Move it, move it

Skies of blue

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

Office space

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 I was three, four, five, in a little house down the road, which has now been replaced by a massive birthday cake structure.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



 

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

Bedroom mornings

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

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

Messy drawing and dining room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Why you gotta be a hater, yo?

Delhi, my darling, at this time of the year, you look smug with loveliness. You're all like, "Hey, India, I got winter, I got pretty outdoor restaurants, I got places where you can buy boots AND places where you can wear boots. I'm pretty much the winner of everything." And justified. You are remarkably gorgeous, the weather is remarkably gorgeous, and it is that brief window, that happens only for a few precious weeks, where everyone's in a bloody good mood, crimes drop (a little) and if you steal someone's parking spot, they'll let you off with a chuckle, instead of pulling a knife on you.

But, man, you hate single women. From my limited observations, you're entirely different around single men, with them you adopt a cheek pulling, hair tousling, boys-will-be-boys attitude, invite them over for dinner, guard your teenage daughters, but still look out for them with a parental twinkling eye.  Bachelors have carte blanche in their flats, they can have women over, have noisy parties, and still be invited downstairs to the landlord's house for a meal, or something. You see pieces of writing about Delhi, where the single male writer is going on a rhapsody about their single male writer life. And while I'm not complaining (I got lucky enough to find one of the few flats in Delhi without an owner attached to the ground floor) I do think that as a single woman, I get a bit of a short shrift.

This blog post is triggered off by the fact that it is Sunday afternoon, and I just tried, very unsuccessfully, to order lunch. I called three places and was told my order was "too little". I am a small person, I eat small portions. They have a "single sized" serving on their menus, and all I wanted was to get one of those single sized things to my doorstep, rather than have leftovers lying in my fridge for weeks. Waste not, want not, isn't that the rule? I can't order a whole bunch of other things, and yes, I do think this is a girl-only problem, because I think a dude would be able to eat a lot more than just a single serving of something. (I'm generalising, but this is from watching a lot of boys eat a lot more than I would.) Finally, one restaurant took pity on me, and decided to send me lunch, but usually, it's a whole lot of, "Yeah, no, we can't send that, it's too little."

And then, this got me thinking about other ways being a single lady in a city not equipped for single ladies had gotten me down. I touched briefly upon it in this piece I did for the Sunday Guardian on moving, but allow me to quote some of the things potential landlords said to me as I was househunting:

"The door is locked after 11 pm, you can call if you want to be in later, but you won't be later."

"Here is the barsaati, here is the bathroom, our grandson comes to visit often, he's going to want to use your loo."

"I only rent to young women, but I'm concerned you'll be *ahem* lonely, all by yourself in that big flat."

And, of course, the classic, the what-we've-all-heard:

"Absolutely no male company." "But.. but.. I have male friends." "You have male friends! Harlot!" (Okay, slight exaggeration, but only slight.)

Then, of course, if one is having sex (which I'm not confirming or denying here, just sayin') then everyone hates you. PDA = Not Allowed, but this we already knew, being a conservative country and adopting the opposite of the motto "the whole world loves a lover" and turning it into "keep it in your pants, goddamnit, because we never think about sex, oh no, the reason we're overpopulated is because pretty fairies come in at night and bless us with children." The whole country, Bollywood included, loves a male lover, again the head shaking, eye twinkling, boys-will-be-boys thing, but as a woman, you keep your knees together and your protests loud. And even then, you must have done something in order to interest a boy in the first place. Harlot Part Two! Overnight male guests get tea in the morning, but I get the stink eye from everyone, including the help and random neighbours. Men have "male desires", but single women have to be either a) married or b) sad virgins. When I was younger (and this is a true story), and I happened to be in a car with a member of the opposite sex, within five minutes, there'd be cops surrounding us, threatening to call our parents if we didn't give them some money. TRUE STORY. Is it any wonder that the iPill, a morning after, emergency contraceptive only, is flying off the shelves? Another true story: in my entire life, I have only bought condoms ONCE, and even then, blushing with shame, mumbling a request, and keeping my eyes downcast the entire time, so the shopkeeper wouldn't think I was actually *gasp* having sexual relations. I imagine (I've never actually witnessed this) that when men buy condoms, there are balloons and high fives and woot! score!

And, that's the end of my Sunday afternoon rant, brought to you by my lack of lunch.

A profile update is forever

Most people I know now have switched over accounts from Orkut to Facebook. Why? Because, well, Orkut started out as being more "exclusive" and everything, but in the end, the hundred different people wanting to do "fraandship" with you, with names like hotboy4u or sachinsexysmile just got annoying. On an average (in a random poll taken by two of my friends and me) if you're a girl and/or you have a photograph up, you'll get at least four friendship requests a week.

Moving on then to Facebook. Even though it's open to everyone, and you have photographs liberally scattered everywhere, most people leave you alone unless they know you. Or you know them. The format is slightly harder than Orkut, less wheee-cyber-sex and more minimalist, and the best part? You can't read other people's "walls" unless you know them. Which means you can snoop on your immediate circle, but can't, say, stalk your exgirlfriend. (or exboyfriend, in my case, as I see from my home page that he is now "friends" with many of my friends. It's like we're playing the staring game, I'm not adding him first, and I'm sure he's not going to extend an invitation for me, so it's basically about who caves first.)

The thing about Facebook, and about Orkut as well, I suppose, is the relationship status indicator. With Facebook, once you log in, you get a screen telling you what all your contacts have been up to, uploading pictures, changing their status messages and so on. And every now and then, you get a little indicator saying So-and-so is no longer listed as single, with a little red heart next to it. It's such a big deal, changing your profile indicators, almost like getting a joint bank account or moving in together. It's a mini-announcement, after which there is no turning back, and you need to think about your relationship status carefully, because if you change it again, bingo, up on the homepage comes an icon of a broken heart saying So-and-so is now single. It's a binding commitment, and enough to make you want to shoot yourself.

Orkut doesn't make it so painfully obvious. But, right up there on your profile page is a little space marked for your relationship status. You could be either single or committed or in an open marriage or married with kids and so on. Single screams out from the profile page, leading to more "fraandship" requests, but the smug committeds are left alone.

There is, of course, the choice not to show your relationship status at all. But that's like saying, "No comment" to a loaded question, everyone knows the real answer.

My mother calls Orkut my "dating website", as in, "Are you on your dating website again?" Even though I try to explain the concept behind a social networking site, the sociological implications, the six degrees of separation, the finding old friends again, the next time we have the conversation, usually in front of someone else, she'll say, "Oh, yes, eM was telling me about this dating website she met an old friend on." Leading to embarrasement and explainations from me, and the other person's raised eyebrows as they back away sloooooowly from the socially retarded girl. (Can I say retarded? No, right? Okay, socially challenged.)

When would I change my profile from SINGLE! SINGLE! SINGLE! to a quiet "in a relationship"? It would probably take some doing. A year or two of dating perhaps, before I was ready to make that kind of commitment.


EDIT: You might have missed the little box on my left sidebar directing you to vote for me. I've been nominated for my first ever Indiblog! Woo hoo! The only thing that confuses me is that I've been put in the category "Best Topical Indiblog", which is odd, because as far as I can remember, the only topic I write about is, um, me. So unless everyone else is waking up to the fact that the universe does in fact revolve around me, I'm at sea for an explaination. But dude! Seriously! Little ol' me with an Indiblog nomination! This is so exciting. If you enjoy this blog, (or if you're a troll, and think of how much trolling pleasure you could get if I actually won) then go on over here and vote. If you'd like *sigh* a view of who else is nominated so you can make a fair chance, blah blah blah, then the list of nominees is here. Vote for meeeeeeeeeeee. You know you want to.

Won't Somebody Please Think Of The Children?

I find second dates the hardest to do. First dates are full of possibilities, the two of you are wooing each other with gesture and conversation, you're at your witty best, eyes bright, never in a bad mood. First dates are when you dress carefully, perfumed just the right amount, dab dab in cleavage and behind your ears and the hollows of your collarbone. Third dates are established dates, you know you want to see the person again, you know this might lead somewhere, it is a third date after all. Third dates are for wearing the nice underwear, for turning up your face for the the first kiss, and yet, being comfortable enough to curl up your legs on the chair, to not laugh at jokes you don't think are funny. Second dates however, are tough dates. Second dates lack the glitzy excitement of the first date and the we're-probably-going-to-see-each-other-again comfort of the third.

Recently, I went out on my first second date since I moved to this city. It was my first second date in some time too, maybe it's the being alone for so long that makes me so picky, but usually, I don't see most people past our first star-struck evening. I find myself picking faults with them on the first date, are they vegetarian? Or non-drinkers? My friends and I spend hours dissecting why people are wrong for us, but when we find someone who just might be right, we guard the information, keep the man close to our hearts and bodies, worrying that if we speak too soon, it'll all be over, just like that. Being scattered like we are, the friends I discuss romance with at any rate--two in Delhi, two in Bombay, one in London--it's hard to keep track of everyone's love lifes. There are boyfriends I haven't ever met, although I could tell you what kind of cologne they use, and what their favourite movie is, and how they like to cuddle as soon as they wake up in the morning. And there are the men I've been with, who my friends have never met, though they know the names, and how I agonise right before I go to bed about whether it'll ever work out. And virtually, we hand-hold, across kilometres and oceans, spewing vitriol on the men and soothing our sister companion. But I miss being able to introduce my lover to my friends, saying, "Look, this is the man I've chosen, isn't he perfect for me, don't we set each other off, doesn't it seem like he likes me very much?" Or have an "objective" viewpoint, about whether he is worthy.

My own second date was something that was much dissected. Where was it going, did I see myself with this person? When did dating get so much about pressure? If you're going out with a person of the opposite sex, when does it move from dinner and drinks with a boy to a "date"? Why are we still using the word 'date', it has such 1990 connotations? Anyway, all went smoothly on date two, the two of us, though tired from a long day's commute, managed to meet up for Chinese food and a drink, and talk about our respective chosen careers. Although in my case, not being an emergency room doctor or a hypnotherapist, there's not much to tell. "So, I go out and I get stories." Fascinating. The date went, well, well. After the build up in my head about a romance filled, buckets of roses type date, I suppose it was somewhat a let down. But that wasn't his fault, he wasn't to know that I had planned stories about how we met to admit blushingly to other friends, how I had planned the way he would make me coffee in the morning, and how we would do the crossword together and why am I admitting this to the internet?

The next day, in admitting it to the other ladies, I didn't know what to say. I had infused him with possibilities, "tell us about your love life" they asked, "Is there anyone new in the picture?" And coyly I had admitted how cute he was, how kind, how fun, and they yay-ed from their scattered corners, and now, by admitting failure, defeat even, I didn't know what else I was admitting to. I wanted to have a happy love story for them, because they, like me, are mostly jaded, mostly cynical, but still, so optimistic that in the end everything would be For The Best. So, I didn't tell them. And I know they read my blog, and I know they'll probably wonder why I chose not to say anything on the subject. Because, well, because, I want you to think I am capable of finding love and not always a let-down, because I want you to think of me as smart and successful and making the right choices, because I want you to think of me as happy, because I am happy, despite hiccups.

As for my second date, we've sort of committed to date three, only not on a day or a location. "I'll call you," he says, and I nod, not agonising about it. Which in the end, is okay, I suppose. It's not him making me coffee in the morning, but it's not I-never-want-to-see-you-again either.

The Crazy Cat Lady

Last night, Pieces and I, and some of her friends went to this place called Squeeze to listen to DJs Nikhil and Pearl. We arrived shortly after Nikhil's set, and Pearl had taken over, and was wearing those big earphones and churning out the music and smiling at the crowd. I'm not really into house, which is what was being played, but something about the energy of the evening, the pulsating beats and the waving arms of the crowd--mainly young boys, not older than 20 I should think, which meant no (legal) eye candy--sort of made me do a little back and forth sway thing, that I do when I'm not dancing. Women DJs are so, so sexy, I think, something about conquering what essentially looks like a male domain, they look so feisty and ubercool and such an epitome of female independence. And then DJ Nikhil, her husband came up from behind her and put his arm around her waist. And that last epitome of Single Womanhood? Vanished.

A couple of months ago, a good friend of mine hesistantly told me she was in love. Well, not in love love, but she liked the dude a hell of a lot and well, they were going to take each day as it came and so on. I was happy for her, sure, but in all this, somewhere at the back of my brain, little voices started screaming, rock opera style:
You're going to wind up alone!
No, no no, how can this be, I sang back
Because you are now and have always been freeeeee-eeeeeeee.

Leela gets hitched this October. Dates have been set, outfits bought and I am somewhere in the glorious state of denial. I love her, sure, and I'm immensely happy for her and that everything's working out great, but oh dear, what's gonna become of meeeeee?

(Caveat: I do enjoy being single, this is not a post whining about lack of love etc. It's actually supposed to be a post dissecting relationships in your twenties. Right. Now that I've put you, and myself, back on track, moving on.)

Twenty, these days, appears to be the new thirty. The world is being run by twenty somethings, oh I'm not talking like CEO or editor type jobs, but those are what we're being groomed for eventually. We're being fed royal jelly and don't we know it. As a result, most twenty somethings are a) jaded; b) incredibly stressed out; c) usually burnt out with all the high living and d) unbearably smug.

Therefore, with this being older than we actually are, if you take each year of twenty as the equivalent thirty something age, you have about how old we feel. At 25, now, being single, is like being single at 35, especially when all around you, your peers are hooking up like there's no tomorrow. The free-for-all sex, which you thought you had INVENTED at 20 or 21, is now giving way to "something serious" which is what everyone--men included--seem to want.

Being committed at twenty something is almost like being married. Most people, thanks to the large number of us who move away from families and home towns, have their own houses. I know at least two couples who live together, in perfect domestic harmony. What's gone wrong? Where are our independent free lives? I think the problem is multitasking. We can do it all, and then some. Therefore, your average twentysomething can juggle a career, living alone and a relationship all with considerably panache. You have the same originally thirtysomething relationship problems--commitmentphobia, settling down, making a call between an awesome career shift or saving your relationship, long distance, blah blah blah. When did relationships become such hard work?

I, on the other hand, am contemplating getting a cat. And trying not to be worried by articles such as this one. Babies, peh, I have feline company. Oh, and five years.

Woman is a social animal (a post in two parts) (and one very outraged update)

Part The First

My friend Sarnath who recently broke many hearts by getting married is releasing his book on Wednesday, January 24th at the British Council, New Delhi. It should be a fun launch and it makes me most homesick and heartsick to think that I will miss it, but c'est la vie I suppose. Anyway, for the rest of you lucky Delhizens, The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers is being launched with The Barn Owl's Abandoned Opera, with live performances and audio visual presentations and oh dear God I do not think I can go on any more without impaling myself on something. It's 8 pm on Wednesday, to get in you need to print out a copy of the invite, which is on his website. (I've been trying for a while to get images to appear here, but something's up with Blogger). He will, thanks to dire threats from me, be launching it in Bombay too, I think, but I don't know the deets on that yet. Still, there will be pretty people and cheap wine and canapes and BC launches are always my favourite. (The Habitat launches aren't so much fun because they never serve alcohol). I've seen bits and pieces of the graphic novel because Sarnath's other great redeeming quality is that if you're nearabouts his neighbourhood and he's home, he will give you (well, me, at any rate) a glass of wine or Old Monk and Coke and a pile of comic books and jazz in the background and work on his stuff while you happily read, curled up into a chair, stopping only when the two of you are rather buzzed to make high, philosophical statements. So, it's a good book. And go, do. The more the merrier.

Part The Second

Going out in Bombay is similar to going out in Delhi. Except even Tuesday nights have crowded places. And the roads when you spill out alcohol full and last-ordered are still busy and bustling. Which is nice, especially when you're going against your essential Delhi girl reflexes and climbing into an auto past dark--past midnight. Maybe that's the reason women in Bombay look so much more confident, they walk differently too, arms swinging, chests out, hips sashaying, as opposed to me, who still walks with my arms crossed over my chest, ready to swing around and slap anyone who tries to get fresh. But, I think defensively, as I pass these creatures, they wouldn't last a week in Delhi.

I've lost track though, of the things I've been doing, since I have been going out practically every single night. Let's see, if I go backwards, maybe that would be easier. So last night, me and my friend Sameer decided to go out for dinner. He called just as I was awakening from my second nap of the day, thanks to being up till five the previous morning. Sick and hungover-y, I still managed to crawl into a cab and crawl out into his house, but the pizza place we were aiming for had like an hour waiting time and so we walked (he walked, I hobbled, somewhere between Saturday night and Sunday evening I seem to have dislocated my hip) to look for some place that didn't have any waiting, but yeah, Sundays. So we went to very nice (but VERY expensive) place called Indigo, where we sat in the longue upstairs, and listened to the very animated man across from us, giving his friend the details on the last time he saw his lover Charlie, before he died. Sameer and I were too busy eating the carrot and cucumber sticks that were on the table to talk to each other, so by the end of it, I knew all about Charlie. Including that his sister was lesbian, making me wonder whether it was like a genetic trait or something.

It wasn't my only run-in with gay men this weekend though. The night before, me and the Boys (because my new friends in Bombay with one notable exception who I will come to in a bit) are all male. Which is nice, because I enjoy being the token girl, but it also means I now know faaaaar more about how men think than I really wanted to. Some amounts of mystery should be preserved, don't you think? We were at Zenzi, sitting by the bar, twirling on the bar stools (okay, just me) and getting happily minding-our-own-business drunk. And this bunch of men behind us were trying to get the attention of the bartender. (And this may have been said before about Zenzi, in fact, I'm almost certain it has, but the service SUCKS. I had to stand on my stool to get attention and even then, our drinks were very hard to hunt down. Maybe they're understaffed? Also, it seems to be the firang hangout in that neighbourhood. True?) Anyway, they ordered a bottle of Rose and took a look at the Boys. "I hate straight men," said one, "They drink beer!" "True," said another, "But we're richer than they are." Then one leaned across to Sameer who was trying to pretend like he wasn't listening, and said, "You're far too handsome to be hanging out with them." I, of course, found this entire thing most amusing, because in typical heterosexual male fashion the three men I was with looked like they were going to run screaming, "Cooooooties!" out of the place any second.

The night before that, I had a DATE. Okay, perhaps not so much a date-date than two single people of the opposite sex going out for a drink, but isn't it so much easier to just say date? Yes? I just joined a book club, and my first ever meeting was Friday night and it was immense fun, only I didn't have anything to do after, which on a Friday night and in my world is unforgivable. So, after some texting back and forth the night before, the Date and I decided to meet up the next day and go to this newish place called Aurrus (single r? Double r?) for dinner and drinks. It's a really nice restaurant, with a porch like area outside right on the beach, which you can go look at and admire the moonlight and the planes passing over your head and so on. We talked for quite a bit, avoided looking at the hypnotic wallpaper inside (because if you look at it out of the corner of your eye it looks as if the wall is coming straight at you, which makes you think you've drunk more than you actually have), and yes, Friday night date night went well.

On to Thursday. Thursday, me and the previously mentioned Gal Pal, X, did a girl's night out, which we had been promising each other for quite a bit. We went to another place looking over the sea, one of X's most favourite places in this city-- Vie (which looks like it should be pronounced 'vy' as in to vie with each other, but is, in actuality pronounced vee, like the letter. Both names make not much sense as the title for a nightclub, but hey, what do I know about these things.) where all the waiters knew her and it was nice having everyone stop by and say hello and drinking our LIITs and bitching about boys and talking about our past relationships and oh, women are the best. We realised how spookily similar we are (read: we both discovered the inner psycho in the other person) and did the ultimate gal pal accolade, that if one or the other of us was a boy, we'd totally date.

Wednesday, Wednesday, did I go out Wednesday? Oh, of course I did. Shark Tooth and I did flatmate bonding and went out for dinner and drinks (the number of times I am writing "and drinks" in this post is beginning to frighten me a little) where we discussed the pros (mainly) and cons (hardly) of living together. It's going well, the two of us, even though we barely see each other, seeing as he's up before I wake up and I'm home after he goes to sleep. In fact, the last time I saw him was Saturday. Hmmm.

Tuesday, Sameer and I went out again (or since I'm going backwards, it shouldn't be again, right?) to Not Just Jazz By The Bay, after spending a hectic evening bookshopping. We went to Strand, which is a lovely bookstore, and where I found this set of books I've been searching for for nine years--the Bharati Vidya Bhawan publication of Krishna Avatara--a set of seven, very easily written and if you find it and you're into Hindu mythology you should totally pick it up. He works quite close to where I do, so we rendezvoused.

Ah, finally Monday. Monday was most exciting, because it was my first brush with Bollywood Glitz when we went karaoke singing. And there in the crowded little restaurant was Malaika Arora Khan and Arbaaz Khan and Amrita Arora and they played Chaiyya Chaiyya and Malaika Arora Khan got up on the table and danced and it was so cool! I felt most touristy. Oh, and we sang Bohemian Rhapsody and I nailed it, holding the mic, singing like a pro and people gave me thumbs up from across the room and I felt like a star. Lalalalala. (I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me, he's just a poor boy, from a poor family, mama mia, mama mia, mama mia figarooooooooo)

So, that's been my week. And this week, I relax and detox. And maybe, just maybe (fingers crossed etc) I get to go home for the upcoming long weekend.


THE OUTRAGED UPDATE: We wuz robbed! No really, look at this! I insIST you examine it closely. Here's the link again. Looks familar? Of course it does! IT'S BLOODY ME. What am I doing on Dusk Diary, whatever the fuck that is? Does no one believe in someone's own property anymore? More importantly, how can I bring this bitch DOWN? Any suggestions? Reader, I turn to you in my moment of angst.

I feel so... used. *covers up with towel and scurries indoors*

Slightly premature, but still, the year end post

(Yellow post-it: I don't know when next I'll have the internet, because the one at home isn't working, and end of the year parties call frantically, and when one is due to leave the city on Tuesday, one doesn't want to spend one's time entirely on the internet. And it'll take some time to get a cable set up in Mumbai, unless I find a friendly neighbourhood cyber cafe, soooooo, basically this is ta-ta for this year, and this city. Join me again in 2007!)

Anyway, every year, around this time, I do a little friendly round up of what I've been up to in the past year. If you've been a reader through 2006, then some of this stuff will be old. But, if you've just joined me, like recently, then whee! Here we go!

2006 was an odd sort of year. Everything changed, drastically, and with this frantic pace, and I felt mostly like I was standing still and stuff was going on at supersonic speed around me. I know I say this every year, but this year, wow, I can't believe it went so fast. Is it always going to be this speedy?

In January, Small and I were left flatmateless, after only three months of living alone, so we had to start looking for someone, and fast. We met some people, but no one really seemed to either a) want to live with us (Not because of us, of course, we're fantastic) or b) fit our long list of requirements to be our flatmate (ie: not be psycho).

In February, I learnt a valuable lesson about men, and how to be careful, even when you're taking all the right precautions. (Ick, that was a horrible time) and on a happier note, I got my tattoo, which I'm still very much in love with.

In March, not much of significance happened. I wondered why guys hate labels so much (and that question? Still open to anyone who feels like answering). Ooh, and we got a new fridge!

In April, my dog Cookie had puppies--three of them, and Small and I, with our respective parents, decided to take a trip to Egypt. Oh, and I went on about how cool my job is. :)

In May, tra-la-la, we went to Egypt! And, oh, it was excellent. Everyone should go.Oh and we finally got a new flatmate.

In June, beloved friend Urvashi left for the States, and that was a very sad, sad time. (Of course, I also swore I'd never leave the city. Ahem.) Oh and I bought a MotoRazr, which I fell vastly and thoroughly in love with. Sigh.

In July, was the Unvirginity Anniversary and the entry of the rat in our kitchen. Good ol' Mortimer. We killed him, you know. Also, I debated the merits of dating more than one guy at the same time. (Which I tried recently and it was good fun.)

In August, there was (re-sigh. I seem to be doing a lot of sighing in this post) the Romance. Which was good fun, and made for a nice August. I decided to no longer be a journalist. (Hah! See how long that lasted). And I covered Fashion Week.

In September, Lily left and Tall came into our lives. I disgraced myself forever by weeping in a nightclub. Oh, and Romance ended. I started working here, as well.

In October, there was the Halloween party that will go down in history. (WHO will come to my Halloween party in Bombay? I have noooooooooooo one. Well, two friends, but still, two people do not a Halloween party make) And my vibrator addiction started around then. Ahhh.. good October.

In November, I decided to move to Bombay. Oh, and I made a trip there too, just for fun.

And finally, here we are. December. Of the twenty fifth birthday, and moving, which I do apologise for being obsessed with. I've become quite boring about the whole thing, I know, but it's like I can't wrap my head around it. Wow. Four days to go, before what will be the most challenging year in my life. This New Year's Eve, the party is at a friend's farm in Faridabad, around a bonfire, with lots of alcohol and the people I love.

I do hope 2007 will be as exciting as this one.

Happy New Year.

The Girl Who Snubbed Christmas

'Twas two nights before Christmas,
And out on the town,
Young eM took her friends out,
To let joyness abound.

Two friends she had known,
For six years or more,
One friend from a year back,
Another for about four.

Most of them single,
Some newly so,
eM single for ages,
Just going with the flow.

Who needs holiday season,
she asked with a cry,
It just makes you melancholy,
And miss some stupid guy.

I'm too old for Christmas,
Was what she thought next,
Santa? Christmas stockings?
They leave me quite vexed!


But first, I should think,
A back story you need,
An insight into eM's mind
For this story to proceed.

Every year in December,
Tis as if it was a plague,
Depression comes upon her,
She becomes appallingly vague.

It's too much to handle,
Birthday, Christmas cheer,
Normally she'd like to stay in bed,
Until the New Year.

But, two nights before Christmas,
A miracle was born,
Inner Zen was developed,
And she was no longer forlorn.

Christmas? I can deal,
She said with a smile,
New Year's Eve is a piece of cake,
I haven't felt this way in a while.

Perhaps it was the change of scene,
The dreaded upcoming move,
But come sunny Christmas morn,
eM had regained her groove.

It is a Christmas miracle!
She exclaimed with a grin,
Doldrums have gone away from me,
Now pass the tonic and gin.


(Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year!)

Tick tock, tick tock, goes my biological clock

Last night at Buzz, where I wasn't particularly buzzed, I ran into Rhea. This was unusual in many ways, primarily, because I hadn't seen Rhea since the night of our graduation dinner from college, after which we all went to We 2 and got wasted, and even that night, I don't remember hanging out with her too much. We had been close---as close as it's possible for two people to be, who don't have very much in common, but who still belong to the same circle of friends, and I heard she got married last year, but that was all. She was from a traditional family, and her wedding was inevitable.

She was wearing a short summer dress, which I noticed, because I was freezing, really, even though I was in a leather jacket, with a scarf around my neck and three rums nestling happily in my stomach and she threw her arms around me and we rocked back and forth for a bit. "All your drinks are on me!" she said, smiling widely, and I said, "Why?" and she said, "Because it's my anniversary! I've been married for a year!"

And then, of course, I met her husband, who looked a little bemused at her affection for this random, wild haired stranger and then I went and sat down at my table and promptly felt like I was going to burst into tears.

"I could've picked that option," I told my friend.

He looked puzzled. Men always look puzzled, dude, they totally don't get it.

"Haan, but it'll happen, no? Even all my friends are getting married."

"But you don't understand," I wailed, "I could have picked that route! I could have been married straight out of college and all this looking for love business would have never happened."

Any Indian woman, okay, fine, most Indian women know that once you hit a certain age, your parents gently (if they're the liberal sort) or not so gently (if they expect for you to have babies immediately) start enquiring of you when you're planning to start dating again. Or whether you'd like for them to introduce you to someone nice. Or how they're going to get old someday and there was this really nice boy, and he read and stuff, and so good-looking and oh, did they mention he was also an investment banker? And what's the harm in meeting him anyhow? "The harm," I told my mother the last time she brought it up, "Is that if I wound up marrying a man my mother found for me, I would kill myself instantly. And blame it all on you."
Luckily, she hasn't brought it up since.

But still. I have a good job, nice friends, supportive family, upwardly mobile career path (quickly touch wood! Quickly!) and I suppose it's only natural to want to fill the one space in my life I haven't really got much control over. Here I am, rapidly approaching mid twenties, and I haven't got a clue where my love life is headed. And I know for a fact I'm not the only one with the same problem.

If you're unfortunate enough to find yourself single at 24 or 25 or 26 (somehow it seems to hit men much later, only in their 30s) without even a prospect of someone you would consider dating, the world starts to look slightly alarming. According to my ideal life plan, which I drew out when I was about 22 or 23, I'd meet someone by 25, date him for a couple of years, maybe live with him for like a year and see how that went and then by 28 or 29 we'd get married, so the kids could start coming along by 30. So I wouldn't be too old to deal with a teenager later. Of course, this plan was also made fresh after the Breakup with the boy I thought I was destinied to be with (and now seriously I LAUGH at myself then. Ha ha. See me laughing? See? I can totally see the humour in this situation! TOTALLY.) Now I've made a few modifications, which include getting the kids anyhow (or kid, whatever) by the time I'm thirty with or without a man, because I really don't want to be dying or something, with no one to stand and weep around my bedstead. I used to want a Reader's Digest family, where we made happy co-decisions and I could have had that too, if only I had conformed.

The truth is, while oestensibly, I'm not a conformist, I think somewhere in my secret soul I am. I like the idea of the happy family, father, mother, three kids (seeing as I grew up an only child, I've always loved the idea of large families. Most of my friends have siblings. And so do most of the boys I date, in fact, sometimes my favourite part about dating them is sitting around and being included in their huge, eventful households. Not that that happens anymore, of course, because now meeting the parents is a completely different ballgame). I like the idea of romance, and white roses and champagne and walks on the beach. Sigh. I even sound corny to me.

I know I still can. I can cave and call my grandmother and say, "Oh remember that engineer/doctor/based in the United States you wanted me to meet? Well, I know I'm officially on the shelf now, seeing as I am no longer a young and nubile nineteen, but I'd love to meet with them. Noooooooo, I don't smoke. Nooooooo, I don't drink either. And yes! I'd love to come and learn how to cook from you, seeing as the only thing I can make is coffee and cheese Maggi." (It's superlative coffee, really. Words cannot describe it. Any man would be lucky to have me and my coffee. And my cheese Maggi.) The thing is, while I made my choices, many years ago, my choices also made me. And really, I know while I'd love to celebrate my anniversary at Buzz, surrounded by people who wish me well, and introduce my poor single friends to my husband (look at him, isn't he fine?) it would mean having to go home and then do another year with him and not whisk off whenever I wanted to, and have to at some point sleep with him, and by virtue of being a doctor/engineer/person with a green card, he would think it was okay to grow a paunch and burp loudly after dinner and not ask me why I needed all those sleeping pills in the first place.

I'd make a pretty corpse though, if never a pretty bride.

Sex toys, Fun With (subtitled: the post that made even ME blush crimson hues)

(As promised, the 24-hour cross posting here. Originally posted here. And yeah, since this IS job, this is how it's going to be. Although the content stays unchanged, so, frankly, I don't really see what the big deal is. Really.)

I have debated about putting this post up into a public domain. I mean, toys, the way they're used are really just for me. And my personal pleasure. Buuuuuuut, sometimes I need to step out of my comfort zones, to reveal just a little bit more into the internet, to sort of like bungee jump, you know? Or do a strip tease. Like the more vulnerable I am, ironically, the stronger I will be. Anyway. Whatever the reason, this post is about my new favourite thing.

Sex is fun, sure, but if you're at a certain stage in your life and/or you're a little bit picky about who you allow to see you naked, there's only so much action you can get anyway. And though (whisper) masturbation (unwhisper) is something everyone does and no one talks about, it just makes you feel sadder and lonelier and a little bit more like a loser, if your Saturday night involves a Bacardi breezer and Anais Nin. It's a little bit closer to admitting to old age and death and the fact that eventually you're going to be huge and obese and your butt cheeks are going to meld into your leather arm chair and they will find you, with Cheetos spilt everywhere, an inquisitive cockroach on your nose, dead, with your mouth hanging open and your underwear around your knees.

I bet everyone has a 'first time experimenting' story. The first time you realised ooooooooh-if-I-touch-THAT-I'm-exploding. And then, with the years and the abstinence, you perfect what moves work best for you. Hand showers, for some people. Sitting up for others. That sort of thing. Sometimes, if you're REALLY lucky, you find someone who likes the same sort of stuff, who knows what buttons you push to make yourself feel excellent, and give you a little help. Why is it okay, well, not okay, but okay-ER, to write about sex but people think writing about masturbation is like risque and not something you mention? I mean, I know very few people who admit to like doing stuff, although they lay on the deets about their sex lives. Hmmm. And mainly women too, they seem to think it's DIRTY somehow to get pleasure and doing it on their own? Oh, I would never do that. Bullshit. You would think though, that you'd admit to masturbating (and even I, fully of hypocrisy, cannot write this word without blushing deeply) over sleeping with many people, because hell, at least you're disease free. And it may not clean up your SKIN or anything, but it will make you happy. Like a cup of coffee.


Toys, though, have never been my cup of tea. I improvise with other people, this ONE time, I had access to a whip, I flourished it with great glee, cracking it over my head and almost took my by-then-not-so-willing partner's eye out. Then he took away the whip. Damn. I was having such a GOOD time, too. Handcuffs, meh, though they've always fascinated me are a little bit scary, I once saw this Baywatch episode, where this chick tells the guy, "Kiss me underwater," and when he goes into the pool to do that, she handcuffs him to the railing of the pool and leaves him there TO DIE. This is clearly what happens when you use handcuffs. Dangerous things. I was fourteen, and scarred for life, I tell you. And THEN, I read this one Stephen King, I forget which one, where this guy ties up this woman and he's getting too aggro, right? So she kicks at him, only she kicks at one of those spots they keep telling you about in self-defence class, you know, the ones that can kill you? And he dies and she's still handcuffed to the bedpost and then this DOG comes in and starts eating the corpse and she can't get free and oh, HANDCUFFS are BAD. Blindfolds are good fun, and they don't require too much preparation either, you can just use any old thing. Gags, I would not recommend (see handcuff reasoning above). But while I'm all for the imagination, at the end of the day, plain vanilla just appeals to me way more than anything else. Which is why I was not a full on vibrator supporter. Why spend money when you can do it on your own, she asked sensibly.

But then, Ragini returned from the UK bearing presents and she got me mine, demurely wrapped up, hissing, "Don't show this to your mom, or mine!" and when I unwrapped it, there was this red box with a cutesy little red girl devil on it, looking over her shoulder and smiling. And when I opened THAT, there was this thing--looking like, well, you know, only white! With sparkles! I love the sparkles. "I couldn't find pink or purple," Ragini told me regretfully, "And this is only a very basic one." "I like the white," I assured her, "I think it goes with my virginal type soul." And basic or not, duuuuuuuude. Fucking hell.

It's called the Rabbit, apparently, made famous by Sex and The City and known so because right underneath, you know, the thing, is something shaped vaguely like a fork, only with only two, very small, round tines, which look a little like rabbit ears, but are actually, well, you know. It's not very large, only about the size of my hand, from the tip of my middle finger to the base of my palm, but since I don't use it for (again) you know, it's all good.

And while I wait for the blood supply to leave my face and start moving normally again, tra la. I recommend one to everybody, because there's nothing like multiples right before you go to sleep. I mean, it's one of the cool things about being a woman, right? Like one of our advantages, etc.

Also, yeah, if you know me in real life and you bring this up, I have noooooooo idea what you're talking about. Indian girls don't masturbate.

Obligatory sex-post, 2006 version

The dating whirl, my darlings, she said, with a sigh, is not as easy as it appears. Or, try not easy at all. One tries, of course, one must, one even deludes oneself that there are a bare minimum of decent datable men in this city that one has not already saturated, but, ohhhhhhh, if only they would make it a little easier for me.

For example:

I think each man I meet should either fill out a questionnaire or have a pre-filled questionnaire with a list of all possible things that could rule him out. Not into a "relationship"? Go to point D. A complete fuckwit? Go to end. Can you at least promise good sex? No? Please turn over. So long and thank you for your interest in dating me. Due to the large volume of calls and applications, you are, at this point, not on the waiting list. Try again in a couple of years.

The problem:
There isn't a large volume of calls and applications at all. In fact, the volume of calls and applications can be best described as a trickle. And that's on a good day. Erm, make that a good month. So the men I meet can be broadly divided into two categories: a) the ones I may want to/definitely want to see again and b) the ones I cannot imagine myself with, no matter how much I use my imagination. And I have a fairly active imagination, as you can imagine. (Heh, just got that after I typed it). In the last couple of months, category a has been divided into meh and okay-perhaps.

What distinguishes the meh from the okay-perhaps? Well, since most of these Boys/Experiments/Ways To Assert Sexuality are usually only after ONE thing and one thing alone, breaking them down is fairly easy. I just have to rely on my own groin flutters to figure out whether or not this is happening.

But groin flutters can be unpredictable. You could have a flutter at the beginning of an evening, when he comes to pick you up (which, by the way? ALWAYS wins brownie points from me) but then he could screw up ALL the groin flutters by picking his nose (amazingly, a lot of men do this. It's a little odd. Do they think I can't see them? Do they think it looks like they're just rubbing their noses? Because I can totally see like the fingers going in and stuff. Ick.) On the other hand, I could decide very early in the evening that I just wasn't attracted to the dude, and then, something in the evening could bring on serious butterflies. Like the other night, I went out with this dude, friend-type, and I had pretty much decided earlier that I wouldn't flirt with him, but then he leaned over to kiss me hello and I got a whiff of whatever cologne he was wearing, and oh. The evening was suddenly filled with sparkly, spangly excitement. Such fun when that happens.

Then, the more tricky part. The carrying it over from just groin flutters to Doing Something About It. That can be most tough. First of all, who kisses who first? And if the guy seems too chicken to make a move, do you lean in for a kiss, even though that might implicate you as someone who is, um, up for anything? Or do you drop steamier and steamier hints and watch him turn awkward and shy? And why the FUCK are they turning awkward and shy anyway? Damn metrosexuality. Completely ruined gender roles.

But, if the guy decides to own his balls and be all proactive, then there's the How Far Will You Go question. Personally, I never got the whole I-won't-kiss-on-the-first-date theory. Because sometimes the chemistry only exists on the first date, and by the time the second one rolls around it could be GONE. And since I am being the boy, I also want to get into people's pants, but unfortunately I'm a girl so I have all these totally girl type emotions and feelings and oh will he respect me tomorrow. Meh. And making out, I can tell you, is only fun when there's chemistry.

SO. Anyway. It's not really as exciting as it sounds, because there are like days and weeks without activity and then suddenly, three engagements in a row, but not quite so often as I would like. But, I'm having a good time. Enjoying the singledom. Enjoying the flirting and the raised eyebrows and the things you only imply but don't say, and doing repertoire of geisha type expressions with new people.

I think, then, beloved readers, the trick to this whole thing is to be detached. Like amused spectator. Like fond godparent. Or something. Zen-like I wait and see and the universe's goodness slowly unfolds. Well, a little anyway. I'm still a good girl, after all.

Related edit type thing: The first of my "extra" posts is up over at ibibo. I'm going to make this a regular feature, with different posts over there from here. I hope you like it. :)

I went out on semi-date with this guy once, I think it was this summer, and we went to a club, where there was dancing and I don't dance, unless I'm very drunk, which I wasn't this night, so I stood around near the bar and smiled as he shook his thang next to me and I swear to god, he made these low, grunting unh-unh noises with each butt thrust.

Read more here.

Oh, Mr Internet, you are sexily wonderful. But also? A little bit strange

* So, I wrote about my enamour for Orkut, right? A little while ago? But what I didn't realise about Orkut--or any other social networking site--is that you have to be careful or it can consume your entire life. And, oh dudes, it so has. I am so bouyant with testimonials (which incidentally, I also think are hilarious, imagine arm-twisting your friends to say nice things about you) and like, seeing how many fans I have, and it's doing wonderful things for my ego, but still at the same time reinforcing how much validation I need at all times. And online. Which makes me slightly (but only very slightly) pathetic. And then people are doing strange things like sending me party invites on Orkut! I ask you! Party invites? I still have a cell phone (a new Nokia which I have just acquired, biding my time till I can splurge on another Razr) and people still have my number, so shouldn't I be getting messages? Or phone calls? When did the internet replace my ENTIRE REAL LIFE?

* The answer to that question and many others can be found on my new favourite website, rather underplayed in India but still. Craigslist is here! We have arrived! (Well so have Hyderabad, Pune, Chennai, Calcutta and Mumbai, but you know we're still the coolest). What I like about Craigslist is despite the obvious userfriendly type things (like me advertising for new flatmate) there are sooooooooooo many obviously insane people out there. Granted not as crazy as New York or San Fransisco, but crazy enough. A brief sample, because I was surfing through the site this morning:

i like aunties - 38

hi i am neeraj from hyderabad. 38yrs.single.male. i like to meet matured broadminded married women.
this is in or around hyderabad.

Okay, not from the Delhi Craigslist, but I thought this guy was so simple and so, so straightforward in his requests, that it was almost touching. But, only, he's 38 right? So a "mature" married woman would be? 50? 60? Grandmother sex--it's not for everyone.

What the heck?? - m4w - 88

What is a platonic relationship anyway?
Can a man and a woman ever have a platonic relationship?
What would they talk about?
Tampons and razor cartridges?
Or the middle eastern situation?
Or Reservations?
The Economic boom?
Films? Books? Eating out? Drinking?
Will they do all this and not miss the other person?
Never feel the rush of wanting to hold hands?
Laugh?
Connect with old jokes?
never have shared memories (even if weeks old) of places and things?
Do you want to test it?
Since you know the dangers (most of them anyway) are you a risk taker?
this is in or around Delhi/Gurgaon

That's a lot of things to talk about, no? I think talking about all these things would definitely make us friends. Sooooooo, what exactly am I testing? But, dude, tampons and razor cartridges? Really?

i love womens - m4w - 22

hi to all womens, i love to do massage on your sexy body with littlebit hot oil.
regards
rocker

This one even had a picture. Oh, joy.

One last one, promise:

BRAZILIAN/AMERICAN LOOKING FOR INDIAN BEAUTIFUL MAN - 42
I LOVE INDIAN PEOPLE AND I HAVE DATED SOME BUT THEY ARE RACIST AND NEVER TOOK ME SERIOUSLY,I ENJOY EATING INDIAN/PAKISTAN CUISINE AND I HOPE YOU CAN ENJOY MY FOOD AS WELL. I AM VERY FUN LIKE TO GO OUT AT NIGHT WITH SOME WELL EDUCATED,INTELLIGENT GUYS SOMETIMES,LIKE TO DANCE,SING AND ENJOY OUT DOOR. LOOKING FOR SOMEONE SERIUOS,MARRIAGE AND FAMILY;I AM DIVORCE FOR MANY YEARS AND I HAVE ONE PRE-TEEN (11 y old ) IN THE HOUSE,BUT HOPING TO FIND MY HALF AND START ALL OVER AGAIN.

One preteen in the house, eh? The rest, I'm assuming are out door.

UPDATE, AND ONE I COULD NOT RESIST

small breasts? wow! - 31
looking for small breasted women, any age... you turn me on, and i know what you do with you.... no strings attached.
this is in or around delhi

This one leaves me speechless. But in a happy kind of way. How small is small, do you think, and do you think I qualify for him knowing what I do with me?

* But Craigslist Casual Encounters may not be the very best way to find out about people. And then there was the meme. (Which I still don't know how to pronounce. Meem? Meh-Meh?) The lovely, and recently, rather absent Mint Chutney has tagged me, and though I don't always do these, because some are just boring, this one just pandered to my already ginormous ego. Anyway, so I'm supposed to like talk about eight things you haven't already gleaned about me from this blog, and blah-di-blah and this must be really boring for you, I know, so go take a walk or something. Smoke a cigarette. C'mon, you KNOW you have a nicotine craving. By the time you get back, I'll talk about something else.

Right. Now that most people except for my beloved alcoholic reader (I know statistically I should have at least ONE of those) have left, you just set that glass on a coaster and don't spill it on the keyboard. K?

secret thing one) I love surfing some very topic specific websites. At any given time, three of the windows on my taskbar will be open to a) a product blog; b) a celebrity gossip blog and c) *sigh* a mommy blog. I get the products and the celebs, really, because I LOVE looking at the strange things Americans spend their money on, but the mommy blog? That fascination is beyond my comprehension.

secret thing two) I really, really, really like the song Hips Don't Lie. Despite the "come se llamas, bonita, mi casa, su casa" bit.

secret thing three) While we're on shameful music confessions, I went to Pitampura to see Shaggy live in concert. Dee and I got really close to the stage and yelled, "Take your top off, Shaggy!" AND. He smiled and winked at us. AND. This made us happy.

secret thing four) When I was very, very, very, very young, I used to want to be called Jennifer. And have very long, very gold hair.

secret thing five) When I'm drunk, I get uber-friendly. And, if you're a boy, and we're drunk together, chances are I will drape myself gently around you. This has led to many embarrassing morning-after moments when I'm lying in bed with terrible headache and going, duuuuuuuuuuuuuude. WHY?

secret thing six) I have once or twice, in friendships and relationships, done the fade-out slowly technique of breaking it off, by not calling back or emailing. It wasn't very nice of me, but I'm terrible with confrontation. If someone ever did that to ME, I'd be mortally wounded.

secret thing seven) I am fairly brown, but I have four freckles on my nose. I really like them.

and finally, secret thing eight) I worry about death more than I think is normal.

Who shall I tag? Who? Oh, what the hell. You're ALL invited.

Another edit, because I have nothing else to do at 7.24 pm: And technically, this is still covered by the whole internet-theme of this post. So the exboyfriend? K? Who used to be here a lot till I decided not to write about him anymore because I HAVE MOVED ON? Who I suspect reads this blog, but have been too chicken to ask? So, my messenger client is on and I see, whee, he's online, and I see little picture thingie next to his face, and because I'm the kind of person who clicks on little picture thingies next to people's names on IMs, I move my mouse over to his avatar and graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! It is picture of him and new girlfriend! And because I'm all, you know, sadomasochistic type, it's the way I am, deal with it, I peer closely at him and new girlfriend and then call colleagues one by one to my desk to ask whether they think she is prettier than I am. Which, by the way? No one answers. Hmph. Who has pictures of them and their lovers as their avatars I ask you? It's almost like saying, "Ha ha, look at me, I'm in a relationship and you're not, eM, so you must suck."

Yeah. Because, did I not mention? This is all about me.

(And because they pay me and you don't, teeny-tiny word about New Job. Actually, teeny-tiny link. You will find a mirror of this blog, also, but other very cool things too. Go see!)

In which one realises one's life is not so bad after all, and this is mostly because my cold has gone. Hallelujah!

Why no one likes new template? Nice, only. Pretty purple and orange. Favourite colours type. You raise hands if you like, okay?


Anyway, excellent weekend. Saturday spent on furniture shopping (well, sort of, we looked at furniture) with the flatmates, and then for very fun housewarming party of friend, and then Sunday went for concert at the Qutab (Minar, not Hotel) with the qawwali, which was all cultured etc and then quickly degenerated into dance party when Shankar Ehsaan Loy took to the stage and sang "Where's da pardeeeeeee tonight (somewhere down the road!), where's da pardeeeeeee tonight (on the dance floor!)" Which was fun, I admit.

I was thinking about being single this past weekend, mostly because there's this new book of essays out--my mother is one of the contributors, on single-marrieds, which is nice--on singledom. I can't find the link now, but as far as I remember, it's called On Living The Good Life. But. BUT. My one grouse with it was that all the contributors were old people, talking about failed marriages-blah-blah-Suhel-Seth-sex-bathrooms-alone and all that. And by the time I reached the last essay, I was, well, rather depressed. This was not what I wanted my life to turn out to be, a sort of rant against the system, oh poor me, I'm a single woman, but I have friends, and my ex and I still sleep together and you know? If this book was meant to justify that singledom was cooler than coupledom, it didn't really serve the purpose, because the first thing I wanted to do was go and get married.

"You make me miss being single," said an old colleague to me, when I staggered in one morning, still a little pale from the night before and drinking water like it was going out of style. But, not really. For her, missing being single, was missing the all night binges, the possibility that lingered in every evening, the gal pal bonding, all that. But at the end of the day, you receive no validation for being on your lonesome, for running your household by yourself and so on. Another ex-colleague said something once about how we (the single girls) had no excuses for not getting more stories. After all, we had no responsibilities. And, sadly, though I looked daggers, though she took it back etc, I'm sure she still thinks that. Oh, look at her breezing in at noon, all perfumed and low waisted jeans and hungover and oh look at her leaving, all excited about some night out when I have to go home to kids and husband and responsibilities.

Another thing I get a lot of is, "How come you're still single?" It's not that I don't meet boys. I do, really. After a bit, after college anyway, where the only criterion for dating someone was you thought they were hot (seriously, ask most people about their worst relationship ever, and they'll point you at a college/high school romance), you realise that sometimes it's better to be alone than to be with someone you can't talk to. Or hang out with. Or can't imagine introducing to your friends. And so on. It's gotten really complicated now, and mostly, yeah, I prefer my own company, or the company of the smart, intelligent, funny people who I have a platonic relationship with, ya know?

So, there are many things about being single I don't like. It's true. But, as the years go by, and I see that this year, 2006, marks TWO WHOLE YEARS of being pretty much, more or less, on my own, I was thinking this morning of all the things I will miss about being single. I will miss coming home tired and not having any plans, and having the only whisper in my bed from my comfortable lilac flowered comforter which snuggles up to me and lets me sleep without worrying about whether I'm supposed to do a little snogging or, even worse, whether I'm sleeping with my mouth open and there's drool all over my pillow. I will miss watching television in my nightshirt, eating something, and just chilling and knowing my phone isn't going to ring in a bit. I will miss dressing up for me, because that's what I do now, and don't tell me I can still do that when I'm with someone because I know subtly or otherwise their tastes will somehow influence what I wear. I will miss (okay, perhaps only a little) getting to places on my own, and (a LOT) making my own agenda with what I want to do with a free day, and not feel guilty etc about spending time with someone else. I will miss not agonising about someone else, not playing games, feeling grief free and guiltless at all times. This last one, I think I will miss the most.

As for not having reponsibilities, I may not be dealing with family type shit, or parenting, but I do do stuff. I make sure, for instance, that the maid cooks in the morning. I make sure she doesn't make anything the other two don't like. I keep an eye on the groceries and see when we're low on stocks. I check how much water we have in the fridge and always make sure our reserves are okay, when we run out of boiled water. And so on. Small does the technical stuff--getting plumbers, electricians, reminding me when the rent is due and the maid and car cleaning guy need to be paid, remembering at Diwali time that everyone needs to be tipped and all that. Tall has no responsibilties yet, but she's quickly doing grocery type things. And furniture. She's making sure we have more to our living room than just two beanbags. We look out for each other, my flatmates and I, and we may not be married or have given birth to each other, but still, we're, you know, family. And in a single person's world, family is important.

I think your new template is...
	FABULOUS! Just like you!
	Really classy and understated
	A bit much for first thing in the morning, but my life needs a little excitement anyway
	I liked the pink better, but I'll get used to it. You, after all, know best.
	AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! My eyes! Have been blinded! Send... ambulance.. now.
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Boys don't cry and other stories

> Boys don't cry and they seem to have a fairly good time not obsessing. Not wondering where stuff is going or whether they'll still be loved and respected and wanted in the morning. So, I have decided to be-the-boy. Well, not LITERALLY, of course. Still hanging on to the boobs. And the uterus. (Though what use THAT'S ever been, I don't really know. Still.)

Operation Be-The-Boy involves me (surprise!) basically thinking with my metaphorical penis. I will search and conquer. I will be bold. I will take what I want and screw the consequences. (Hee) I will be the first to roll over and light a cigarette. I will not offer emotional coddling. I will be this ice queen/sex kitten type person who will not do Relationships. Of course, if along the line someone fabulous enough DOES come along, who thinks I'm super etc, then that'll be excellent. But seeing as men like that are few and far between (if they exist at ALL, ie), I think I should not waste my youth, supposedly the one time in my life where I can eat all the chips I want and still retain a fairly flat stomach. Or go out all night and look not quite ready for my grave the next morning. Youth is to be SEIZED, my loves, seized with both hands and a knee grip. Anyway. I won't give you regular updates (for obvious reasons) but wish me luck anyhow at being able to separate sex from emotions. And then I'll write a book about it and EVERY SINGLE WOMAN IN THE WORLD will buy a copy and I'll be rich.

I only hope I have the balls (hee, again. Dude, I'm on fire!) to do this.


> So trauma in the Confessor household. Yet another flatmate has abdicated. I'm beginning to wonder whether it's us--Small and I--secretly torturing these women, being the worst flatmates ever, but really, we're not! We're neat (well, relatively) and clean, we're seldom grouchy, we're friendly, we make a genuine attempt to get our flatmate integrated with our friends. AND we're attractive. What's not to love? But Lily left us anyway, and after placing ads everywhere, this time the process was surprisingly short, and we have a new flatmate come this weekend.

She's Canadian and very nice and like an Amazon compared to the two of us, so, ta-dah, I'm going to call her Tall. I'm so glad she's tall, I've been wanting to do a Small and Tall thing for quite some time. And the best part is, her family's in Canada, right? Sooo, she can't just move back home. Living alone is HARD, dudes, and I know there have been several times when I've just wanted to pack up my stuff and go back to Mummy. (Especially since we don't have an A/C and the electricity kept going and I wanted to die.)

> After much resistance and deflecting several invitations and saying, 'Oh that's for losers', I've finally succumbed to peer pressure and *sigh* gotten myself an Orkut account. And it ROCKS. No, really. There's nothing like a social networking site to make you feel popular (or unpopular, but that's not my problem). Every day I get friend-adding thingies from men with names like love_me, or pictures of them bodybuilding and happily I say, "No, they AREN'T my friends." Almost every day, a blast from the past thing happens and I see people I haven't seen in YEARS, see how they turn out and where they live and then they can write in your scrapbook and it's all very addictive. Especially if you hop from friend to friend to friend and see how many people everyone knows and it just confirms the whole it's-a-small-world theory and the six-degrees-of-separation theory and so on. I guess it DOES make me a loser, but it's such fun. Wheee!

> And I have a cough. Which sucks. And I can't turn it into a funny story yet, but I will try later.

Muah muah dahlinks, be good and enjoy your weekend.

Oh, and don't do anything I wouldn't do. Which leaves you with QUITE a few options.

When in doubt, make lists

The comments on the last post actually made me think of this one. I'm fine, by the way, head bloody but unbowed etc etc, and today, I was fiddling around with my music library and I said, hey, you know what's missing on my blog? (No, what's missing on your blog, eM?) A list of the best break-up songs ever, that's what's missing. (Or at least, the best break up songs on my iTunes right now). Anyway, in no particular order, here goes:


1) Walk Away by Ben Harper: I discovered this song only recently, thanks to the wonder that is Pandora and now I can't get enough of it. Oh, Ben Harper! Oh, his sexy voice! I want to marry him and conduct our relationship entirely on the phone and I want his sexy voice to travel through the phone lines and impregnate me with sexy voiced babies. And I know he's all like, "Sometimes you just have to walk away," but if I was the girl he was walking away from, I'd attach little chain things to his ankles so he could NEVER leave me. Ahem. Are we still surprised no one wants to date me?

2) Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell: Technically not a song about one relationship, but I like to think of jaded Joni, walking down a street, her hands in her pockets, thinking about all the what-could-have-beens. And this song is really sooooooo sad, you have to be very, very happy to listen to it without bursting into tears. "If you care, don't let them know," has got to be the best advice I've ever heard from a musician.

3) Send In The Clowns by Judy Collins: Since we're on the depressed woman side of my player, how I can I NOT put this song in? This is the perfect song for THAT breakup, you know the one I'm talking about, the one I think everyone has had at least once in their lives, when you can see the other person drawing further and further away from you and you are powerless to do anything about it, and it's one of those nights and the two of you are out somewhere and he/she is all laughing and then you catch their eye and you see, suddenly, that this has to end and it makes you so sad, but you know it has to happen. And, oh, when she says, "I thought that you'd want what I want, sorry, my dear." There's such affection in her voice, and still love, but inevitability too.

4) The Scientist by Coldplay: A no-guess entry. Surprisingly, one of my favourite car songs of all times, there's something about rolling down the windows and yelling into the wind, "Nooooooooooobody said it was eeeeeeeeeeeeeasy, it's such a shame for us to part, nobody said it was easy, noone ever said it would be this hard!" And all of Coldplay's songs seem like they're about breaking up anyway, even supposedly happy songs like Yellow, are all full of angst and turmoil. I love angst and turmoil. I'm going back to the start.

5) Babylon by David Grey: Oh, I love this song. Absolutely love it. I heard it for the first time on this double cassette set of new rock or something, and I haven't been able to get enough of it since then. His description of the weekends seem to fit mine so perfectly, for as long as I can remember, and there's this one bit where he goes, "Kicking through the autumn leaves, and wondering where it is you might be going to," and that bit is so beautiful, that I can hear his heart throbbing in his voice. Brilliant.

6) I Love, I Love by Dar Williams: Another recent discovery, but if I could sing, I'd want to sing like Dar Williams. Her songs are kind, not all jagged and they're wistful in a way that's hard to describe. With this particular song, though it's not exactly about a break up, the lyrics are so lovely, that it's nearly like poetry. You know the whole "it is better to have loved and lost" thing? Well, she takes that to a different level, when she sings, "But I live and I know that I'll burn as I grow" and you're like, dude, yes, me too!

I think that's all I can think of now that isn't U2. Feel free to add your own suggestions.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Romance has left the building.

Meh.

I knew I was having too much fun.

The question is NOW what do I do with my time?

Strange what desire will make foolish people do

I think I've figured out the way out of my dating/commitmentphobe issues. Part-time lovers.

No, really, it seems perfect. Allow me to present my manifesto.

In today's day and age, no one is really a complete package--you have your baggage, your insecurities, your betrayal problems, your problem with people who chew with their mouths open and so on. Now, if you were to date three individual men, on a need-to-know basis, which means none of them would need to know about the others, you would have (ta-dah) the perfect man.

Or at least, I would. Then I wouldn't need to think about all the things one guy should have to be Mr. Right, they'd all be accessible, with each of my part-time guys (PTGs). Your average PTG should be unattached, but not a slut, with enough issues to make him quirky and interesting, but not so few that he runs the risk of being a full-time guy (FTG). He should be, most importantly, someone who seems capable of a lot of sex, because, really, that's why he's a part-time guy. PTGs are essentially useful when you're so busy or so involved with other things--work, family, friends etc---that you have no time to spend in sustaining a relationship. He should provide excitement, the torrid afternoon shag, say, or the tender kiss on the forehead at a party. He should be reasonably attractive, so that when the whole hiding-from-your-friends thing gets old, you can show him off.

Each PTG should be chosen with care, depending on the others. As in, humous is all very well--but you don't want three funny guys constantly in your face. So you have one, whose charm lies in his ability to make you laugh, another one who isn't that funny, but who cna make your toes curl just by sliding his arm around your waist, and the third fills a sort of provider/pamperer role, if you need to feel like a girl girl every now and then, because he'll be the one who wines and dines you, and picks you up and opens the door for you and all that jazz. (Don't look at me like that! You can be empowered with the other two!)

Now, here's the tricky part. Juggling all three seems like it would be a problem. The less people involved the better. And since you're only interested in you, make sure there isn't anyone else for him. No one. Not even his own part-time lover. The easiest way to do this is by pretending there's no one else for you. Be charming and loving when you meet him--the fact that you have two more guys will only add to your sense of mystery. (I sound like those chicks who wrote The Rules. Kinda fun, actually). If you're the bare-all type, choose two of your most discreet and close friends--preferably ones you have plenty of dope on as well, so you can blackmail--and tell them. That way, you have someone to obsess to and the truth won't come blurting out on a drunken evening.

There's always going to be one PTG you like more than the others, and you can see him as a FTG. Beware of that. A guy may seem completely into you, but unless he shows it with like gestures and stuff, he doesn't really mean it. He's a PTG for a reason, because he lacks one or more essential components that would have qualified him for a FTG.

Go forth and multiply (the one guy into three, I mean. Not babies) And please let me know how you got away with it!

She likes the free, fresh wind in her hair, life without care, she's broke, it's oke, that's why the lady is a tramp

So the other night, I was chilling with Small and another friend of ours and we started talking about fix-ups. Mainly for me, but my friend wanted a piece of the action too. We racked our brains for a bit, looked through our phone books, and finally Small said, "I can't help you dude, eM's the only single woman I know."


That's when it struck me. I may not be the ONLY single woman I know, because I know, um, three? other people, but on an average, like using maths and statistics and all that jazz, we're like 20: 40, where 40 is the people in relationships.


That's anecdote one, to illustrate my point. Anecdote two is when I was working the other day and we were talking about going out at night and where to go and all that, and one of my colleagues turns to me and goes, "Do you have a boyfriend?" I shook my head, smiling to show her it wasn't that bad and I wasn't weeping into my pillow every night etc etc, but she shook her head right back at me. "I find it hard to believe that someone like you is not dating anyone special."

In a previous life, I'd hate that statement, because it could be interpreted as, ohmygodtheremustbesomethingseriouslywrongwithyou, but now I've learned to take it as a compliment. Someone like me and still single? Hey, there must be something nice about not being in a relationship.

Of course, like every single woman, or almost every single woman, I want to someday meet someone nice, who'll be fabulous in every way and who will think, but naturally, that I am fabulous too. But, meh, I'm really tired of looking.

On to anecdote three. So, I'm on this date the other day, and we're sitting at home, watching Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrells (good movie, btw, you should see it, if you haven't already) and we're chatting and Small's not home so it's all like private and all and I'm enjoying myself, coz I'm just being me and not like trying too hard or being a different, more giggly, more flirty type person, (which is what I normally do, sadly, when I'm trying to flirt and then sit back and watch myself in horror because it is so not me) and we talk till four am and I'm quite pleased with the way things are going, because Life is not always about Sex and I am so wise and mature and the next day he tells a common friend that there's no chemistry. I ask you. Does that not suck? Although he did say I was nice and funny and all that, but what is the POINT of niceness and funniness if one is getting zero action? Zero. That is right, in this quest to preserve my integrity and my values and so on, I am not getting ANY.


Anyway. More about preserving the values and integrity (v & i). After my last, um, flingette, I decided screw this, this is not making me happy, I'm just going to stop with the random hooking up till I find someone who will worship me like a goddess and sprinkle rose petals on my body and whisper Blake to me when we are in bed. Only (and here's the catch), this Dude? The Blake-quoter? He doesn't exist. No, I'm serious. I even tried to narrow the field and make a list and so on, but really, in this day and age, romance, especially of the Blake-quoting, rose petal sprinkling, banging on your door in the middle of the night calling your name-ing, is dead. I'm going to have to either a) settle for just a random someone who makes me happy or b) take my v & i and cuddle up next to them at night.

Right now, I've picked option b. I hate to think that eventually I'm going to have to make a compromise. I've got my life planned, as far as life can be planned, and this plan DOES NOT include getting married or finding a life partner. If that happens, fabulous, I'll be super-happy, but only if it's with someone I feel I haven't settled for.

You must understand though the touch of your hand makes my pulse react, that it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl, opposites attract

If there's one term I hate more than anything else it's "go with the flow." (Okay, there are others as well, "grow up", "calm down", "it's not you, it's me" etc etc). Going with the flow is not part of my essential personality makeup, and I see no reason why it should be, either. And if you notice, more men than women use this term, because it's the kind of term that lets you have a bird in the hand and two in the bush, if you know what I mean. It's a cop-out term, what you give the other person just when you've kissed/made-out/had sex for the first time, and they're watching you, slightly guarded because they know what's happening next, but still allowing themselves slowly to uncurl in your arms and they say, sort of like it doesn't matter at all, "Um.. so where is this going?" and you extract your arms from where they were, move your hand away from running it through the other person's hair and you sigh and light a cigarette and start to look for your shoes and say, "Let's go with the flow, okay?"


And so it is. (and so it ih-iss. Good song, by the way). They call you a couple of times, perhaps you even hang out again. But they don't uncurl around you any longer, except once, when the two of you are out, and you're drinking and you're making them laugh so hard, they stop and look at you with love-filled eyes. And you can hear them thinking about you, about the two of you and how perfect it would be and you let them come to you and be kissed and make gentle jokes about them and run your fingers over their knuckles and they (since they are so comfortable) try asking you again about it and you clear your throat and lay down what you had known all this while. "I'm really, um, not looking for a relationship." And you see the shutters going down on their face, the walls are up by the time the words are out of your mouth and they smile, crookedly, and say, "Ya, that's cool." And hang around a little longer then say they have a headache and leave. And you don't call them the next day, and they don't call you and this goes on for some time and in about a week, perhaps less, you know it's over.


Relationships. High school was simpler. Dating was simpler. You asked someone out ("Will you be my girlfriend?" Or boyfriend, if you were progressive) and they said yes and you were dating. The last time I was in a relationship began in second year college (oh, so far away! Why have you forsaken me, dating gods?) and then K asked me out, a day after we kissed for the first time. None of this, where are we going bullshit. Grarh. Well, okay, ya, there was a bit of where are we going, but not tremendous and I remember being enough in control then, less scared I think, to tell him straight out that I hated people who played games with me, and if he was going to then he should just go and look somewhere else.


Now we have at last count: a) a fling b) a scene c) dating d) seeing someone and e) a Relationship. What's the difference? I'm damned if I know. I know a fling, that's easy, when you're just fucking around, no strings attached, no emotional involvement, no expecatations of a regular Saturday night date. This is all very well if the person you're with is not the kind of person you'd hang out with in your pjs and watch DVDs with, but just very attractive and with not much to say for themselves. You know, the hot and silent variety. Like soup. But not like biryani.


But if you have a pj-wearing, how-was-your-day-asking type fling, then you're in trouble. Usually, from my experience, these are the emancipated, sensitive men, raised to believe the same things you were and so they don't want to be fuck-ups any more than you want them to be. So they'll be all straight with you in the beginning and say, "Yeah, I'm not looking for a relationship." and you're like, "Okay" but in your head you're thinking, dude, you're so wrong, because we are clearly perfect for each other. So you think you're dating, they don't really know what they're doing and by the end of it, when you have the "talk", it's back to square one.


Why do guys hate labels so much? I love labels, everything I have or do or think, has a label. Life used to be about black and white and all these sneaky shades of grey have suddenly appeared. Pearl grey? Satin grey? Grey like your grandmother's hair? WTF?