Another year, another archive over

Here I sit, listening to a baraat go by on my very noisy street. In the bedroom lies my boy and my suitcase, all packed and good to go for tomorrow. Twenty oh nine, for the Compulsive Confessor at any rate, is over. Good year? Mostly. Bad year? Not so much. Boring year? Some bits, yes.

When did the years start speeding by so fast? Is this an age thing that no one tells you about? Is my life now this, months on fast forward, days on a loop, life that swirls around you? Ten years ago, I graduated from school and had just started college. Ten years! 

I remember last December vividly, I remember the beach, the feel of sand between my toes, the just-the-two-of-us-holiday that me and Ira took, the beginning of long distance and feeling the gap yawning between us, between seas, hating geography for making us so far apart.

I remember January and going for a good friend's wedding. I remember what I wore--a shiny blue dress--I remember the bamboo good luck things we were given, I remember as the newlyweds walked on to the dance floor, he took the mic and sang to her. I remember her tossing the bouquet and watching Ira leap and catch it, while I lurked, chicken-like in the middle of a crowd. 

I remember February and how I went abroad to meet a person I loved for the first time ever. I remember being in England with the English and how everything was so very new. I remember tumbling out of a warm station into the cold night and how just then it began to snow and I saw little flakes of what looked like thermocol balls falling from the sky and I tilted my head back and watched, even as JC hurried me into the car. I remember saying goodbye the second time and how it was harder and yet easier than the first.

March is sort of blurry in my mind. There were many parties and many new people. There was still the darn ol' recession, but there was improvisation. There were new bars. There was joy and impatience, all rolled into one package.

April, oh April, it was getting hotter. And I couldn't write. April meant long sessions with insomnia, house hunting and pottering around the city, looking for my lost muses. 

In May, we moved into our new house, which I still love just as much as I did then. This also meant moving to a posh address, which was a first for me. Another first--living with a boyfriend. All things went swimmingly, considering. I can't imagine being anywhere else.

In June, the monsoon arrived and everything got a respite from being so damn hot all the time. I discovered the joys of having almost anything home delivered. I had a haircut (all grown out now, sadly). I participated (or tried to) in an online Novel Race to see who'd finish first. Best of all, I discovered my lost muse, who had clearly been summering abroad.

In July, I became officially domesticated. I had been fighting it for a while, but then I just sat back and let my inner 50's housewife out. I learnt to cook some things, decorated like a madwoman and entertained. It's fun. 

In August, Small came to visit (and I may as well tell you that her and JC are now BFF) and we went to Goa again. We enjoyed having a houseguest, and she was a model one. I did the gay pride parade and lived to tell the tale. 

In September, long distance began again in earnest. I wrote a little piece of erotica that got published in a book. I went to Chandigarh and Delhi talking about You Are Here, which was very fun and I did my first feature for a foreign publication. Good month for writing. Ooh, and I also bought a camera, which helped me discover a love for photography that I didn't think I had.

In October, we had a crossdressing Halloween party and a garage sale. We did Diwali parties galore. I went to Kerala again and made some new friends. I answered some of your questions--not all--but most. 

In November (was it only last month?), I went to Sri Lanka on a family holiday. It was a year of much travel, I see now, and I am grateful. More please, 2010? The Celebrate Bandra festival happened and I spoke at Olive. In other kudos, I was on NPR, which was a Very Big Deal for me. I learnt to use the new camera a little bit better, which gave me great pleasure.

And finally here we are. The dregs of 2009. The very end, which you need to down quickly and top up your glass. I had a wonderful Christmas, we got a tree and exchanged presents (I got a watch and he got cologne). My friends and I did a Secret Santa gift exchange, which wasn't quite as secret as it should have been, but still fun to do. I saw Avatar and liked it. I got Google Wave and eh, ignored it after a couple of uses. I wrote a whole bunch of things. 

Let my new year be happy. Let new opportunities come through. I am ready for change, 2010, and I can handle it. Let travel happen, let long distance become together-all-the-time, let me figure out cash and jobs. Let me be greedy and ask for more, more, more, and please, give it to me. Let everyone I love be safe and happy this year too. Make it an exciting year, a good year, a year we will not want to say goodbye to.

This is my wish for 2010.

You never know what to expect OR Bombay: a lesson

Happy Christmas Eve Eve!


I had a great birthday. I got brilliant presents (notably, one HTC Tattoo, one coffee maker and a pair of stripy Wellington boots for the rain). We all drank from 12 pm to 2 am as promised and I was practically falling over by the end of it.

JC is back and I am happy. We are off to Goa to bring in the New Year on Sunday. I promise to do a proper year ender post before I leave as I always do, so you won't miss that.

Oh, dudes, the point of this post, before I miss it! I nearly got scammed today! So, JC and I decide to go to High Street Phoenix (which, man, they have jazzed up since the last time I visited. It's all fancy and has its own TGIF and everything. Ultimate Margaritas, here I come!). Anyway, so because it's non-rush hour, I decide to drive and the two of us are trundling along SV Road, me moving a couple of inches each time the traffic moves, chilling, you know, the usual. THEN, this guy walks past, gives me a horrified look and says, "Your car is sparking!" Only, he walked by so fast we only heard "Your car is bwawahwah." We ignore him and move another couple of inches and then another dude comes up and goes, "Your car is sparking! It's going to catch fire! Move it to the side of the road!"

JC and I regard each other in horror. I have visions of the car blowing up along Tulsi Pipe Road, our charred bodies being pulled from the mass, then there's the vision of us running action movie style away from the flaming car. It was momentous in my brain for a bit. A rickshaw is moving towards us, I wave at him so I can move my car to the side of the road and as an afterthought ask whether the front of my car is sparking. He says no, but by this time, the dude who pointed out my car being on fire in the first place is waving us down frantically. "Turn off the car!" he yells and so we do. He says he knows a mechanic nearby, and he'll go and get him.

"Wow," I say to JC, "Good thing we noticed now, huh?" He nods. Our eyes are huge with what-could-have-beens.

The mechanic comes running along. He asks me to open the bonnet. I do and step out of the car. A kindly passer by tells me to roll up my window. This is good advice, so I do and grab my bag while I'm at it. A new phone cannot be trusted to the whims of fate.

The mechanic gestures to me. He asks me to start the car and peer at a thingy* with him. I peer dutifully. He pulls the thingy tight and shows me sparks! Actual sparks! We're all going to die sparks!

I turn to him, beseeching. "Whatever shall I do?"**

"Worry not, fair maiden," he said (paraphrasing here), "What you need is a new alternator. I'll go fetch it."

My brain at this point starts having a haaaaaaaaaaaang-on-a-moment moment. You know what I mean, right? When all sorts of little clicks and whirls happen in your mind and you're suddenly wondering what's wrong with this picture. My haaaaaaaaaaaang-on-a-moment moment was just at the mention of having to get  a brand new alternator. I know not much about car thingies but I know that replacing this particular thingy would be quite expensive. Also, my parents taught me well. I said, firmly, "Fine, but get me a sealed alternator." He nodded and vanished.

"What's going on?" asked JC.

"I need a new alternator," I told him.

The mechanic reappears with a thingummy which he said was the alternator, in a plastic packet. Not sealed. "Is this new?" I asked and he was quick to reassure me. Then he shoved it into the car, asked JC and his other chap, who told me my car was on fire in the first place to rock the car back and forth. "Your connection's not good so I'm putting in my connection," he said. I translated for JC. We both looked confused. The mechanic repeated, "Your. Connection. No. Good. Replacing. With. Mine."

I tried to look intelligent.

Rocking done, he closed the lid and said, "Now drive it." We drove it. No sparks. A miracle! "Talk to my seth on the mobile phone," he said, "He'll tell you how much it costs." Two things are happening simultaneously at this point. My mind is going, "Huh. Takes longer to change a tire." and the extra pointed-out-fire-chappie is going, "I'm the seth, talk to me."

I raise my eyebrows at the mechanic. "Take me to your shop."

"But talk to him on the mobile phone! The shop's all the way back there and you'll be in traffic again."

"This guy is saying he's the seth."

Deathly looks exchanged from one dude to another. "Oh he is," says the mechanic, "Just of his own shop."

"Bring your seth here," I say.

"But talk to him on the phooooooooooooone!" Mechanic is losing his patience.

"Anyone could be anyone on a cellphone," I say to him calmly and Pointed-Out-Fire-Dude nods wisely in agreement.

We pull over and I ask the damage.

"6000," I am told.

"WTF?"

Then I remember something my mother told me to do always. I ask to see the old alternator if he replaced it.

"It's in your car!" bleats the mechanic who will now earn "" around his name.

"Show me." I say, sternly.

He opens the hood, points out the new thingy and then says the old thingy is still lying in the car. "They'll take it out next time you service it," he says.

JC steps in, all masterful. "Show me the alternator," he says. "Mechanic" points and closes the hood again. JC re-opens it and peers inside. "Where is the old one?" "Insiiiiiiiiiide," "Mechanic" is getting quite exasperated with us.

"Take it out," I say, "I'm going to give it to my own service station."

"I tell you what," says Pointed-Out-Fire Dude, "Give me 3000 and check with your guy and then if it's not real, come back and give me the rest. I can even get you a bill."

I'm still not entirely convinced this is not for real, I mean, it's pretty elaborate, with the plants on the road and all, so I agree. He rushes off and comes back with....

... a torn piece of paper.

No, seriously. They invested so much in this scam, you'd think the least they'd do is get a proper letterhead.

The paper has an illegible stamp on one corner which he points to and says, "My address."

Underneath that, it says, "Alternater -- Rs. 6000." And a squiggle.

I laugh. I really do. I hand him back the piece of paper and tell the "mechanic" to take out his alternator. He refuses, the other guy goes, "But I got you the bill!" Then JC steps in, all masterfully again (mmmmmm) and says, "Take it out." They do and then ask for labour charges. I wave them away. They watch me go, pouting.

We were very close to being had.

This is a public service announcement for anyone who drives in this crazy city. Your car is not on fire. But somebody's pants are.

*my scientific term for anything under a car hood.

** channelling Scarlett O'Hara

Never too old to be the birthday girl

If you know me, then you know my birthday is possibly the HUGEST DEAL IN THE WORLD to me. It's true. In the past, I began talking about it in like August, because I was so excited and now, I'm not much better, though I have managed to hold off till at least November before I make plans. People are amused, because, well, at 28, you expect someone to take a chill pill already about turning a year older, but it's so exciting! And it's a day all about meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And more meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! How can you not love that? So in honour of the upcoming weekend, I'm doing a list post of my top five absolutely favourite birthdays. (Add your own memories in the comments.)

1. Age 13, December 1994--my "disco" themed birthday: Got a sound system and strobe lights and decked out my entire living room like a disco. I wore a tube skirt and a white top with a black crochet vest and a silver belt around my waist. I called about 20 people from school, we had dinner and danced and best of all, I got Canada Dry (that ginger ale) for drinks, so we could pretend we were drinking beer and feel very grown up.

2. Age 22, December 2003--This birthday stands out because I! GOT! A! CAR! Best birthday present of all time. I can't remember what I did with the day, but I do remember driving everywhere and leaving the plastic on for ages.

3. Age 25, December 2006-- Combination birthday/leaving do from Delhi. This just stands out because there were lots and lots of people and so much nostalgia/sentimentality. It makes me all awwww even thinking about it.

4. Age 3 or 4, December 1984/85--Got a Hansel and Gretel cake designed for my birthday (An aside: I always wanted a very elaborately shaped cake and so my mum and I would together design it and take it in to Nirula's which did a good job. The other day, I go to Nirula's and I'm flipping through their cake book and oh. my. god! There are all my cakes passing off as Nirula's designs! Can you sue for cake plagiarism?) This was a big deal, because I was terrified of the witch and in a moment of birthday triumph, I grabbed her marzipan figure and bit off her head. Ha-ha. So there, witch!

5. Age 19, December 2001--I was in college for this birthday and my friend and I had a joint do at her house. It was my first experience with organising a party completely unassisted by my parents (even though she did the organising, being much better at it. I just followed orders.) Also, this was the year I was introduced to the marvel of cellphone technology, having received my first phone from the 'rents--a beautiful, purple, Motorola Talkabout. (This year, I have asked for a new cellphone again, going for the HTC Tattoo.)

Ah, good times. This year, we do a poolside brunch (the nice thing about living in a city with summer all year round). And JC is back tomorrow, ending our long separation and life. is. good.

Musings on multiculturalism

A lot of people including but not limited to a few friends and random people I meet at parties, ask me, "What's wrong with Indian boys? Why are you dating a foreigner?" They seem even more alarmed when they realise that more and more Indian women are choosing to do this--step outside our dating "comfort" zones and be with men from other countries. Even my mother asked me more in a sociological sense--why are Indian girls picking foreign men? And are Indian men just being left far behind by the wayside in this new, 21st century world?

So, I figured I'd answer these questions. A small disclaimer that these are my thoughts and mine alone, perhaps with a few chimings in of other Indian women who find themselves in love with men who are not Indian.

To begin with, yes, perhaps the easiest descriptor of JC to people who haven't met him is the fact that he is English. Nationality, like it or not, conjures up a lot for other people. But, at the end of the day, he is my boyfriend and my best friend, and it doesn't matter if he's white or brown or green or purple. (Although, purple might be kind of cool!) I know that's very Michael-Jackson-y of me, but at the end of the day, your partner is your partner, you know? You stop thinking about the things that might define them to other people. Just like a beautiful face when you get to know it becomes just eyes or just a nose or just a mouth, I am often startled when people refer to me as in a multi-cultural relationship. It takes me a while, and then I'm like oh right, it's true, I am.

Surfing the internet, I've come across a lot of blogs that feature the other way round relationship--foreign girl marries Indian/sub-continent guy. But very few define what I have--where the boy is Not From Here. Perhaps it's because those other ladies don't think about it as much as the Other Way Rounds do, perhaps it's because as an Indian girl dating a foreign guy you're already assumed to be SO far out of your "traditional" structure that there's little or no point writing about it. My parents and my family know about JC, my parents have met him, I've met his, all is well. But I also get that we're not what you would call "typical".

Why am I with JC? He personifies all the things I want in a man--he is kind and smart and cute and he lets me be and have my own space. What more could a girl ask for? Must we bring our countries and their looooooooooong history into this? The Indian men I have dated--and I have dated quite a few--have been pretty much the same--commitment phobic, allergic to your Modern Liberated Sometimes-Writes-About-Sex-On-Her-Blog girl, attached to their mamas. They are in no way representative of all the Indian men and if you're with one who is all the things that JC is, then more kudos to you. My male friends are almost all Indian, but they're my friends. Not my lovers. And that makes all the difference.

And what of the Bombay girlfriend? That phenomenon that happens when expats move in large droves into a thriving Asian city (can also be substituted with the Singapore Girlfriend etc) and date an Indian girl to get a "feel" for the culture but then go home to wherever it is they're from and marry your girl next door keeping you just as a happy memory of more exotic times? They exist. I've seen them. Your Indian girl in that situation would be either a) using her expat man as an accessory or b) completely heartbroken. Yes, evil things exist. Yes, sometimes having someone on your arm is more important than waiting for the right person. But all the same, I advocate my multi-cultural relationship. I advocate having tarragon nestle up to garam masala in the kitchen, I advocate learning new things, I advocate not having a peg, a way to compare your partner to other people you know. JC and I began brand new, neither having an idea of what relationships in the other's country were supposed to look like. We taught ourselves. In some ways, he is an Indian boy--families are high priority for him. In some ways, I am an English girl--I feel that my partner and I should be completely equal with no one person running the house or paying the bills.

But in all ways, we are an awesome couple (touch wood and all that). Though not very much alike on the outside, on the inside we're, if not peas in a pod, then a pretty close second. We talk about things, we fool around, we care deeply about the other person. And that is what is wrong with Indian boys--they're not my boy.

And another woman with a foreign boyfriend writes a note for us. Here's what scout had to say:

I have not been lucky in love. I do not possess the ability to distinguish between what I want and what is actually good for me. My romantic escapades have almost always been a build up to the moment when I’m sitting alone in a corner of my room, staring at my knees, wondering what went wrong, replaying conversations and looks and James Blunt songs.

But for the last two years, I have had a constant in my life. Someone who I wouldn’t hesitate to identify as ‘family’ if I ever needed to. Someone who has proved to me, despite my neuroses, my stubborn attempts at proving my worst fears true, my self-destructive patterns of thinking, despite everything, that he will stay by my side. Someone who is convinced (more than I ever will be) that I’m the best person he knows, the only girl he loves.

I didn’t believe him. It took a very long, painful time before I began to let go of my doubts, of my loathing for myself, of my inability to trust anyone. A lesser man would have quit a long time ago. A lesser man wouldn’t have had the patience, nor the understanding required to sit through the breakdowns and infuriatingly regressive discussions that I have thrown his way. More than his often unconditional love, more than his understanding, more than the overwhelming gestures of affection, the most important thing he has given me is my faith in myself. And for that, I will never know how to repay him. No amount of video game consoles and Reiss jumpers will make up for the effort it took for him to pull me out of my well of self-contained gloom and show me what I was missing. I’m a miserable bastard, I am.

This is my first adult relationship and I would die a happy woman if it were my last. It changed me; it challenged me to stray away from the spiral I had created for myself. What I have with him is not trivial, not fleeting, not something I can replace easily if I were to ever lose it. It isn’t the kind of love you read about in paperback novels, it is the kind of love you can only build once in your life, the kind that probably won’t ever fade away, even if we were to never meet again.

And now, the things that set us apart to a casual observer – how our passports carry different seals on them, how his skin is paler than mine, how our accents don’t match up – they seem meaningless and insignificant. There will be people who believe that relationships borne out of drastically different backgrounds do not work, that there will always be a divide too large to bridge. But I cannot let him go just because my mother didn’t expect me to have a gora boyfriend. I can understand her reservations, they make sense to a certain extent, but what he must seem to my family and friends back home is not what he is to me. It would be unnatural for me to think of him as anything except in context to what he means to me, and to me, he means the world. It’s really that simple.

Around the world, a-r-ound the wo-rld

Hello, my darlings.

I have been in Sri Lanka on a family holiday (which was MADNESS. Absolute bloody madness.) I can recap Sri Lanka in a nutshell for you which would basically read: fourteen people, one tour bus, perhaps not the best idea in the world. BUT, surprisingly, I had a good time. It was nice to see the Cousins again, chill on a beach and in the bluest possible pool and be a grown up among people who have only known me as a child.

ANYway. You get the basic idea. So, ever since then I have been sitting at home trying to recover from my vaycay. This weather isn't exactly brilliant for my productivity. But after a long spell of dragging myself out of bed and then putting myself back to bed again, I feel slightly more invigorated. Plus, I have two MAJOR projects to do, and nothing enables the old blogging like a good healthy dose of procrastination. I know, I know. I should just quit while I'm ahead and delete everything and begin anew. But this blogging less and writing more has actually been working for me. Besides, I have less to feel guilty about because I make no money from this online journal. I do it for me. I do it for love. Even if at the end, I come full circle and wind up just talking to myself all over again.

And I FINALLY changed the old 'About Me' section which was looking a little worse for wear after having been up for close to five years. I think the new one reflects who I am right now a lot more than the other one did. I'm still going to be going out pretty regularly with my large groups of friends, though.

***

So, it's almost December. My favourite time of the year and also my most anxiety filled. This year, I turn 28. Can you believe it? It seems like such a huge old age. Like I've lived forever. JC will be back for my birthday, he says, and that's one good reason to look forward to it. We've sort of, barely, but sort of, made a plan for our Future, with a capital 'F'. I think it's going to involve a lot of commuting, which means wheeee, more travel for me, but also, boooooo, more expenses. Either way, I think I might be in the UK early next year for a sustained period of time--maybe a couple of months? More details when I know more.

***

As part of the Celebrate Bandra festival, I had a panel discussion yesterday at Olive. It was on women writing, and I chose to wear this purple dress which I love, but also *ahem* highlights certain parts of my anatomy, especially if I am sitting down on the skirt of it, therefore yanking it even further down. Now, I didn't realise that the spot I was sitting on on stage was basically the most lit up and so I (and my mammaries) were in FULL FOCUS, apparently. Couldn't have asked for better light, etc. At some point, I started to feel the collective gaze of the room, you know how you can feel these things sometimes? And I really, really, wanted to look down to see if there was anything, like, visible, or at the very least, yank up my dress a little bit. At some point I started to obsess that I hadn't shaved my legs and people could see the stubble in the light. But, like picking your nose on stage, I'm guessing adjusting your dress (or doing that thing all women do in tube tops, the sideways-chicken-yank-your-dress-up dance) is not very good manners. So I waited (and I really had to pee) and then, as soon as the thing was done, I dashed off stage to the loo and emerged to be greeted by my friends and their various catcalls. Hmph. But, they very sweetly said that my words eclipsed my other assets, so it's all good. Next time I dress pretty for a reading or a launch, I'm leaving the push-up bra at home.

We all traipsed back to my house post that for Stolichnaya (duty free rocks my world) and dissection of people and panels past. Good times.

***

My amateur photography has reached new highs. I realised upon going through my Facebook friends list the other day that four people, count them, F-O-U-R, are using my photographs as their profile pictures. This pleases me greatly because everyone knows that people only use pictures that make them look nice/interesting and everyone knows it takes a decent photographer to do that. I've also been experimenting with black and white stuff, can't do it on my little point and shoot, but I can fiddle around with the settings on the Windows Photo Editor, and black and white just makes things come into clearer focus, plus looks a lot more arty and deliberate than a colour shot. I'd show you some, but they all have people in them and you know, I don't like identifying characteristics. I also realised that the best way to become a better photographer is to take more pictures, much like the best way to become a better writer is to write more.

My friends are amused and bemused at the way I have taken to photography, but it's so fun. Plus ever since my hobby (writing) became my job, I've been feeling a distinct lack of something to do in my spare time. Photography sort of fills this void, because it's easy (no expensive stuff to buy except a camera and even then you can work with what you have), it's creative (getting a good shot is about as satisfying as writing a good sentence) and it allows a lot more people to connect with you than they normally would if you're just writing. Because I am not born to it or trained to it or even have a special skill for it, I feel such a special thrill when someone "likes" a picture on Facebook, because it's like getting a complex maths problem right, something I have NO talent for and yet, I did it, me, me, me.

***

I keep thinking of more things to add to this most, the downside of not posting in so long, I guess. Wanted to tell you guys about my Very Fun Thursday Night Where I Nearly Decided To Stay In And Then Went Out After All To Discover To My Great Joy That I Got Free Drinks All Night. Okay, I think that about covers it. Partners on VFTNWINDTSIATWOAATDTMGJTIGFDAN were BB (who is back! wheee!), Crocodile Dundee (who is also back! wheee!) and Other Writer (who never went anywhere but still, wheeee!). We went first to Hard Rock for the launch of a new band called Tough On Tobacco, who had a very nice sound, very Dave Matthews-esque. It was Miss Malini's party to celebrate her having a 1000 (!) fans on Facebook, and so the band and Hard Rock were helping her celebrate and it was awesome fun, and thank you for inviting me! (She has a much better, more informed update on her own blog about it, so that's where you need to go for real information. I'm just going to be talking about how awesome it was that I got free drinks.) That's when I got my first green band of open bar. (The Green Band is an institution in itself among people who go for guest-list parties. The ones who don't have one, the ones who have to pay cover (usually me) are the ones who gaze longingly at those Green Banded Elite, swishing their wrists at the bouncers to get into VIP sections, leaving their drinks casually on a counter, because they can get more, ah, to be Green Banded Elite yourself is like suddenly getting upgraded from economy to first class.) (It's probably so not cool to write about how much you like your green band, but I must. We all love it, why hide it?)

Next, we hopped over to Zenzi Mills, which had this retro revival called Studio 29 after some old disco that used to exist in Bombay in the 80s. Here, the Banding was all courtesy BB, and I walked in and waved my ribboned wrist at the bar and ordered drink after drink of vodka-cran. (My new way to keep away hangovers is to use juice as a mixer instead of Coke. It doesn't work.) All in all, a good evening and a reminder that I should, occasionally, leave Bandra.

****

Last thing, I promise. I was also on NPR, which is a HUGE honour, and here is the transcript of the show. You can also press 'listen' if you have a fast internet connection and hear how I sound when I'm trying not to go ummmm, and uhhhh every five seconds.

Why I am like a woman who has been married for a hundred years EXPLAINED!

Welcome back to question time! It's time for me now to take part two of the questions (and don't worry, I'm not going to stretch this out forever, this will be a three part post. Part one here.) Anyhoo, has been a pretty slow week. I spent most of it watching Scrubs, my new obsession.

Did one garage sale (see photo) which went swimmingly, as in, I sold most of my clothes and luckily, the ones I didn't sell were the ones I decided to keep in the end anyway*. Happy ending. Also bought one white, long, racer back summer dress, two pairs of shorts, one long black stretchy tunic, one black shirt with cut-out embroidery and one CD collection that I used to have somewhere in Delhi but can no longer find. Plus, made a profit, but THEN my car got towed and I spent most of it getting it back. Oh well.

(*including the colourful halter top you can see in the picture)

On to the questions! Lalalala.

First! From Pesto Sauce, who asks, "Tell me when is your second book coming out?"

Heh. Something both you and I want to know, my friend. Here's the good news. The book is happening, slowly but surely. I have approximately 15,000 words done (and I'm aiming for a 100,000) the characters are shaping themselves well and I have a good idea of where the story is going. The bad news is that discipline comes and goes, and there are some days where I do no work at all. But, rest assured, the first draft should be done by my birthday (which is mid-December) and after that, inshallah, we shall figure out the rest.

Second, from Jo (who hasn't enabled profile views so no link, sadly), who asks, "So tell me your difference in passion about blogging over 5 years?"

Good question, Jo. Goo-hoo-d question. I think I've mentioned this before, but being a freelance is pretty much living in your head all the time. Which means some of your dear-diary thoughts get verbalised during the day, even if you're just talking to your cat. Which means sometimes a blog is extraneous. OR, if you're struggling with three deadlines that you've put off till the last minute it means that the last thing you want to do in your free time is write some more. The passion? Has somewhat waned. We are like an old married couple now, me and my blog, and sometimes we have great sex, and sometimes, well, just a kiss on the forehead suffices.

And, almost a follow up question, from Touche, "Your frequency of writing would have windled from day zero to present...but still there is something which makes you go on and on. What drives you to do that?"

I guess, to continue with my old married people metaphor, because at the end of the day I come back to something I love. And blogging combines two things I dearly like doing--talking about myself and writing. It's win-win! (Yes, I'm a narcissist. Yes, most writers are, if you scratch the surface. Yes, this is also the reason I would never date another writer.) I like blogging because it keeps me connected, I can ramble on about various things in my life and because, well, it's sort of fun, no?

Another Kiran In NYC asks, "have you ever regifted a gift?"

Y'know, mostly not. Presents have a sort of sentimental value for me, I like all presents, even if I barely know the person that gave them to me, so I keep LOADS of things I have no use for. What I do do (hehehe.. doodoo. I am a five year old today) is buy something for myself and regift that. So like a book I got for a journey, or a top that doesn't fit, things like that. But those are only courtesy gifts, given when I'm going somewhere where I don't really know the host, but it's polite to take something anyway---like a friend of a friend's thing or something. And everything is new, it's not second hand stuff, so don't be scared if I give you a present!

I think that's it for today, check back again for part three, coming up soon!

I begin all angry and rant-y but then I walk the talk

Soooooo tonight I'm straight shooting from the hip, also in not a very good mood. I should be in an excellent mood--nice wine drunk (we named him Max), nice company--but then this ASSHOLE shows up, tagger on with friends and then proceeds to mouth off about all sorts of nonsense. To which I'm like okay, everyone deserves their own opinion. Then he recognises my name (wheee! sorry, it still pleases me) and then he's like (imagine this next bit all drunk and slurry) " I thought your book was shit." To which I'm still like, eh, can't please everyone. THEN in total overstepping of personal boundaries, he says, "Oh. you're not as sexy as I thought you would be." And then I think I spent the rest of the night trying not to cry from fury. Not that I care so much that he didn't think I was sexy--I'm a very your opinion is your opinion and mine is mine and live and let live etc and plus, I wasn't feeling very sexy anyway, and it's kinda a compliment to think your writing is sexier than you are. It was just the way he said it, this entitlement he felt he had, all BECAUSE I AM A MAN AND BECAUSE I AM THREATENED BY YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE YOUNGER AND A WOMAN and it was very not nice. Then later he weaves over and--I shit you not--pats me on the head and he's lucky he didn't lose his fingers, coz I would have bitten those mothers off. It was like seeing my Internet Troll with a face. Aargh. Depending on whose side you're on, you'll be happy/sad to know I didn't engage with him, but let him sit there, stewing in his own juices, just thankful I didn't know him in real life, and thankful I was me and not anyone else.

But you guys were nice and tonight, in post-Max stupor (we decided since wine had so much character we might as well name the bottle. It was a lovely Pinot Noir. Yeah, I watched Sideways too.) I'm going to answer questions one through five. (Don't worry, I will answer them all, just not in the same post.)

Question One asked by Rajvi: "how did you meet the love of your life?"

Well, the way you phrased it sort of threw me for a loop there. Where I can tell you, where is easy--we were both at a party, I was lonesoming by myself in a corner, batting away the stray boys who aimed towards me, asked me what I did and then turned it into a conversation about themselves, but this one, a bonafide cutie, all Jesus looking (but hotter) actually started talking to me about writing, how his favourite writers were Terry Pratchett and Oscar Wilde and before I knew it, my eyelashes were batting up at him and he was asking for my phone number and everything is awesome. (Except for the long distance, but then, no one likes long distance.)

How on the other hand, would require me to backtrack a little, go through my love life of the last four years, tell you how nothing really seemed to work for me. When I met JC, I was a little low, cynical as all hell, convinced that no one would really ever want to be with me and he treated me like I was special and perfect and now, almost two years later, you guys, I feel special and perfect. I feel cared for, I feel loved. And I am able to once again be the girlfriend I was at 20, giggly and playful, nurturing and considerate, knowing that I have his back and he has mine and we are a team, a TEAM, the two of us. It's brilliant. I recommend it highly; love.

Question two from Thresia: I like green eggs and ham. Do you want some green eggs and ham?

I'm not sure. I might be hungry, but, BUT, I have this new awesome cook and I've been eating most of my meals at home, which is a major achievement for me (not to mention much better for my figure) but I do like ham. Eggs, meh, not so much.

Question three from Yachna: So, do you miss delhi...how did life change from delhi to mumbai ?

I miss Delhi intensely right now. Winter is my most favourite season, and I love feeling the first nip in the air, the first night without the fan on, the first smell of mothball-y clothes, the smell of woodsmoke in the air, hot coffee and a cigarette. Things I love and I rarely experience anymore.

On the other hand, at 2.30 this morning, I lurched into a nearby auto rickshaw and made my way home alone. Good? Good.

I am more confident in Bombay, a Bombayite as much as I am a Dilliwaali. I know the streets of my neighbourhood, I wear a dress to casual Tuesday dinners, I can say "boss" with the best of them, and yet, I miss some things. I'm homesick for one city when I'm in another. I'm a nomad these days, based somewhere, heart somewhere else. Bombay turned my world around, but Delhi was where I learnt what a world was, so I'm really here and there.

Question four from Glox: What's your current FB status?

Ooh, easy question (good thing, considering it's nearly 4 am). Mine is inspired from the song Sweet Dreams (and on days when I'm lazy, my current status is just a song I've been humming) so it's eM travelled the world and the seven seas, everybody's looking for something.

And, inevitably, when you post a lyric as a status, one or more people will complete it for you, and they did.

And my last question for tonight from Lucie: what have you learnt in those 5 years? How much do you think one grows up in that time?

Oh boy. This is going to take some effort. Right.

Five years of blogging has been beyond wild. I went from random internet chick to not-so-random internet chick, which is pretty cool, considering I was only aiming for a higher random anyway. I received both bouquets and brickbats. I had some great validation for my writing from total strangers and I learnt how to tell the truth. (This is an important skill.)

But, mostly, I suppose, my blog has given me a certain amount of confidence. An internet persona is a wierd sort of thing to have as all my readers who blog will know. You're different when you have a keyboard, wiser, less prone to mistakes but also the editor of your own biography. THIS, in short, is my LIFE. I can see what's been going on for me, year to year, what I've been sad about, what I've been pissed about, even, sometimes, days when I've been drunk. I can see the graph of my life, the way it curves, the ups and the downs, and while it's an odd sort of feeling, having all that information out there, it's also poignant. My very first sentence on the internet, for instance, the one that goes: "First off, this was not what I was supposed to do. I am technically supposed to be working, but it's one of those days when all my work finished early and here I sit at 6 pm, trying desperately to look like I'm working... I'm a journalist, so typing is a good thing!" I look at it and I think, oh my, I used to have to justify what I did with my day, I used to want to please someone, anyone. And I also think awww, look how sweet I was! (Also, I seem to have eleven comments on that first post, to which I'm all WTF? I know I didn't have eleven comments when I began!)

I'm not making much sense anymore and I suppose I should go to bed. But, to answer the second half of the question, I think it's possible to grow up more in five years than your entire lifetime. I think Original eM, if told about Present eM's lifestyle and what the future held for her, would probably laugh and tell you that wasn't possible. 22 to 27. Just out of college to OMG I WROTE A BOOK AND PEOPLE HAVE READ IT! Jesus. Do you believe it? Is this just a dream? Am I there yet?

IMPORTANT UPDATE EDIT: A bunch of us are getting together and having a gigantic garage sale tomorrow (Sunday, Oct. 25) at Zenzi, Bandra from 1 pm to 5 pm. There will be cheap awesome things (clothes, books, accessories, shoes etc), and you should come. (All the brainchild of this brilliant blogger.) I'd come early, if I were you and bring change and shopping bags. Eeeeeeeeeeeee! So excited!