Once Upon a Time in Mumbai

This post has been pending forever, mainly because I have been putting it off forever. Because writing it, is painful. Because writing it, means accepting things that my brain is still trying hard to get my heart to accept. Because forget writing, even the thought of it makes me start crying every time.

This, is a post with more mixed feelings than a molten Cassata ice cream, if you know what I mean.

Once upon a time in Mumbai, actually, two years ago to be much more precise, I landed up here. And I was one enthusiastic person. Enthusiastic about finally working, about finally living alone, about taking care of myself, about being in a city where I could walk on the road without being scared of getting raped 24*7, actually wearing whatever clothes I felt like, and meeting new people, making new friends, and proving myself, finally.

Once upon a time in Mumbai, I was optimistic, and had dreams.

I did meet a lot of new people, and made some amazing friends. I shopped like crazy, wore whatever I wanted, had more fun than probably ever before in my life.

But at the same time, for a year, everything else in my life went wrong, to an extent I had never imagined possible. I cried, I screamed at the rain, I felt angry with my decisions, my luck, and more than anything else, this brutal city. I was unhappy, and it showed.

And then the scenario changed, jobs changed, and my life changed. I was happy, again. I had dreams, again. I started falling in love with this city, again. The Chopsuey theory finally came true, and I for once in my life, I seemed to be living my dreams.

But, this is my life, and sometimes I feel it likes to screw around with me just so that I have enough cribby blogging content, you know?

Mumbai locals were tried, jobs were screwed, colleagues were hated, decisions were questioned, bones were broken, strength was lost, and character was questioned.

And a decision was made. To pack up and get out. For the sake of pride, confidence, sanity.

And in two days time, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Moving back to Delhi, back home, back with my family.

I’d like to say, back to where I belong, but I’m not very sure.

Right now, at this moment, I’m not really sure of anything.

I’m leaving behind some of the most amazing friends I have ever met.

I’m leaving behind independence.

I’m leaving behind the fruits of the Chopsuey Theory.

I’m leaving behind my life.

Everyone has been super supportive, everyone has been so nice about it. Specially someone I’m hurting a lot by this decision, and all I can say in response is a measly thank you.

Thank you, for understanding me, and understanding that this is what I need right now.

I know I might hate Delhi, I’ll curse the men who think that all women are public property to be gawked at and groped, I’ll hate the extreme weather, I’ll hate the long distances and traffic jams, I’ll hate not having much of a life, and I’ll hate the shitty job I’ll be forced to do.

And I’ll miss you.

I know it could be a disaster, but it is my home, my family, and a clean slate.

I'll be back, hopefully, when I’m stronger.

Till then, I have Mum’s home cooked food, time with my family, old friends, and hopefully loads of northern holidays to look forward to.

So Delhi, look out, I’m coming back!

:)

P.S. Just got the BEST going away gift ever!!! Knock-out pepper spray!!!!  :P

Home Alone?

At last...

So some time, actually quite a long while ago, when I was still a stupid dreamy eyed girl who thought her life was just starting and all that crap, I had written about why everyone must move out of their homes and live alone at least once in their lives.

Well, I do still agree with most of those points. The only difference is, I didn’t realize until very recently that I wasn’t actually living alone at all. Because throughout my two years in Mumbai, I always had a room / flat mate living with me. And even if you aren’t the biggest of chaddhi-buddys, you always do feel their presence around, and behave yourself, because they can walk in at absolutely any moment.

Now as it turns out, for this whole month, I’ve actually been alone. My flat mate moved out, and I got one month of complete alone time. Yup, living alone in a 2bhk in Mumbai. Yes, I completely feel like a multi-millionaire in this city right now. No, seriously. Do you have any clue how freaking high the rents are in this place???

And so, on Day 1 of being Goddess of a 2bhk, I woke up to an extremely empty flat, and it felt really really weird.

I walked around, expecting to hear my flatmate practicing her opera exercises, or bump into her sleepy boyfriend in his underwear….but nothing. It was empty.

And then the exhilaration hit me.

I was alone, and I could do anything.

So I sat down, and thought really hard. What do people who live all by themselves do? What can I do?

Switch on MTV and dance like a maniac across the house.

Oh, but my flatmate took our TV. Damn.

Walk around naked.

Whoa, that’s something I had definitely never ever done before. So I quickly stripped. And just as I was about to step out of my room, I remembered, the curtains in the hall were my flatmate’s as well.

Crap.

Fine, so I’ll cook.

She took my utensils with her by mistake.

Eat?

No plates, no spoons.

Now, I just wanted to crib about being annoyed.

No flat mate.

Wow.

Well, if you still want to believe that living alone is a must, a simple update…in the last one month, the flushes of both my washrooms have malfunctioned, the thermostat on my fridge has stopped functioning (which, by the way, I only figured out after a curious case of an egg that would refuse to crack however hard I might hit it), and I have managed to miss all my couriers, because they only come while I’m in office, and refuse to leave anything with the guard.

On the other hand, I moved furniture around, got some utensils, made my favourite stuff, had more storage space than ever before, and alternated which bathroom I felt like using. AND borrowed an i-pod and speakers to dance to.

AND most importantly, got some curtains!

Like a queen, y’all!

;)

P.S. I know this is one of those stupidly incoherent posts. It’s my last week here and I’m burdened with enough work to kill a human being. I’m also determined to do none of it.

P.P.S. I just realized the above sentence makes no sense because I never said anything about going anywhere. Okay, next post is gonna have the big news in that case!!!

30 Lil Joys of Life

I have spent more than my share of time cribbing and making myself simply miserable. Somewhere along the way, you’re so consumed with your own troubles and sadness, you fail to register the simple pleasures of life. You experience it, as a part of your daily life, you maybe smile or sigh in relief, but at the end of the day you don’t even remember it.

Until one epitome-of-your-miserableness type day, you sit down, and actually think about it. For me it started with a link shared by a cousin. And it got me thinking.

What are the little pleasures of life?

1. Full fat butter on a steaming hot toast
2. That last mug of hot water in the bath on a freezing Delhi morning
3. That good ol’ oil champi by your mum / dad  / extremely generous friend
4. The smell of the first drops of rain on parched land
5. A hug
6. An unexpected message from that someone special
7. An unexpected day off
8. Those five minutes between simultaneous snooze alarms
9. A night of uninterrupted sleep
10. Hot jalebis / samosas / pakodas on a very dark and rainy day
11. The perfectly blended cheese-biscuit ratio of a Philadelphia cheesecake
12. Waking up on a Saturday morning only to realize you can go right back to sleep
13. Waking up in the middle of a nice dream, and dozing off again simply to continue with the dream just where you left off
14. Waking up and realising life is nicer than your dream
15. Figuring out a completely new MS Excel formula (C’mon, this is my list…you really expected it to be over without an excel point?!)
16. Going through an entire perfectly normal day without any mishap
17. A spot of shade on an exceptionally sunny day
18. That first cold splash into the swimming pool
19. Finding a pair of shoes that fit…perfectly
20. Finding a long lost piece of clothing at the back of your cupboard
21. A hot water bottle on a freezing day
22. Bouncing on an overly-springy bed
23. Writing on the first page of a brand new notebook
24. Receiving a compliment after a new haircut
25. Waking up the morning after a haircut, and liking your weird hair even more
26. Putting that last tick on your long-pending to-do list
27. Getting to the TV remote before anyone else
28. Waking up to nostalgia with a Facebook tag of a really old school photograph
29. Getting an auto-rickshaw on your first try
30. Tasting the residual of thick chocolate syrup at the end of your Hot Chocolate

This, of course, is my list. And even as I am typing this, there are so many more I can think of. Take some time, and think. What brings you joy?

By Myself

I woke up at 6.30 this morning.

I know, that’s news in itself.

But the reason it’s important is the fact that it wasn’t by chance. In fact, I’ve done it before, recently, in the last few days. And the routine goes something like this.

Before going to bed I look out of the window longingly, and tell myself I can do this. I feel happy about the next morning. And then the alarm rings.

After snoozing some gazillion times I finally remember the enthu Shreya of the evening earlier, and groggily drag myself out of bed. And then I go to the window, and look out, apprehensively.

Months of introspection and a lot of awkward moments later, I’ve realized I have some issues that I need to deal with. One of the most basic ones is the fact that at the moment my self confidence is at an all time low. It sounds silly, and if you meet me, it’s not like I’m going to be a mumbling shivering poor soul who can’t breathe out a word in front of you. I can probably pfaff my way through a good long conversation. But only if I can get myself to even get up and make conversation. If I can get myself to do anything at all, in fact.

I’ve been brought up to be independent. It was never a question in my head. While I was never the extremely outgoing types, I was never this shy either. I’ve travelled alone in disgusting blue line buses, lived away from home for over six years, and taken care of myself for over two years now. I came to Mumbai barely knowing anyone here, and I figured out on my own how to travel in the city, how to wage through the monsoons, where to go for yoga, how to shop in a supermarket and somehow carry all those bags home… I was miserable throughout all those ‘how-to’s’…I visited more doctors than ever before, ripped out nails, fainted in supermarkets, and cursed the rains. But I still went ahead and did it.

And yet, for the last so many days, I have woken up at 6.30 in the morning, looked out of the window, and come up with an excuse to not walk down the steps and into the swimming pool alone. There’s either a weird tummy, the maid’s bad timing, too many people, too few people….there is always something. I waited for days for my flat mate to give me company. The thought of stepping into a swimming pool after 13 years, alone, somehow, is scary. So I waited, and waited, for the perfect time, and company. I went once with my sister, and loved it. And yet, I found myself making excuses the next day onwards again.

I don’t know how, or why, but I managed to drag myself out today. The number of people were perfect. My tummy, a little weird, more from nervousness, was deemed bearable. The maid wasn’t expected till later. And I was awake without hitting the snooze button, and finally out of bed.

I still did check out the pool ten times from my window before going. I still thought of turning back a zillion times. But once I heard the lap-lapping sound of water, once I saw the adults using little floating devices to make sure they didn’t drown in five feet deep water, I felt better. I felt I could do this.

And I did.

P.S. I know all this sounds silly, and believe me, it’s embarrassing for me to even come out and say how much of an issue this was for me. But the simple fact is, that it was. And somewhere I feel, that to be able to go ahead and enter the pool again tomorrow, I need to have admitted this. And to know that I can do this. Today and tomorrow. And again.

Well, till the damned monsoons at least.

A Rather Footsie Dilemma!

I have a question. To all the women and men (really not judging) who have ever got pedicures done in their life.

You know how after all the scrubbing and rubbing and wriggling-because-it-tickles torture is done…somewhere in the duration of a pedicure the pedicurist gives you a nice foot massage?

And the guy really puts in a lot of effort trying to find all the right spots to press and rub?

And then he looks up at you to see your reaction?

How the hell do you react?

Do you close your eyes and smile and relax? Do you let the pleasure of the massage show? But then what if it’s some weird pervy pleasure for the pedicurist to see that reaction? Because he smiles at you and starts massaging even more. All the time looking up at your face.

Do you just ignore all the massaging and continue talking to the person next to you / on the phone like nothing’s happened? But isn’t that kinda rude? I mean that guy is putting in a lot of work into your foot. And the only way he’ll ever know if he’s good or not is by your reaction? You’re literally depriving him of his self esteem at that point, you know?

Or do you sit there, wondering about your weird dilemma and thinking about how you’re going to rush home and ask the whole world in general about it?

And you do run home and ask your flatmate about it, and she shrugs and says she just tips the pedicurist.

Oh.

Note to self: Search for new pedicurist, lest the un-tipped-earlier-now-low-self-esteemed pedicurist chooses to murder my foot the next time.

P.S. I got pink nail paint...PINK!

For the love of heels!

Image Courtesy: www.tresmode.com

So here’s the deal, I’m 5’6”…and apparently for a girl in India, that’s really tall. Mostly because I’m as tall as a lot of men around me. I’d say that reflects on the men rather than me, but seriously, who cares.

What this usually means is that any and every time I choose to wear heels, I get a lot of questioning looks.

“But why do you need heels? You’re already so tall!”

I’d like to tell the girl at that time that she’s just jealous, but instead I might as well let her know why I actually wear heels.

• When living in Mumbai, heels are a good way of staying elevated above the muck in monsoons...though it might just be the end of your beloved heels
• When living in Delhi, heels serve as a good weapon in case a guy is getting a little too close for comfort
• The above two points can be geographically interchangeable
• Heels make your legs look way slimmer, and way longer...though not half as anorexic as the chick in the pic above
• It does good things for other parts of your body as well ;)
• Clothes just somehow look better with heels
• When you really don’t want to go anywhere else with your boring company, you can just make a girly face and say, “Oh but I can’t…I’m wearing heels!”
• You feel a little more Carrie Bradshawish…so what if I don’t have my own column in the paper? I can at least have the Manolo’s!
• Ok, so I obviously can’t afford Manolo’s, but Tres Mode, Aldo and Charle’s and Keith are totally the Third World’s Manolo Blahnics!
• People have at times complained that I can be intimidating thanks to my apparent lack of social skills and lack of want of the same.  And with heels even more so. Win-win, I tell you!
• Plus at the end of the day, they’re just oh so pwetty!!!

P.S. Yes, I’m in a girly mood. I’m allowed sometimes.

P.P.S. No, there is no underlying larger than life meaning to this post.

P.P.P.S. Yes, bullet points, I missed them! :)

It's Monday, but its OK!

It’s Monday morning.

And I’m in a bloody good mood.

I don’t know why. I don’t really care.

Bad, really bad things have happened recently. But some good things have happened in the past few weeks as well.

My sis and nephew were over for the weekend, and I had a good time troubling and hugging and not letting go of either of them.

On a day when all seemed to go wrong, when I really needed something good to happen to me, a friend from afar cheered me up by surprising me in a way I really hadn’t expected.

I realized I’m still capable of smiling and laughing and being happy, I just seem to forget it rather often nowadays.

I realized I have the ability to annoy someone to the extent that he has to run to his Zen place. But he smiles and lets me annoy him anyway.

I kicked someone’s ass in my dream last night. And I woke up and remembered that I used to be the person who could kick people’s asses if I wanted to. And the reminder of the knowledge of that ability made my day.

So lovely readers here's hoping you have a lovely blue-less Monday, and an even more amazing week ahead!

I shall, instead prepare for nervous pigeons, brain-less people, sudden houseless-ness and other usual stuff that continues to make my day.

Shit happens.

Oh well.

As a friend once said, “Yeh lo. Rat’s ass. That’s all I’ll give.”

Except, I really really really refuse to give even that.

The Day the Music Died

Image Courtesy: www.morguefile.com

So you meet this new person who for whatever weird reason you’re stuck with / want to be stuck with and try to make all sorts of useless conversation which portrays you / him / her as interesting in a way that doesn’t make you want to pull your hair out by the end of the hour.

And after all the ‘aaahs’ and the ‘hmmms’ it eventually always comes down to this one question, a question that I have come to despise, a question from which there is no escaping.

“So what kind of music do you like?”

See, now my problem with the question starts with the simple premise that it seems to be based on. And since everyone seems to ignore that premise, I always find myself in a conundrum where I’m bored enough to talk through my teeth, and fumble around with two left feet.

So I say I like rock. To which he / she will obviously ask me which bands, what kind of rock etc. etc., and I’ll give him / her some basic prepared answers and he / she will nod and discuss the band members / albums / history with me. And then one of these happens:

“Oh have you heard that song?” or

“Oh you must listen to this blah-blah song by this blah-blah band. Here, I’ll play it on my i-pod / phone / whatever idiotic gadget for you.”

And this is when I pack up and leave.

And weirdly the above scenario played out multiple times is easier than to correct the simple premise where the person went wrong.

I don’t like music.

Actually, let me correct that, I have nothing against music. I have nothing for it either. I don’t run to music to improve my mood. I switched off music while studying. And I wouldn’t starve to frustration if I didn’t have access to music.

I can’t sing to save my life. And there isn’t a single musical bone in my body.

I don’t care for music.

Now this should be simple enough. You know, like people don’t like to dance, or don’t appreciate art, or something like that. But noooo…in stead I’m met with these shocked expressions and not very subtle question marks.

“But…how is that possible?! How do you live?! What do you do???”

“Err…I read. I write. I watch stuff?”

Nope. That is not an acceptable answer. Sowwy.

I could tell you that my singing would give donkeys some very serious competition. That when I had a television, I liked to wake up and dance to MTV break-free mornings while getting ready. That most of my knowledge of music is borrowed from songs I heard playing in the neighboring hostel / people’s cars / parties where I was too drunk to care what I was dancing to.

But that won’t really help my case I guess.

Because apparently I can’t just be a boring writer / reader / viewer.

Who doesn’t like any sports. Specially cricket.

WAIT…WHAAAAA??????

Of Life and Hope

Luck and I aren’t exactly known for seeing eye-to-eye. This isn’t something I’m making up. Believe me, I wish it was. But over the last few years, it’s come to be accepted as a fact.

Among some of the more recent happenings (you know, apart from the bad career choices, fracture, meru-curse etc.):

A pigeon fell on me while I was having breakfast. Breakfast in a cafeteria. Breakfast in a closed cafeteria. A damned pigeon.

After months of procrastinating and worrying about my backbone, I finally managed to push myself out of bed a little earlier than usual on a Monday and head to my society’s gym. It was decided that day apparently, that the gym shall now remain closed on Mondays.

And today, I missed a dream opportunity, by a day.

Yeah I know. It sounds really stupid. Maybe I’m just a klutz. Maybe I’m just not organized. Maybe I’m not strong the way I’m supposed to be.

And maybe I’m just an over-analysing crib-pot.

But you know what, I give up.

I’m done fighting karma and luck and fate and the whole jingabang.

I’m tired of being confused and trying to find a logical explanation behind everything. I’m tired of nothing ever going right. I’m tired of making all the wrong decisions. I’m tired of defending my decisions to the whole world, when I no longer can defend them to myself.

I’m tired of hurting and disappointing people. I’m tired of not being who I’m expected to be. I’m tired of running away from people who are only trying to help.

I’m tired of believing in things that aren’t meant to be believed in. I’m tired of fighting for dreams that seem too far-fetched.

I’m done cribbing and feeling bad.

And I’d really like to be done crying.

You win.

Seriously.

Please.

Just let me be.

And here I thought it was going to be a chirpy and breezy Monday.

Hide & Seek

Hide and seek. It was their favourite game. He would hide, and she would seek. Over and over, they never tired. He would hide, and she would seek. And they would laugh in ecstatic joy at the end of the game.

Until one day, grinning ear to ear, she decided to hide.

He never sought.