian Man, Why Do You Hate Me?

This is not a letter to the Indian men I know. The ones I know, the ones I count amongst my friends are very nice people.

This is a letter to the Indian man I--and others--are looking to for opinions. The ones who might change the country. The ones who are trying. The ones who would like to change the country.

Why do you hate me?

Why do you think I don't count? Is it because I'm privileged? Because I'm aware I am. I have a nice home, I earn a good living. Is this why I don't count with you? Do you not care to keep your promises to me as you're keeping your promises to everyone else? Does my safety, and the safety of my sisters, not count with you? I mean, I know everyone would much rather have a lower electricity bill than security for women, but it's a bit upsetting that my cause is a minority cause, while, hey, everyone hates big bills, right? I know you'd rather pacify the ordinary man--that's what one of your parties is named after!--by arresting women for being prostitutes, because it devalues the neighbourhood. 

The thing is, I'm in a peculiar position. I'm both immensely privileged and immensely guilty about it. Of course I would rather you dealt with everyone else's problems first! That's been bred in me for generations! From my grandmother who never serves herself first at the table, right down to little ol' me, where I'm like, "Dudes, totally go ahead and do other people's stuff first, I'll wait." At the end, there might be no meat in the curry for my grandmother. There might be no meat in the curry for me either. 

You guys are all promises when it comes to women though. It's an easy thing to put in your manifesto: oh we're totally for the safety of women! And then, "Oh what can we do if a tribal group orders a woman to be punitively raped?" "What can we do if a tourist asks someone for directions?" "It's someone else's fault!" And with that someone else's problem go my problems.

Listen, I grew up in Delhi. I can bhosadi ke and kya baat kar rahe ho bhaiyya with the best of them. Do you know how old I was when I first got sexually assaulted? Twelve. I was twelve with brand new breasts I wore with pride. I don't anymore. You people lead the country and you forget about all the twelve year olds stepping out of their houses, heads held high and chests thrust out, look see see, we're grown ups. And all it takes is one quick interaction with you people, and we're cowering behind baggy clothes, crossing our arms and seeing harassment everywhere. 

Honestly, I think I'd be sick of people going on about women's stuff if I wasn't one myself. I'd be like, "Relax dude, at least you never got raped, why don't you shut up about women's safety already and enjoy the low electricity bills?" I'd be like, "Look at Tamil Nadu! Do you know the leaders over there said that their women never get raped because they go to the temple? Oh, what? Is it my fault you're a modern woman who doesn't believe?" I'd be sick of women carping on and on about their minority status: look at how much worse it is for everyone else? Maybe I would hate me too. 

I know you hate me because you have no fix for me. You have no way to keep me safe. You invade homes, you sit in judgement, maybe you shouldn't be so "adventurous" then, you mutter (Although to be fair, that was a woman who said that, but WHERE DO YOU THINK SHE GOT IT?) You want to own us, what has happened to our women, you wail, it must be mobile phones, those devil's balls. 

The thing is, I can pretty much afford to take care of myself. This is all it takes for safety in India: money. Money for homes with locks, money for cars and drivers, money to keep you off the sidewalks and away from predators. This is assuming my predators are outside the home, obviously, which in my case they have been, but in most cases, there's an uncle, a cousin, a dad. Is this why you hate me? Is this why my position is less pressing than others? 

Because Dear Indian Man who hopes to lead my country, I can help! I'd love to have a say in democracy. I'd love to say how awesome you are, and I'm in a position of small influence. But I feel like you don't give a shit. I don't know why that is. I pay my taxes, I don't break the law, I've NEVER LIVED ABROAD. Isn't that something? I'm Indian, born and bred. A product of your cities, your colleges, a product as much of you on the road as my parents at home. 

I'm asking you for one thing, guys. This is a bit of a jumbled letter, but ultimately, it's the ONE THING. 

Quora asks, "Why is it difficult to date an Indian girl in general?"

Found on the internet, this piece-of-work question on Quora. But what's even more depressing is all the Indian men rushing to answer the question. These are the people we live amongst. I could only find ONE answer from an Indian woman (the first one), the other top voted ones are all Indian men going, "Boo hoo, women have so many rights now and they're taking it all out on us."

Anyhow, here are the best of the replies, edited for brevity, and presented here without comment, but with emphases mine:

"I am an Indian girl studying in a college in Delhi. Let me begin by saying that I am "very easy to date". I socialize, interact with people, have loads of male friends, make the first move and have dated many guys. And I have broken up with guys and guys have broken up with me too. I move on and am honest about everything I do and feel. Neither do I get dependent on the person I am with nor do I cry and crib if they leave.

I study in a college which treated me well initially. I was popular. People liked me, asked me out, became friends with me. It did not make me uncomfortable. I was just fine with it. I never restrained myself. I did not shun anyone rudely. I did not refrain from being comfortable with guys. I did not hide my relationships. 

And then things changed. I was labelled a whore, by girls and boys alike. Because, I "dated". 

People used to call me a slut because I used to accept their friend requests on Facebook without being good friends with them. Incidentally, Facebook is a "social network" that is meant for connecting better with people. But apparently only a girl with a loose character can add people from her own college!! And of course, if a girl who is your batchmate, with whom you have 60 mutual friends has added you, it means "Come have sex with me because I am really promiscuous." In no way does she mean that she trusts your maturity and finds it worth staying in touch with the so called ignited minds of the country!!

I thought that like the popularity, the infamy would not affect me either. But it did. I used to cry. I decided to withdraw. At a point of time, I actually started doubting my own dignity. Had I actually compromised it? I stopped interacting with people. I am not on Facebook. And I no more feel like going out with anyone. Because I am tired of getting disappointed (from the reaction it generates from those around me). I am not open to dating anymore.

I realized that I had probably been wrong. Not because of my actions or lifestyle. But because of expecting more from the people around me, than they are prepared to deliver. 

Our society is simply not ready for things like dating. It boasts of being modern. It is not. It judges, labels, concludes. Things like dating, sex and girls like me send a shiver down the spine of this society, which ironically, has proven to be spineless. It squirms at the thought of accepting sexuality."  (Full answer)

"Let me speak for the group I represent - the average Indian adult male (engineer?).

I was born around the time the economy opened up. I belonged to a middle class family. Most of my childhood was spent in a nuclear family. I did not make too many friends and had a very limited social life.

Coming back to my point about liberalization, now, western products and ideas found their way into the Indian market. This extended right from consumer products to television programming to financial services. Maybe they had a presence before, but not to as large an extent. People watched Friends, listened to Eminem, ate Lays, watched the EPL. I was there. So where in all this does the western concept of dating make its grand entry?

It doesn't. Maybe for some it did, but for the large majority of us, it just didn't. 

Girls existed, but quite curiously it seemed like you could get one only if you were rich or cool. It was hard to tell the difference really, at least in the circle I grew up in, which itself was the equivalent of a barren island in terms of population.

The girls, meanwhile, were going through the same thing, I suppose. They possibly had the additional concern of physical safety, which resulted in a no-first-move policy, which has famously worked very poorly even in world wars. And the curious case I mentioned above was true here too.

Anyway, so after school it was time to secure admission into an IIT (without exception). It was every parent's dream, and every child's nightmare. Well, for most children for sure. 

So, college. Some of us made it, some of us didn't. Most of us were unhappy anyway. The whole thing was hard to rationalize. The unhappiness naturally made us uncomfortable and most of us gravitated towards the 'Maggi' 2-minute happiness capsules. Alcohol, drugs, masturbation. Quick fixes. Since most were not there because they wanted to be there anyway, it did not really hurt that we were missing out on the real education we had signed up for. In fact, at the time, I recall that most believed that the 'first-aid' self-abuse was the 'real education'. Basically, for a few years, we all turned into confused American teenagers who had just hit puberty. Without the kissing. The advantage was that we could probably still solve a differential equation, but that's just sad.

Some of the smarter guys went for the contrarian approach here and stayed off the junk, and landed some good girls during this period. But for the majority, it was status-quo.

By the time we graduated, any dating skills that our primitive ancestors would have congenitally bestowed on us would have vanished. Now on the job, most of us just hope for a short conversation with that cute girl in office. That's it. That's how far away we are from Venus.

Of course, it's not all bleak. Some will still manage to find love. Some will use the matrimonials. But only for a tiny few will it be a smooth ride.

Indian men are not physically or mentally inferior to their western counterparts. We have just not had the practice. Awareness leads to interest. Interest leads to learning. Learning leads to practice. Practice leads to improvement. It's that simple.

We are still stuck at ignorance.

Indian girls, for their part, are perpetually insecure about their looks, frightfully concerned about their safety (not without reason), and also stuck at ignorance, of course. They also have a Walmart of options for men in terms of colour, race, religion, language, etc. which is no paradise, but when you have options at least your future is secure (rudimentary fin fundae).

Why is it hard to date an Indian girl? Why is there no Indian in the world's top 10 tennis players? Why do some Indians in the villages think Indira Gandhi is the current Prime Minister? Ignorance. Inertia. India." (Full answer)

"I was arrested for talking to an Indian woman.

I have some knee problems these days. I went to see a specialist. He saw my X-ray report and recommended a few exercises, along with meds and told me to come back in two weeks.

My mother was there with me, and she suffers from arthritis. She was getting her diagnosis, while I was already free.

I saw this doctor, she looked nice. I didn't approach her, for her colleagues and patients were all around her. We had a good eye contact a couple of times. My Mom told me that it'd take her a few more minutes, and I encouraged her to take her time.

In about 15 minutes, this doctor, this woman... she got out of her room and walked towards the stairs. I followed her, and basically asked her to stop. 

Me: Stop

She: Yes?

Me: We should get together this weekend.

Her: Why?

Me: We'll have fun. Maybe get a cup of coffee or something!

Her: Get lost...

I walked away and sat down on the sofa, waiting for my Mom to come back.

In a few minutes, the chief of security asked me to step into his office. I went there. The woman had apparently complained that I had harassed her. Her boss, the senior doctor (SD) was also there. 

SD: What did you say to her?

Me: To who?

SD: To her... (pointing to her)

Me: What's it to you?

SD: I'll tell what it is to me you punk. I'll call the cops.

Me: I merely asked her out, she said no, and I walked away.

SD: (To his security staff) Don't let him go.

So I went back and sat on my chair. In a couple minutes, my Mom stepped into the room, and signaled that she was ready to leave. We left, but since my knees were hurting, I didn't walk fast. In less than 30 seconds, almost 30 security people surrounded me, four or five jumped me, and forcefully dragged me back in.

At this point, my Mom went berserk. She started crying and begging and pleading. She didn't know what the deal was. She started crying hysterically. With all that commotion, all eyes were on me. I could literally feel the heat of hatred from all those eyeballs, but I thought to myself, "No matter. I didn't do anything wrong."

In that dragging, my shirt got torn too.

Whatever.

I went back inside, and sought to speak to some senior doctor. I thought maybe the SD I had spoken to earlier might want to reason. But upon seeing me, he told me that he'd destroy me. His words, not mine.

My mother is crying and begging now, at this point. She tells me to apologize. I say, "Look I didn't think I was doing anything wrong. But if I stepped over any toes or crossed any lines, then I apologize. I didn't mean to disrespect anyone."

The police arrive. Some Policemen. They ask me what happened. Then they ask the girl what happened. I don't know what she told them. I told them exactly what had happened, and I was pretty sure that they'd side with me seeing as how nothing really had happened.

Lo and behold, the policemen sided with the doctors. What's more, some of her friends step in (as I was later told) and told the cops that I had been "eyeballing" other women too. 

Indian Government have started a woman's helpline, where any woman can seek help if she is being molested. This happened right after the brutal Delhi rape case a couple months ago. Apparently, she (or the SD) had called up that helpline and told them that I had harassed her, molested her, touched her and held her hand. I know I didn't even go for a hand shake.

They were now waiting for the "victim's" husband and father to arrive to file an FIR. My mother was going berserk seeking forgiveness. Honestly, I didn't know what to do. I tried to tell my Mom to leave, and to let me take care of it, but even she started blaming me for being an asshole. Whatever!

In unison, everyone agreed that asking her out was outraging her modesty, and that I had been completely unethical. Moral policing is one of the hobbies of Delhi police anyway, and seemingly that of every Indian who can speak.

Finally, the husband arrived. 

I had half expected him to respond with madness, and half with sanity. He chose total madness. He walked up to me and slapped me right on my ear without hearing a word. The police didn't do anything to stop him, and I had to reason with him with statements like, "Look, I didn't touch her" and "I didn't mean any disrespect" and "I didn't know she was married." He didn't calm down.

In the end, after all this hassle an FIR was filed, and I was immediately arrested. This happened around 11 AM. I was taken to a police station and put behind the bars.

As you can imagine, my mother was hysterical. She called up all my aunts and uncles and sought help from them. I don't know what happened next, but all I know is that someone bailed me out. They had to pay a good amount of money to a lawyer to arrange that for me. 

We didn't bribe... We got bail, and the money was spent on the lawyer's fee and bail amount.

I have a criminal mind according to my entire family. I saw the same hatred being reflected from the eyes of my uncles, and aunts, and Mom as I had observed in those doctors' and nurses'.

I have decided never to approach women anymore... at least as long as I am in India... Even if it means that I don't ever get laid again. Women have too much power in the system. I don't know how much money and time I will end up losing in this court case

Pretty sure they will confiscate my passport for as long as the trial lasts. And trials in this country last decades.

I don't even know what I am looking for here... Maybe it's a little bit of compassion, for no one around me seems to think that I am innocent, and that I didn't commit any crime. Even my best buddy said "Told you so!"

Yes, I am that severely depressed. I am numb.

Yours sadly,

A man who was victimized by a "Victim Indian woman" today, and is in tears 

This IS why it is too difficult to date Indian women. Forget dating, you can't even talk to them without getting arrested. Apparently, they don't hesitate to wield their new found power well." (Full answer)

"A girl can very vocally blabber how she wants a fair dude with nice abs and a good bank balance and conveniently not sound materialistic about physical attributes and possessions but when a guy expects a fair girl with a nice pair of tits, it suddenly becomes offensive and 'barbaric' and objectification of the woman. 

The quintessential Indian girl can go all 'have you seen your face in the mirror' on a guy but if a guy does the same, he is a chauvinist. 

The quintessential Indian girl blabbers about how she is equal to the male and how she is independent with her finances, but when it comes to relationships she will conveniently drop the typical 'you wont even be able to afford my makeup bills' line." (Full answer)

GAH. WHY DO WE EVEN BOTHER TO WRITE REAMS OF LINES ON THE SUBJECT FOR YOU, RANDOM INTERNET FELLOWS? WHYYYY?

Why are we so angry?

Yesterday, a man was killed for using his cellphone in a movie theatre. Like, actually killed. Not just people grumbling, "Oh my god, please shoot that guy." Someone shot him.

Part of this problem, I think, is our rhetoric. Words of violence tossed around casually: KILL. ME. NOW (about a slow moving traffic jam), can someone please strangle the child having a tantrum in the middle of a mall? All of [shitty locality] should be bombed. If you're a language person, it's likely you'll be more careful about the words you use, insert a "In my opinion," or "seemingly" to distance yourself from the words of hate and anger and violence. If you say, "Please shoot [person annoying me]" often enough, you're sending a message to your brain, over and over again. It's okay to kill people. 

Oh come on, I'm not that stupid.

Aren't you?

The other half of the problem is the idea of time being money. This is bandied about often enough for it to become a truism. I want to deny it: time is not money. Time you spend working towards making money might be money, but it's still not an active currency. I can't trade you an hour of my life for a new cellphone for example. The worst that will happen if you miss the green light and have to wait a minute is that you'll be a minute late. That doesn't mean Rs 20 is debited from your bank account. Which leaves us at: where are y'all going off to in such a hurry? What's the emergency that makes someone blare his horn at the car in front of him if it's not rolling the minute the light turns green, like some kind of race horse? Who is dying, how much money are you losing that just the idea of waiting, chilling for a second brings upon such teeth-gnashing, pull out a gun and shoot someone in the face anger?  

And the third bit of this idea is property. I had a very interesting argument with someone recently who claimed theft could never be a crime. Obviously, I disagreed violently. I mean, I love my stuff, someone who takes my stuff should be jailed, but she said that for her, the only good thing that could be done would be the restoration of her stuff. You get your things back, and why does the person taking it have to be punished further? This argument could be argued till kingdom come, and I'm still not entirely in agreement, but it brings me to the idea of property. When else do we get angry? When we perceive people as invading our space (not the video game, although that would be quite cool). So, the girl bullied on a Mumbai local train by fellow passengers for being in "their" train,  Delhi's daily parking wars (mine included), kicking out impatiently at beggars who grab your legs, getting so furious at people for being there.

I'm prone to being short tempered, and god knows, I've had the odd violent urge every now and then (weekly). So angry with stuff that sometimes life is just a blurry mess and I want to rage and be Godzilla, trampling all over the city with rage. I'm trying to let my reasonable brain take over, however, not being a sociopath, I have access to a reasonable brain, and I'm working through anger by analyzing what makes me so mad. Why is this a trigger? Why am I frustrated over things I cannot help? And I find as I think through these things, two things happen--I get much calmer, and much more tired, worn out like a rag doll, but not Godzilla anymore. 

The serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

 

Mapping my body from head to toe

On the left cheek a pockmark from chicken pox. This is on my passport. I remember the chicken pox only vaguely. They gave me a bath in a red tub filled with neem leaves to stop the itching. I must've scratched though, because the pockmark remains.

Rainbow sock puppet is sad that not more people accept their bodies for what they are

On the nose, a hole in my left nostril from a piercing. I had it pierced when I was 19, out for lunch with my mother, her friend and her friend's daughter. We ordered, and the daughter and I stepped out quickly into the market, and returned with a ring in my nose. It stayed there for years later, even when it snagged in a towel and made my nose swell up.  When I was in my early twenties, there was a brief period where women with nose rings as opposed to nose studs were considered slutty. "You still look quite nice though," people said to me. The nose ring was a matter of much comment. It finally broke off last year, and now there's just a space where it was, waiting to be replaced.

On the ears, two piercings, and one scar from a higher up piercing. I had my ears pierced over and over, but my body rebelled and grew new skin each time. The final one that took was one I did myself, with the hook from a earring, a long afternoon, and a bored day by myself. The second hole hurt the most of all the things I've ever done to my body, my ear felt like a big, hot pancake, throbbing and red. I never re-pierced it. 

Hidden on one breast, a prickly heat scar from the time I didn't have breasts. My grandmother put Nycil on it and it went away. It was a very hot summer, on a farm in Hyderabad. 

On my bellybutton, a stud with a purple stone. Again, pierced twice: once in a flea market in France, where the man used a disposable needle to pierce it, and then when that broke off in the sea in Goa, another in a jewelry shop in Delhi, where the man left half a wire hanging from my stomach for the longest time to "soften" the skin. 

On my left hip, the tattoo of a dragon. It's getting a bit blurry with age, the edges no longer as sharp, but it's still a dragon, and it's still there. It made me think of getting more tattoos as the years go by, but I've never been an ink addict, and this one is enough, it's private and it's mine. 

On my left knee, a scar from where I leaped over my dog, Bobo, at age eight. His mouth was open from joy, and his tooth snagged against my knee. I shouldn't have been leaping over him, but I was a foolish, foolhardy child, full of knocks and clumsiness. 

Behind my shin, a birthmark, a small, innocuous birthmark, so innocuous, that I didn't even notice it till I was in my teens and going over my body with a fine toothed comb to find things to hate. I monitor it from time to time for signs of skin cancer. It seems to be staying the same size. 

“Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as a secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.” 
Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game

The Little Things

Not our street but one in Goa. I'd totally be a runner here though

The Good Thing and I differ on how we relate to things. I am really optimistic really quickly, and he is very cynical. This makes for fun conversation, but also leads to some banging-head-on-wall.

So, we went for a run today. My first in a VERY long time, and his first in a week or so. I went, fully prepared with playlist and app and looked up some stuff on the internet on the beginning runner. There's an ideal workout, where you run two minutes and walk one minute, over and over ten times.

By the end of it, I had done two kilometres, which I thought was pretty good.

He was having none of it.

"You can't just call yourself a runner because you strolled for a little while on the beach."

"Two kilometres!" I said, stung, "I did two kilometres, NOT COUNTING how much time it takes to get there and back home again. Plus, I ran. I think we should do this every day to get into the habit."

Meanwhile, I was thinking of the Delhi half-marathon in a couple of months, and how I should totally sign up. I was also imagining going to parties and people being all like, "Oh my god, you look so good!" and I'd be all modest and say, "I've been running."

"I bet you're thinking of running the marathon," he said, laughing.

Sometimes it kinda sucks when someone knows you that well.

Follow me on Twitter @reddymadhavan

The Book Party

(A version of this article appeared in last month's Elle magazine. Great issue, by the way. You should see if some stands still have it and pick it up.)

Unrelated photo from birthday weekend. Good book though.

Just five more minutes and you can leave the house. Five minutes, and you won’t be the first one there, you won’t have to make awkward small talk with the author, while both of you wait around for more important guests. Five minutes, and you’ll still be on time enough to snag a parking spot—or a seat, if you’re wearing heels—and not so early that the waiters are still setting up around you. If you give it half an hour, you might be able to miss the interminable author reading, the questions that the moderator, usually a friend, feeds them, the ha-ha-look-how-funny-we-are-in-the-inner-circle questions from a friend, and make it just in time for the bar to open. You sometimes go for the readings, for an “important” book, or an author you’ve read before, or, most likely (who are we kidding?) your friend’s. If the invite says 7.30, you aim to leave your house at 7.35, if there are cocktails after, the invite will say “Cocktails will be served after the launch.” Otherwise, it’s just “beverages.”  Beware the “beverage” launch. 

The “high tea” launch, too, is misleading. The first time you saw that on an invitation, you were immediately slung back to one of Enid Blyton’s books of three or four chirpy siblings on a farm, who did all the chores without complaining about child labour, and who went in for high tea every evening, with sausages and meat pie and what not. You’re not expecting a meat pie from the book launch, but a chicken patty from Wenger’s would do in a pinch. More than a pinch. Biscuits and instant coffee is what you get. You stop going to book launches for the food.  Some venues will still surprise you — the British Council Library in New Delhi, for instance, has a fried fish that’s moreish, and an apparently endless supply of wine.  In case of emergency, you always have your after party, your back up plan, your cheap dive bar in the neighbourhood that you’ll take people to only to have them exclaim over the authenticity, the is-that-double-whiskey-only-that-much?

You consider your outfit in the mirror — too much, and you’ll be trying too hard, too little and no one will comment at all. The other girls have a casual hand with statement jewelry, piling it on over black tops and skinny jeans, but you’ve decided to go with a simple shift dress, a deceptively loose cut, which clings to you as you walk. Casual but elegant.  Giving you the air of a person who only goes to certain parties, and who probably already has another three plans this evening.  You sling your bag around your shoulders, a little extra cash in case you want to buy the book and have it signed that evening, a souvenir, as it were, and the mantra: car keys, house keys, wallet, cigarettes, lighter.

Your friend who told you about this evening is standing by the door when you enter. She’s in publishing, or journalism, or PR, or she’s an author herself. She’s a useful person to know on a Tuesday night, when the only thing there is to do is crash a book party. She knows the very glamorous young male author, who is probably gay, but might not be, by the way his eyes rest on her bosom, as she introduces you to him. “There might be an after party,” she tells you, typing out a message on her iPhone, and raising one cool eyebrow and the side of her mouth in a smile to someone across the room. 

You are not late enough to miss the reading. Young Glamorous Male Author goes on and on.  There’s a challenging question from the audience about his homosexual themes, and whether that’s from real life. A frisson goes around, and the lulled audience sits up, alert and excited for gossip. He answers diplomatically, and you’re reminded of something you read about publicity: “If someone asks you a question you don’t want to answer, answer another question.”

Finally, they announce the drinks. This is the best part. This is the only reason most people are here. You grab a glass of wine from a swamped waiter. You throw your head back and laugh.

You are having a wonderful time.

Follow me on Twitter @reddymadhavan

Songs I bop* to

(I said I was going to blog every day, and goddammit, I'm going to do it till it becomes a habit, as natural as brushing my teeth before bed--which okay, really tireddrunk nights, I'd prefer that WASN'T a habit, but it's one you're grateful for the next day, when you wake up with a mouth full of cotton wool.  Here's a post on how long it takes to form a habit.  TL;DR? 66 days. That's two months of thinking "Oh shit, didn't blog today!" and writing something at midnight before it's automatic.)


 *the use of "bop" here is deliberate, almost self mocking, ironic, and made even more self mocking ironic by the fact that I'm writing about how ironic it is. Very meta. This is what happens when I write at midnight.

The Cat Came Back by Luca Lento

OBVIOUSLY I love this song because of all the cats, but I also love the crazy riffy jazz and the way it makes you want to chair dance the whole time. Also: you pretty much know all the lyrics after the first time you play it. This is an insanely catchy tune.

Can't Help Falling In Love by Ingrid Michaelson

The funny thing is this song, this SAME EXACT song used to be my very favourite when I was 12. Except that was the reggae UB40 version where it does this funny guitar and keyboard riff and he goes, "Take my 'and" very Jamaican. Now in my old age (TWENTY WHOLE YEARS LATER. Holy shit.) I'm drawn to the Ingrid version, where she almost whispers it. I would make a comparision between the way I loved then to the way I love now, but I think it's just a great song. Oddly, I've never found the Elvis/original version that enchanting.

Charlie Brown by Coldplay

This is the bit where I lose all creditibility with you, isn't it? I mean, I just went and put a freakin' Coldplay song in there. I know, I know. But ignore the artist and listen to the song. The chorus is BRILLIANT. If you're not about to press play, at least have a read:

"And my scarecrow dreams, 

When they smashed my heart into smithereens,

Be a bright rose bursting the concrete,

Be a cartoon heart.

Light a fire, a fire, a spark,

Light a flame in my heart.

We'll run wild,

We'll be glowing in the dark."

Think of poor Charlie Brown as you listen to that and I dare you not to come out the other end weepy and poignant.

SAIL by AWOLNation

Digging this song every way I can which means there are repeat playings all the time, and everytime someone asks me to play something on the car stereo (suckers), this is the one I pull out first to convince everyone of my excellent taste. It's blurry, high-def and addictive all at once.

You guys listening to anything good? 

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We twa hae run about the braes & pou'd the gowans fine (Road Trip: Korlai, Maharashtra)

(I have no intention of turning this into a boring resolution post, so just a quick sidebar to tell you that I'm challenging myself to put up one post a day. The blog turns TEN (I know, can you believe it?) this June, and it seems like a good way to mark the anniversary. I know these things seldom last longer than a few months, but it is my hope that this challenge will bring me back to blogging several times a week, and maybe gain a regular-ish community here once more. That's all. Enjoy the story!)

This is the year I'm doing new things. It began last month, December was a fantastic month, and I was almost sorry to see it go. To be fair, when is it not a year I'm doing new things, or at least trying to? I make the same resolution every year, one that's surprisingly easy to keep once you get the hang of it: say yes to everything. (Except, of course, stuff that could harm you.) (Um, or maybe even yes to that sometimes? More on this later!)

Bonfire around which we sat and cooked things in aluminium foil. Speaking of, how do you pronounce "aluminium"? I say: ah-loo-min-um, but I've been informed that's AMERICAN & the correct (BRITISH) way to say it is al-you-min-yum.

But instead of starting at the beginning I'm going to the very end to tell you all about my BRILLIANT New Year's Eve adventure. (No, no, don't go! You can totally go there over the next long weekend, assuming you have a long weekend coming up, or January 26 or something. So this post has a point.)

Good Thing and I repaired to Bombay as soon as December was almost up, just as Delhi's Winter began to stop going, "Lalala, aren't I delightful?" and began to mutate into WINTER HULK, "COLD! I FREEZE YOU! DIE WEAK HUMAN!"  We hadn't really given much thought to Christmas or New Year's, figuring that just being warm would be enough. And it was. We went to a brunch, ate at some new restaurants, watched more TV than could be good for us, and generally settled into the Bombay rhythm.

I have a friend I've blogged about before, I think, under the alias Rodrigo. Rodrigo was the one who showed me around Mohammad Ali Road's many culinary treasures. (Post here.) He's an adventurous kind of guy, always taking off on something exciting or the other. I mean, here are a few examples of how he lives his life: a) he built his own ice-gola machine WHICH HE ACTUALLY USES b) he has regular movie nights with projector and popcorn on his terrace c) he knows little known things about pretty much every single place he visits. Which brings me to a conversation we had at the aforementioned brunch:

Me: What are you doing for New Year's Eve?
Him: We might climb something [a mountain. He climbs things.] Wanna come?
Me: Uh, no. My New Year's adventures pretty much begin and end with beach.
Him: How about if we went to a place with a mountain AND a beach AND an abandoned fort?

Spent the night right before these arches. Right AFTER the first arch was the designated ladies susu area.

Colour me untravelled, but I hadn't heard of Korlai, Maharashtra until it was brought up that afternoon. It's a few hours (read: four. Add on one extra hour for traffic and navigating through Korlai village which has bright houses and very windy roads) out of Bombay, and just an hour from Alibagh. Only, it's so low-key that there's not a single hotel to be had. Not even one. The closest was about 20 kilometres away, and cost an arm and a leg for two rooms. But Rodrigo had different plans. "We'll sleep in the fort!" he said. "In.. the.. fort?" said The Least Outdoorsy Person In The World (me). "It'll be grreaaat," he assured me. "But rats! And snakes! And GENERAL ALL ROUND DISCOMFORT!"

Actually I was very excited, and I only brought up the general all round discomfort because Good Thing, in his effort to not make me disappointed in things told me all the things that could go wrong. (I know, he's a keeper.) But the good thing about the Good Thing's warnings were that I was already prepared for hating every last minute of it, and I only went because of my general say-yes-to-all-new-experiences rule. (I also went for bonfire. And the fact that it sounded so bad-ass to occupy an abandoned fort.)

Korlai is mostly famous for its lighthouse, a beautiful specimen inside a compound, and many people find it easier to climb to the top of the lighthouse than the top of the hill where the fort is. (Which is understandable, because halfway through I was like, "THIS IS KILIMANJARO! This is Everest! DON'T LET ME DIE HERE ALOOOOONE!") All around the hill where the fort is was sea, and after some chatter to the lighthouse keeper, we gathered that the best strategy was to park the car at a distance and make our way upwards. This I did carrying my (small) backpack and someone else's yoga mat, while all around me people lugged water and firewood and booze and food. I would be completely useless on an Amazonian expedition, I realised, as the thorny grass made its way inside my shoes and hung on to my socks. Not my finest hour.

We had to rush up there before sunset so we could see and not be seen, so we got up and settled by about seven. By eight, we had the fire stuff ready, and the food all prepped. By eight thirty, we cooked the food. By nine thirty, we ate the food and were ready for bed. But we (I) managed to keep my eyes open till midnight, which was a little hard, with the starry starry sky spread above us, and the ache in my legs feeling so delicious when I lay down, and the sound of the waves lulling me to sleep. We went for a walk to stay awake (late night fort was spooky and friendly at the same time), and stuck things in the fire to make it burn and then it was midnight and all around us, at Alibagh and other coastal towns, the fireworks went off, and from the sea, the ships sounded low horns in triumph. We're alive, we're somewhere beautiful and aren't we lucky? We might never be this lucky again.

And then everyone fell asleep quite quickly.

Despite the rockiness, it was quite a nice sea to swim in.

The next morning we carried our stuff down again (HUFF & PUFF went I and OOH THE STAIRS GIVE ME VERTIGO! so once again I wound up with just my backpack. Great, eM. You're the one people leave behind to be eaten by wild dogs to slow them down.)

But the climb down also promised us the sea. We'd been sleeping on the ground with no access to proper running water, and with the road trip grime and the soot of the fire and just general dirt, we all felt extra grimy. So we sweet talked the lighthouse keeper into letting us change in his quarters (one of us used their Marathi skills to inveigle a cooked breakfast) and ran down to the empty beach for a swim. Cold, cold, COLD water, unless you braced yourself and ducked your head under and still, the water gave you goosebumps till your neck, which became really hot under the sun. I suppose Fort Aloneness was our quota for the day, because twenty minutes after we got in, so did a gaggle of men, who just HAD to swim in the same section as us, even though there was all this sea. Sometimes (okay, okay, pretty much always) I hate gaggles of men.

So, my New Year's Ruminations. You know my theory about what you do at midnight you do for the rest of the year. Last year kicked off with cold cold Delhi and a few friends coming over, and us all sitting around a living room drinking. Much like my year: domestic, cozy, content. This year began with a blanket of stars, and my favourite person next to me, and new people and old people, and what else can I ask for from a year? 2013 was ruminating, 2014, I'm going to do shit.