Newsletter: Five Nights In Delhi Edition

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NB: this was going to be six nights in Delhi, but I had an unexpected cancellation and so I spent my weekend gloriously watching Project Runway and Strike and since I was watching Strike anyway, I decided to reread the last of the Comoran Strike books which I have no recollection of, having read it in a tearing hurry when it first came out. There's a new one out soon! I'd read JK Rowling's grocery lists to be honest.

Anyway, by some trick of fate, I had plans for every single weeknight this past week. This hasn't happened to me in a while--old age, darlings, old age, your friends' changing priorities, your OWN changing priorities, life, work, it'll happen to you too, unless you're one of those labrador retriever extroverts who cannot handle a night in, in which case, my advice to you is make younger friends. I thought I'd document this, a very social week in my life just so we can examine it a little closer.

Monday

"Who wants to meet a millionaire?" I said, giddy with my own wit, but K wasn't having it. He looked at me deadpan, he enjoys doing that and said, "EVERYONE is a millionaire, they're very common, what you mean is a billionaire." Well, who wants to meet a billionaire is not as fun and alliterative, I guess I could have said, "Who wants to bang a billionaire?" but most of them aren't that good looking. Much like Scarlett O'Hara, people seldom notice this about billionaires because they are taken in by their charms. In this case charm = money. Money gives you polish, an air of confidence, even if you're sweaty and your clothes aren't that great, you could buy better clothes, but like Steve Jobs, you like to stick to what you know.

The particular billionaire we were going to "meet" was a cryptocurrency blockchain abracadabra morewordshere guy who was coming to India to launch his company. I wouldn't have thought this was the kind of event I would be invited to, what do I know about wingardium leviosa? But the person throwing the party was a friend, and he said, "Come! There'll be drinks and stand-up comedy" and I am always curious about the rich and famous.

So the billionaire stood up and said things about his company, which sounded very interesting but also like they were in Latin, especially after three glasses of wine, and we settled in to watch Abish Mathew's set. He's "the other guy" from AIB, by the way. Like, you'd say, "that guy, that guy, that guy, oh and that other guy." If I'm not very much mistaken, he often plays the straight man to his friend's punchline, like not a literally STRAIGHT MAN although that too, but the person who asks, "And then what happened?" to make a joke go forward. Anyway, maybe I just don't get stand up but I have found very few people very funny. And in this post-Nanette world (PLEASE WATCH IT ON NETFLIX) it's a little dated to say, "The only privilege men have is to be able to go to the bathroom whenever they like." OH MY GOD MAN IT IS 2018 IT IS TIME TO RETIRE THAT BATHROOM JOKE.

We were at the Taj Mansingh, which is a grubbier and yet posher Taj than the others. It has not changed its decor since the 1980s I don't think. The last time I was at that particular rooftop was when you could still smoke everywhere, and Vikram Seth was launching one of his books, and there were LITERAL OYSTERS coming around on trays. OYSTERS. At a book launch! I had three, my first time eating an oyster too. (These were also the glory days of excess where a fashion designer's new store greeted me with about a KILO of caviar on ice which no one was touching because "fish eggs ew." I ate as much as I could spin out of that story.) Now however, we had to trudge down to Rick's, favourite haunt of Rahul Gandhi, which has a smoking room attached, I assume for the use of this sort of guest, but which I smoked in merrily.

 

Tuesday

 

 

 

Samit and I have been friends for so long, I don't even very clearly remember a time before we were friends. Okay, I sort of do, because when I first met him, I was 23, a young reporter with a chip on my shoulder about writing my book, time was passing and there I was with NO BOOK, and he was 25, a young writer whose first book had just come out to great fanfare. I was so spittingly jealous, I might have asked him questions which all had an ulterior motive, along the lines of: SOOOO HOW DID YOU DOOOO IT? Hmm? HMMM? Anyway, much water and many books have gone under that bridge since then, and now he is a support system and a co-moaner about this ridiculous writer's life we both seem to have chosen with no regards for the practicalities of it all.

He had a party, and I was lounging about on his sofa, drinking the sangria, talking about all those things you talk about at parties, everyone there was a good friend, so I let my thoughts stack up like a little pile of coins on the table. We got to talking about what it would be like to meet our younger selves at a party such as this one. My own twentysomething self would have rejected any words of wisdom I had to offer her with a pert "that will never happen to me!" and as Samit said we'd both have loud words, not like each other much and then go home and think about it for the next year or whatever. Ahhh but I'd like to think I'd like myself at 26, still so shiny eyed and optimistic, just as I think my 46 year old self would like me now and my 86 year old self would like all the other mes. No, actually, my 86-year-old self will be DONE with everyone's bullshit and will probably tell everyone to fuck off. (I aim to be an old lady in this regard very soon.)
 

Wednesday 

 

Summer House still endures as one of the trendiest places in Delhi. Partly, I think it's habit. We love to go to a place over and over again, till we know our exact order and the waitstaff and the table we prefer. But mostly, it's because it fits into that perfect triangle: location (Aurobindo Market is close enough to HKV to be cool but far enough away that it's not actually HKV which all the trendies have ceded to the rest of the city who wander around the village sadly looking for trendy people), pricing (not the worst + some sort of shitty happy hour + who cares, we're on daddy's credit card people come here the most anyway) and music (OUNCE OUNCE OUNCY-OUNCE OUNCE OUNCE OUNCE).

But the service is shitty, the food isn't that good, and really, you're just paying for the privilege of being in one of Delhi's more cool places. I liked to think as I watched all the waiters ignore us, even as they spotted us wave and cry, that this star too would fall. It's been more than two years though, and Summer House is going nowhere. AND, irony of ironies, when my out-of-town friend said, "Please suggest somewhere nice we can meet for drinks" it jumped into my mind precisely because of that triangle.

Thursday

 Standing and smoking outside PDA (Diva's new cocktail bar, which is on Zomato Gold, which I have been using practically EVERYWHERE #notanad) this group of Particularly Delhi Girls walked up. Now, my friend Shrayana, who I was out with that evening, and I are both Delhi girls as well, but long years of apologising or trying to make up for our city has made us a little more--shall we say--circumspect in public. Neither of us would walk into the bar talking at the top of our voices. It's not us, it says "LOOK AT ME YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR." Now this lot, had no problem with us listening to every word they said, in fact, I think they relished it, like a stage show they were putting on. I know it, because for a brief time in college, I tried to be that sort of Top of My Voice As I Enter A Restaurant Person. Look at how much fun we're having, my conversation would say, and when other patrons turned to look at us, I thought it was envy in their eyes. (Now I know having been on the other side, that it's just plain old loathing. Do shut up.) "Get me nicotine patches," yelled Girl One to Girl Two who was standing right next to her, and Girl Two yelled back, "What happened to your vape?" and Girl One declares, "My Juul BROKE, ya!" And at this point, I exchanged looks with Shrayana, feeling about a hundred years old, and needed my martini desperately. (Note: PDA has such good drinks, we should all go.)

There has to be a word for this collective of Delhi girls, who say "bro" like they mean it, and who talk a certain way, like Valley Girls or the Sloanes, but Delhi-ish you know? Can any of you think of a name for their collective?

Friday

You know when you're with good friends and you finally manage to spit out what's been bothering you about something, and you finally articulate it in this golden sentence, and suddenly your brain clicks into place like you've had a really good massage and that night you dream about that problem so when you wake up in the morning and think about it, it's no longer aching? That was Friday night (and happy birthday to Niyati who hosted and listened!)

This week in stuff I wrote

Remember all the Deep Dark Hints I've been tossing around about You Are Here? WELL, the mystery is over because it is the TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY this year, and Penguin is rejacketing it and isn't it beautiful? It'll be out in August, and this version has a foreword by me, so please buy it for everyone and yourself. No events, but if you're in Delhi, let me know and I'll sign it for you at our mutual convenience.

 

In my book recommendation column this month on Mughal women and prize winning novels. (Plus I think the best book I've read all year.)

And in my Mythology for the Millennial column, are sages ancient India's Harvey Weinsteins?

An open letter to the man who thought he was being supportive but really wound up sounding patronising

(This appeared as my F Word column in March 2016)

Dear Man At A Recent Event I Was Speaking At Who Stood Up To Say, “I think mothers are the epitome of power and we should respect mothers,”

And when I said, “And what about those of us who aren't mothers?” you said, “Obviously I'm talking about the rule not the exception.” and then I rolled my eyes but it was quite clear that everyone wanted me to not Go Into It, because I'd been Going Into It all afternoon and the audience just wanted their cake and tea.

So I shut up.

But I thought of you later. You're obviously someone's son, and you're probably a dad as well. But when did your conception of women become narrowed and defined to just Woman As Mother?

Let me explain to you why your words made something cringe inside me, like you were scratching nails down a chalkboard. It was as if you were saying, “Women exist to give life, and it is that we should respect, and none of the rest of it.” It's as if you were standing in for society who has been looking askance at me as soon as I hit 25, wondering when I was going to stop faffing around and do what nature created me to do. It's also like you were saying women who are mothers don't count for anything else, their greatest role in life is basically producing their children. Who, if they are girls, will have their own greatest role to play and so on and so forth, until we're all Russian nesting dolls, our charm lying in the fact that our tops can be snapped off to reveal the generations that lie within us. 

I have not one hundred per cent decided that kids are not for me. I thought I had ruled firmly anti-child when I first hit my thirties, but now coming up on five years in this decade, I'm wondering if this is an option I should reconsider. Unfortunately, my decision rests not on any altruistic reasons to have children—Looking to the Future and Love of Small Creatures but on very selfish things: a) I'd like everyone to get off my back and b) I don't want to die alone. These, I'm sure you'll agree, makes me the opposite of Woman As Strong Mother and basically makes me one of those people who is so scared by her own mortality that she's thinking of ways to prolong that.

Like you, I too have my own personal mom. She's great, totally awesome, totally strong, kick-ass in many ways, and has done many things to shape me into the person I am today. But while my mother may have grown into her own personal stree shakti as it were during the time she was my mother, I like to think that she would have grown and evolved and become this person without me in her life as well. To put it more succinctly, even though she may say this out of love, I do not think her biggest achievement in life was to bring me into this world.

In fact, while I'm thinking of my mother, I'm also thinking of an old friend of hers who never had children, and who was around my whole childhood. She was the person who gave me Little Women when I was seven and told me that while the small print might be intimidating, I would love it (I did, and when I visited Louisa May Alcott's home when I was eleven, I was the only person shown into the writer's private writing room, an honour accorded to me as the youngest reader on that tour.) She treated me as a small adult, I can't remember a time she ever talked down to me, and that shaped the way I thought of myself—your parents don't count, because your parents are duty bound to love you and listen to you—as well as the way I speak to children now.

In many ways, I think of the older women I met, my mother's friends who didn't have children and yet who knew how to connect with a child. Would you call their lives pointless? Some were in my life only very briefly, but I remember them all so strongly. One friend I remember gave me a set of two carved combs shaped like a man and a woman. “Oh, a man and his wife!” I said, delighted and she looked at me and said, “Why not a woman and husband?” Why not indeed? That's the first time I ever thought about that, and it may have been a throwaway conversation, but somewhere in my head it took root.

What about the mothers who lose their children? What about women who can't have children? What about more like me who don't want to? What about the women who produce terrorists and murderers? A blanket statement like yours is so harmful because it brushes everything else under the carpet, because it airily dismisses everyone else as “the exception.” Why, I bet even the woman you're holding up as this ideal of Motherhood has mixed feelings sometimes about her own kids.

All this to say: sometimes you need to think before you speak. #notallmothers

With love,

A Not Mother But A Woman Nonetheless

Booze, Bihar and the middle of the country

(Written in  April 2016 just after the Bihar liquor ban)

Our yoga teacher, who hails from Bihar, always has an item of the news he'd like to discuss with us during class. Often, he gets so carried away, that he winds up talking animatedly about it, and I have to provide rejoinders from huffing and puffing on the floor. This is how I heard about the whole JNU anti-nationalist incident, how I realised what odd-even meant to most folks, and most recently, how I heard about the effect of the liquor ban was having in Bihar.

It's quite nice for someone like me, who doesn't really keep up that much with the news, to have this Talking Head, so to speak, in my living room thrice a week. His political views are almost diametrically opposed to ours, so there's often a lively debate during the stretches, while we all argue about whose way is the best.

My house help is also from Bihar, and when the yoga teacher said the liquor ban was making everyone in Bihar “dizzy,” she came out of the kitchen, clutching a dustcloth, looking anxious. “What's happened in Bihar?” she asked, and he said, “Why, they've banned alcohol,” and she looked relieved and left, but not before he had engaged her in a Whose District Is Best conversation. (I'm tempted to side with her, only because she's from Madhubani, and I've always been partial to their art.)

Not a problem anymore in Bihar!

Despite my father being posted in that state for much of my childhood and adolescence, I don't know very much about it. I have stray, scattering memories: once of a playhouse with a thatched roof, once of his collector's bungalow in Gaya which had two tortoises in the pond outside who I called Napoleon and Josephine. Of Gaya, my memories are strong—I remember being taken to see the famous Boddhisatva tree and that large garden, and a kitten we acquired for the winter holidays which died tragically of pneumonia. I had been allowed to ask a friend to stay for the holidays, and the two of us ran in and out all day, reading and bathing in the British era bathroom complete with porcelain tub, and ending the whole vacation with a play we put on for my parents.

But then, even though my father stayed on, he preferred to come to Delhi, where my mother worked and I studied, and as I grew older, the idea of a summer with nothing to occupy me except my own fantasies grew less charming. He had been back in Delhi for two years—very important two years, because this is when cable TV and the internet first came to India—and when he was posted back there again, those two things were greater than anything Patna could offer.

Anyway, so I didn't really think about Bihar beyond the occasional reminder that it existed. My father loved his time there, but I only remember it from some long ago summers, when I was too young to consider it as a whole. But the two people who I see the most often are from that state—so obviously Bihar is tied up more with my life than I think. What do I know about it now? Not a whole lot more. Thanks to these two people—I have a bit of representation—how that state votes for instance or how long it takes to travel to your far-off district from the state capital, which gives me an idea of the geography of it.

I think it may be time for me to pay Bihar another visit—this time as someone who was reluctantly linked to it her whole life—even though I may not get a good glass of wine (let alone any kind of glass of wine). If our fates are entwined—Bihar's and mine, then it's time to get to know her a little bit.

Do you remember the time?

(This post began as an alternative to a listicle I was doing for POPxo. I do some writing for them, mostly top ten lists and so on, and they had suggested I do one on a male bestie to an accidental boyfriend. I couldn't think of what to say, so I turned it into a story instead, which was useless for them, but I thought I'd share it with you guys instead.)

When this post was originally suggested to me, I wasn’t quite sure how to tackle it. I mean, I’ve had boyfriends, but “accidental”? How does that work? Plus, while I enjoy men and their company, I’m a girl’s girl, cultivating my rich, deep friendships with women, more than men, though I have no problem with being “one of the boys” when I have to.

Then I remembered Gaurav (name changed), from all those years ago. I was seventeen, he was a younger fifteen. We met on ICQ—remember ICQ?—where I went by the jaded moniker Sugar Coated Pill, and his handle was [cool rap lyric]. We started talking randomly, you could add anyone you liked on ICQ if you had their “number”, like a BBM pin.

“Fifteen,” I thought to myself, dismissively. What does a fifteen year old know about life? We went to different schools—I was in a large, teeming co-ed, he was in a smaller, more elite boy’s school. We had hardly any chance of running into each other in real life—no common friends, not even in the same neighbourhood, and so I guess it got easier to talk to him online. Every afternoon I’d come home from school and log in, and usually, there he’d be. Waiting. For me.

I had just moved back to Delhi after two years in boarding school, and was finding it sort of hard to make friends this time round. I had fallen in with the popular kids when I first moved, but we didn’t click, so I allowed myself to drift apart from them. I had some new friends who I sort of hung out with, but again, it was a strange, drifting feeling, like we were hanging on to a liferaft, and only talking till the ship came to rescue us and take us home. With Gaurav, I could let go.

The funny thing was, he was nothing like me.  We came from completely different backgrounds and had completely different interests. I was a “good girl” who stayed out of trouble, and loved to read, he was the “bad boy” who never cracked open the spine of a book in his life. It was a strange friendship, but it worked.

It didn’t hurt that he was cute, either. Like 90s boyband cute. Easy smile, floppy hair, charming, the first time we arranged to meet, I took one look at him and thought, “Oh no.” Because it wasn’t easy. We spoke every night on the phone—he was my best friend, and I was his, except, except, I loved him, and he didn’t.

Accidental boyfriend? Yes, and he knew it too. And when the other girls came in, because he was fifteen, then sixteen, then a cute teenage boy in Delhi, and of course there were other girls. I felt him drift away, though always with a backward, apologetic smile, like, “You know this isn’t really me, right?” He even fixed me up with a friend, who I dated for a little while, and then broke up with all of a sudden, leaving him bitter, saying, “You like Gaurav, why don’t you just admit it?”

That’s my story. My accidental boyfriend, who didn’t really know how he tripped and fell. I’m not quite sure either, but it was fun while it lasted. Oh well. RIP Old Relationships.

Sparkling conversation: At The Chandon India Launch in Delhi

(Teeny tiny disclaimer: This is a sponsored post, HOWEVER, I still really like sparkling wine and parties, so win-win all round, right?)

My friend Snowflake and I go back to the Middle Ages (as in, we met when we were both newbies to Bandra, and then over years and moves, our friendship sort of took on a long distance appearance: we were extremely thrilled to see each other on Facebook or in person, but no long emails or Skype chats. [Side note: I am a TERRIBLE long distance friend, but I still love you! Promise!]) Recently, however, she moved to Delhi, and not JUST Delhi, she moved a walk away from me, and not even a long walk. Despite this, because of shifty work schedules (her) and excessive socialising and writing and travelling (me) (I just want to SIT DOWN for three days straight) we haven't managed to get our schedules together and hang.

All that is a very long paragraph for what was meant to be an opening sentence. *ahem* Let's try again:

I went for the Chandon launch in Delhi with my friend Snowflake.

There's something about sparkling wine and/or champagne that makes you think of girlfriends. For me, when I say, "Pop the bubbly!" (in the space where I would use the words "pop the bubbly!") I think of a celebration, yes, but a celebration with my old friends, a large group of people all gathered round and just that one taste of effervescent liquid before it disappeared.

That's the nice thing about Chandon though. Although it was brought to India by Moet (which = posh) the company has chosen to deliberately keep the price reasonable. So, say Rs 1,200 a bottle? Which means that sparkling wine doesn't have to be about ONLY celebration anymore. Having a good day? Treat yourself to some sparkling wine! Just bought the perfect pair of shoes online? Pull out the Chandon from the fridge where it's waiting for you! BFF coming over for dinner? Make Bellinis with, you guessed it, the same Chandon that you will pull out a second bottle of later, when you tell her you're getting published.

The party was at Lap at Hotel Samrat, and this was only my second time visiting. You have to walk down a set of stairs to reach the nightclub, and there are all these huge doors, and everything is very imposing. However, the people at Chandon had made it like a winter wonderland. The dress code was "winter festive" which I did with a long black dress, a sweater and a pink necklace, and Snowflake did with a dress with a, um, snowflake pattern, natch.  There was this forest of white tree branches, and plaster penguins with bow ties holding trays with bottles on them, and when you stepped outside there were paper stars everywhere.

It was gorgeous.

Snowflake and I stayed at the party for much longer than our official "we're old and boys are waiting for us" bedtime of 11 pm, because we were having so much fun. Most of this time was spent people watching, and letting an always attentive waiter refill our flutes. We bumped into designer Anupama Dayal, who was wearing a rather clever outfit: she had draped her stole like a half sari, and wore that over a fitted skirt and dress with a gold chain in her hair. Very trendy.

Let's talk a bit about the brand now. For anyone interested in wine (whether it's drinking it (HI!) or just a general oenophile), you might have noticed that there isn't a good Indian made sparkling. There are the foreign brands, of course, but then you also have to shell out foreign prices thanks to taxes and whatnot, which brings you back to champagne = celebration. Moet, which is owned by LVMH, the luxury French goods group (which also brings you several other "oh aren't we la-di-da" goodies) decided to launch its Chandon India last year. Made in Nashik, there's a Brut and a Brut Rose, and I may not be able to tell you noses and legs and all the body parts, but I will say that it was absolutely delicious, as a professional drinker on weekends. Sparkly, tart and crisp, the bubbles were as light and bouyant as soap bubbles in the sunshine, the flutes almost emptied themselves, and I finally understood why it was called "bubbly" (besides the bubbles in the actual drink), it's because it makes you feel bubbly. Ecstatic. The world is a good, kind place, and you are happy and there's excellent music on, and a penguin with a bow tie is posing for a photograph.

So, Chandon launches in Delhi, and I wish you all had been there, because it was an excellent party. But we're going to be friends, Chandon and I, I'm already planning my Thank Goodness the Sun Is Back brunch for this month with bellinis and mimosas, and also, since all my college girlfriends are in town after what seems like twenty thousand years, several bottles are going to be emptied out in this house.

Because the world is just better with bubbles.

Chandon on Facebook.

Chandon on Twitter.

Chandon on Instagram

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

What are you? And Other Questions From Halloween Parties

 It's just about that time of the year again, when it's cold enough to delight yourself in layers: "This cardigan? No, this cardigan!" knowing that you can't choose wrong, that the wrong choice won't lead to midnight with you outside a bar, shivering so hard your bones are tired, scared of getting into an autorickshaw.

It's the time of year when choices are awesome.

 I had my "annual Halloween extravaganza", and annual it is. The ones I didn't write about still make it to the Hall of Fame, cross dressing on a warm Mumbai night, drinking with a seven foot bride and a dinky little Maharaja.  I always get a little concerned that no one will dress up, that the evening will be a complete bust. Around 7.30 pm, right before a party, when I have whipped myself into Party Throwing Frenzy for the past 24 hours, I suddenly get really tired and really fed up, and tempted to cancel the whole thing. This is the point generally when you have cleaned up your entire flat, and there's nowhere for you to sit without making creases in the cushions.

Halloween became a Thing almost sneakily. One year there was nothing, no surprises, and the next, almost every single bar advertised a "Halloween party." Halloween parties were generally costume parties though, just a reason to get dressed up. I love it because it's a chance for all of us to be fancy dress without being self-concious about it. It's an evening when you stare at a person next to you, and you can make conversation so easily: "What are you?"

 The question of "what are you?" is central to a good Halloween party--or a good any party. What are you? What are you? What are you? etc. What-are-you-meant-to-be? I'm meant to be a Woman, a Nindian, a Writer.

 Literally, what was I? I paid tribute to some of my old-time readers, and went as an Internet Troll Doll. My t-shirt said I'm Blogging This! and I had little notecards pinned to me that said things like "U SUCK!" and "ITS PEOPLE LIKE YOU THAT GIVE HINDUS/MUSLIMS/INDIAN WOMEN A BAD NAME!" I had to keep explaining myself though--maybe the best costume is self explanatory? I did love the wig and the light up glasses.

 Part of the problem of throwing a party for me is that I have so many very different social groups. Ah, the Great Delhi Social Group Dilemma. Never shall People From Work meet People From School. People From School are all right, but a bit inclined to tease, so they will never meet your Young Cousins. Young Cousins are just about wide-eyed enough to NOT introduce them to your New Friends From 5 Years Ago.

 Anyone you didn't go to school or college with becomes  a "new friend." Until you realise it's been seven years, seven years of knowing this person, and it's time you dropped the "new."

But socialising is hard in this city, with people more likely to ask "What are you?" without any context, and so a lot of people are wary of mingling any crew that doesn't know each other.

 I? I've always been an outlier. On the edges of five different groups in school (you got asked to all of the parties, told exactly half of the secrets), I frequently go to parties in Delhi alone, when my Good Thing isn't here. There I get a drink, don't laugh too hard, and slowly edge my way into the nearest conversation.

It's only awkward for the first forty minutes.

I used to get into a panic about going alone, always trying to get one friend or another to come with me, but in the last year, I've begun to enjoy going alone to things, because then you can chat exactly how long you like, and leave quietly.

 Another thing I've started having an opinion about: BYOB. Being in my thirties, making a not-bad sum of money, I feel somewhat cheap asking people to bring their own alcohol. Not to mention, it gets a bit annoying to always be told to bring your own. Once, yes. Twice, okay.  But every time? Please.

A caveat: this only applies to planned parties. For example, if I ask you over a week in advance, I have plenty of time to buy booze. But if we're going to my house after a bar, or we just made the plan that evening, it's likely you'll have to drink either cheap vodka or rum or some brandy that's left over from last year, unless you bring something else. 

The interesting thing about not asking people to bring their own alcohol is that a lot of people do anyway. Like a hostess gift, I assume. It's nice to find yourself drinking a bottle of wine you didn't buy.  It's nice that no one feels pressure to get something to your party if they didn't have time to do it.

But, oh my, I have no money left.

(EDIT: After hitting "publish", I'm feeling a little bad about this bit. A little stupidly entitled. Everyone should be able to have a party, and entertain, whether or not they can afford to water everyone. So, long live the BYOB concept for people who can't afford to b-everyone else's-b and long live the non-BYOBs too.) 

I bought little mustaches for everyone without a costume at Party Hunterz (which is another example of how Halloween has become a Thing). The day before my party, it was packed with young people trying on wigs.

I've begun saying "young people." It makes me sound like a 70 year old grandma, but I feel a bit like a 70 year old. With all the thinking, and reading, and writing I've been doing about gender issues this last year, I feel a great desire to reach across to women in their early 20s or teens and say, "MAKE GOOD CHOICES!"

This is new, this universal need to butt in, and I remember being so embarrassed by my mum when she used to start talking to strange people. I'd kick my shoe on the ground, or start reading immediately, even standing up, my body pulled away from this event.

Eventually, we all become our parents.

We gave up smoking the next day, Good Thing and I. A scary wheeze rattled out of my chest each time I inhaled. We were too hungover to stand straight.

I read Allen Carr's The Easy Way to Stop Smoking and internalised it. My inner "do not smoke that cigarette" voice is Allen Carr. It's been a week, and two days. I don't miss it except when I have my coffee. Then I miss it like an old friend who died suddenly while on holiday and their last words to you were "See you next month!" You still click on their Facebook albums to see the picture of the blue blue sea they posted with the caption: "So happy to be in Paradise!"

You might always miss them at strange moments.

The Con Master: An Update

If you cast your eye gently to the right, you'll see my number one most read post is about Anirudh Aiyar, called Do You Know This Man? Since that post was written in 2010, I have received SO. MANY. EMAILS about him, basically telling me what he's been doing all over the place, that I thought it deserved a part two.

So, here's what happened since the last time we spoke about him  deceiving a friend of mine.

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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We found love in a hopeless place

 We snuck in through a side entrance, me, who has never really done anything lawless in her life, my heart thumping, and a flutter of uncontrollable, inappropriate giggles about to rise up through my chest. "Shhh!" said the first person in line, warningly, we dodged a guard, walked under a bridge and ran across the lawn, being careful to stay in the shadows, and then (I thought he was joking) we lurked behind a tree. No joke. One by one, we peeled ourselves out from behind the tree and scampered, no forgiving shadows there, but it was a short scamper, till we reached the wall of the monument we were aiming for. (The old horse stables, I was told later.) Two others and I thought we spied a guard, so we stayed behind the tree longer than we should have, and our Fearless Leader came back, hugging the wall, to find us and send us ahead of him.

Up narrow, bat smelling stairs, I walked, balancing handbag and cellphone torch. A friendly black dog decided to keep us company and bounded along next to me and I almost thought he was a mouse and screamed. Also, he was a big dog and between us, we barely fit on those ancient stairs, but we made it to the top without dying.

We spread out sheets (I brought a sheet!) and doled out the food and alcohol. This was officially illegal. The wine had a cork, no one brought a corkscrew. We shrugged and resorted to vodka. The dog lay silently by the staircase, ready to get up and warn us about any incoming visitors.

From time to time, our voices got really loud. And then someone would say, "SHUSH!" and we shushed. Sometimes we spied people on trysts like ours, mostly lovers, some ardent night runners, we ducked from them all. One of us crawled on her stomach to peer out through a hole in the low wall. We were carried away by the adventure of it all.

"This would be a great date place," was repeated many times, and we all sighed and agreed. It would be a great date place. "This is not something we could have done in Bombay," said my friend to me, and we agreed on that as well.

We played a drinking game: Sex, Drugs And Rock and Roll. Mostly, people could only think of sex things. 'X' was a sticking point.

I had to pee. I went down the stairs to the darkest spot I could find. I saw someone with a torch and stood against the wall, hurriedly zipping up my jeans, feeling like a spy and a sex offender at the same time.


As the vodka levels got lower and our spirits got higher, we decided we weren't going to get caught after all. We stood up, stretching our legs. We took photographs. A friend and I decided to open the wine bottle with a knife, she was careful, I took the knife, wedged into the cork and banged it against the wall. The bottle broke, but we extracted the wine. There were giggles. There were more photographs. We sat, insouciant, on the parapet, and watched people running, talking into their cellphones.

Some people left. We cleaned up. We played a very loud game where we sung all the songs we could think of. It was a balmy night. We finished whatever little wine we had left in our plastic cups. We sang louder. Bohemian Rhapsody echoed out over the lawns.

Say what you will about Delhi. Yes, sometimes it's rape-y and nasty and disgusting. But sometimes it's kinda magic. That's why I love this city, for the magic. That's what I have to remind myself why I continue to live here, despite the ugly stuff. This kind of evening.

M to the I to the S-C-E-L-L-A-N-Y

>  Since my last post on  the subject, I've gone actively in search of the Sunday morning. And, I'm happy to tell you guys that it does exist. No one person in particular, at the moment, but potential abounds, and that's  better than  nothing. Man, I love dating. I know I said I hated it, but woman is a fickle creature, and there's something about the thrill of a text message in the wee hours, or a Facebook friend request, or just thinking about something you said to the other person and it making you smile. I'm steeling myself against inevitable heartbreak, because there is always heartbreak at the end of these things, and trying to just enjoy the moment. I'm not much of an Enjoy The Moment kinda gal, but hey, it's a useful skill to have. I don't know if it's the yoga I've been doing, or the company I've been keeping, but I have never felt so confident in  my ENTIRE LIFE. It's brilliant. I think the only thing that kept me from enjoying dating-dating in the past, when you're not sure, and no one is your "boyfriend", is that I used to keep fast forwarding, reaching the point of no return vis a vis expectations, and then there is always disappointment. Potential is good, it keeps my stomach a-flutter and my evenings interesting. I'm allowing myself to admit that I don't have the answers; maybe no one does, but it doesn't mean I can't have fun.

>In all this, I had a minor epiphany the other day. I've actually forgotten JC's face. I'm sure if I tried hard enough, I could conjure it up, but he is no longer the person I think about with wistful longing, suddenly recalling an expression that would bring me, in the midst of a crowded party, almost to tears. "We almost had it all", yeah, but, we didn't. And I guess my healing process is complete.

>Reclaiming Delhi like the Brits did Bandra, I've been eM Fancypants this last weekend, swishing about to trendy art openings and even trendier night clubs. Shalom is still going strong, did you know? They have one floor which is smoking, always a comfort to me, and is always packed on the weekends. Wonderfully serendipitous weekend as well, when I turned up at Shalom and found my "gang" from college all there, all happy, and we hadn't managed to get it together and hang out for so long, all four of us were just lost in the wonder of it all. "We're all here!" we kept saying, there were hugs and exclamations, and it was nice. The night prior, I went to a club I hadn't even heard about before*, something called Circa 1193 (Circa to regulars) and there too, I bumped into a bunch of random people. I don't know if Delhi nightlife is the nightlife for me, to be honest,  but it was nice to get out of my comfort zone for a bit. Staggered home after SEVEN glasses of red wine and TEQUILA, oh god, why do I ever drink tequila? Why is it always such a good idea at two in the morning? And the next day, of course, I paid the price, but it was still quite nice to be drunk in a place where the music was loud and my heels reduced my feet to numb blobs. Nothing like that to make you feel young and stupid again , even though I'm pretty sure I prefer being old and wise.

*ever since I've moved to Delhi, weekends have been all house party all the time, so it's what I've gotten used to. Small gatherings, usually BYOB, and usually the same people. It means heels are optional, and there's always a couch for me to sit on, and always a cab just a phone call away. Clubs, for this older Confessor, have ceased to be a thing, unless I'm in Bombay. Then, all bets are off.

> This has also been a week of goodbyes, BB has departed for another hemisphere, and even though we're  no longer in the same city, we were online usually at the same time, so we managed to keep an all day long chat session going. Now that we're in different time zones, however, I'm lucky I have my insomnia to keep me awake while she's up and about too. We've also committed to a Skype date every now and then, so yes,  goodbyes aren't as painful as they used to be. It's a small world, and everything is just a plane trip away.

> I've just found out another dear friend ties the knot in November, bringing the grand total for weddings in that month up to THREE, and none being weddings I can skip. The universe has aligned magically though, because none of the dates are clashing. I foresee a month long hangover in November and mehendi hands probably all the way till January.

> Since moving to Delhi, I had to restructure and reshape my social circle a little bit, and a lot of it was starting from scratch. But now, I'm happy to announce, I've finally got the "new friends" bit sorted and organised and I have GIRL FRIENDS, you guys! Thanks to growing up here, I don't lack for good, close, girlfriends, but making new ones is always tough, so I'm happy that I found a few I really like, and meet regularly. Also, at parties, I'm the girl who flirts with other girls, and exchanges numbers and arranges to meet within the week, and it's awesome, it really is. Boys may come and boys may go, but a good support system (much like a bra) is forever. It's odd though, because if you put me in a room with a mixed group of strangers, I'd probably get along better with the boys, but when it comes to close friendships, I usually prefer the company of women.

You’re like a brother to me

Last night, I was at a close friend’s engagement party, sitting on a “his side” table. It was a mixed crew, but this friend tends to have more female friends than male, so the sex ratio was slightly skewed.

We started talking about how you could never be sure how many siblings anyone had, because people tend to say “brother” or “sister” about their cousins too. There are some who toss “rakhi brothers/sisters” into the mix, so basically, you think their parents are super prolific. “I always ask “Is this your real brother”?” said a young man at the table. I pointed out that ‘real’ or presumably ‘biological’ is really just a state of mind. What if your sibling was adopted? Not such a common problem in India, but by the time the next generation is ready to sit at engagement parties of their own, I think it might be, considering how many people I know who want to adopt or have already adopted.

Then we started talking about the future groom. “He’s like a brother to me,” said the same young man, and I, delighted, said, “Oh, me too!” STUNNED SILENCE ON THE TABLE. “What? What did I say?” I asked, perplexed. Apparently, it’s not quite a compliment if a girl says it about a male friend. I don’t know why, I’d be hugely flattered if one of my guy friends said I was like a sister. Wouldn’t you?

They then urged me to blog about this subject, saying that they were sure people would be able to point out to me that it’s just Not Cool for a woman to say it about a man. It’s like saying, ‘I don’t think of you as a man’ or something. “You’re better off just saying, “You’re my best friend,” was the advice offered to me. I get what they’re trying to say, saying “brother” immediately takes any offer of sex off the table, but hello, I’ve been friends with this particular brother/friend for SO long, sex was off the table aaaaaaaaaages ago. I mean, I don’t want to sleep with any of my close guy friends, do you? It’s  as anathema for me as would be the idea of sleeping with a “real” brother. The only difference is that unlike an actual biological sibling, the attraction to a friend could happen. (We’re disregarding incest here, obvs.)

I read an article somewhere, I forget where, but this was a long time ago, that said men only befriended women they found attractive. Which, okay, I'm not so convinced about. I'd prefer to think there was more to men than that, more than just a simple, "I think you're vaguely pretty so I want to be your friend." The article went on to say it was only once they thought a girl was pretty, that they explored the idea of a friendship, even if they weren't necessarily attracted to them. Women on the other hand, operate slightly differently. Okay, so I know in the first two minutes whether or not I find someone attractive, BUT that's not to say someone I don't find attractive now may not be attractive to me in the future. My list of things that contribute to being attracted to someone is long and includes, but is not limited to: banter, a good text message and a sense of adventure.

But either way, in my mind, I was so convinced I was giving him a compliment. Being an only child, one of the nice things is, I get to pick who I want in my extended family. Not all friends are so-called siblings, in fact, I’m rather picky about who gets the tag. If I’ve known you for a long time, if I know my relationship with you is steady and loving, if you’ve been there for me during hard times, and will try your hardest to be there when I celebrate, then, well, you’re like a brother/sister. I got shouted down when I tried to explain myself, but hey, no one’s talking on this blog but me.

I know friends, we all have friends, but what happens when you have a bond with a friend that goes deeper than just a plain ol’ friendship? I have several sisters of the heart, who I love dearly and deeply, and okay, I don’t have quite so many “brothers” because a male-female friendship is essentially different from a female-female friendship, but the few that I do consider to be closer to me than just a regular friend, the few that the idea of sex wouldn’t even come up with, not even in your deepest darkest thoughts, because the relationship between the two of you is so pure and good, almost asexual, but not in a bad way, you know? I feel they should be allowed to be my brothers, even if I’m never allowed to say that to them.

The other thing that happened the day Osama Bin Laden was killed

It is terribly… warm, isn’t it? Which is totally the excuse I am making for my lack of posts. What? THE WARMTH! IT IS A WRITER KILLER! And I’m not one of the privileged, like you guys, who get to go to an air conditioned office every day, and spend great hours of my life, probably the best hours, sitting in artificial light and making conversation with people I probably wouldn’t even be nodding acquaintances with in real life, and okay, I’ll stop.

 

And then yesterday, I went and joined the public pool next door, which okay, is a very little thing in the scheme of things that happened yesterday, what with the Big Bad Wolf being brought down, and everyone only talking about that, but what? I don’t live in Abottabad, or however you spell that. And I’m glad the Americans got closure and everything, and I’m glad he’s dead, but it’s SO not the end of the story. When the end of the story happens, I promise I will talk of nothing but. But since yesterday was only, like, a chapter, I feel like I can tell you about the pool next door.

 

As I signed up, the girls at the desk looked at me and debated with each other whether girl one should get a nose ring (like I have) or a nose stud (like girl two had.) They glanced at my nose awhile, I told them it frequently got caught in towels and t-shirts and things and then, finally girl one decided to go for the stud. FASCINATING. Then they casually looked over my form and girl two gasped.

 

“You’re… twenty nine?”

 

“Yes,” I said, shortly. I’m beginning to get a bit sick of this. Yes, I’m aware looking young is fab and all that, but WHAT IS SO OLD ABOUT TWENTY BLOODY NINE? I’m still in my twenties, not quite over the hill, I wish people would stop saying, “Oh, you look so young” like I’m fifty five or something.

 

“And,” said girl two, still hushed, “Why aren’t you married?” (There was a father’s name/husband’s name section, which always throws me a little bit.)

 

 

Unexpected. Very unexpected. Here I was all ready to not-so-graciously accept my “oh you look so young” compliment.   I babbled something about not liking men, and then babbled that I wasn’t a lesbian or anything (not that there’s anything wrong with lesbians! No! *nervous laughter* *girls look even more pitying*) but men in Delhi just seemed lacking. “Okay!” I said, still with the nervous laugh, “Changing rooms?”

 

“Through there,” pointed girl one. They watched me go. They shook their heads. I am DOOMED TO DIE ALONE. Even pool girls are judging me.

 

But the pool, the pool. It made up for it all. It was large and over chlorinated and probably chock-full of piss and worse, but it reminded me of my childhood, you know, when you’d be four or five kids to a car, and you’d go to one of your parent’s clubs, and you’d spend all day horsing around in the water, and your fingers would get all pruney, and you’d be the last ones in, till someone, a parent, an aunt, would drag you out, where you’d be wrapped in a warm, scratchy towel and you’d eat chicken sandwiches or cheese pakodas and talk about how tomorrow you’d do the high board just as well as your cousin. And summer. And sticking your head with chlorine dried hair out the window and singing in high voices, and tumbling into bed because you were so worn out and knowing tomorrow, it would be the same thing, by the same pool.

 

So, despite the uncles and the people learning to swim by thrashing about and the kids playing ball across the most crowded section, I smiled blissfully (between spitting out water) and swam leisurely from one end to another, slow butterfly strokes, feeling like a mermaid. Well, a mermaid who had to wear a cap, which made my head feel a bit like a condom, but a mermaid nonetheless.  My friend joined a little later, and we hung around the middle section, where we could just feel the bottom on tip toe, and we gossiped. Not very sporty, but we were mermaids. We were doing mermaid things.

 

And, oh, the water was blue and made my skin itch, cute young Afghans flexed their triceps for PYTs also with condom heads and the changing room had warm showers and everything, everything was exactly as it was in 1989, minus the chicken sandwiches.  Swummer. Summing.

Balle balle?

I just got back from Amritsar, which was incredible. You know I’m not a particularly religious person, in fact, I’m probably the least spiritual person I know. My moments of “prayer”, or meditation, come in the every day, I used to get Golden Transcendent moments by watching the sea go by on Carter Road, for example, or now, driving through a particularly attractive bit of Delhi. But, on the whole, spirituality has never been my thing.

 

I don’t know if a place can have a vibe, but if it does, the Golden Temple is right up there. There’s something to be said about a place invested with so much hope (and so much blood thirsty history). It resonates through the marble, under your feet, in the calm in the middle of chaos. It seems almost as if everything slows down for a second, while you drink it in. My picture doesn’t do it justice, but it is absolutely stunning.

 

The reason I picked Amritsar was simple enough. I made a friend while I was in Gokarna (let’s call him Jerry) and he was due to travel through North India, before he left back for his own country. Did I want to go anywhere with him, he asked, and since I’ve always had an all-abiding love for the Punjab, I picked Amritsar. It’s my third Punjabi experience (previously, Faridkot and Chandigarh) and by far the prettiest, even though the city itself is all screaming chaos.  It was also an interesting lesson for me in travelling like a foreigner, by myself, I am mostly left alone, but add one Boy From Distant Shores, and suddenly I was a scam magnet. It makes you feel kinda bad for all the other tourists who go through India, by the end of the day, I was so tired of people hassling me, I wanted to yell, “Shut uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupppppppppp!” at everybody.  We got (almost) cheated twice, but Jerry is most masterful in his command over situations (thanks to travelling through India for the last three months) and I managed to delegate all post-negotiation-negotiations to him.

 

An aside: if you’re going to stay at the Hotel Golden Heritage, DON’T. The sheets were all crusty with something, which I only discovered at 11 pm, and when I asked for a new sheet, the manager absolutely lost it, and began yelling and screaming. We checked out the next morning, and moved to the lovely (and affordable) City Heart, which I would recommend highly, not least because they have a Barista right in the hotel for your morning cup.

 

Food wise, we did quite well: Brother’s Dhaba for kulcha and daal, Kesar Da Dhabha for more daal and kadi, Surjit Chicken for brilliant fish, Crystal (eh, not worth the price) for mutton and more chicken, and Chawla’s chicken (EXCELLENT) for really good tandoori chicken. I have eaten my weight in food now.  Jerry left the ordering up to me, and didn’t have any dietary restrictions, so I basically just let myself go and had a party.

 

More friends joined us the next day, and we pottered around doing this and that. We had visited Jalianwala Bagh already the previous day, and as luck would have it, it was the 92nd anniversary of the massacre on the day we left, so we decided to go back and see the ceremony. Which was a lot of people giving speeches, but I’m glad I went again. A lot of people choose to skip it, because it is rather depressing, but in my opinion, it’s an important historic site, and it was nice to see something from my history book come to life. Also, besides everything, it’s a beautiful park, and it’s nice to sit under the trees and watch people go by.

 

Speaking of historic things, we absolutely had to do a trip to the Wagah Border while I was there. My other friends were also foreign, so between them and Jerry, they flashed their passports and got shown to the VIP section, while I was unceremoniously herded to the “commoners.” We went back and forth a bit, and finally, the guard, just to shut me up, sent me off with them. And then, in my ladies queue, my water got taken away while they got to keep theirs, and it was all very annoying. Plus it was hot, and I was getting grumpy thanks to my lack of sleep the night before (see: crusty sheets). But soon, it started, and I cheered up. It’s just so funny, watching the guards almost kick their turbans off as they walk, all to the chants of people going, “Vande. Materam!” etc. There were LOADS of people, surprising for a weekday, but then I learnt it was a holiday. This is what happens when you work from home, you lose track of everything.

 

So, I discovered my inner Punjabi, learnt what it’s like to travel like a foreigner, found (at a certain level) spirituality, and ate lots of food. That’s quite a bit for a weekend trip, right? I thought so.

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?