MOVE TO WORDPRESS.

Dear Friends and other kind viewers,

Because of several issues with blogger I have moved my blog to wordpress. I've imported it so all the old stuff is there as well.

This is the link : NEW WORDPRESS BLOG. 

Please come see. 

It only took one glance at my father, humming as he drove, tapping the steering wheel to know how plastic my young life was compared to his. I wish I knew Delhi back in the day.

Some of the best days are when my dad is in town and telling us 'abbe! zindagi hai yeh zindagi. Tough hona padta hai.' No school like the old school.

Stuff from my freelance job. Laziness and cowardice from staying in the city for too long led me astray from full-time permanent work. This one is about advertising and blatant sexism. 

Last year there was a great outcry about Clean and Dry, a vaginal cream launched across India by Midas pharmaceuticals. The cream promised vaginal fairness and ‘freshness’ in four weeks. The advertisement showed a sad doting woman, sulking as her husband drinks coffee and reads the paper (Fact: women never read the paper, but simply watch). Then Clean and Dry comes to her rescue, and lo and behold, in a second she is jumping on cushions and her hair is flying in the wind. Her husband of course, is unable to resist this new version of his wife, and takes her in his arms immediately. The news can wait. These days, an ad for Magic Bricks —a real estate company is doing the rounds. The ad shows a family at a ‘milan’—a meeting where a marriage is to be arranged. When the to-be bride shows herself coyly, the father of the groom comically asks, ‘aur koi option nahin hai’. To this, the girl giggles, completely ignorant or amused at her commodification and comparison to real-estate property.    

Only when Ford released pictures of gagged women in the boot of Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi's car did we realize the high case for gender-based oppression that advertising makes. Indian Television is the showcase for ads that are constantly oppressing women and categorizing men. Women are shuffled between the roles of the Mother and the Madonna, and men are usually suit wearing, shallow creatures whose impressions of their spouses change with a switch in shampoo. Capitalism needs grounds that encourage consumerism. Sexism and rigid categorization of gender roles helps the consumer economy thrive, telling an individual that in their lives as man and woman, they must be a certain way and must procure certain things. Good housewives must buy good detergents, good girlfriends must have the right shade of lipstick, and good husbands and boyfriends must have a perfect suit and a fast car. This specification makes for a profitable market, as an individual will constantly invest in consumer goods to fit suitably into his or her roles. Advertising unquestionably is a loyal product of the patriarchy and agent of competitive capitalism.

Fortunately, Clean and Dry received much criticism and was condemned for its ludicrous impositions on women’s standards, unlike some of its other colleagues. A change in the attitude of your lover, husband, and partner is a favorite theme of contemporary beauty products. In her book The Beauty Myth, American feminist and critic Naomi Wolf makes a comparison between the contemporary beauty ideal and a medieval torture device called The Iron Maiden. The device enclosed its victims into a spike lined box shaped like a woman, and like the beauty ideal, forced women into a rigid shape, causing suffering and even death amongst its victims. Cultural media like cinema or fashion introduce the ideal woman. It tells women that fat is ugly and dark is unacceptable. It shows us a tall, slender, and flawless woman and makes her the norm.  Advertising monopolizes on this and shows us the apparent path to the created norm. They suggest that impossible standards of fairness and weight are reachable, and introduce women advertising products who seem real or ordinary. Ads for coconut hair oil suggest that if your hair is long and shiny, you will experience a joy equal to that of running free-footed on a beach. It tells you that if your skin is free of scars and pimples, you will be a successful T.V anchor. These themes are endorsed by Bollywood idols, who smile on screen telling ordinary women that they could look like them. Anushka Sharma dazzles her boyfriend with fair underarms, Kareena Kapoor with obviously fake shining hair, Bipasha Basu with digestive biscuits. Ads for beauty products create a beauty ideal that is almost unreal, using style and glamour icons as their emissaries.

The advertising industry, since its birth in America in the 1920s—the starting point of consumer culture has dedicated itself to the fabrication of insecurities. “The eyes of men...the eyes of women judge your loveliness everyday”, warned one of the earliest ads for Camay soap. The industry dedicated itself to creating discontentment, which was key for consumerism to repeat itself every day. Even today, women are told that they are automatic participants in this beauty contest of life, and they are presented with a list of purchases so they do not fall back.

Today, Asia is the largest market for beauty products, especially fairness creams. The youngest user of fairness creams today is 12 years old. India’s obsession with fairness as a virtue, as a necessity for beauty has resulted in the market for fairness creams and bleaches touching a figure of Rs 2,000 crore. This aspiration to fairness can be seen as a colonial hangover, an aspiration to look like the west. Fairness creams neglect the actuality that Indian skin is usually dark and establishes the superiority of a whiter shade. Though one may argue that these demands are equal for men and women, it is important to note that though there are fairness creams for a man, he is also allowed into other realms. Into business, cars, real estate, and almost anything else that he wishes. For a woman, advertising makes one rule, that she must be beautiful. To be that, she must be fair. Ads for fairness creams by companies like Ponds and Fair and Lovely show young insecure girls. Fairness creams come to their rescue and magically plant confidence and happiness. In no time these young girls are singing, dancing, and fighting politics.

Apart from driving women towards high and rigid standards of beauty, the other place that the ad world places women is in the role of the housewife. The Indian housewife is the most seen figure in ten-minute breaks. Ads for household products show beaming mothers feeding their children, and devoted wives washing their husband’s shirts. The Indian woman apart from object of desire, is only otherwise seen in the kitchen. It is assumed that a man does not wash a dish or sweep a floor, but all household chores belong to the woman of the house. Though it is true that the market for household goods is housewives, it must be remembered that gender stereotyping through the times has resulted in this statistic.

In 2010, an American Super Bowl ad for Doritos showed a woman with her shirt unbuttoned appealing for her boyfriend’s attention. The boyfriend was watching sports and eating chips. (fact: women don’t watch sports. Or eat. except when foods are nutritious or low fat). The boyfriend pays no heed until the woman strips naked and covers herself with Doritos. Now the boyfriend cannot resist her and dives into the bed full of his girlfriend and Doritos. This ad illustrates how advertising also uses women’s bodies to sell almost anything. Ads for men’s products are incomplete without a skimpily clad woman as a prize.  In India, the ads for Set-wet deodorants that promise crooning women after one spray follow the same pattern. Companies like Go-daddy.com, simply showcase women in bikinis, and make absolutely no correlation with the product. The ‘aamsutra’ ads for Slice that exhibit a seductive Katrina Kaif have hit the jackpot, using blatant sexualization to sell a product that has nothing to do with it. In his Ways of Seeing, American theorist and critic John Berger writes, “[Advertising] proposes to each of us that we transform ourselves, or our lives, by buying something more. This more, it proposes, will make us in some way richer – even though we will be poorer by having spent our money.”In ads for men, women are part of these riches. Men are told that after buying a particular product, you will have confidence, style, nonchalance, and guaranteed, a girl by your side.

One may excuse all this by stating that ‘this is how it is’ or ‘this is what sells’. But both Capitalism and sexism have flourished on such excuses made for them. Everyday, we wake up to see that girl on T.V and wonder why we don’t look like her. We look at billboards and notice that everyone on them looks the same, but not like us. We are told that our skin has room for improvement, and we must take care of our body. Advertising creates a world that plays on these insecurities. When it tells women that beauty is first priority, it forgets to tell her more important things. Like striving for adventure, happiness and meaning, or being intelligent and kind over being skinny and fair.

If everyone woke up one day and was content in being themselves, the economy would be shot through the heart. 

But I think it would be worth it.

....

There's also this, if you care.

Apparently there's a fine line between being persistent and pushy, but to me they just seem the same. But I'm trying to be persistent. I hope it works out. 

I hate it when people talk matter-of-factly about being in love. Like they know exactly how it should be. And then they measure it and blame it and say some really dumb shit that devalues it. Because though I don't believe that it's all of that Empire state building Tom hanks kissing meg ryan in the rain bullshit that America has tried to pull with the world, I know it exists. But like everything else it changes and evolves with every person/animal/shoe/song that you love. I don't understand how the most universal emotion of all, the most complex and definitely the most profound has been put into this one little bottle that everyone seems to be drinking out of. I don't get how it's been reduced to this one formula that everyone seems to think they must master. I know it exists because I have known it in moments when I've looked at someone's face and wanted to crush it because I like it so much or when laughter is easy and colors are brighter. I just think it exists in this sort of space into which two people stumble and suddenly everything is just SO COOL and eventually they might, or might not stumble out of it. Or maybe the space erodes, or collapses. And and though that might seem painful and tragic, it really is okay. Because painful and tragic is important and also, why must be everything be a prospect to something that constitutes and defines your future.

Sometimes my friends make me really annoyed and it if wasn't that it was on Whatsapp I would've broken something on their noses.

I just want someone to come to to me and do something that is both cliche and unexpected, like the stuff that you have imagined that you want someone to do but no one ever does. Like climb a tree to prove a point or drink your drink in an effort to be smooth. I wish things were generally more endearing. Everyone just seems to be stuck in spaces of massive inhibitions and insecurities (myself included) and nothing ever feels free.
I was going to apologize for being self important but I shouldn't, because whoever is reading this is doing so by choice. And I am tired of all of us laying ourselves bare on the internet and growing increasingly scared of being judged. The irony of being able to share in mere seconds but that only leading to further anxiety is rather sad.

I used to really want to play the mouth organ.

Also
....Listening to Chet Baker in the dark can make you feel like you are in a prolific sort of place. 

IM SO BORED AND I HAVE SO MUCH MORE BORING WORK THAT I KNOW IT'S TIME.

To watch Midnight in Paris again. 

My friend is going to America for the first time and his joy knows no bounds. The Big Apple awaits him and he is very very excited.

New York City is my generation's Mecca. It is after you make that trip that everyone else in Delhi will look at you differently.

My friend's name was spelt wrong on his ticket so they moved him ahead to an earlier date and elevated him to business class. When we heard this we hooted and hi-fived about how lucky he was. But but I knew I didn't feel genuine in my celebration. I now realize that not getting a name as simple as his right should not be excused.
Till of course, they buy you a couple of whiskeys and give you a reclining chair.

One of the best people in the Indian Music scene.
Definitely the best looking.

I don't ever care for electronic music but this is quite good. 

I've decided to post almost everything that I ever write. 
This is a blog I wrote for my publishers's blog as part of a request to write about How To Write. Which of course, requires me to me much cooler than right now. 
.....

Since I do not think that I have the credibility to write a blog telling people how to write and I anxiously await the hour when what I ate for lunch will become a trend, for now, this will have to do.

When I was growing up, I had a friend named Jaikumar. Jaikumar was the coolest person I knew. He was yellowish, with grey whiskers, and a purple velvet suit, something along the lines I have given my character in the book. He was also very clever and always talked in puns. Which I didn’t like one bit because I don’t like puns. For example, when we would walk around and collect bugs he would say say “Wow, this gives me quite a buzz!”, and I would nod in exasperation. But Jaikumar was full of jokes and theories about life. He looked at the trees and said “The leaves make the trees green don’t they. Suppose I decided to call green yellow, then they would have to start saying— Make the world a yellow place.” He didn’t like how colors were made out to be in specific names. He thought that they should be called things like “sky”, or “blood”, not blue or red. He was full of such fuzzy notions, at times it made me curious and at others just impatient. Jai and I had a lot of arguments. He was always telling me to go off to funny places and collect weird plants, which we had to do because he did an annoying dance everytime we didn’t do something he wanted to. It was a sort of tap dance with both hands waving madly above his head. One day, I think when I was around eight, Jaikumar and I went to the mountains with my parents. We ran about the trees and looked for mushrooms as the grown ups sat around our house and talked and listened to the radio. We sat on a cliff near the hill-house, imagining that we were sailing through the clouds. We debated about what they were made of, cotton, paper, feathers. My mother tells me that she was positively worried when I asked for two plates to be laid down for dinner. Jaikumar was a vegetarian and loved tomatoes. She says she remembers being annoyed to death. I remember her yelling “What kind of name is Jaikumar for your demanding imaginary friend!”. I never understood the problem. One of those days in the mountains, when jaikumar and I were sitting near the cliff and assembling our mushrooms and other weird plants, I remember him walking to the edge of the cliff. And then I watched him as he tipped his newly acquired purple hat to match his clothes, and walked off the cliff. One one foot, just like that.

As an adult(somewhat) today, I know Jaikumar came out of my mind. I know is is psychological and I know that kids do this all the time. As you grow older, you are forced out of imagination. You are told boundaries between real and fiction and nothing is as much fun anymore. If you exaggerate and create, you are told not to be delusional and to get a grip. You are told that you must always tell the truth. Things are googled, and facts are presented and a big balloon in your mind full of fanciful beautiful things is burst.

When I was in school, I was sent to a counsellor because I told my classmates that there was crow that moon-walked across the room door in third period. I saw him one day, thought I was seeing things, but the day after that, he was there again! I jumped off my seat and ran to my friends and yelled “MAN! Did you guys see the crow that just moonwalked across the door!”. They looked at me strangely, and I was rushed off to a small room where I was told that I must not tell lies. Their loss, I thought. Few have as much panache as moon-walk crow. I never saw him again, but I can see him in my head right now, gliding across the door as we chanted Sanskrit shlokas.

I am still figuring out how to write, be a morning person and a productive human being. But I haven’t stopped imagining. I haven’t stopped seeing what isn’t there. I see cheekoos where there are apples, because I like them more. I see two-foot tall squirrels climbing up trees because I always wished squirrels were bigger. I imagine sometimes that people smile at me from a distance. I sit on my bed and for hours and imagine being friends with my favorite band. I fall in love in a second, or for a second and count it as real. I tell stories of people I’ve met and make them more wonderful than they are.

All the story making makes me confused. I am hazy as to things that have really happened and things that haven’t. But it doesn’t matter. History is not made up of scientific fact, but myth and storytelling. Where there are wars, there are tales magical cleansing rivers. Where there are records, there are traditions that have no basis in logic.

On the road of still trying to write and being dramatic about it, I know that my “lying” has assisted me. It has helped me see different from what everyone else sees, and I can finally be unapologetic about it. So I urge you to invent occurrences, to see irregular sized animals, and dancing birds. To see the good that may not be there in people and not be suspicious. To forget about being practical, and just be excited, overwhelmed, sad, angry whatever it is you want to be at that moment.

The world becomes a better place with each story that is made, and each moment that is exaggerated. And there's nothing exciting about having your feet on the ground.

This blog is under construction.

God only knows that it needs it.

Also, I just read through my entire blog past and now I feel sheepish. Why did I spend so much time here and why were so many people commenting and why did I post The Muddy Waters just to be cool?
What can I say except Having an empty space and a nineteen year old brain is formula for lethal idiocy.

I feel old. 

Happy World Poetry day!

Neruda:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Kerouac:

In Vain:

The stars in the sky
In vain
The tragedy of Hamlet
In vain
The key in the lock
In vain
The sleeping mother
In vain
The lamp in the corner
In vain
The lamp in the corner unlit
In vain
Abraham Lincoln
In vain
The Aztec empire
In vain
The writing hand: in vain
(The shoetrees in the shoes
In vain
The windowshade string upon
the hand bible
In vain—
The glitter of the greenglass
ashtray
In vain
The bear in the woods
In vain
The Life of Buddha
In vain) 

Margaret Atwood:

This is a photograph of me:

It was taken some time ago
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you can see something in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or how small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion.

but if you look long enough
eventually
you will see me.) 

Sir Ogden Nash ji:

Celery, raw
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed. 

The world would be a sad place without rhyme. 

I need to listen to flowing water outside my window. I feel my throat turning dry in the city.

 IN TWENTY DAYS TO MY BELOVEDS THE MOUNTAINS. I don't understand why I'm delaying going to them forever with useless things like college and wanting to go to Europe. 

If less is more how are you keeping score?

Around 20 days ago I descended to underwater for the first time. I tried to creep into a coral and swam with sardines and I remember looking through my goggles and wondering how anything could be this beautiful.

I know with every passing moment that the city I used to once love and which I called mine is pushing me out of it. I cannot stay here any longer but I do not know what to do, where to go, if I can go somewhere else, what I will do there. I do not know anything and it's exhausting. All I have is bouts of elongated confused panic with a sort of determination to figure it out that surfaces at the end.

It's really nice to agree with other women on something. Usually, with most of the women I know or meet, we all like different things. We like different boys, girls, food, TV, music, and general life aims vary. But it's nice to have something in common with all women in the world to love. This thing, is Ryan Gosling.

A shorter version of another poem for kids (the new one has a changed and cooler rhyme scheme). Inspired by one of my favorite people in the world. The fear of fruit is a real thing, or so he claims. 

Once upon a peaceful time

In a place rather cold

There lived a happy young chap

Who was not very old

He was twenty, I think

No wait, twenty-four

Or maybe it was twenty-two

Maybe less, maybe more

The lad was tall and strapping

With a mop of silver hair

His socks were always blue and red

And his face was very fair

He wasn’t afraid of anything

Not guns or thugs or brutes

Only one little thing frightened him,

This thing, it was fruits!

He loved the smell of flowers

And wearing fancy suits

He didn’t so much like his hair 

But he hated, HATED- fruits!

Whenever he saw an apple

An orange, or a grape

He ran afar, fast as the wind

Every time, he did escape!

“Take them away!” he cried

“I cannot stand this smell!”

Of mangoes, melons, pears and figs

“Away! I don’t feel well!”

“Oh Oranges, so round and scaly

And grapes of which a whiff

And berries like little evil pebbles

Oh god! It scares me stiff!”

Aside from this little strange trait

The boy was quite unique

Strong and handsome, smart and kind

With a honorable streak

 It was a very funny sight

Of a man so young and brave

Every time he saw a fruit

He ran into a cave!

But then we all have funny fears

That cannot be clarified

Of dolls and slime and fire-trucks

Of things that might have died

Some people fright from chopsticks

And from babies without hair

The only thing that chills me, however

Is naked cold despair.

DEAR UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 

STOP BEING EVERYWHERE. IN T.V, ON YOUTUBE, IN POSTERS IN MY ROOM, STOP GIVING BIRTH TO MUSICAL GENIUS AND EDDIE VEDDER AND GENERAL CALIFORNIANS BECAUSE THEN I WANT TO MOVE IMMEDIATELY TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THE ENTIRE STATE. I KNOW YOU AREN'T AS COOL IN REALITY. I KNOW IT. BUT STOP. STOP TAKING CONTROL OF ALL THE MEDIA THAT WE EXIST IN. IT MAKES EVERYTHING VERY CONFUSING. 

I just wrote a children's book that is about to be published. It's around 80 pages long. I don't really think its that big of a deal and I'm being honest here because why would I have to be otherwise on my anonymous blog.
But I don't like to tell people because then they get this funny look on their face which is full of forced awe and they say something random like 'wow writing a book is really cool'. When I say I hate this my friend insists I'm being pretentious but I actually really do hate it. I hate that someone is ready to shake your hand for something they haven't seen, or send you friend requests as appreciation. I don't like that people don't look forward to reading it and telling me if its any good, but exhaust all their congratulations by being excited that someone was ready to buy it. It makes me embarrassed and annoyed and the next time anyone says 'But you've written a book, look at that' I want to tell them that I still struggle to make good sentences (As you can see), to spell without auto correct, and to move my brain out of my bed.  I also want to tell them I'm still transcribing for money and being published is no big deal. The amount of bad writing that gets published is unbelievable. Bad writing could sit on good writing with one butt cheek.

I don't know how I'll deal if I ever become truly famous :D

Also,

I cried almost through this entire film. Not a sad crying but just overwhelmed crying that happens when anything sweeps you off your feet. There are these parts of Eddie and Kurt and they're both so young and scared and honest and real that it made me happy. I remember being seventeen and beating myself up and remembering that it was 'hard to be a young person nowadays'.
It really is.



Best.Band.Ever. (Among others)

What really fucking sucks is that all we ever have to watch are the likes of Swedish House Mafia. 

Crinkly eyes and dramatic voices. 

You know that moment in Midnight in Paris when Gail is talking to Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald and he says, referring to Cole Porter, "but he didn't write the lyrics, did he?", and then they go to the other party, and he has this look on his face because he thinks he knows what is going on but can't fucking believe it.
I want to be in that moment. I would live and die a million horrible lives to be in that moment. 

Something has changed. I know because many of the things that I used to find comfort in have become strenuous, and inspire indifference and restlessness only. There are many things that I used to like that I don't like at all anymore. I don't like expensive meals, I don't like driving my car, I resent cigarettes, I don't like alcohol  I don't like the thought of a crowded party, I detest South Delhi, I don't like my nice pants, I don't care about looking nice, I don't like haircuts, I don't like conversation, I don't like texting— I probably hate it most of all, I don't like weddings, I don't look forward to friends' birthdays, I don't like my leather bag, I don't like my nice hat, I don't like even the thought of kids my own age, I don't like to talk about college, I hate T.V, I don't like getting high, I hate Delhi roads, for the first time in my life, I don't like Delhi.

I like my dog, and I like to run, I like the sound of my friends, I like the sun in the window. I like beer, I like the sound of trains. I like to think about my house in the hills. I need to find more things to put on this list. But I am sure they are not here. 

I have loved no other like I did Alexander Supertramp. I think I know what he was on about. 

And Walt Whitman.

"Now I see the secret of making the best person, it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth".  

By the end of December I was very very sad. I was running around town, getting drunk and avoiding people. I messed up with a friend, hurt another, and was just a general vagabond duckwit.
New Years (ASFUCKINGUSUAL) I stumbled from bar to dance floor, walking around, being the general mopey drunk telling everyone how the universe is a piss pot. I ended up taking shots with nineteen year olds because I was both bored and uncomfortable and fighting with one of my closest friends.
I had postponed my ticket for the south from the 29th to the 2nd, and I knew only one thing for sure. It was time to leave Delhi. I needed to go away to easier climes, away from everything that I knew. I needed a backpack and a train.

Now since I'm lazy and have been mailing two million people for freelance work all day, I am copying straight from my notebook. Which has ended! I always think that's a good sign.
The notebook before I left is full of crosses and squiggly drawings, indications of feeling like crap.
Okay so reportage is in non-italics, and things I have copied from the notebook which are now past tense are in italic.

I left for Bangalore on the 2nd of January, for my grandparent's second wedding. In Tamilian iyengars, when a husband turns eighty, the couple is married again, symbolizing the transcendence to a superior level of companionship. I think it's pretty cute. I saw my grandparent's get married once again, recieve gifts and sit through smiling photographs and wondered about what they were made of. It was some pretty hard stuff, I thought.
My grandparents, like all grandparents, are cooler than regular people. My granddad is 6'1 and a devoted Shankaracharya Yogic. He cannot hear. He wakes up everyday to sounds invented in his own head, and walks about the house with flowers smiling at the general state of things. His puja goes on for four hours everyday after which he settles down to watch tennis, eat curd rice and play online chess with a man called "Pussyeater11". I didn't want to tell him.
My grandmother  is a machine. She is small and firm. She is seventy five and can churn around one fifty dosas a day. She hates everyone. She hates us, her kids, and the general state of things. We often joke that if we made her stand for general elections, she would turn the country into Nazi Germany. She is the angriest, but toughest person I know.
I don't know how these two have made 45 years together. But I'm glad they did.
We ran around the house like six year olds, climbing trees and pulling each other's hair, happy to be all cousins and family again. At night we ran off to nearby bars to drink beer and eat beef, spraying ourselves with suspicious deodorant so as to not rise disapproval amongst the 2nd wedding organizers.
Okay, now I'm going to start recording from the notebook.

5th January 2012.
In Bangalore after a year and half and loving it. In a bus with the cousins heading to Mangalore to swim in the sea and eat baskets of prawns. Loving it. The sadabishegam was insanity. Old people everywhere. We had to wear half saris and be good south Indian girls. I think I looked quite beautiful. 
Arya (Cousin number 5) is now a teenager. He smokes and reads and asks me if I ever feel like I am the person in the books I read.
I don't know what to say except pat him on the head and hope he comes out of these six years alive. 
At night I give him my favorite lecture. 
"You're going to be an idiot fuck up, You'll fall in love with the wrong people and do things for the wrong reasons. But don't deny yourselves mistakes ok? It's what makes us". 
Before sleeping he tells me he feels like we are in Perks of being a Wallflower and I'm Patrick. I could be Sam, he says, actually I am Sam, but that would mean he would have to have a crush on me. And since we're cousins, that's not possible.
"Is it possible to feel weird things about your cousin?" , he mutters as he drifts to sleep.
I pat him on the head once again.

AD (oldest cousin number 1) crawls into our sleeper because he has just found a new pile of shirts on his berth. We burst into laughter and cannot stop. I tell him about Arya's questions and he says "Yeah! That kid's FLIP." We talk about our friends and he tells me we should go to Hampi. I say yes, and we don't realize we have just decided to go on the best trip of our life.
We talk about the sisters (our mothers are sisters) and how they are all a large unit. 
"They're like a freaking Medusa" he says. We talk about his friends and their house with tiffin boxes full of weed. Then we break into laughter and can't stop again. Fourteen year old Arya wakes up and says he heard the word weed. We tell him to shut the fuck up and sleep. 
Being oldest is awesome.

AD is the Dean Moriarty to my Sal Paradise. My partner in crime, except he's better at me than everything. We decide to have adventures together. Actually I decide to have adventures with him. He's had plenty. I tell him I'm coming everywhere he goes. He bangs his head on the wall of the sleeper bus. Arya wakes up to ask what we're talking about, this time we pretend to choke him with his pillow. 

Random conversation excerpts.
Me to AD "Do you ever think how you'd look in black and white? How this moment will someday be a memory and someone will think something about it?"
AD: " I don't care about becoming a memory and what other people think."

In Mangalore I didn't write at all, but we rode bikes on the coast and went to the most beautiful island to swim in the sea. After which we sang bhajans on a rock and scared tourists away. My cousin number 3(the only good one) had a Bharatanatyam performance and we all dressed up like we were going to the South Indian oscars. After eating basketfuls of prawns and fighting erratically for three days, I headed back to Bangalore with my sister (Cousin number 4) and without AD.
He would meet me in a week, when we would go to Hampi.

After reaching Bangalore, I left for Coimbatore. I was going to the forest and to see my friend who lived in the Isha Yoga Ashram there. I remember asking him how I should be happy, and I remember him telling me I should choose happiness. We ate awesome ashram food and I wandered around and loked at everything that was very pretty. I don't think I get the spiritual realm, but for any of you who do, take a trip. It's quite nice. Since my friend never let me write while I was there, I have nothing on it.

15th January 2012
Half my holiday is over. It's been great. Spoke my best Tamil in Coimbatore and saw little girls running around with new clothes for Pongal. Called Ma and told her how awesome Pongal was and she yelled at me for not being home for it. It's nice being around your roots. 
AD is here we're going camping today. All morning we've drank coffee and philosophized, taking breaks to laugh at each other and ourselves and bully Cousin number 6- 9 years old. 
Random Conversation excerpts part 2. 

AD: "How have we evolved? Why is this progress? I think we've regressed. Look at us. We're unhealthy, we're always cold because we have no fur on our backs, we're greedy. We're full of shit."

Me: "I think when you've realized that everything—crime, contentment, everything has been defined, what do you do? I find it hard to form my own definitions. I can feel them sometimes but I don't know how I got there. But I know that definition isn't right because I feel discomfort with it. I wish, for one minute, I could get rid of discomfort you know?"

AD: "I think the only thing that is TRUE is that something gives us life. That there is a source of creation. Like I know that something brings the tree to life. That for me is truer than the tree. I want to find oneness with that."

Me: "Have you been reading Thatha's books? Whatever Jungle boy. I can see the tree-I can touch it and feel it, like if it's wet or dry, hot or cold, that's what's true to me. I can only believe the material because I can see it. I find it hard to believe anything I haven't felt or touehed."

AD: " I hate the brain. It's a useless creation"

Saarang(Cousin number 6), 9 years old: "What do you mean you hate the brain? It's the brain that's making you hate the brain stupid."

AD: "Shut the fuck up don't talk unnecessarily!"

Me: "He has a point."

Everyone drinks coffee and yells at each other. We laugh at stories of when we were small and Adhwaith would get lost in trees. We talk about ex boyfriends and girlfriends and he says everything is a farce. I say I disagree and he says I'm hopeless and only want solace in someone else. This makes me sad.

Me: "But you're right. I feel sometimes that love is constructed you know. For example, there's this part in your brain that says "THIS IS WHAT LOVE IS" which has been defined by things we have seen, read, heard etc. And when you see these things that part in your brain goes off and makes you go all 'OOOOOO' "

AD can't stop laughing: "It's a pain. Women are a pain. Shyam is right. It's all crap. Can you shut your face now I need to ride the bike, it's getting rusty."

Me: "I have to oil my hair. "

AD, standing up: "My dad is one of them man. He's a social clone. All he wants to do is get accepted by society, but he doesn't even want to sacrifice his pride for that. He's quite screwed up. I don't know how my mum handles it. "

Me: "You know most of the times I say things to people because I always like them? It's like I get blinded and enamored and so do I ever even speak my mind? You don't do that. Don't get annoyed with me if I mess up the tent okay? I hope there's hot boys at camp. (THERE WERE!) "

Cousin number 6: "YUCK."

Me to Cousin number 6: "And then I'll make him my boyfriend and we'll get MARRIED!"

C number 6: "yyyyyyyaaaaaaakkkkkk!"

AD: "Okay Fatass I'm going to ride the bike." 

I can hear him ride the bike downstairs. It roars and hums. I feel like there are two kinds of people, one who write and one who things are written about. He's definitely the second, I hope I can be the first. 

15th Janary-Afternoon
On a train to Hampi- CAN'T WAIT! We're going climbing. AD is, I'm going to try. At the Isha Yoga Ashram, there was a large communal bath called the Teerthakund- it was SO BEAUTIFUL, I used to wear this robe and feel like a 10th century woman while I bathed and prayed with many other women. 
I hope we meet some hot climber friends of AD. Met one today. He was funny and awesome. "

15th January-Night
We have a white tent and two cute neighbors, one of them is called Simon. There are many Americans, or Australians, I think. There is a small guy with dreadlocks and a t shirt that says 'SHRED ZEPELLIN' who I immediately like. He looks like a happy squirrel and calls someone K-Dawg. 

There is one really cute boy reading On The Road. #WIN.
AD is crushing in our new house. I am trying to get myself to talk to the cute boy reading On The Road. 
I ask him where he's gotten he asks me if we're on honeymoon. I tell him we're related, he looks happy? He asks me what I'm writing, I tell him it's just stuff. He repeats 'just stuff' and smiles at me and nods to himself. I see that he's stitching his pants and I tell him I don't know how to stitch. He says it's his first time. He tells me he's from Belgium and he's staying in the tent. I tell him I'm probably his neighbor then, because I'm staying in a tent the direction he's pointing and he looks happy again?
He asks me whether I would like to go on a walk later. I tell him I'm married. He realizes I'm kidding and asks me who my favorite character in On The Road is. I tell him that I love Dean but I'm not much like him. He says he's probably like Sal. I knew Jack Kerouac would help me out eventually. 
There are funny drawings on the table and one of them says 'Peace Love Rama'.

I just did a Delhi thing of saying yo after every sentence. They're playing the Beastie Boys. I nod at wherever the music is coming from. Belgian hottie is back to sit next to me. He tells me he's been travelling for a month now and his favorite writer is Nabokov. He tells me that his favorite kind of people are people who speak their mind and I tell him my favorite kind of people is any people when I can know in an honest way. We turn around and look and John and Aliya, the couple that runs this place.
Aliya is a Bombay chick, full of tattoos and pretty eyes and orders John around. John is a geeky englishman who tries to eat his eggs while complete tasks assigned by his wife.

"JOHNNY, Put the cosmopolitans in the Cosmopolitan section baby, how many times have I told you!!' Aliya yells at John who stutters and smiles and pretends to shoot himself in the head. 
Everyone in the cafe, Belgians Indians Australians Swedes smile at the entertainment.
Aliya complains about the heat and apologizes if anyone can see her breasts but she just doesn't care. I don't think anyone else minds. She's very very pretty. 
"JOHNNY, I think we should have a barbeque tonight, what say guys!?" she asks everyone in the Cafe. 
Everyone hoots, the girl named K-Dawg does a dance. 
Adhwaith and I grin at each other. We love it here already. 
After some time we go to our tent. Time for alone time. We smoke and drink chai and I tell him about our Belgian neighbors. Simon, I knew what he was called because I saw a bag that said 'Belongs to Simon' is not the one I was talking to. He is tall and goofy looking and comes across to introduce himself by saying 'hey hey hey neighboooorsss'. I love him already because he drawls. We smoke a joint and wait for Simons partner (the cute boy reading Kerouac-Y) to come around. I can't believe we're neighbors. He comes and they speak in Flemish and he smiles at me, apparently happy too. The boys decide we should go to the lake to swim next morning. We head to Aliya's barbeque and buy ourselves quarters of rum. 

My first romantic liason was under the stars listening to Chet Baker, and I cannot tell it. But it was kind of fucking great.

16th January

The lake was beautiful. AD, I, Simon, Y, and Thea went to the lake to swim. We swam for two hours towards rocks and yelled to each other about how the water was freezing. Y had to stay with me the whole time because I used to get afraid in the middle and at times I was pretending. Eventually in the water I took my clothes off and watched my t shirt float away. We came out and I dressed, no one else did, and we smoked on a rock and AD and I made jokes about how this was a race-friendly Levis ad.

 It was the happiest I had been in a while. I remember having my head under water and seeing light in it and feeling ecstatic. I came out sputtering and laughing only to have been saved by my favorite European in the gang.

The Belgians talked about how they're aber stoned, and AD merely screams aber stoned aber stoned! Thea and the Belgians are amazed with Adhwaith's tree climbing skills. He makes them remedies for cuts and headaches, promises a 'magic herbal drink' for Y's throat when we get back to camp. I beam proudly as everyone is appalled by his wide range of jungle knowledge.
"He camps out a lot", I say proudly. 

Y and I spend the remaining day together after we go climbing. Simon despite being very tall cannot climb. He and I agree it's not our thing. 
"I don't want to climb the rock!" he yells at Y. "You climb it! I don't care!"
We go off to watch the sunset and talk about how we're losers and he tells me he hates it when he cannot do things. It makes him angry. I tell him that if everyone could do everything that wouldn't make sense. He smiles and calls me a 'chiller'. 

16th January-Night
Gopal has a chocolate ball. Wait, who's Gopal? Anyway, he has a chocolate ball. It's kind of good. Everyone's playing chess. I'm talking to Hitesh the A.D from Bombay who tells me that Kuchh kuchh hota hai is his favorite film ever. I hifive him and we talk about if Delhi or Bombay is better. I ask him why there must even be a fight and they're both great. He says he hates Delhi and I call him a namard. He says this is why he hates Delhi! I take another chocolate ball from Gopal. Who's Gopal?

17th January
Y and AD have gone climbing. We biked around today it was awesome. I had a cycle everyone else had a bike. I was slowest obviously. But we biked and swam in the lake and I think I am already in love. Can't write today-too much shit to do. If you know what I mean.

17th January-Night
There is a painting near camp that says 'Guardian Angels at your service'. I want a drink but no one else seems to care. Tired from all the cycling. AD'S legs hurt. S and Y play chess again. I'm smoking some cigarettes called L&M that are really good. Someone's playing The Strokes! And The Fugees! Man I love this place. Fucking mosquitoes. Adhwaith burns neem leaves to keep the mosquitoes away. 
The Swedes nod their heads and sing Alone, Together. One of them is beautiful. He has blue eyes and long hair and I couldn't help but stare at him in the morning while he was BRUSHING. He waves to me when he passes the tent now. Everyone here thinks that Y and I are together. I mean we kind of are but if Swedish wants to talk I could...
What is wrong with me!

The dreadlocked Australian is called Steven. He's so nice. He laughs and a lot and I call him Stevie Ray Vaughn and he hifives me. Everyone loves Steve. He's that kind of guy. He has a hot friend who is a surfer who has grey dreadlocks. 


I go sit at the campfire where a bunch of Americans and Australians play a Gnarls Barkley cover. And then they play random songs. One goes like this "One day I saw a squirrel ..Nothing really rhymes with squirrel." The guy playing guitar has a ponytail and warm brown eyes and I love him immediately. I have to stop falling in love with everyone I meet. But his eyes are brown like a puppy's, and he asks me what I'm writing. He shows me his tattoo and it's Brandon Boyd Art work of a boy surfing. I think that's UNREAL and get super excited and tell him it's the one I've always wanted. I ask him to play Pardon Me and the Americans are uber pleased with my knowledge of Incubus. 
The foreigners here are basically young people on Sabbatical. Not trance hippies. I realize how much I have in common with so many of them and EVERYONE here is cool. It's awesome. After sometime, I forget that I'm in a circle full of white people because they're all exactly like me. 
Y comes to sit with me after some time of talking to the other intense people at Camp about Nietzsche and everyone acknowledges our togetherness. I wonder if I'd met American guitar player before..
What is wrong with me part 2!

18th January-Morning
Drinking coffee waiting for AD and the Belgians to awake. Sameer, waiter and manager comes to me and looks exhausted. Last night he got into trouble because everyone made too much noise.

He plugs in his phone and plays Mohammad Rafi.
"Kya baat hai!" I tell him.
"Inka music sun sun ke pak gaya hoon." he mutters.
Mujhse Shaadi Karogi plays after Rafi and me and a pretty girl who washes the dishes giggle. I suspect she is Sameer's girl. 

Indians are awesome.

20th January- Morning
I don't want to write but I must write about the cool things I've done but might not remember.
Jamir is golden haired and green eyed and 7 o clock years old. I've spent all morning with him communicating through drawings and I think he's my favorite person.
Dylan is from France and wears a hat and steals things and puts them behind his ear. He gave me and AD a hug. 
I really.don't.want to.leave ever. 
But there's more time. there's more 

I was in Hampi for a while more but I could not write because I was never in one place. I met wonderful people, got out of my mental rut, and found out what makes me happy. I also fell in love, cooked at a fire with my favorite person ever and woke up every morning to look at a cashew tree.
It was the kind of stuff dreams are made of.

Yesterday I drank beer with my friends and got invited to a wedding cocktail and realized that Delhi will always be awesome. I'm glad to be back, only to leave again.