I attended Delhi's first International Cat Show and lived to tell the tale

(A version of this appeared in Scroll, a long time ago) 

(Photos also by me)

Chulbul yawns delicately and blinks his eyes—one blue and one amber. He's so bored of all this, even the medal wrapped around his neck is not enough of a plaything to distract him. His owner Shyampriya picks him off the top of the cage and hands him round to the crowd of people who are gazing at him, making “awww” noises. “He's for sale,” she says, and then gestures to the pile of kittens—Chulbul's siblings—inside the cage. “They're for sale too.” She's just explaining to me that Chulbul's mother, Gravy (an Indian street cat not at the show because she's too aggressive) won a beauty contest where she wore a dress (I take a moment to imagine this in my head) and his father is a purebred Persian sitting in the cage next to his offspring, when the MC announces the kitten class. Chulbul has already won a small medal for “Most Playful,” but there are other cups to be won, and Shyampriya has a whole cage full of kittens. 

The International Cat Show of India is not a new phenomenon. Maybe not as popular as the Indian Kennel Club shows, but nevertheless in its seventh year now. This is the first year it has been hosted in Delhi (previous editions have been in Mumbai and Bengaluru), and as a cat owner myself, I'm feeling birthday-ish as I skip up the stairs of the Vishwa Yuvak Kendra in Chanakyapuri where it's being held. I'm even dressed the part—small golden cat heads dangle from my ears, my tights feature pixellated cat versions of Batman and the Joker. I almost wore a shirt with Mrs Cat embroidered on the breast pocket but rejected that as too much. “It doesn't look very full,” says my partner, K, to me, looking sceptical. I'm too excited to be brought down, and when a car rolls up next to me asking for directions to the cat show, I wave and point at the building like I'm signalling to a plane. “See?” I say to K, “There are probably loads of people already here.”

There aren't. The place wears the deserted look of a birthday party where a lot more guests were supposed to show up. Outside, there are stalls featuring the sponsor cat food as well as a very well groomed toy poodle advertising her owner's pet grooming salon. Inside the hall—thankfully air conditioned—the volunteers are handing out cat cages: an iron frame work with a very thin stretch of chicken wire to cover it. Surprisingly, even though I brace myself, there is no acrid smell of cat urine (which, once burnt into your nasal glands, never fully leaves). The hall is also almost completely silent. 

I'm not sure why, but most people who have a “breed” cat in India, gravitate towards the Persian. Perhaps it's because the Persian with it's punched nose face and grumpy expression has made it to a lot of cinema, perhaps because they're docile, or perhaps just because everyone else has one. Whatever the case may be, the hall is almost 90% Persian (including kittens and mix breeds) with one or two stand outs, like a family of Bengal cats (which look like a tabby crossed with a wildcat) or a Siberian kitten. Most people I talk to say the Persian they're gazing at lovingly is their first cat. “Just like a dog,” says one of the owners, stroking her powder puff Persian kitten, Lola. Lola went on to win third place in the kitten category, and I get to hold her while the owner is off somewhere, and for several blissful moments, I want to replace all my three Indian cats with soft cloud-like kittens like this one, who submit to being held. Until I let her go and spit out a hairball's worth of white fur.

Mostly everyone is also an amateur, except for Deepika Kaur. She's showing the aforementioned Siberian kitten, who looks straight out of a cat food advertisement. Kit Kat may be young, but he's already won seven cups in Bangalore, which Kaur has propped up on top of his cage, along with plastic flower barrettes to make it look prettier. She started with importing two Siberian cats, and Kit Kat is now third generation. While we wait for the judge to make her decision, she whips out her iPhone and shows me photos of Kit Kat's relatives, all prize winners. Kaur has come specially from Bangalore for this, and is with a friend, Lola's owner, to whom she gives tips. “Don't fluff her up,” she tells her friend, “They'll just run their fingers through her fur and make it sit down again.” There's this ointment called Goop which international cat showers use to make their felines look extra groomed and soft, but Kaur says the judges see through that instantly. “I thought the show was tomorrow, otherwise I would have bathed her,” says Lola's owner, glumly. 

Cat people, I decide after a while, are very nice. There's this whole myth about the “crazy cat lady,” a spinster with a hundred cats, who take over her home and her life, but as the species gets more popular (the most popular pet in the United States), cat owners are becoming more mainstream as well. While the show has mainly women with their kitties, there are not an insignificant number of men as well. In my own personal life, I am the administrator of a cat group on Facebook with engagement rates that would make other more mainstream groups envious, and work closely with a cat adoption group called Everything Meow. Some of the women who run Everything Meow are at the show, and we greet each other warmly, asking after each other's pets. “You should have brought yours,” one says to me, “We could have all watched him while you wandered about taking notes.” Cat owners may be considered more selfish and less social than dog owners, but there's a sense of owning an underdog (apologies: undercat) pet, that makes us all hail-fellow-well-met and we're-in-the-same-boat.

After a while of watching Persian after Persian be presented by the judge, who is using a mic to explain what to look for, I'm thinking about breeding in general. As someone who has Indian cats or “desi billis” as the Whiskas representative calls them, I'm against breeding as a whole. For one, it's a bit like playing God, getting exactly the kind of creature you want, and the kind of creature everyone at this show seems to want is a upturned nose, deep inserted eyes face with enough fur that most of them resemble alpacas. Some of the cats don't even look very well under all their fur, and some are being displayed by unethical breeders, who use the cats as kitten machines. Not surprising because a Persian kitten goes for anywhere between Rs 8000 to Rs 35,000. Unlike dogs, cats are bred not for their service (although there are some character traits unique to a breed: Persians are docile, Siamese are talkative, British Blues are easily trained ,etc.) but for their looks. Which seems to someone like me, an Indian Cat Advocate, as such a waste, when local cats all over the world are prettier and hardier than their fluffy counterparts. 

As a counterpoint, organisations like the World Cat Federation argue that without breeding, the best traits would go extinct. On the WCF website, there are a list of rules about showing a Persian with a list of faults that includes difficulty breathing and too flat a skull. With extreme breeding becoming a habit almost for dog and cat breeders around the world, it's good that these points are specified so that the animals, but not so good that the punch-nosed Persian (who needs an elevated bowl in order to eat without smothering itself and can't be flown in an aeroplane because of their breathing difficulties) is being encouraged as a breed in itself. Irina Sadovnikova, one of the international judges at the competition, was one of the breeding advocates. Even as she held up an Indian cat called Sandy (entered in the neutered section) she said it was a pity that this cat had been neutered because otherwise she could have been bred and an excellent kind of Indian breed could have emerged. This goes against everything animal advocates preach. 

 

But shows like the International Cat Show of India would not exist without cat breeds. Of all the cats there, only two were of domestic origin (something that made me wish I had brought one of mine—a large black tom cat, who is very handsome, even if I do say so myself) and one of the “desi billis” is a long furred ginger anomaly who is immediately classified into “Persian mix” despite his owner's protests that he was born of street cats who she knows intimately. In the end, the breed cats win, including, to no one's surprise, little Kit Kat, who takes off with first place in the kitten section. All is not lost though, because a prize also goes to the eleven-year-old Sandy, the Indian cat, whose pretty little face makes someone ask me what breed she is. “A desi one,” I say, proudly. She may be only a contestant in the neutered section now, but maybe in a few years there will be shows for indigenous breeds like ours—feral cats and dogs who have converted to a life of domesticity and who—despite having regular pointed faces and short hair—are recognised for their beauty and charm.

Cat Lady Heaven: Dispatches from a cat show

(This first appeared as a piece on Scroll.  I took all the photos too!)

Chulbul yawns delicately and blinks his eyes—one blue and one amber. He's so bored of all this, even the medal wrapped around his neck is not enough of a plaything to distract him. His owner Shyampriya picks him off the top of the cage and hands him round to the crowd of people who are gazing at him, making “awww” noises. “He's for sale,” she says, and then gestures to the pile of kittens—Chulbul's siblings—inside the cage. “They're for sale too.” She's just explaining to me that Chulbul's mother, Gravy (an Indian street cat not at the show because she's too aggressive) won a beauty contest where she wore a dress (I take a moment to imagine this in my head) and his father is a purebred Persian sitting in the cage next to his offspring, when the MC announces the kitten class. Chulbul has already won a small medal for “Most Playful,” but there are other cups to be won, and Shyampriya has a whole cage full of kittens.

Oldest cat in the show!

The International Cat Show of India is not a new phenomenon. Maybe not as popular as the Indian Kennel Club shows, but nevertheless in its seventh year now. This is the first year it has been hosted in Delhi (previous editions have been in Mumbai and Bengaluru), and as a cat owner myself, I'm feeling birthday-ish as I skip up the stairs of the Vishwa Yuvak Kendra in Chanakyapuri where it's being held. I'm even dressed the part—small golden cat heads dangle from my ears, my tights feature pixellated cat versions of Batman and the Joker. I almost wore a shirt with Mrs Cat embroidered on the breast pocket but rejected that as too much. “It doesn't look very full,” says my partner, K, to me, looking sceptical. I'm too excited to be brought down, and when a car rolls up next to me asking for directions to the cat show, I wave and point at the building like I'm signalling to a plane. “See?” I say to K, “There are probably loads of people already here.”

There aren't. The place wears the deserted look of a birthday party where a lot more guests were supposed to show up. Outside, there are stalls featuring the sponsor cat food as well as a very well groomed toy poodle advertising her owner's pet grooming salon. Inside the hall—thankfully air conditioned—the volunteers are handing out cat cages: an iron frame work with a very thin stretch of chicken wire to cover it. Surprisingly, even though I brace myself, there is no acrid smell of cat urine (which, once burnt into your nasal glands, never fully leaves). The hall is also almost completely silent.

KITTEH!!

I'm not sure why, but most people who have a “breed” cat in India, gravitate towards the Persian. Perhaps it's because the Persian with it's punched nose face and grumpy expression has made it to a lot of cinema, perhaps because they're docile, or perhaps just because everyone else has one. Whatever the case may be, the hall is almost 90% Persian (including kittens and mix breeds) with one or two stand outs, like a family of Bengal cats (which look like a tabby crossed with a wildcat) or a Siberian kitten. Most people I talk to say the Persian they're gazing at lovingly is their first cat. “Just like a dog,” says one of the owners, stroking her powder puff Persian kitten, Lola. Lola went on to win third place in the kitten category, and I get to hold her while the owner is off somewhere, and for several blissful moments, I want to replace all my three Indian cats with soft cloud-like kittens like this one, who submit to being held. Until I let her go and spit out a hairball's worth of white fur.

Mostly everyone is also an amateur, except for Deepika Kaur. She's showing the aforementioned Siberian kitten, who looks straight out of a cat food advertisement. Kit Kat may be young, but he's already won seven cups in Bangalore, which Kaur has propped up on top of his cage, along with plastic flower barrettes to make it look prettier. She started with importing two Siberian cats, and Kit Kat is now third generation. While we wait for the judge to make her decision, she whips out her iPhone and shows me photos of Kit Kat's relatives, all prize winners. Kaur has come specially from Bangalore for this, and is with a friend, Lola's owner, to whom she gives tips. “Don't fluff her up,” she tells her friend, “They'll just run their fingers through her fur and make it sit down again.” There's this ointment called Goop which international cat showers use to make their felines look extra groomed and soft, but Kaur says the judges see through that instantly. “I thought the show was tomorrow, otherwise I would have bathed her,” says Lola's owner, glumly.

Bengal cat being streeeetched.

Cat people, I decide after a while, are very nice. There's this whole myth about the “crazy cat lady,” a spinster with a hundred cats, who take over her home and her life, but as the species gets more popular (the most popular pet in the United States), cat owners are becoming more mainstream as well. While the show has mainly women with their kitties, there are not an insignificant number of men as well. In my own personal life, I am the administrator of a cat group on Facebook with engagement rates that would make other more mainstream groups envious, and work closely with a cat adoption group called Everything Meow. Some of the women who run Everything Meow are at the show, and we greet each other warmly, asking after each other's pets. “You should have brought yours,” one says to me, “We could have all watched him while you wandered about taking notes.” Cat owners may be considered more selfish and less social than dog owners, but there's a sense of owning an underdog (apologies: undercat) pet, that makes us all hail-fellow-well-met and we're-in-the-same-boat.

After a while of watching Persian after Persian be presented by the judge, who is using a mic to explain what to look for, I'm thinking about breeding in general. As someone who has Indian cats or “desi billis” as the Whiskas representative calls them, I'm against breeding as a whole. For one, it's a bit like playing God, getting exactly the kind of creature you want, and the kind of creature everyone at this show seems to want is a upturned nose, deep inserted eyes face with enough fur that most of them resemble alpacas. Some of the cats don't even look very well under all their fur, and some are being displayed by unethical breeders, who use the cats as kitten machines. Not surprising because a Persian kitten goes for anywhere between Rs 8000 to Rs 35,000. Unlike dogs, cats are bred not for their service (although there are some character traits unique to a breed: Persians are docile, Siamese are talkative, British Blues are easily trained ,etc.) but for their looks. Which seems to someone like me, an Indian Cat Advocate, as such a waste, when local cats all over the world are prettier and hardier than their fluffy counterparts.

As a counterpoint, organisations like the World Cat Federation argue that without breeding, the best traits would go extinct. On the WCF website, there are a list of rules about showing a Persian with a list of faults that includes difficulty breathing and too flat a skull. With extreme breeding becoming a habit almost for dog and cat breeders around the world, it's good that these points are specified so that the animals, but not so good that the punch-nosed Persian (who needs an elevated bowl in order to eat without smothering itself and can't be flown in an aeroplane because of their breathing difficulties) is being encouraged as a breed in itself. Irina Sadovnikova, one of the international judges at the competition, was one of the breeding advocates. Even as she held up an Indian cat called Sandy (entered in the neutered section) she said it was a pity that this cat had been neutered because otherwise she could have been bred and an excellent kind of Indian breed could have emerged. This goes against everything animal advocates preach.

I too want a cat I can hold like a handbag

But shows like the International Cat Show of India would not exist without cat breeds. Of all the cats there, only two were of domestic origin (something that made me wish I had brought one of mine—a large black tom cat, who is very handsome, even if I do say so myself) and one of the “desi billis” is a long furred ginger anomaly who is immediately classified into “Persian mix” despite his owner's protests that he was born of street cats who she knows intimately. In the end, the breed cats win, including, to no one's surprise, little Kit Kat, who takes off with first place in the kitten section. All is not lost though, because a prize also goes to the eleven-year-old Sandy, the Indian cat, whose pretty little face makes someone ask me what breed she is. “A desi one,” I say, proudly. She may be only a contestant in the neutered section now, but maybe in a few years there will be shows for indigenous breeds like ours—feral cats and dogs who have converted to a life of domesticity and who—despite having regular pointed faces and short hair—are recognised for their beauty and charm.

Newsletter: Rainy days and Mondays

I have been lax about cross-posting my newsletter here but no longer! Here's my edition from Monday--subscribe and read all the archives here. 

It has rained in the night, and outside on the balcony, birds are chirping, the temperature has dropped and green abounds. All quite idyllic, except the cats have killed a squirrel in the night and are now playing a very macabre game of catch with its corpse, so I've had to draw the curtains. (Cats are sociopaths.)

This is my all time favourite cat gif

Speaking of cats, Squishy, our big black tom, has taken to mothering the two foster kittens in a way that's quite sweet to see. Mack, especially, thinks Squishy is his hero and has even begun to walk a little bit like him, while the Hobgoblin occasionally has her bum licked or her face smacked, and even dared to jump on his twitching tail the other day. (Mack and the Hobster have new names now, because of their new owners* but that would be confusing in this newsletter, so they'll stay M & H till the end of this chapter.) (*Owners is a weird word for a cat person. We're definitely not "owners." "Mummies" is too twee, and cat slaves not entirely accurate, so I'm going with "cohabiters")

Anyway. Onward!

This week in food and drink:  Our favourite place to eat lunch outside the house is Little Saigon in Hauz Khas Enclave. Everything about it is amazing. But sadly, we're going to have to start calling before we go, because it was CLOSED last time we checked, so sadly, we drove away and towards this other thing called Cravity that was at the head of the road. Before we reached Cravity though (Cavity + Craving? Horrible name) we saw a very understated grey sign marked with Big Fat Sandwich. Now, we had somewhat cooled off our BFS love, because of how long they took to deliver and so on, but the sandwiches themselves were quite good, so we decided to go in. A revelation! Cool warehouse-y inside, a Blue Tokai coffee counter, lovely art everywhere. Plus eating there made us realise how much the sandwiches were losing in delivery. Very nice for a coffee/lunch meeting if you're in the area.

Went to Lady Baga in Connaught Place for Anuja Chauhan's booklaunch over the weekend. I was curious about it because it's the Olive group, and their stuff is usually good. However--meh. I mean, it was a launch, so launch food, but paneer in what looked like rechado paste? Some random lamb balls? Plus the sand on the floor seems like a good idea until you trail sand everywhere. And the stairwell smelt faintly of garbage, probably because there's a Subway on the ground floor, nyuk nyuk. (No hate though, I love Subway.) So, after some launching, my friend Sam and I went off to Nando's where our meal was v satisfactory.

This week in stuff I wrote: MANY things. A happy side result of that stress I alluded to in my last newsletter (I wish I could tell you all about it, but not yet) is that I became super motivated to do some freelance writing again and pitched to everyone and lots of people responded with "yes!" so I wrote everything. Mostly book stuff though because that is my favourite: Two pieces in Scroll: On The Handmaid's Tale and how it's happening right now in India. (Margaret Atwood retweeted this piece so how's that for endorsement?) ** A review of Paula Hawkins' newest book Into The Water which suffers from a case of too many unreliable narrators (plus reminded me of Rebecca.) ** As Aunty Feminist, trying a new op-ed, less Q&A approach, so here's my thoughts on fairy tales and what would happen if the prince didn't turn up at the last moment? ** In The Indian Express, talking about my girl Anne Shirley and her mother figure Marilla Cuthbert, who totally doesn't get enough credit. ** In Mint a review of Sri Lankan author Chhimi Tenduf-La's newest collection of short stories, which I enjoyed greatly. ** And finally, restarting my F Word column for the Week with this piece on body hair and why my arms are so hairy. ** (Related:  was quoted in this piece on the millennial writer as well, so look at me being young and restless.)

This week in stuff I didn't write but you should read anyway: The engineer behind demonetisation. ** My father was Hindi medium, I was English, I left him behind. Gorgeous piece in Arre. ** The secret life of urban crows. ** The personal essay boom is over (but not in India yet because how else would I make my money, right?) ** The Goya City Food Guides are lovely, so you should read them all: Kolkata, Bengaluru and Chennai. ** Every rom com's female bff to the protagonist. ** Schadenfreude is this bitchy review of Ekta Kapoor's ALT Balaji shows, their new web streaming content channel. ** How posh young Indians look for love. ** And.. on owls, because if you're going to stick them everywhere, you may as well learn about them too. **



Woop, woop, until next week!
xx
m

The PRoblem with PR

Back when I first started to be a journalist, I entered with no preconceived notions in my head. To me, everyone was equal--from sub editors to reporters to page designers--and obviously the editor in chief was the head of it all, but the rest of us were all monkeys with typewriters. Before I joined my first job, I was given a little aptitude test (do they still do that?) where they make you fill out lots of pages about who you are and what you read and then line edit a story for mistakes and then you do a little essay about some random topic. Mine was "My Autobiography" and perhaps not surprising for someone who has basically been writing their memoirs online for like, OH TEN YEARS, I filled up some twenty pages. I have a lot to say about myself. It's a problem.

Anyway, so maybe if I hadn't been such a little enthu cutlet, the fate of my career path would have been completely different. They took one look at it--and my ill-informed views on the news page of

Always a boxing match

the form I had to fill out--and shunted me straight into features or lifestyle reporting, where, now, a decade later, I still lurk, lurkingly. Being in lifestyle reporting is mostly just you and your colleagues thinking things like a trend story on fabrics are far more important issues than they actually are, but on the other hand, they are also the pages that are read the most. One other distinguishing thing about the lifestyle reporter is that you work very closely with PR people, far more closely than your bretheren in crime or sports, because the PR represents the people you want to talk to for your story.

A very long post which should clear up the matter once and for all

Since I’m very cold and since EVERYONE AND THEIR UNCLE have asked me, “Oh you moved from Bombay? Which city do you like better?” I’ve decided to share two pieces of journalistic fabulousness that I did in the last couple of months, both around the same topic.

 

First, a piece for Marie Claire’s December “party” issue, on parties in Bombay vs. parties in Delhi: 

 

I used to be “that girl”. The one you might have passed on your Sunday morning jog,
as she’s teetering blearily home. The one you might glance at in a nightclub, where she’s
in the centre of the dance floor, shaking her straightened-for-the-occasion hair, singing
along to everything that comes on, appearing as though she’s tapping into an endless
source of energy. That was me, not even that long ago, but it’s not me anymore. Now-Me
likes nothing else but a place where she can sit down, have a glass of wine and be able to
have conversation with friends. Now-Me, in fact, is what Then-Me would have dismissed
as “boring”, but I’m okay with that.

 

So as part of this major shift, I decided a couple of weeks ago to hang up the glitter and take myself back to Delhi, the city I grew up in. Bombay—the city I was grown up in—suddenly seemed to be all about the sameness, and I craved a change, something other than little nightclubs with pulsing music being all that one can do on a weekend. Delhi, while lovely, seemed to have just the right amount of stodge to get me to do some serious work without distractions. Er. So, yes, not so much. While Thursday night in Bombay got me some sweet text messages from friends wishing I was there to go to Olive with them, Thursday night in Delhi saw me looking at pretty much exactly the same scene. While the venue was different (the Foreign Correspondents Club) and the drinks were much cheaper (Rs 400 for a small vodka at Olive, Rs 40 for a small vodka here) the crowd? Well, they could have been just about anywhere. The only thing missing was the familiar heartbeat of music, the lub-dub in the background that I am so used to, I only miss it when it’s not there and I find myself straining to hear it.

 

Ah, the Delhi-Bombay divide. That most beloved of debates, that every citizen of India
(and some non-citizens) love to weigh in on. Where Bombay wins: the complete and utter
independence for women, where else in this country can you take a rickshaw home at 4
in the morning without second thought? For a party girl, this one fact is of the utmost
importance. Yes, I think that is what defines my social life in Bombay, not having to depend on anyone else, being the mistress of my own fate, so to speak. I loved the fact that I could go to a bar on my own, just sit there with a book and a cigarette even if I wasn’t meeting anyone, and then go home, equally unburdened, no one to answer to, but myself. But, let’s examine the plus side of being a little less safe: one, it’s rather romantic to be picked up and dropped home by the object of your affections, two, it means that you do get to see your friends and spend more time with them than otherwise (long car rides being perfect for bonding) and three, it means everyone sticks to the plan. One of my pet peeves, and something that happens a lot in Bombay is when people are fluid about their evenings. Not I. I like a little structure, I like to decide a little bit in advance where I’ll go and what I’ll do and who I’ll see. Going with the flow is not something that has ever appealed to me.

 

And, I spent this weekend, a newly reinstated Delhiite, a new Bombay abandoner, in
Bombay, at a very popular club, where being one of the shortest people there, I was
invariably shoved and stepped upon by people in a hurry. From Delhi, I get a phone call:
did I want to go to a book reading? Reader, I did. It was at that moment, that I swapped
my fancy heels (beautiful but torturous) for plain canvas flats, said goodbye to my friends
and decided to go home and read a book. I’m not quite hanging up the high heels yet, but
I might put them into early retirement. I’ll be taking a little bit of Bombay with me though:  my fashion sense for one. In Delhi, they like you matchy-matchy, all accessories impeccable, in Bombay, the girls wear cotton in nightclubs, wear flat shoes pretty much everywhere and accessories are quirky and over the top. The crowds may look at me askance, sheltered Punjabi girls with straightened hair who only come to these things to get some alone time with their secret boyfriends and dress provocatively, but hey, I’m in my late twenties, I’ve earned it. In Bombay, they don’t care who I am, what I’m doing or even who I’m with— unless he’s a Bollywood star.

I sense there never will be a resolution between the two cities. But, I remain as a party girl— a Belhi-ite, a combination of the two cities I love, and all, uniquely, myself.

 

And this little guest column on my love life (or lack thereof) for The Sunday Guardian:

Delhi has always been a black hole. Not in terms of the stuff that matters—there's plenty of work, stuff to do, and nice people. No, when I say 'black hole', I mean the vacuous area of darkness that seems to envelop my love life each time I live in this city. Oh, you say, how many times have you lived in this city? To which I must (somewhat abashedly) admit that this is only my second try. My first try was a couple of weeks after I was born and it extended to a couple of decades after that. And okay, while I didn't spend those decades constantly single, for a while there, in the middle, it felt as though I was.

So, shall we then agree that Delhi is not to blame? I suppose I can allow that. Grudgingly. After all, my first “date” in a very long time happened in Delhi not too long ago, even though Mumbai (where I spent the last four years) seemed a lot more promiscuous. Maybe it's because for the first time in a very long time, I am in a position to start dating again, having just emerged from a very long, very monogamous relationship. This is something they tell you not to mention on first dates, the “pressure” might cause whichever unwitting gentleman is out with me that evening to run for the hills, but what about the pressure that's putting on a city? Delhi, which I left Bombay for, is now constantly up for comparison with my “old boyfriend”, Delhi's not as cool, Delhi doesn't let me take rickshaws at four in the morning, in Bombay people are nicer and so on and so forth. It makes me wonder though—am I letting go enough? Is this 'black hole' just something of my own creation?

My move back to Delhi is pretty fresh, a little over a week old, and I watch my interaction with this once-familiar city with cagey eyes. Will it be just the same city I left all those years ago? Does anything ever really change? Is the black hole waiting to swallow me whole? News of friends new relationships make me happy though, in some selfish corner of my heart, I feel their happiness is also mine. If they can find love in this unforgiving world, so can I—again. But, but (and again, I point to Bombay) in my old city I knew how to navigate the single world. I knew where I'd be likely to meet fun, interesting people, more importantly, I knew what fun, interesting people were out there. I wasn't like this, unsure of my next step, watching cautiously, wondering if what I'm wearing is too quirky, too loud, too OTT, too Bombay for Delhi.  (eM’s aside: I think I was very concerned about what I was wearing the first couple of weeks I was here. Winter wear has never been my strong point, and so, because it’s what I do, I obsessed like a mad woman, which sort of took over my writing as well, clearly. I’ve learned to accept it now though, you’ll be happy to hear.)

At the end of the day, however, I remind myself, as I walk around my apartment, talking to my cat (yes, I'm that single lady) that I'm still me. No matter what black holes I've known in the past, and however many potentially loom in my future. I'm still who I was about a week ago, and I know this sounds all very Gloria Gaynor karaoke moment but no black holes are going to get me down.

As for the inevitable comparisons, I suspect they'll continue to happen. Which of us hasn't compared a present to an ex, even if it is favourably? You have history, and then you base your future on your history. It's as simple as that.

Rubbing Shoulders

We all have party favour stories. The ones we tell when we're in a group of relatively new people, and we're not yet drunk, but drifting away on a haze of happy alcoholism, wanting to impress. Wanting the entire room to stand spellbound for a moment by the Adventures Of You. There's no greater thrill than having a good party favour story. It stands you in good stead through various parties, it breaks the ice for you and best of all, if it's not a time-bound story, it helps locate you as the person you want to be. The Guy Who Bravely Battled Adversity In Ghana. The Girl Who Was Picked Up By Cops Who Thought She Was A Hooker, Only To Stand Up To Them Defiantly. The One Where You Were Drunk (Oh My God, So Very Drunk) And Wound Up Partying With Roger Waters. Good stories, all, mostly told with some sort of humour or irony, and which will earn you backpats and drinks and you're-such-a-rockstar! comments.

My favourite party favour story actually happened a long time ago. I think it was the year I had just turned 23, and The Vagina Monologues had just come to India. Bombay was where the big show was--we had heard Marisa Tomei was a part of the cast---and so it had been all over the papers for a couple of days. Naturally, then, by the time it came to Delhi, it was tired news, old news, and most papers sent their youngest correspondents to see whether they could get a small page 3 filler item. My paper didn't even send me with a photographer. "PR pictures," said my editor, and when the editor asks for PR pictures you know your story is pretty much doomed to either not run at all or run in a tiny box with no byline. The tabloid I worked for then was pretty big on their party pages, they had two dedicated party reporters, and I was the theatre/book person, which sounds like a really big deal, but not so much, because out of the six features pages assigned to us, one went to movies, two to parties, the centrespread to "important" stories and I got random little stories scattered wherever there wasn't a party piece. Anyway. I had already seen the play in London, with my father a couple of years before when it first released. I had heard a lot about it, and when I saw the posters advertising it in London, I begged for us to go, and my dad being the sort of guy who prides himself on not flinching when the word 'vagina' comes out of his nineteen-year-old daughter's mouth, agreed, and we went together. It was an awesome show (Sophie Dahl!) but every time they made references to "loving your vagina" or even "my hoochie-scrotcher" I cringed in the seat next to him. (And seeing as the play is called The Vagina Monologues, you can imagine there's a lot of cringing). My dad seemed to enjoy it though, but I was looking forward to watching the play without the presence of a parent.

I took Dee with me, having two passes and no photographer, and we went to the India Habitat Centre, I introduced myself to the PR saying I'd need pictures and we happily sat back and watched the show. Good fun. Afterwards there was a cocktail thingy happening up on the terrace, but before we headed for that, I thought I'd join the line of TV reporters on stage, you know , get a quick quote for my 150 word story and we'd carry on with the rest of our plans for the night. TV reporters are never kind to their poor print cousins. The number of times I have been banged on the head with a camera (being about the same height) probably explains the sudden blackouts I keep having. Anyway, having learnt my lesson at a young and tender age, I preferred to stand back and watch as the TV guys did their thing, before swooping forward with the rest of the print journos and getting my quote. Most were clustered around Mahabanoo Mody-Kotwal, the director of the play, but a few were around the other actors.

"Let's go," said Dee.
"Hang on, hang on, let these guys finish," I said to her, and then she wandered off to say hello to someone and I was left standing on stage, looking around, wishing the bloody cameras would move already.
Which is when I spotted this nondescript looking white woman standing off to the side of the stage, watching the television cameras and smiling to herself. She looked familiar, I thought, letting my gaze wander again, and then, you know how it is when someone looks familiar, you have to keep looking at them and looking at them while you flip through your mental portfolio to see where they fit in. I examined her again. Lessee, mousy brown hair, not unpretty features, wearing a white kurta and khaki pants--typical dip wife attire, I thought. It must be someone I met at an embassy party. But there was something niggling at the back of my mind, this was more than the usual I've-seen-her-somewhere-before feeling. This was a sense of absurd familiarity, like we had hung out on occassion, gotten drunk somewhere or something. I gasped
and grabbed Dee by the arm, dragging her away from her conversation.

"What?" she asked, exasperated.
"Dee, look at that woman--no, don't look now, don't look now--haan, now look."
She did, and looked back at me, rolling her eyes. "Yes?"
"Dude, that's Marisa Tomei."
"No, it's not." She looked again and gasped too. "OH. MY. GOD."
"Yup."

My dilemma was now complete. This was a story worthy of a full party page spread. This was a story my editors should hold the press for. (We were an afternoon paper, so often the party reporters returned late at night and filed whatever they had). And I was a) minus a photographer and b) anxious not to draw attention to Ms. Tomei, just in case anyone else should see and ruin my perfect exclusive. I whispered to Dee not to call too much attention to it, and called my editors. "There should be our freelance party photographer there," I was told, "Ask him to shoot her."

I found the freelance guy--this weird effeminate chap, who was involved in a battle of power with me over my desk. See, he got the desk I used during the day at night, and being one of the youngest reporters, I was also in charge of the television listing pages, which meant huge dossiers from all the channels lay all over my desk. I called it my open plan filing system, he called it a mess, and often, I came in in the morning to find all my stuff in the trash, because he was a "creative person who could not work with untidiness." We both yelled and complained and bitched, our editor patted us both on the back and told us to live with it. Anyway, tonight he was there and charming, because I was the creature of power. "Who is that?" he murmured to me after a "Hello, sweetie!" which made my eyes widen in disbelief. "Marisa Tomei," I whispered back, "Famous actress, Oscar winner, get a good picture."

At the cocktail party, Dee and I managed to corner Marisa Tomei, who was once more standing by herself, with a glass of wine in her hand. I asked her the usual, "How do you like India? And Delhi? And what have you done so far on your trip?" before breaking down and saying, "I am SUCH a huge fan of your work."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. She was really very nice, and close up, even without makeup, very pretty.

Think of a good movie, eM, think of something to say about her work. No, NOT What Women Want, something where she had a substantial role.

"I loved you in The Guru!" I blurted out, "I've seen it like five times!"

Her eyebrows rose, but she smiled again, "I'm glad you liked it."

Then we talked about shopping in Delhi and where she should go, and I exited, still riding high on my neat little coup. "Dude," said Dee, "The Guru?" "I couldn't think of anything else!" I said defensively. "Erm... How about the role she actually won an Oscar for? My Cousin Vinny?" "Crap," I said.

And there's my party favour story. Won me much acclaim too. Oh, and in case you were wondering, it did run as a full party page spread and no one else had it and I got calls asking for her number and/or email address for weeks. Which also I had forgotten to get. I was so much younger then, what can I say?

When we're NOT wallowing, we're actually having a pretty good time

* Have you lot seen Wife Swap? If you have, you know how glorious it isn't, and if you haven't, you simply must (6 pm, Sundays, Discovery Travel and Living). Anyway, it's possibly the most incredible television programming idea, simply because, oh, the grounds for bitchiness are way, way more than any Top Model type shows could ever offer. Basically, they choose two very different families and switch wives and then chaos ensues. So far, from what I've managed to see, there've been a Wiccan Goddess and a woman who believes her husband runs the household, a very very rich woman who shops a lot with another woman who spends a lot of time with charity and so on. You get the drift. There's a lot of talking about spending time with your kids and eating dinner together, which are funnily enough the two most popular rules that happen during rule change. But my very favourite part is the one right at the end, where the original couples face each other and there's usually a slanging match. One woman even refused to come out of her car, coz she had been a diva all week. Why am I talking about Wife Swap? Because I have no life, clearly.

* Wait that's not true. I did indeed go out this weekend. There was this blog party thing, a gathering of People Who Heart The Internet, about as much as I do. Of course, I'm only a closet nerd, but it's good to come out of the closet every now and then. I felt exactly like one of those weekend homosexuals, who are all whee-purple-ripped-tank-top at gay parties only to be all ho-ho-ho-I'm-straight-in-my-pinstriped-shirt-and-tie on Monday. Anyway so I gushed all over Bombay Addict, who looked rather bemused, but I really must pimp his blog, which I like a lot. It's an awesome blog. Go read it! I also met Amit and we were speculating about the identities of some of the pretty women there and I tried to talk him into going over to them and saying, "Hello. Would you like to see my *ahem* India uncut?" Hee. Only he refused. Spoilsport.

* Here I must put in a minor digression. Where have all the pretty boys gone? I find myself ONLY checking out women, for sheer lack of any eye candy whatsoever. Really. I go to places and I look around and the men are so appalling with tight floral shirts or jeans worn up to their armpits or man boobs, or with really bad teeth or you know, something and then there are all these beautiful women looking petite and fey and fairylike, and always very very well dressed and I know Delhi doesn't have this awesome reputation for treating women well, but hey, at least we've got something to look at. No, but Bombay women really know how to dress. In Delhi, most people overdo the cham-cham, like this one acquaintance of mine from college, who also got married in like second year and was insufferable ever since, and when I bumped into her at Rick's, she was wearing electric blue pants, which would be okay, if she hadn't turned around and revealed to me that the back half of her pants were, um, gold. Yeah. Not much for subtlety, no. The good thing about that though, is that the few women in Delhi who know how to dress without too much glitter, look lovely and distinguished, very much like yours truly. Oh all right. Not much like me. My clothes are minimalist, and I very rarely accessorise. But still. I usually look nice in them, which is what matters.

* After the blog party, me and Sameer, who was my date du jour, went to Hard Rock to hang out with some new people (I'm meeting so many new people these days, it rocks), and when we were right outside Hard Rock with all these fancy cars pulling up and fancy people getting out, my car stalled. And I mean refused to start again. So the bouncer and the valet pushed it outside and we spent some time opening the hood and looking inside it, only we had no idea what we were looking at, so we settled for looking despairing which is when two taxi drivers came up and with magic and lots of changing gears, managed to get it started again. And I drove it back inside Hard Rock to exactly the same spot where it, lalalala, stalled again. Oh, the mortification. This time the valet took over and we went inside blushing in embarrasement. Nothing that two vodkas with oj wouldn't cure. (Vodka-oj by the way, is my new drink). Then we took my car back to my house, hopped into a friendly auto and went to one of the New Friends' houses. Where he had the most posh alcohol ever. Like Jagermeister! Which is this German liqueur thing which you do in shots and which burns the back of your throat as you toss it down. Mmmmmmmm.

* All my new friends seem to have fancy alcohol, which makes me dread the day I will have to invite them all over and serve vodka or Old Monk or Kingfisher strong (coz the guy near my house doesn't have regular beer) in my house which despite my best cleaning efforts smells faintly like cat litter. Like last weekend? I was at another set of New Friends' house, and their house was lovely, with a view of the sea from each balcony and I just wandered around going wow. Wow. WOW. Anyway, so I was asked what I wanted and I shrugged and the host said, "You were drinking margaritas, right?" and proceeded to make me one. FROZEN. PERFECT. In margarita GLASSES. Dude. I nearly died.

* And one must mention one's first bit of current affairs reporting, which was excellent fun and made one feel all investigative-reporter-y. I love my job.

* And, I bought an AC! And I'm officially never leaving the house again! (I don't actually have any money left to leave the house till the end of June, so I suppose it's fortunate that I feel that way)

On Working From Home

You awaken thrice before it's actually time for you to wake up. If it's your turn to open the door for the maid, you do. Some days, you forget whose turn it is and do anyway, so that the reproachful sounds of your flatmate's footsteps don't reach you. The cook asks you what she should make for dinner, you are aware that she is noting how you sleep, on your stomach, one arm curled around your pillow. You murmur something, she says you haven't touched the rotis she made yesterday. You apologise. You try to go back to sleep. It is ten am and your cat needs to be fed. He makes this known by sitting on your back and meowing into your ear. You lift him up and kick him out of the room. Your alarm goes. You press the snooze button. Your alarm goes again. You surrender and wake up.

The house is all yours. You cherish this. You go to the bathroom with the door open. You put the kettle on for coffee. Your cat twines himself around your legs, with accusing meows. You feed him, he follows you back to the kitchen to see if you have anything more appealing on offer. Still sleep bleary, you switch on your laptop and plug in the cable wire. A slight flaw in the internet and your day is undone. Your computer hasn't been working so you rely on your flatmate's. Other people are commuting. You are in your boxer shorts and t-shirt, smoking your first cigarette of the day and checking your email. Other people who commute can afford to spend the day just surfing the internet, by virtue of the clocking in. You feel guilty. You don't allow yourself any breaks beyond lunch. You check if your story ideas have been approved. If they have, you start making your phone calls. Still, you are at home after all, and your body takes this as a cue to relax. Your mind however, doesn't. You feel guilty on a week you don't have any stories. You feel guilty on days when you don't have to meet anyone. Guilt, guilt, guilt. You are racked by it. You contemplate some days, just taking the train and going into your office, but discard this as impractical. At office, you are legitimately allowed to have weeks where you have nothing to show. Weeks where the weekend feels like an excuse to do what you've done all week.

You forget what it's like to have conversations with people who are not your cat.

The days when you have to meet people are filled with glory. You waken early, with a sense of purpose. You dress early, finish your mail checking and head out of the door. You ask questions you've been framing in your head before. You hear the uhs and the ums in your voice, coming from not asking questions all day. Coming from typing questions instead.

You file your story. You research it. Your writing skills have been honed for this is your only form of communication for the most part. You like the way your stories look now. You sometimes wish you had admiring colleagues around you to see how rapidly your fingers move across the keyboard.

It is seven, it is eight. You need to leave the house. To go back to bed in the same nightclothes you are still wearing would be depressing in a way you cannot even imagine. While elsewhere in the world, people commute home, you commute outwards. You are lucky you know many people. You drink more. You smoke more. There is nothing else to do. You are only eating one meal a day most days. Your body does not seem to need any more. You feel cliched.

You tell people you work from home. You hear envy in their voices. This is what you have wanted to do all your life. You are happy. You are guilty.

Take a walk on the wild (but still pretty) side

Dude, man.

Am so tired, but it's morning (yay, morning) and since have slept heavily and deeply last night, despite strange pain near my hip and mosquito bite on my bottom. (Which is a very strange place for a mosquito bite, I realise. And it itches! And I can't look all ladylike and elegant as I am forced to do for the next couple of days, when I am concentrating fiercely on MAKING THE ITCH STOP. Stop, already, itch! In bathroom breaks, I entered stalls and with a great and humongous sigh of relief, yank my skirt up so I can scratch at said mosquito bite. Which is growing. Which is growing so much, it will soon be larger than my original bottom. Which is actually not saying much, because my bottom looks like Pippi Longstocking's. Oh, is this too much information? I do apologise, but I think hell would be being forced to have mosquito bites on strange parts of your body which you CANNOT scratch. Arrgh.)

The reason I can't scratch this bite, and the reason I have to take "bathroom breaks" as opposed to just plain old going to the bathroom, is because ta-dah, as a fitting farewell tribute to this career that has served me well, I have achieved the pinnacle of features journalism snobbery and I am covering the Fashion Week, here in Delhi. Fashion journos are another breed altogether, I realise, they're all po-ash as can be, very well-dressed, with snarky eyes and downturning mouths. No one smiles, unless you know each other and when you talk, you GOSSIP. It's rather fun. I'm covering it with super fashion expert from work, Anaya, who doesn't have a downturning mouth at all, or snarky eyes, but I think we might be one of the few exceptions. (Oh, and AB, before you get your panties in a twist, you're very nice too). I have been practicing my snooty look, which is fun, but not easy, especially since these Amazon, 100 feet tall women in HIGH HEELS keep walking blasely past me, all oh-look-I'm-a-model-and-I-will-toss-my-hair-in-your-direction. And then they toss their hair.

But seriously, you guys? Being in that hotel from morning to night, watching various fashion shows? Is harder than I thought it would be. It feels oddly like you're in an airport, in transit or something, waiting and waiting for the plane to finally take off. You enter all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and well-dressed and when you exit, you don't have the energy to pull off your media accredation passes (which by the way are very cool, and I'm SO proud of mine. Look, it's laminated! And it has me on it! I'M laminated! Whee!), let alone party afterwards. Actually, this is probably just me. As a first-timer, I see the wise looks on everyone else's faces as they wearily kick off their shoes and rub their heels and then they look at me pityingly and say, "It's only Day One." Um.. yeah. Did I not mention that? All this whining is about ONE DAY.

But there are good things. Sitting in the fashion shows are great fun, especially mmmm, the ones that use male models. Oh, yesterday? Arjun Rampal walked the ramp for Rohit Bal's show, and oh, I WANT. NOW. He just walked down it, whistling, and this one chick stood up and clapped him really hard and he walked off the ramp and gave her this very cute newsboy hat he was wearing. Bitch.

Also, have decided I want to walk like the models to, like there's a hook in my navel pulling me outwards and with my shoulders thrown back. Have just gotten up from my computer and done that, a couple of times, around the room, but no, sadly, I don't look anything like them. In fact, I look a little strange. Okay, a lot strange.

And since my role here is to basically cover the after parties, since Anaya the Effecient really has the shows tied up with a pretty blue bow(Blue is the new black. You heard it here first), I went for the Manish Arora party at Agni last night, which would have probably been more fun if I was less tired. Old age, dudes, it creeps up on you without any warning. But! Christopher was there! Hi, Chris! We're glad you were there, we are.

So must rush, darlings, things to do, people to meet. Plus must figure out what I'm wearing today. A Fashion Journalist must be well-dressed, said the Scriptures, and we don't flout the scriptures.

More updates later, I think.

Schmidt is such a nice word to say

a) Okay people, here's a quick quiz. If you were to throw me on a desert island which of these three things would you need to provide before I chewed my own arm off and threw the dismembered limb at you? Is it 1) cigarettes; 2) alcohol or 3) coffee? If you answered all of the above you're WRONG, and you THINK you know me but you don't really. I can survive without alcohol, even if I become dull and boring and a blotch on the face of the planet that would have to be picked out by blackhead tweezers. I can survive without cigarettes--if you wrestled me to the ground and said, "NO MORE CIGARETTES OR YOU WILL DIE TOMORROW!"-- and then there might be a chance that I will develop superhuman strength and say, "You will die, you stupid fucker, give me back my cigarettes!" but yeah, I will not eat own appendages. The correct answer, and now, pay attention, because I'm only going to say this once, is answer three; coffee. I cannot be expected to live on this planet without my daily dose of, oh, something like five hundred million cups of coffee, and there's no reason why I should live on this planet anymore when one of my God-given rights is being taken away from me. But you know, the thing about God? He/She/It/The-power-that-bes is MEAN. And nasty. Take that, God! I smote you! I smote you right here on this blog. (wait, sorry, didn't mean it, don't make nasty things happen to me, I'm sorry, I wuv you, twuly) Anyway, *ahem* where was I? Yes, so mean ol' nasty God, with all the mean ol' nasty powers and ha-ha-you-think-you're-so-smart-but-I-am-smarter-because-if-you-don't-believe-in-the-evolution-theory-I-MADE-you-so-suck-it-up type thinking, has in fact, taken away the one thing that I love and desire and that I think is mankind's coolest invention, right up there next to electricity and the telephone, ooh, and America's Next Top Model (which, in the spirit of honesty, I must admit, I love. There was an episode last night, which was very nailbiting and exciting, where one chick, who was very blonde and pretty burst into tears and said she was gay and she couldn't hold it in anymore and another chick, who, go figure, was also very blonde and pretty--I'm sensing a trend here--rolled up her eyes and fainted. Good fun. I love fainting people on tv. It's such excellent watching) which is coffee. How has it been taken away from me? I'm so glad you asked that question, because everyone must know of this conspiracy that surrounds me. If I drink more than three cups a day, I get a horrible, sharp, stabbing headache all over the front of my head and it isn't nice. It's not a very nice thing to do at all. I hope if god (see, I am so mad at you, I'm not even capitalising your letter. I smote you, I say again! I smotest! I smite!) is reading this, he/she/blah blah blah will take the goddamn (oooooh) hint and take away the headaches.



b) Since we are in rantifying mood, clearly, I think little note to anonymous commenters of last post should be inserted here, and maybe, I will not be angry, and maybe you will think this is humourous because you, my un-anonymous reader who leaves NICE comments, rock, and then everybody shall be happy, except the trolls and they cannot be happy because they are trolls and it is against Basic Troll Personality to be happy and why would you want to mess with basic troll personality? And maybe I should also say that I don't think writing about sex makes me promiscuous at all, and everyone does it, even your parents at one point and if you want to think your PARENTS are all these strange and really very unfeminist things you have called me, then, well, there is a slight problem with our perspectives and maybe you should go look at some other, very fine, blogs that deal with the lives of people much more expert at writing about sex than I am, but, I should warn you (because I am nice and you are not) you probably won't be encouraged to leave dirty comments there either. (Oh, and I'm also not going to sleep with you. Just clarifying. You have a nice day now!)



c) I went for karaoke night the other day and Mika was there and he sang I Want To Break Free and it was good. It was so good that I called people and held up the phone only they could only hear me giggling like a maniac in the background, which is a pretty noise, even if I do say so myself, but it blocked out the Glory that is Mika, and EVERYONE should hear a fat, young Punjabi singer with a gold and diamond necklace around his neck and a huge M pendant singing Queen at least once in their lives. Everybody. I was going to sing too, but I was too shy.



d) I have a new job! Starting next month! Where I will no longer be journalist! Who woulda thunk? (More details later)

~ eM could really do with an Ultimate Margarita right about now

I can't change, I can't change, but I'm here in my mind, I am here in my mind, I'm a million different people from one day to the next

* Things are out to get me. I'm serious. Just now, not fifteen minutes ago, I'm talking to a friend on the phone and happen to knock my thumb lightly against the table. Okay, it's a slight knock, not the kind of thing you'd notice normally, only five minutes after that I'm aware of an acute throbbing pain in said thumb. I look down, it's scarlet in a way that only an injured limb can be and there's one spot that's blue and pulsing. Ladies and gentlemen, meet eM the only healthy, in control of bodily functions, adult woman alive who has managed to burst a blood vessel while on a perfectly normal phone conversation.

If that's not enough, there's a lift in my office that wants to eat me. You know how with most lifts if you put your hand in or stand against the wall or something, it won't close? I think that has something to do with the sensor. This one, though, each time I try to hold it, so I can get in, begins to close over whatever body part I have inserted. (Okay, that just sounds dirty. I meant, naturellement, a hand or an arm or something. Not like a boob. Or a vagina, but that would be tough) And to make matters worse, it does this with a little chuckle. And ONLY to me, everyone else stands with insouciant ease, with one finger pressed against the door. Yesterday I only managed to save my hand with great agility, but I did scrape it.

* Was out with a friend the other night, who was on assignment at Ralph's Wine Bar at Uppal's Orchid. We enter, are seated, poring over the wine list like experts when really the only thing I recognise is merlot, and this waiter brings a bowl of buttered, salted popcorn which I'm happily tucking into, when this other waiter comes up and asks for ID. Now, I haven't been asked for ID since I was 19 and shivering outside Djinns, when the bouncer looked impervious to my (goosefleshed) charms and refused to move the velvet rope. (Now that no one goes there anymore, I feel a certain glee, coz I can walk in anytime I want to, but I choose not to). Anyway, as regular readers of this blog are no doubt aware, I miss the legal Delhi drinking age by, oh, six months. Six. Lousy. Months. I believe the drinking age in Mumbai is eighteen? And Cal as well, right? But, noooooooo, we must discriminate against me.

So, we tried to bluff our way through it. My friend actually is legal, 26 soon, and I'm all like, "Well, while I'm flattered that you'd think I was under 25, this is just getting silly now, so why don't you run along like a good boy and get us a glass of red?" they insisted. And then, sadly I told my friend I wouldn't drink, I'd just have a coke, honest, because night outs were about the company and totally not about the alcohol. Totally. But they got even more shirty (which is a term I love but it mystifies me. So like the opposite of shirty would be trousery?) about it and said I couldn't sit in the goddamn bar if I was under 25. We did a lot of hem-hem-PRESS-hem-hem, but to no avail. So we had to leave. By the time we were at the Deck in Sahara Mall though, a Bloody Mary flowing happily through my veins, we saw the humour in the situation. But really, Uppal's Orchid dudes? Six months? On a slow Sunday night with no one at your bar? You need to rethink your managerial policies.

* Twas Leela's birthday a couple of days ago. Leela, my best friend, sitting in London turned 25, and I was just thinking of the first birthday I knew her for, I think it was her thirteenth. Her twin sisters and I decided to throw her a surprise party, only she got wind of it and promptly handed them a guest list, "just in case they were interested in knowing if she had a birthday party, who she'd be likely to invite." We played the piano, or she did, and there was a skit or something and her then-boyfriend, this boy she vowed she'd marry someday (and to be fair, they lasted from Class 8 to Class 11) was there. This was before we became the friends we are today, when we were in that first infatuated stage you have with new people you really really really like, and you're over at their place all the time and going, "Leela says" every second sentence at home and looking at old photo albums and basically living together, but you're still not in that comfort zone you have with people you love. Like a new pair of jeans that you can't bear to take off or wash, and soon they're like part of your skin, with white faded areas around your ass. I remember the two of us listening to Madonna really loudly on her parents' system (which we were forbidden to touch) and once, daringly, sneaking out Erotica from its aluminium foil cd case and listening to it quickly.


I miss her. I miss the two just-teenagers, who read Baby Sitter's Club and Sweet Valley High peppered with the occassional classic and went swimming and played endless board games on endless summer afternoons and had fashion shows and sleepovers where we talked and talked and talked till one am. I wonder what those two would think of us. Would they be happy with the way they turned out? Or would they crinkle their noses a little and go, "Really? That's who we become? I think we're going to stay right here, thanks."


* By the way, I'm doing a story on young single independant people in the city, basically talking about what they do, and their friends and support systems and so on and how it's okay to be alone and it would be great if you (or someone you know) would let me speak to them, pick their minds a little, talk about being single. You can be DATING someone, but not married. And preferably, for this story, living alone, and/or defying your parents and convention in some way. Please? Pretty please? Email me at thecompulsiveconfessorATgmailDOTcom

Thank you! :)

In defense of my job

Features reporting is not the hectic fast-paced journalism you'll see on television. As a features journo, I can, more often than not, take my time about things. I don't have to charge up to some brandishing a dictaphone, because the people I meet want to talk to the media and if I miss something, they'll repeat it, so I can take notes in my little notebook. I can sit down once I've gotten my quotes, perhaps get something to eat or drink. When I'm interviewing someone, I can chat for a good couple of hours while they give me information and I get coffee. Hell, the longer I talk to them, the better my interview is.

Okay, so it may not be reporting just after the tsunami, with homeless people and the high stress of dealing with a population that has lost everything. It's not war reporting either, when you know your own life is in danger as well. It's not political reporting, figuring out the coups and the shifts of day-to-day politics, or being present at a George Bush press con. That's what my job is NOT. What it is is entertainment. I entertain. Think of a newspaper office like a kings court, beginning with the most important stuff, then filtering in the inside pages news about the citizens, then finally the news about the immediate kingdom, what's going on there and then there is us, the features reporter, with our authority to play around with words--to make our copies look fabulous, to have good-looking well laid out pages with fancy punny headlines. We're the ones who tell you whether you should be wearing brocade this season, or whether that new restaurant is a good place to eat, or what the latest gossip is with that movie star and her on-again off-again boyfriend. Since we're still talking metaphors, think of us as the popular girls (or boys, but I really haven't met that many male features journalists. It seems to be a predominantly female domain) in a classroom, the ones who never ran, but strolled gently, the ones who weren't the prefects or anything, but always looked good and spoke well. We weren't the prefects, but we were the dramatic society, and when someone important visited, we were the ones who did the flower arrangements and hung the fancy posters.

I happen to enjoy my job. Oh sure, every now and then I have pangs about how I'm not doing anything meaningful and how the world will not collapse if no one knows that Aamir Khan was in town or whatever, but for the most part I enjoy it. What's not to like? I'm generally a people person, so interviews and profiles are my strong point, as opposed to a more people quote story. When I'm doing a one-on-one, I usually meet them at a coffee shop, or sometimes, in their homes, where we sit and I begin the careful process of being their new best friend. It's an art, really, when you can make the person sitting with you so comfortable, they forget to say, "Off the record" as they tell you everything and you smile, occasionally scribble and then leave, armed with a perfect story.

Anyway, the point is, that a lot of people, especially the ones in the media field themselves, give us condescending smiles when they learn what we do. Sometimes, us, the people in my department are called on to file the story the same day as the event, so we come into office around tennish, by which time most of the people in our department have gone home, but there's still bustling activity as the news reporters file their day's work. That's a moment that always makes me pause as I enter the room. The only noise comes from the clicking of several fingers on several keyboards, and no one looks up as I enter, sidle to my computer and file my story quickly, before either going home to Small or joining friends on a night out. It's not life changing, the event that I'm reporting, but its an event nonetheless. I may not be talking about "Three dead in a bus accident near Jamshedpur" but I will be speaking of a book launch perhaps, who was there and what they did and said, which, c'mon is waaaaaaay more interesting than the bus accident, not that I'm trivialising that either, before you jump down my throat!

Comments like "Oh you're like that chick in Page 3" is something I have taken into my stride by now. I've been a journalist for, oh, going on three years now. And I've met new people, and sometimes the same people, for those three years. I can't tell you about onion prices and the stock market, but I can tell you who those people are, sitting at the next table, being photographed. And what their story is. Chances are, I can also introduce you to them, tell you a little bit about their lives, what they did to be photographed in the first place and even fish out their cellphone numbers, if you needed them. I can tell you what wine goes with what food, where the newest nightclub is and what the cover charges there are, what advance the writer of that book you're looking at got and how it's doing in the market and all sorts of information like that. Which is still information. No mean feat that, eh?

Multiple choice

Things I could blog about now include:

a) Nasty men who have something against women bloggers and start their own blogs in hope of what? Attention? Traffic? More hits? This pisses me off no end, and no, I'm not going to link because the last thing I would want to do is give them what they want, but really, why do you hate us, oh anonymous male blogger? If you prick us, will we not bleed? If you tickle us, will we not laugh? If you want even one tenth of our lifestyles, will we not seize the moment, kick you in the balls and walk away? I think the answer to all of the above is hell, yeah.


b) Meeting people, who comment on the blog, and were one of the few remaining people in the WORLD who didn't know who I *really* am. I am giving myself a shout-out for recognising him, because of a "Fidel Castro hat" he once mentioned on a comment. Hello, Raghu, I can't find the link to your blog anywhere so I can't link it, but hello, all the same.

c) Trying to use the phrase "dam of love" somewhere. Let's see, Fiona brushed back her golden locks as she scanned the horizon for Ted, her manly lover. Manly Ted, with his manly arms appeared suddenly, as if out of the blue, and crushed her bosom to his. "Oh, Fiona," he whispered, in his manly, resonant voice, and she felt his manhood press against her thigh. Unable to resist this dam of love (Aha, ahahahahaha. See?) she swooned and fell backwards, when with a move that showed off his manly, yet metrosexual, gymnastic skills, he caught her and kissed her in a paroxym of passion. Very nice. Thank you, Teleute, for the phrase. :)


d) Actually getting around to doing all the tags I'm supposed to, and the one I really want to do, that 30 one, which Tablemannered tagged me for. But I'm just feeling very, um, what's the word, ya, lazy.

e) How I met (well, saw) many members of the Indian cricket team, and really, Rahul Dravid is not that hot in real life. His head is kinda small, compared to the rest of his body, but he has a nice sweet voice, like the boy next door or something. We like Rahul Dravid. He should now give up cricket and do something meaningful, like, um, become the Prime Minister or something. We need a PM with sex appeal.

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!)