Weekend accounting

Incredible weekend, darlinks, finally I’m beginning to feel Delhi-ish again. The salient points being:

 

ONE new skirt from Zara, a beautiful little wool plaid number. Half of it was a birthday present (because we have one coming up). We also went and watched the third Narnia movie which was pretty damn awesome. Narnia as a movie series being much more “true to canon” than the Harry Potter books, but the Christianity theme somehow comes out more in the movies.

 

ONE hungover eM trying to chase away the after effects of two bottles of wine consumed on Thursday by eating a very large meal at Gola Sizzlers, one of the few places left in town where you can smoke indoors. Which is nice, especially in this cold cold weather, when every part of my body longs to be back in strappy summer dresses and sandals.

 

ONE Nigah Queer Fest after party at Saqi, the bar at Hotel Alka. Have you been? Oh my god, it’s SOOOOOOOO shady, but they’ve renovated recently, which is sad because before it was all lit in red with mirrors everywhere and looked exactly like a bordello. Drinks are cheap, and they have really nice masala peanuts.

 

TWO after parties at two peoples’ houses, one at 12.30 and the other at 2 am. This is what I love most about Delhi, the insane after parties. I love, love, love house parties, they’re always so much more fun than going to a club or something. Now if only they had a 24 hour liquor store in this city, life couldn’t get any better.

 

ONE hijra leaning out of her customer’s car telling us to tell him to pay her. We watched as he shame facedly went to the ATM and she got out of the car and sashayed about a bit. The boys we were with were MESMERISED and with good reason, coz she was really hot. (I should really start taking my camera out on the weekends)

 

ONE very awful drunk guy who I absolutely loathed who mocked my hair and proceeded to be very loud and annoying. I hate drunk men, they seem to get even more full of themselves then. 

 

ONE night spent with good friends from college, sitting around drinking Old Monk, hot water, lemon and honey. Old Monk is my friend again, this season. It warms me right up.

 

ONE trip made to Vapour in Gurgaon, which I absolutely LOVED, because they played shady Bollywood music, but which the people I was with looked alarmed at being at.

 

ONE visit to TC! (TC!) only to be turned away at the door because we were too late to get in. BOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

ONE round of Kamikaze shots at Ai, which is really, really, really nice on Saturdays, with kick ass retro music (and not the usual stuff either) and Japanese anime projected on the walls and lots of people dancing, and BRILLIANT. Also, we bought four shots (for the four of us) and the bartender gave us two on the house!

 

ONE late night trip to Pandara Road at three in the morning to stuff our faces with Punjab’s finest: butter chicken, kaali daal and naans. Oh, the food in Delhi is TO DIE FOR. I didn’t realise how much I missed it until I started eating here again and then I’m just like,  SO GOOD. That’s one thing Bombay doesn’t have at any rate (and before you start writing in with all your favourite Bombay restaurants, let me say: I have been EVERYWHERE. I have eaten EVERYTHING. And compared to Delhi, food in Bombay is crap. Which is weird for a city that has such a vibrant going out culture.)

 

And finally today. I was going to go see some kids films this afternoon, but I’m feeling much too lazy. Instead I will bestir myself somewhere in the evening, go meet some friends at Lodhi gardens and then watch whirling dervishes at a Sufi festival.

 

I love being back.

Almost famous

Wow. Thank you all. I had no idea so many people were actually going to watch the show! I'm getting a lot of the same feedback--in the comment section and via email--that I looked scared, well, not scared, but shy and self concious and nervous. What can I say? There's a reason I choose to write as opposed to like, being an actress or something. Even being in the print media over electronic was a concious decision, I really am more confident with a keyboard and a hell of a lot more articulate.



So. Now you guys know what I look like sometimes and what I sound like sometimes. (That was my I-am-an-expert voice, apparently) In real life, off camera, I guess I'm similar if not the same. Of course, in real life, I'm not always worried about what I look like or even sounding very smart. But when there are cameras on you, suddenly, you're all aware of your bodies and the way you nervously bite your lower lip and what on earth you're supposed to do with your hands. Seriously, I watched all the other panelists and I was like, "Oh my god, how can they be so UNRUFFLED?"



Although watching myself was strange too. You have this moment where you're looking at the TV, you know like how sometimes you see yourself in a mirror unexpectedly and you do a double take before you realise it's really you? It's the same feeling. Initially, the first shot of my face seemed really FAMILIAR to me, like, "Oh, I know this person" before the "Oh, that's me" happened. Do I really sound like that? Is that what my eyebrow does when I'm trying to make a point?



But, I should begin at the beginning. It all started one evening when I got a phone call saying that NDTV would like to fly me down to Delhi to be on We The People, but I don't think I heard another word after "fly you down to Delhi." I proceeded to call every single person I know and tell them that I was going to be *ahem* making my television debut (I've been on TV before, even on a features story about blogging, but this show felt like a much bigger deal for some reason).



The fun actually begun happening on Saturday morning when a car and driver came to pick me up and drop me to the airport. I suppose I COULD have taken an auto, but they gave me an option, so naturally I picked the chaffeur driven one. (When in doubt, darlings, ALWAYS pick the chaffeur driven one. It works for everything. "What movie shall we watch?" "The chaffeur driven one." "What friend shall I meet?" "The chaffeur driven one." Think metaphorically and not literally, and you'll be able to see it) I get to the airport and join the very, very long Indian Airlines queue, till a guy offers to assist me with the instant check in thing. "Sure," I say, always happy not to have to stand in line. Lalalalala, and the instant thing isn't doing my tickets. Crap, I think, I must have printed out the wrong tickets. The guy tries a couple of times and then turns to me. "Ma'am, are these executive class tickets?" "I dunno," I shrug and it is beginning to dawn on me how much I had underestimated the coolness of this trip. Executive class? They wouldn't. They didn't. Oh, but they did.



Ah, the joys of a queue less counter! The joys of that little key to happiness--the invitation to the executive lounge! The thrill of a waiter bending down to ask you what you would like! The oddness of having to remind yourself that you're in an airport! And when you board the plane, there's a movie playing, there's food served with a TABLECLOTH. And there are actual courses. Once you go first class, you can never go back to the squalor and cramped spaces that is economy. I watched Jab We Met and read my free new magazine all shiny and new smelling and ate my heated food, served to me in individual portions and charged my cellphone and basically, yeah, I was quite sorry, for the first time ever that the plane was landing.



It gets better though. There was a guy holding out a placard with my name on it, which has been my dream since I was a kid. (I search the signs each time I land, just for fun, and just in case. It always seemed like such a cool thing to see your name being held up and other people watch you and wonder who you are and how come you're such a big shot and so on.) And I get driven home where I change, nap quickly and then head out again for the shoot.



All the other panelists were sort of chilling outside with coffee and things when I got there. I think I was the only one nervous, they all looked very calm and composed. My stage fright was killing me. I couldn't even sit still so I drank gallons of water and of course, had to pee almost instantly. One thing that surprised me though is that the studio is a lot smaller than it looks on TV. And quite cold too. We sat hunched into our woollens and Barkha Dutt came on, and told us that we the panelists (ahem, ahem) were fitted with mics so we could speak whenever we wanted to and didn't have to wait our turns. I was sitting next to a young psychology student, who looked most amused at my nervousness. "Be prepared," she said, "If you believe in something, it shouldn't be hard to stand up for it." True. Wise words.

I don't remember much of the actual programme (the NDTV site has a video up if you search for it but I warn you, it's very slow). I remember though, the Hindi blogger saying, "Oh the difference between English blogging and Hindi blogging is, that we write about SERIOUS things." Right. Like the contents of your neighbour's fridge. And there was this mother-daughter pair behind me who were all holier than thou. In fact, I think all three of us, the personal bloggers were under attack for pretty much the entire show. Dude. I was sort of expecting it to happen, but still, I wish they hadn't edited out the bits where I talked about how not all blogs were as selfish as they were being portrayed to be, what about the tsunami blog and so on. But I guess they needed to fit it into show time.

Being on TV is fun.

And then we went to the new TC, which is a major DISAPPOINTMENT. Oh my god. They still had the Opus signs up, the music was the same though, but the prices have gone up and it just didn't have the charm or the feel of the old TC. The old TC was dim lighting which felt all warm and nice, this TCOpus thing was DARK and smelt funny. Sigh. It's like the end of an era.


Anyhoo. There's my rub with fame for you (I'm so broke my outgoing calls are cut because I haven't paid my bills, so I'm not saying fortune). My internet is also cut so I'm cyber cafe-ing it till the end of the month. So much for the TV-featured-blogger, eh?

Although, ooh! My new tagline is totally: 'As seen on TV.' Heh.


UPDATE PIMP TYPE PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Because now we're like all recording our movements. So, this weekend I'm off to watch the very underrated Pakistani band Strings, which plays some seriously cool music. They're playing along with Parikrama and Saif Ali Khan is also going to be performing. I mention it because my friend Chitgo (who is also very comely and charming and would be my boyfriend if his girlfriend was not also one of the nicest people I have ever met. Hmph.) is organising it and he says it's going to be very cool and when he says something like that about music, I generally buy it. So, I'm going and it's at the Andheri Sports Complex, Sunday the 20th and in Delhi at the NSIC in Okhla on the 27th. Tickets are available here. (I don't know where offline, though. Chitgo?)

The Long Awaited Homecoming

So I'm in Delhi as I write this, on my father's laptop, at my mother's dining table, about to go eat dinner and call a cab for my abnormally early flight tomorrow morning. I can't believe the weekend is nearly over, well, over now, technically, seeing that all that is left to me is to pack some books that I miss desperately in Bombay, and have some clothes ironed. Already I am homesick, and yet, and yet, I feel this sense of disconnect, like when you're wearing clothes you used to look really great in once, the way your ass looked fantastic and so on, and then when, full of excitement you try them on again the next season, somehow you don't look so hot in them anymore. I have this funny stretched feeling that I don't know how to explain. It's like the classic migrant's problem I believe, this feeling of being suddenly without a home. Delhi will never be the same.

But, when I landed, slightly out of sorts because my flight was a full three hours later than what I had expected, and that meant that TC on Friday night anyway, was out of the question, I looked around at the vast roads, the roundabouts that were so familiar, so burnt into my brain, the last vestiges of winter that hung in the air and pulling my jacket tighter around me, I inhaled all the smells of Delhi, listened to a Haryanvi taxi driver yell something at someone else and the Delhi hole in my body, somewhere near my oesophagus filled out for just a moment and I sighed with all I had. Home. And not. I found myself at 4S tonight, meeting some old writer friends and I bumped into a friend from college. "How long are you here for?" she wanted to know. "I go home Monday morning," I told her, and then caught myself. What was I saying? This was home, right, and not Bombay? When did that happen?

I did finally wind up going to Turquoise Cottage, Saturday night, after a very full day, spent with Fariha, Iggy and Ranvir at Flavours, Sarojini Nagar, another friend at Khan Market and later, Fariha's house for a quick drink before we headed out. The three of them have become friends in my absence, they were friendly before, but now they hang out quite a bit and I watched as they spoke to each other, about plans that had happened, or stuff they were planning for the future weekend, and though they were all there to see me, I knew that they existed without me also. What did I expect, right? Like their lives would be on pause? Just because it's as if Delhi is on pause for me? Even TC, after two months of waiting for it, going out every Wednesday night in Bombay because "it's TC night!" was, well.. different. Not the same people, except for like five or six who I greeted with glee. The manager asked me where I had been, which was nice. And I learnt as I was dropping Iggy home, that Def Col now has a 24/7, where we got some food, and that the Moolchand flyover isn't so fucked anymore because the underpass has finally been built.

It's not like this weekend wasn't awesome though. It was. It was lovely meeting old friends again, bonding with my parents again, in a way I haven't done since boarding school. But I need to wrap my head around the fact that I am temporary. Not living here. And the Delhi in my head exists now, only in my head. When I eventually move back, it'll be the same I know. In some ways, nothing has changed.

Only me.

Reasons I have been AWOL

1) And the most important. I don't have internet access at home, and dude, really, the cybercafe is just not the same thing. And since I now work in a bureau office, which rocks by the way, when I'm working on a story, as I'm doing at present, I only file it once the background stuff is done, and since I now live in a city that isn't very convenient to get around, if I'm meeting people around where I live, I don't go into the office if I don't have work there.

2) We had a housewarming party and the house was most admired, and it took some hard work to get it thus admired, especially my new hot pink, raw silk curtains, which are so, so lovely and make me feel happy every time I wake up and look at them. (This morning, I was having a dream about Leela's upcoming nuptials and my maid came in, and she's REALLY noisy and I woke up and for like a second I thought I was back in my room at my mum's house and I sat up in bed and then I said, "Ohhhhhh, I'm still here.") Anyway, the housewarming was a great success, and I did not realise that we knew so many people--either that, or our house is really small--because the place was fairly packed. We're so popular.

3) I've been homesick. Especially on Wednesday nights, when everyone back home is getting ready to go to TC, and even though there's the sea and shiny, happy people laughing, and new things everywhere, and getting myself a road map and HOME FUCKING DELIVERY which is such a blessing, I don't know how I did without it for 25 years, but still, I've been homesick for things I know, and familiar faces and options of people to hang out with and knowing what to do and not having a house I have to set up from scratch. (I've been too lazy to do much, which I attribute to the sea air, which, by the way, has also done wonders for my complexion, despite, or perhaps because of my dissipated lifestyle)

4) I really don't have much to say that doesn't make me sound like a tourist. Like for instance, today? I went to the Gateway of India, well, around it at any rate, because of the crowd. And we took a picture where we all grinned at the camera, and really, very touristy. And I've basically been doing stuff like that (my two main goals whilst I'm in this city are: a) to ride on a double decker bus and b) to do Rahul Bose. The first one is more achievable I realise, but oh, that bottom.) And the other day for a story, I was at a film shooting, and no one gets my enthused exclaimations, so I'm keeping them all as little gleeful shouts in my head.

5) I've been busy figuring out the local trains, which have been my crowning achievement for this week, because I so rock at them. Except disembarking, which for some reason is always my downfall, because with the tidal wave of women entering and clamouring, I have a really hard time getting out. The number of times I have been elbowed, right in the boobs is much too painful to even mention, but the thrill of actually being One With The Masses is pretty awesome. (See, I still sound like a tourist. I'm trying to imagine what my reaction would be if someone was raving about the DTC buses this much, I'd probably pat them on the back and be all poor-deluded-child, but the trains aren't much like the DTC buses, so it's not a very accurate comparision.)

Five reasons is good enough, no? But no, I promise more regular updates from next week, when I will be a two week old immigrant and no longer all brand shiny and new.

The post in which I pretend that I'm super-popular and you've asked me all these questions (humour me)

Today we tackle Turquoise Cottage:


Pallavi from Bandhavgarh writes in to ask:

Dear eM,
Your blog is all I live for. But there is one thing that has always bothered me. Why do you keep going back to this TC place? What's the deal? Do they PAY you to make an appearance or what?
Eagerly awaiting your reply,
Pallavi

Dear Pallavi,
Turquoise Cottage (or TC as we call it to make it easier to text or refer to in conversation; NEVER TC's though, because that is just wrong) used to be one of my favourite places in Delhi. Notice how I said "used to be".

Turquoise Cottage came about when we were all in first year college, I think this would be late 2000 or early 2001. Originally a very popular place, like all Delhi clubs, it had its days in the sun, before gently fading away to attract only thirty somethings. Or late twenty somethings. Definitely not us. Now, let's put me in context. I was a most Serious Young Person in college, all duuuuuude-bring-back-the-70s and at the same time, let me adjust my silver framed spectacles and quote the Romantic poets at you, while we argue metaphysics. Right, do we have a picture? Excellent. Therefore, cluh-bbing, dahlinks, was way beneath me. This was around the time I discovered Old Monk and Coke, and drinking in friend's basements, and buying three cigarettes for the delectable headrush I always got with the first drag.

So when Friend Who Was Older Than Me (in his twenties, although it saddens me that he was younger than I am now) took me to "this really nice place with good music", I went. And fell in love. I loved that it wasn't crowded, that the booze was reasonable, that they played all this rock music. Delhi then didn't think rock was cool, it was all PSY! and TRANCE! everywhere we went, even the good ol' Mezz, once a favourite, had sold out by opening its doors to the horror that was electronic nights every Tuesday. And it was too crowded to move. (Incidentally, even now, my mother says, "Aren't you going to the Mezz tonight?" despite the many times I have sighed and reminded her that it is, in fact, six years later).

Turquoise Cottage has a lot of good memories for me. I remember arriving there the day I lost my virginity, all knees trembling and raw skinned and feeling as though everyone could totally tell. (I told my friends though and there was much toasting and war-whooping, much to poor old ex-boyfriend's dismay. Although he was pretty pleased at the act too, I might add.) It's a place where I've met people, and flirted, and hung out with friends, and now at parties and things, people come up to me and say, "Haven't I seen you at TC?" and we know so much about each other from that question, what music we like to listen to, what kind of party scenes we're into, and even, usually, what professions we're in.

But now I feel going to TC is like a force of habit. I don't know why I go anymore. It's much too crowded and the wrong sort of crowd too, ever since they started cover charge, the music always seems to be the same (Rage Against The Machine, Du Hast Mich, The Reason etc etc). Every time I go, I feel as though THIS time could be different, that we'd be taken back five years, when TC on a Friday was all you could ask for from life, when you met and talked to nice, new people regularly, when you didn't have to dress or anything, when the bartender could see you from across a room and know exactly what to fix you. My friends who used to be regulars just like me have dropped out saying stuff like "The music is too loud, dude" or "It's way too crowded." But I keep going back.

And one of these days, like a time portal or something, it's going to be empty, and I'll get what used to be our favourite table, and the old foozball table will be back where it was, and people will be less hectic and dressed in jeans and sweaters and sneakers and prop up beer on the DJ console. And the music will be just right, no one would be dancing either, unless they were really ambitious, and I will be nineteen and hopeful that every evening is spangly excitement.

Sincerely,
eM

What's been goin' DOWN, bitch? (Trans: my life this past week)

Hi! 'Sup? It's been a while, no?

> I'm back at work, now, over here in the Delhi office for like a month before I leave . It was bound to happen , I suppose, and I'm sort of glad it did, because I haven't been a journalist since September and I was very afraid that I had forgotten how. Although now, Day Two at work, it all seems to be coming back so naturally that I'm wondering whether I ever left at all. (Cue Hotel California here, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leeeeeaheeeeeve.) Anyway, so December as everyone knows is a nice time of the year and unfortunately everyone else seems to think so as well, so it's busy busy time for me, both professionally and personally. This weekend was super-hectic, let's see, I did Lodi on Thursday (which we will NOT speak of, because I was so very very drunk I swore I would never drink again, also because I don't remember much); a party on Friday (where I stuck to Coke all evening and realised that even when I'm not drinking, I have an astonishing capacity to talk utter and complete crap); um, out with two new people on Saturday (which was fun! I haven't met new people in some time) and a picnic on Sunday at a friend's farm. As a result, Monday is all bleargh and coffee deprived.

> So, funny TC story happened once more. (What would I do without TC, dudes? What would I blog about?) Anyway, I was chilling there on a Wednesday, not with my usual crowd, because I had gone with Small and another friend and both of them left before I was ready to, so, I hung around. And the nice thing about TC is that I know practically everyone, so there's always someone for me to hang out with. So, I was chatting with this one guy and telling him about the imminent move and so on, and how I only have like three Wednesdays left, and he goes, "You're moving to Bombay? That sounds rather familiar," and I'm like, "Oh, how come? Are a lot of your friends shifting there as well?" And then he says, "Noooooo," his eyes sort of squinting at me and then, abruptly, "Do you have a blog?" And I just died. Well, I knew someone at TC was bound to read it, I suppose, and I'm glad it was just one person who figured it out and so on, so good work Nancy Drew! And hello, by the way, since you do read this. I feel like such a celebrity, in a more nerdy, internet kind of way.

> I'll be out of town for a couple of days this week, because I'm going to (lalalalalala) Bali, which should be huge fun. And before I go, I need to organise a) packing (and I have SO much stuff) and b)a birthday/farewell party to celebrate the big two five, which I'm totally dreading, because my birthdays, while traditionally joyous occassions, always make me sad. Like New Year's Eve. Someone else should be throwing me a farewell party, no, she asked, hinting desperately.

> While in a way, I want this month to go by r e a l l y slowly so that I can have more time here, in Delhi, down the roads I know and with people I like, I also want to get my move over and done with really quickly, like pulling a scab off or something. I've finally decided when I want to leave also, on January 2nd, and lucky for me, many friends are planning trips there around then. I've, of course, unknown to Shark Tooth, promised boarding and lodging, but I don't know how many will actually show up at my doorstep. And when they come, we will speak in Punjabi and eat kaali daal. And I know, I know, I'll make friends, but the thing is, I've never actually had to make friends from scratch. I've always had a base, people I knew I could count on. It'll be good for me, and a lesson in character development, but it seems such a grown up thing to do, and I'm still looking around going, "Where are all the adults?"


That's all, I'm afraid. I promise more meat next time.

Breaking news type item, before we return to our regular programming

It's funny how your life can change so very drastically in a month, in a week, in a conversation. October I was running wild, all the lights were changing green to red, and so on in a very David Gray-ish way. And now, looking at the compose post page, I'm wondering how I can break the news to you, to the internet, and whether it is yet time to make things public. But why not? Everything's settled--well, almost everything--and all that remains to be done is to confess all. But, I don't know. Once I tell you, there will be no going back, no two ways about it. Not that I want to go back now, but perhaps I might? In the not-so-distant future?

Right. I should probably stop blabbering and get on with it. Although, wouldn't you much rather be amused by TC stories and how last night I counted two men I have tongue swapped with on the same table that I was on, and realised that I have exhausted this city's supplies of eligible, sweet, young boys. (That last sentence made me sound a little bit like a paedophile, no?) Anyway. In all great relationships, there is only one thing that makes things work, and that is space. I need space, and usually, the other person does as well. Even an inanimate subject, like say, a manuscript you had been working on, always looks either so much better or worse, once you return to it after a couple of months. And soooooooo, I've decided the only single constant long-term love affair that I have had, ever since I was born even, might benefit if we were away from each other for some time.

In short, dear reader, I am moving. I'm leaving this city, which makes me very, very sad, but also strangely all fluttery-stomached with anticipation. I've never left it for longer than five months at a stretch (in boarding school, we returned home for two month summer and winter breaks. And boarding school totally does not count, because there you don't have to look for housing or like, figure out where you're going to work or even WORRY because you have NO friends, and in Delhi I know everyone.) and I'll miss so many things about it. In fact, I'm homesick already. Where am I moving? Well, I could never be out of a city, so I'm not doing the whole discovering myself in rural India thing whilst making friends with the local villagers and finally getting my arms hacked off. And I considered all the metros--Calcutta would be a distinct language problem, besides I don't think they have much of a nightlife, Bangalore is nice, but too close to too many of my extended family members for comfort, Hyderabad is like the HEART of most of my family, besides the minute I landed my grandmother would probably start looking for a suitable boy, which left me with, um, Mumbai. Yeah. I feel like a defector.

It all happened very, very fast, in fact two weekends ago, I was chilling at my friend Curly's house, and it was his birthday and sort of a farewell shindig, because he was moving to Bombay, and I was all, "Oh dude, I'm in such a rut." And he was like, "Well, why don't you move to Bombay too?" And I was like, "Okay!" And seriously, that's all there was to it. Then I woke up the next morning and said hmmmmmm, do I really want to go? And half of my head was all no, how can you leave Delhi? But then, the thrill of the thought of just packing up and leaving got to me, and before I knew it, the best laid plans were all awry, because apparently, I was moving to Bombay in January. In fact, Curly and I will be sharing a flat and our friends are convinced we're dating, but this is all part of the Grand I Can Live Away From Delhi Experiment, like a subsection, which I'm going to call the Semigrand I Can Live Platonically With A Boy experiment. Also, I'm going back to the media, joining an organisation with a bureau there, which will be yet another subsection called I Can Do Stories In A City I Barely Know experiment.

I'll be back though, in Delhi. I'm giving myself a year, just to prove that I can do this and not come crying back to my mummy's with my tail between my legs. I've been told, also, that I'll like Bombay, which I really hope I do, because it's harder to be homesick and friendless in a place you like. But I don't know whether I'll love it, the way I love Delhi. People I'm telling now say, "Dude, you can't leave Delhi! You are Delhi!" And it's really nice to be synonymous with a city, but that may also be a good reason to leave.

But I don't go for a good while yet. I have a month and a half of absolutely nothing to do, which I'm so looking forward to. I'm still going to Bombay this weekend, because those tickets were bought before this plan was made, and eventually, I'm going to have to start thinking logistically with things like where do I stay, and what furniture should I bring and should I take my car and so on. For now, I'm enjoying myself. Living the good life.

I just thought I'd let you know.

But I don't like beer

(Pre-script: All hail the Hedonist! Someone I've been trying to persuade to blog for quite some time! Fresh maal from London! And, dude, we missed you this weekend, truly. Delhi is not the same without you.)

And now, back to our regular programming.

So, you know I love drinking. I love it. Absolutely. It qualifies as a passion for me, right up there with like writing, and reading. Anywhere that offers alcohol is instantly upped one level for me. A passion, though, is not the same thing as an addiction. A passion is when you enjoy something, when it's something that you can talk about, when it's something that makes you happy, she said defensively. An addiction on the other hand is when you can't stop yourself from doing something, and when it doesn't make you happy anymore, but you keep doing it anyway. With a passion, you like meeting people who share that love with you. Anyway. Enough defending myself. I'm *ahem* going to divide this post into three parts, so you're forewarned right away, and tackle the issues of alcohol consumption.

Right. Since everyone (except you! You rule! I love you!) has promptly fallen down face first on their keyboards and gone to sleep, I think I can begin unihibitedly. (Oh wait, if you're like a child or something, below 18, I'm going to need to see some ID so your parents don't sue me)

*What you could buy me in a bar, to make me go to bed with you (well, okay, not quite. But I will smile prettily for some time, and listen animatedly and interestedly to what you have to say. Which is quite a big deal, no?)*

> Rum and coke: But, BUT. Make sure the rum is Old Monk, only. Not Bacardi. I don't drink Bacardi. I hate the chemical aftertaste that it leaves in your mouth, and the cringe that it induces going down your throat. I will be your best friend forever if you know this, and you know not to ask me what I'm drinking, when you're placing the order.

> Margaritas: How can you NOT love a margarita? It's the only cocktail that tastes of nothing but the sweet, sweet taste of tequila, that's so palate-burningly distinctive. The salt around the rim has to be perfect though, for a really good margarita. I like the ones where they layer on the salt, rather than put a delicate ladylike sprinkling, and then (if I'm at TGIF and drinking their perfect Ultimate Margaritas, which feel like you've died and gone to Dipsomaniac Heaven) I like to lick the salt rim and then quickly chug through the straw, with the liquid dissolving the salt in my mouth. Small showed me the sexy way to do that too, so it works on many levels. I think tequila shots should count as a subhead in this category though SOME people say they haven't done tequila shots since COLLEGE, but I think they're just missing out on some good fun. (And they haven't been out of college for that long anyway, so hah bloody hah.) The whole ritual of the thing, sprinkling the salt on that little flap of skin between your thumb and forefinger, holding the lemon, saying cheers loudly (because tequila always adds an air of good cheer and celebration to a gathering, even if it's only Tuesday) and knocking the drink back, trying not to let your eyes tear as you suck desperately at the lemon, wait a beat, and another, and then the warmness fills your stomach and radiates out through your veins and EVERYONE is so BEAUTIFUL and really, you're so HAPPY and yeah, tequila rules.

> Vodka-coke: In ze winter I svitch to ze wodka, because it is varming and more high inducing than rum and if I "bottoms-up" my drink, I feel sensation arriving again to my numbed fingertips, and my nails (which usually stay blue from December through February) suddenly get all pink and glowing and oh, the tip of my nose, another cold spot (I have fun with boys I'm dating, or at least, when I USED to date boys, many decades ago, burying my nose into their cheek or shoulder or warm stomach when they least expect it, which means I a) warm up my poor frozen probosis and b) I get to hear them squeal like little girls. Both are fun.) Vith wodka, I grow varm again, and often I strip down to my lowest layer (not the bra, but either the tank top or sweater before that. I am a respectable girl, after all) and oh, vhy von't vinter come already? It's about time.


*Experiences that alcohol has heightened this past weekend (not ALL past weekends. That would be sort of hard to document, seeing their sheer volume and the fact that I forget most of what happens to me)*

Oh, he was so hot. Really hot. BUILT and PRETTY with this mouth, oh his mouth, it curved so sweetly and sexily, and his body, mmmmmmmmmm, what a body and because it was so loud he leaned in to talk to me, and I could smell his hottieness and feel his beautiful hair (well, it was ironed, but still) brush against my ear, and examine his chest, which stretched out his t-shirt and then sat loosely around his superflat stomach and when I reached out to make a point and touched his (beautiful) arm, with its sinews and curves and MUSCLES OH MY GOD THE MUSCLES, I wanted to die.

And then I nearly did, from sucking in my stomach for so long.

(oh, and ps: not happening. male model, waaaaaaay out of my league, but I did enjoy basking in that hotness for a while. Ooh, and he kissed my cheek to say goodbye and I could feel the shape of his mouth and please can I take him home? He can live in my cupboard, and service me every morning. And evening, if I'm not too tired. Actually, for him, I'd NEVER be tired.)


*Here's where I insert a tiny note on my pickled liver and my heightened capacity and how it's really sad that I can drink so much and not get drunk, but you get the general idea, no?*

Cheers, bebe.

Last night at TC...

> I danced with Dee's new beau. This may not seem a big deal for you, but those of you who know me know I do not dance. Quite simply, I suck. Anyway, so I gave him the whole, "Since you're dating one of my best friends, you must go through my scanner" thing, to which Dee nodded drunk agreement. (Though at this point, I could've probably said, "You must give me your purple monkey" and she would have agreed happily). So, all three of us were dancing, the New Man very gallantly with both of us, and Dee was then whisked off into the arms of someone else and I smiled sheepishly at him, seeing this as a point where I sidled away, spinster-like. But he danced with me, really, full-on dancing, with feet movements, and hand on back gliding and then at the end of the song, he dipped me, so my head touched the floor, and (this is my moment of triumph) people clapped. Really. For me. No one's ever done that before. I whisked up, we bowed to each other and Dee now has my blessings. Well, coffee and sober conversation still must be done, but now there's no hurry.


(Later, by the way, as I was leaving I said to him, "Dude, man, no one's ever clapped when I've danced before," and he smiled and said, "Well, you and Dee are very beautiful, why would people not clap?" Awwwwww. I heart nice boyfriends of friends. It's so much simpler than disliking them.)



> Also last night, I bumped into people I hadn't seen since I was, oh, three or four. Twins. I have a picture of them, taken then, two little girls with matching plaid dresses and spectacles and me, in the middle. They used to babysit me, apparently, they told me last night. Now we're all grown up, the plump twin has grown up into vision of beauty and delight (the skinny twin stayed skinny, but she is a vision of beauty and delight also) and we all chatted loudly and happily. It's amazing I recognised them, even though they looked at me with matching expressions of amzement when I told them who I was.



> Small's friend gave me the best back rub I have ever had. Really. By the end of it, I was purring and stretching and smiling through slit eyes. He used to be a professional masseuse (or is it masseur for men?) in Sydney, he told me, and oh. I will walk to the ends of the earth to get a good back rub. I'm a sucker for loose muscles. And that delicious pressure on the nubs of your shoulders. Mmmmmmmm.

Uh-huh, this my shit, all the girls stomp your feet like this, coz I ain't no hollaback girl

Wow, it's been a busy weekend. And as a by-product of this hecticness, I'm feeling immensely tired and immensily run down. More the latter than the former, I would say, because I'm not really that tired, but I do have this overwhelming urge to be cuddled. But if someone was to be the cuddler, I have no doubt I'd immediately burst into tears. I'm weird that way.



Was out at TC last night till four in the morning, with Small and two writer friends. All of us proceeded to get smashed, Small more so than the three of us, but still, we were all like bumping and grinding and generally making spectacles of ourselves. At three thirty, when we were finally kicked out, I noticed my watch was no longer on my wrist and freaked out. Piles of cigarette packets and broken beer bottles were poked through by my rummaging fingers till I was finally dragged away, practically weeping and then, I noticed by the bar, a woman who I had bummed a smoke off of and there it was, at her feet, the strap snapped. I nearly kissed her and the manager and everyone else around me, including a group of very drunk men, singing Hindi songs at the top of their voices. Everyone cheered and patted me on the back and Small and I went home and made ourselves Bournvita. I love TC late at night.



We were also pretty tanked up before we got to TC, thanks to (the very hot) Upamanyu Chatterjee's book launch at the Taj Mansingh. Oh, he is so hot. Oh. And he has the nicest voice all deep and resonant and it sets off little hunter-gatherer instincts in my body, which I'm sorry to say, distracted me terribly from the actual reading. I wasn't the only woman in the audience leching, but. I spotted quite a few with the same expression that I had, head half-tilted, mouth half-open all thinking deeply, "Upamanyu, Upamanyu, take me now!" Grah. How to seduce him?



Anyway, so there was much red wine being passed around, as we huddled close to angheetis and tall heat thingies and ate parmesan squares and I felt very posh. Small, apparently, is quite a celebrity, thanks to this blog, because a girl (who chooses to remain nameless, but hello there, anyway) showed much excitement upon being introduced to her. Small does not like her own pseudonym very much, because she kept going, "I'm not THAT small, I'm not, I'm not!" (But she is.) Oh, speaking of blog celebrity-dom, I must also mention something that made my week, last Sunday, when I was out drinking with friends and a girl came up to me and asked me whether I was indeed the Compulsive Confessor. (Thank you, noble random stranger) This made me most happy, and I instantly launched into Fame, "I'm gonna live forever, I'm gonna learn how to fly, (high!), baby remember my name!" This also made assorted friends make much fun of me, but I don't care coz I got recognised and they hadn't. Hah.




Friday night was spent at the Kiran Desai book launch at the British Council, after which everyone wanted to know where they could go next. "TC?" I suggested hopefully, as I always do, but no one seemed enamoured of that, so then I suggested Drunken Duck, a new pub at Piccadelhi in PVR Plaza. It's very nice and they have a nice live band also, the last time I went, for the opening, the lead singer was very hot. But alas, I suspect, gay, because Damien and I both hit on him, and he hit on Damien. Darn.



But on Friday night, the mic was taken over, first by publishing person, Radha, then her husband, then another writer who was there, while the rest of us clapped or booed wherever it was appropriate. Then Monica produced her Bluffmaster soundtrack and put on Right Here, Right Now and tried to get me to dance with her, only I was feeling shy and only moved my torso around a little bit, before giving up. Oh, also got to hang out with another celebrity blogger, Hurree Babu, who listened with patience and understanding to the sadness that is my love life and was so kind and comforting, my regular confessing became uber confessing and now I'm afraid I will have full body blush next time I see him. :)



While I'm namedropping, I must also mention that I met Chandrahas last night at the book launch, not in Pakistan because of visa issues. Small and I gave him a lift and tried to talk him into coming to TC with us, but despite our batting eyelashes and plaintive appeals, he chose not to. Perhaps we're losing our touch? Hmmm.



As a result of all this activity, no doubt next week is going to be all blah and rundown. Oh, but wait! One of Best Friend In Whole World's happy to you is next week, on Republic Day and so we're going to party. Any thoughts on what to get her? (Dee, look away NOW!)

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow, everybody needs a bosom, mine's on the 45

> It's been quite the hectic weekend for me. Saturday I spent watching a play at the BCL Closer, which was remarkably well done, especially since it was the director's debut venture and all. The director himself was pretty cute, though rumour has it, not so much inclined towards my sex. Oh well.

From the BCL we went to Turquoise Cottage, Gurgaon, where Indian Ocean was playing and we had free alcohol the entire evening. Well, 450 a head for unlimited booze and food, so pretty free. Highlights include the adorable three-week old Lab puppy someone brought (WHY would someone bring a DOG to an alcohol filled environment?). But the puppy was outside, and we hung with the lead singer of Indian Ocean and played with him. He was very black and called Ebony and despite us getting him some water, made a beeline for our vodka every time we left it on the floor. Much time was spent lifting our glaases out of the way of the dipsomaniac puppy. In time, his rightful owners appeared (the guy who brought him was dogsitting and made it a point to mention he was happily married. I was thinking secretly, please, like I would ever hit on you, buddy. Some men, I tell you). The second highlight was, of course, Kandisa, which they played at the very end, and everyone raised their glasses in the air and yelled, "Alam, alam, alam!"


> By the way, please stop correcting my spelling. I may be in a hurry, I may not have time to check how KERALA is spelt, for fucks sake. It's getting a little annoying, because while I value your feedback, I'd rather you spent more time with the content than the form.


> Did a polo match with Small on Sunday and it brought back many happy riding memories. I used to ride, once upon a time in boarding, and good fun it was too. It was also the fattest I've been ever at any point in my life, which is wierd because that was also the only time in my life I got exercise. As soon as I got back to Delhi and stopped exercising, I became the lean, mean unfit machine I am today. Ergo, exercise is bad. And it took about a year for my biceps and forearms to look proportional to the rest of my body. But the polo match and feeling all propah and hat-wearing and Gayatri Devi-shoulder rubbing was good fun. I was doing a complete Brit accent in my head and the whole Eliza Dolittle scene at the races came vividly back to me. What was her boyfriend's name in that movie anyway?


> Also Sunday was the day of the Delhi Blogger's Meet, which I attended and which was most fun. Aanchal has the deets on who attended here and my cyber/real life flirtations can be evidenced here. I do so love the internet, even though in some ways I'm sure it makes me look fat. :)

"Mine? Mine? Mine?"

Turquoise Cottage last night after what felt like years. I've gotten a little bored with it these days, so I've stopped visiting as often as I used to. But last night, Priya, Small and I were all in the mood and there was a general feeling of bonhomie as we left the flat together, giggling, singing, "This is the story of a girl, who cried a river and drowned the whole world, though she looks so sad in photographs, I absolutely love her.. when she smiles" at like the tops of our voices. All is well with the world, and I love the winter.


We met K and his New Girl at TC, which was a little awkward for me. Okay, make that VERY awkward. To the point of tears. Because right in front of me, she stretched up and kissed him and he looked at her with that expression, and it's not like I'm into him anymore or anything, but that just made me feel even more alone. So after a little weeping, done subtly in the bathroom, and a little kajal touch-up, I reemerged to find my friend (and one-time kiss buddy) Vivek with his new girlfriend, this Spanish chick called Laura. We teased Vivek about it for quite a bit, but he did look sweet with his arm around this girl. "We met right here, at TC," said Laura and I almost squealed, "Me too!" I don't know whether that'll work out in the long run, because they don't seem to have very much in common, besides, there's always the language problem, her English is a little shaky and I'm guessing she doesn't know any Hindi. But for now, they're damn sweet and she introduced me to this cute Austrian guy called Hans and we spent the evening chatting.


Turns out Hans hasn't seen the one movie that I connect with Austria, The Sound Of Music. "Everywhere I go people tell me this," he said, laughing, "And it is so famous in the rest of the world, but no one in Austria has seen it!" I told him he absolutely must watch it. "Isn't it for children?" he asked. "Well, not exactly, but it's very good!" I don't know whether I convinced him though.


Hans had a very strong German accent, which I think might have been the root of the dream I had last night about Hitler wanting to have coffee with me, but he explained the accent, "I speak English pretty well, but always with the German accent. Everyone confuses the Austrian accent with the German one, we are such a little country."

After finishing his studies in Austria, he wants to return to India, move to Kerela and become an English-German transalator for tourists there."That's a good idea," I said, and he nodded excitedly, "And so simple!" I could've probably hooked up with Hans if I wanted to, but I wasn't that into him and I saw him later in the evening, snugged in a corner with another girl, who I happen to know and he waved awkwardly at me when I said hello and goodbye to her. "See you soon?" he said and I laughed, "Sure." Men are the same all over the world, clearly.


Oh ya, also hung with K and New Girl for a bit and was thoroughly ashamed of my bad behaviour, because she is very nice. No really. She's damn sweet and there was much bonding happening there. In the middle of this bonding, every now and then I' keep stopping and going in my head, "Wow, I'm being so grown up!" It's a good feeling. She's nice looking too, I admit grudgingly, but (and another five cool points for me) I told K how happy I was for him and that she was really nice and he beamed at me so happily that I guess it was worth it. What does she have that I don't? Um.. I'm not sure, though I was burningly curious about it. She's more docile I guess, a little more mellow, not as hyper as I'm prone to be. Oh, and she's tall. While I can be mellow on occassion, it's hard for me to be naturally tall. Perhaps that's it.


And that's the end of the K story. Except I asked her in a drunken moment whether she hated me and she gave me a hug and said, "Of course not, please don't ever think that." Ya, she does sound nice, no? A lot nicer than I would've been, most definitely.


And then they turned off the music and Small and I came home and ate toast and talked about how adult I was. :)

I don't want a fly guy, I just want a shy guy, coz a shy guy, is the kinda guy that can only be mine

It's time for a new post, I tell my PC.
Yeah. I don't think so, it replies.
Please? It's been really, really long. People are going to think I'm dead.
Um.. yeah. Still no.
What do I have to do? Beg? We never communicate anymore.
Look, I'm tired of working okay? I need a break. And so I'm taking one.
Fine then. No, fine. I'm just going to have to take other measures.
Oooh, I'm SO scared.
You'll be sorry. I'm going to cheat on you at work.
Oh, who're you kidding? The work slut will never give you the magic that I do.What magic? All you're showing me is cannot find server.
Yeah, well, it's sorta magical that I can't find the server.
I'm going. Goodbye. When you decide to stop faffing around, let me know.




And so reader, I write to you in snatches from the PC at work. Between work. So this post might be slightly rambly, because I keep getting up to do a hundred different things and then come back.


I woke up this morning in a strange empty house. Okay, well, not that strange, coz I was spending the night at Urvashi's, but you know when you're really really hungover and you've been having strange drunken dreams all night and THEN you wake up and your friend has already left for work and little people are playing tom-toms in your head and your mouth feels like you've inhaled the stuffing of a pillow, you'd probably feel a little disoriented, right? Luckily, Urvashi The Kind had fed me some very nice pasta the night before, so I wasn't hungry on top of everything else AND she explained the complicated tap/shower mechanism and she has all these cool Body Shop shower gels (Except for the Tea something which wasn't so nice) so I felt a little better then.We went to TC last night, which was why I was crashing at her house in the first place, figuring it would be nice to leave TC at the end, rather than leave at eleven like some sort of Cinderella, because my house is pretty far off. TC was FABULOUS yesterday by the way and I was wearing this top I bought myself in Sarojini Nagar (80 rupees, baby. I love Sarojini) and it was all low and cleavagy so I was most happy. Plus almost everyone I knew was there, including *tan-tara-tara* Luke! Looking most delectable I must say, damn that boy gets hotter each time I see him. And he's all slipping his arm around my waist and murmuring throatily into my ear and I'm so distracted by all this throaty murmuring and the scent of his cologne and the fact that my HAND is on his (very flat) stomach that I'm not paying attention to what he's saying.


And then I do. "So yeah, I love my girlfriend and she loves me and it's just WRONG if anything happens between us," he says. He's now running his hand up my arm and I look at him. "So we're JUST friends?" "I don't think we could ever be 'just friends' eM," he smiles and did I mention he's superhot?


So we spend a pleasant evening flirting madly and I notice cute younger brother of an acquaintance getting all chatty. But, dude, he's like NINETEEN and I'm practically TWENTY FOUR and this is wrong, which is what I tell him when he comes with me to the bathroom and then kisses me. I kiss back, sure, but despite being very, very drunk, I'm sober enough to be a little taken aback. And a little surprised at what I'm doing. This is so not me. I'm usually pretty reserved about this sorta thing and hello, eM, he's half your age, at least very much younger and he so only wants to sleep with you despite the fact that his eyes are all earnest as he talks of a "connection" and how "age is just a number." I pat him kindly on the cheek and leave. Really, what is WRONG with me? Am I turning into one of those women who's not happy unless she's with someone, anyone at all? I hope not.


And then Urvashi and I collected ourselves, drank a glass of water each and went home.


How was your Wednesday?

Drugs, rock and roll, late night booty calls, shiny disco balls

Just returned from fashion show with lots of red wine and pretty people. Rina Dhaka's to be exact. What is with people and not wearing bras anymore? Granted I have gone without the support sisters quite a bit, but I'm..um.. perky ya know? Some of the models at this show weren't. And I'm talking about sag city. Breasts reaching till your toes and all that. Bras were invented for a reason, ladies! And while we're on the subject, Rina, Rina, Rina. Black bra, black top. Not white push-up under your transparent black top. Please.



Actually, it's a funny story. Priya met Rina Dhaka in the ladies loo of the Oberoi before I got there. (I asked her to come along to keep me company) And Rina Aunty was chanting away, you know, the regular Buddhist stuff, Nam Myo Ho and all that. And so, when we stood outside, she came up to us to say hello. Which I loved Priya for, because normally, the Dhaka-lady is very media shy. Which is just a polite way of saying she won't talk to us. Not ever. But this time she was all gushy and ooh-y and I just made the most of the situation. "Tell us something about your collection," I said while she went on about how she had only called the prime media groups. (I felt very kicked at this point).



Sharan Mishra was modelling tonight too. She's this short haired model, with a large ass and who perpetually has her mouth open while she sashays up and down the ramp. If it's open-mouthed, it's got to be Sharan. Or Amanpreeth Something-or-the-other.



Also, we had a pleasant surprise today, because just as we were bitching about the men in our lives, who should walk by but Damien. Priya lurves him, absolutely. And he was compering, which was really quite odd, because I've never had a friend who compered before. It was sooo cool. Damien had a cold, so he had this "straight" voice--very deep and masculine. It was most funny. And after that we all went for drinks to this place in GKII. (which I must recommend. It's called Flames, and dude, the rum and coke is for some thirty bucks! So excellent!)



I've been meeting a lot of fellow bloggers recently too. Met with Motheater and AB at TC, whichj was a big surprise because a) I didn't know they went to TC and b) I certainly wasn't expecting to see them there after all the TC abuse that AB has done EVERY SINGLE TIME I MEET HER. (Actually, I also expected Motheater to look green-and-white, but then we're not going into how I think bloggers should look like their templates because then I should look black and brown). Annieway. I also met with Jabberwock, the Duck of Destiny and the Letterhead for drinks the other day--but then, except for the Letterhead I have met everyone else before, so really nothing major to say there. Except that I always feel the need to be more compulsive confessor-y when I meet new people who read the blog. Bouncier, and I guess, more out there than I would normally be. Does anyone else have the same problem, or is it only me that feels the need to match her internet personality with real life?



What else, what else? Boston Boy and I are also going swimmingly. We spent a long evening in the pursuit of a hook-up and I'm happy to report that *ahem* things went well in that department. Very well. He is so sweet for not trying anything further. I don't know why I always expect guys to go further, to probe harder, to be assholic, to fuck with me. It's like Priya was saying the other day--we're addicted to people treating us badly. I think that's a problem with our entire sex. We can't just have a good time without waiting for the rejection and I know this is true for me at any rate, if someone doesn't hurt me, I always wonder what's wrong with them. I'm too used to the fuckwittage.

It has been brought to my attention that people I work with read this blog. (See, this is why I don't write about work!) But hello, hello to you and if you do read this and you do work with me, come up to my desk and say hi. Please? C'mon I won't bite. (Unless you ask me to, very nicely).

And Boston Boy and I went for the Marut Sikka book launch the other day. The food was bloody excellent, but otherwise it was a pretty uneventful evening. Boston Boy spent the entire evening looking for the men with snacks. (Here come the men with snacks, the ones that you remem-be-er, here come the men with snacks, the galaxy defe-en-ders!) Ooh, and it was at QBA, where I've never been. But that's all that I can find of interest to tell you about that. But I murmured into my wine, which I drink a lot of at these dos. I don't know why. Perhaps it's because it takes a lot of glasses of wine to get me drunk. Or perhaps it's because it's so bloody expensive everywhere else. I remember taking the Cousin out to TC and she ordered a glass of red and it was some 395 rupees! Dude! I only spend a hundred on my own Old-Monk-And-Coke. And she spilt half of it too.

And it must be said. My dad just came back from the Issttes of Umrica and he bought me Pleasures and I smell so good! No, really, this is not me being conceited. I really smell good, thanks to bloody Estee Lauder. It's funny how all my feeling of well-being comes out of a round glass bottle, but it really does. I love perfume. Isseymiyaki on men makes me want to love them in A/C cars and Pleasures on women makes me feel straight haired and armpit bagged. Nice, no?

Drunk home from Turquoise Cottage part 256

So buzzed tonight that I can barely see the computer screen. Monitor. Sorry.

Two friends have started blogging--Someol'guy over here and Skim over here. Both of whom I met tonight at TC.

TC on Wenesday is now so fucking crowded it breaks my heart. Really. To see real teeny-boppers, I mean, they couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen, dancing around in little tops and short-short skirts is not pretty. Where is our adda? asked Iggy, grabbing me by the arm and I couldn't answer her, not really. When did TC get so popular? I know I bring a couple of hundred people every time I visit, but that's just me, right?

Went to Roli books party tonight which was very strange. There were olives in abundance on all tables, which I loved, but there was also this one journo who kept going "I like you. I don't like very many people on just the first meeting." I smiled and tried to shoo him away but he just went on, "I suppose it isn't reciprocated?" "Um... it usually takes more than one meeting for me to make up my mind," I told him and then he followed me around. Even when I went to the loo.

It's so hot these days that it seems to be all that other bloggers are talking about. Brief respite today, with a slight drizzle, but that was about all. I'm thinking of retracting my whole post about how much I love Delhi, because in this weather, when you feel like you're inhaling liquid, no really, there's not much to love. But still I like my city. I like my city still.

Today met two exes. K and Golfer Ex. K was looking very, very hot, he's lost so much weight and he was with this other chick with long hair and big eyes and a mole on her chin. She had soft angles and a wide smile and was everything I am not. "This is eM," he said introducing us and she seemed to know who I was. Later he asked me for a light and said hello to all my friends, to all our friends and they gave him big hugs. And then this girl who I haven't met since the break-up came up to me and said, "Hey, where's K? I hear he has the joint." And I felt like weeping.

Things with Golfer Ex went better though. He slipped his arm around my waist and murmured flirty things into my ear and we fixed up to meet on Saturday. Why does everyone love my exes so much? Ragini cooed, "Oh K's here?" and scampered off to meet him. TC is my territory, how dare he come there? How dare he come there with another girl, if he's so incapable of love?

Maybe it's just me, maybe I'm just unlovable. And unattractive. And clearly, not someone anyone wants to be friends with.

Luke was also there tonight and Someol'guy (whom I shall now call Nikhil) agreed with me that he was so hot! (By the way, for explainations sake, Nikhil is blog reader who emailed me while he was in Delhi wanting to meet up. We've had many drinking sessions, a couple of drunk sessions and blog readers are now my homies. I lurve you all. Still not sleeping with anyone, before the propositioning emails start pouring in though!) Anyway, so I smiled at Luke, BECAUSE MY CAST IS OFF, DID I NOT MENTION IT BEFORE, I AM SITTING CROSS LEGGED, and said, "You've totally forgotten me, haven't you?"
And he bent forward and said, "Why do you think I'm at TC tonight?" *sigh*

But he still has his girlfriend and I still have enough bad karma to last me the next twelve lifetimes.

And so with smell of cigarette smoke in my hair and sundry cologne on my clothes, I shall attempt to go to sleep.