Prose before hos

"Can you please pick some candles? The ones that light like anaar. You know, sparklers."

"We don't get those candles here."

"You can just say you can't get it."

"Yahan cake nahi katteh, yahan Bihari katteh hai. It'd be a miracle if I get candles."

This should be happening over a dinner table but my friends and I aren't in the same 10km radius and we sure as hell don't agree upon dinner time or meals anymore so this page it is.

It's Thanksgiving 2017 and I have a lot of people and things to acknowledge. Bear with me since that book deal didn't come through.


To mom, for specialised meals where I throw a tantrum regardless of how and what's been made. I am one step closer to what life I envision for myself in the future and while it's not been easy for her to understand that, it's been harder for me to implement. Wouldn't have been possible had she not taken that charge.

Dad, for keeping up with the madness at home despite doing a fabulous job with work. I have seen how people run family businesses now and I have new found respect for the passion he puts in his work daily.

To all the anciliary people who make my work possible every day, from my colleagues who are always ready forced to hear me crib and cry about uncontrollable situations with commissioned photography to the freelancers who come around when I am commissioning work. Even the people at Snake pit, who make magic happen occasionaly with their turn around time. Gratitude and a tip of the hat to most of you, for working at the pace at which I work, which is maniacal to say the least. Just because I don't have the semblance of a life doesn't mean the other key players don't. More often than not, they place work the way I do and it's commendable, for I am not making any sacrifices to do that.

To the team at the university, from my mentor to my colleagues. Everyone who came in to support me during my research thesis defence. It was quite a sight to see people hear me talk for what seemed like a whole afternoon. This lot  made me realize I no longer belong in academia since I was controlling my anxiety to quite an extent.

To the cast of Thanksgiving and the people who made the film. It's the worst art I've ever made so it's safe to say, there's only way but up. In terms of moving image only.

Morning after my blog anniversary party, I was high as a kite. After weeks, I found myself up on a Sunday morning, naturally, I decided to spend the time with my favourite person. My grandfather was catching up on his morning news, over a banana as he normally does. I sat on the chair, next to his bed and found myself staring at the wall. Twenty minutes into that pointless non-interactive hang, I heard him talk.

"You'll die if you eat a banana and egg."

Jack Johnson's Banana Pancakes started playing in my head as I imagined myself swimming into a pile of hash browns and pancakes. I'd booked a cab earlier in the day to head to McDonald's for breakfast, despite the wretched cleanse. Take it as a hint from the universe or bad karma or just pure luck, it didn't show up. Exasperated, I stepped back in the house after what seemed like an hour and a half of negotiating with the cab driver. "To hell with the diet, it's not working anyway", was my vibe after the party. I'd survived the last two days without eating any kind of fat, let alone good or bad and it was horrible. I was low on metabolism and high on substance. The song continued playing in my head as I stared fondly at the wall, only knowing I'd imagined him saying that. Five minutes later, he repeated again.

"See what does this say, if you eat eggs and banana you'll die. Does it say that?"

I tried to re-focus. I stared hard at the television screen and my brain was blank. Blank as a sheet of Word Document waiting for my crap before every MPhil assignment. Still craving pancakes and maple syrup with salted butter I attempted to look at the television screen. More than half the screen was occupied by Baba Ramdev trying to do Surya Namaskar or some such and some product placement for his brand on the side. There was a tiny screen showing how Pakistan has something to do with nefarious things going on in India. I tried to look for the headline that my grandfather had said out loud but couldn't find it.

"Huh?", with a dry mouth I tried asking. I was convinced, it was my brain talking and not my sober grandfather.

"It was on TV."

At the point I was sure, he'd passive smoked with the rest of us and that got him high. There was no way such a bizarre thing would play on a Sunday morning. I mean for fuck's sake, Sunday's the day of brunch and champagne and eggs with banana are the most harmless things you can do together.

Then it happened.



I stared at the screen in disbelief and let different bulletins roll three times before taking this shot. Ended up eating a greasy plate of Chole Bhature that I needed to fight the hangover with. Been avoiding Bananas and Eggs together since.



Epilogue (Blog Party)

(During the course of Taboo)

AJ- "Where did Abéy go?"
Me - "JAIL."
AJ- "What is he then?"
Me- "Convict? Arrested?"
AJ- "YES THAT!"
Me- "Arrested? Arrest?"
AJ- "The last one."
Me- "Arrest?"
AJ- "YEAH. (softly) do you think he heard it?"
Me- "Nah, he doesn't care. He's barely interested."

Four hours later

Abéy- "So when I was in jail..."
Remaining guests including AJ- "Oh you went to jail?"
Abéy- "Can you all not pretend that you don't know? I heard your Taboo clue you know."
Mia Khalifa- "Oh."
AJ- "Oh."

In the last decade or so, I've learnt a few interesting things about myself. One of them concerns my co-curricular life, or time outside work. The only difference between having downtime and partying is who calls it what. All my parties are unconventionally wired, especially in context to the Delhi party circuit. Which is to say, no we don't swap babies/wives/boyfriends but we also don't gyrate to Wakhra Swag*. Your downtime is my wild party.
*Questionable example since in the last 100 days, I did actually attend a wild party and gyrate to Wakhra Swag with Mia Khalifa.

A couple of years ago, a friend extended the courtesy of inviting the little tartlet of my sibling to her party. Her reason? My sibling had played a track with us for a live recording at a TV studio. And so, she did show up and did nothing except to judge the fuck out of us all. A story, she narrates to everyone to this day, about how I'm a fossil, and friends with similar people.

The idea that we are all fossils and that our parties suck is extremely offensive to me. I, for one, love the parties we throw, and attend. Most of them include us sitting around with non-judgemental music (where one begins with Dizzy Gillespie and wrap the evening with Cat Stevens if we are an enthusiastic bunch) and drinking. It could be anywhere between a drink out of politeness to finishing two bottles of wine each, depending on the mood and the weather. If one is being completely wild, we'd go as far as attempting to dance to Bruno Mars (what?). Otherwise, there's karaoke or games, the kind where you indulge in harmless fun. Nobody gets topless, no snorting cocaine, no orgies that lead to HIV. Not to say that I haven't had my share of cuntliest parties (including slapping friends and coming back home with them, or gazing at stars while lying on the floor with a stranger).

But, at this point, I think I know what I prefer. A few hours of competitive Monopoly is better than reciting a star-crossed lovers tale of the boy who I can't be with because I refuse to not brush my teeth for a night (what?).

A few days ago, I was at a friend's Twenty Sex-th birthday and what an amazing day it was, all very well organised, managed. As fun parties go, there were bottles of champagne and other stuff which I skipped. The party had some party games as well. Party games are all fun and games until you get competitive. And boy, was that afternoon competitive. Think, an afternoon filled with polite conversation, a couple of rounds of Taboo, and lots of cake.

I was a part of the losing team, which should come as no surprise to anyone cause usually in my quest to being competitive, I make a colossal fool out of myself. In the list of top ten embarrassing moments, singing Dancing Queen by Abba to highlight Abba during my turn in Taboo is the latest qualifying entry.

However, nothing puts the fear of god in me than playing 'Never Have I Ever' in public.

Look, underneath this coating of snobbery lays a person ever so boring. I can be stimulated with a conversation about clean bedsheets, on hating Coldplay, as to why men won't ask for help to navigate and some such. I thrive when I'm amongst like-minded individuals. People who prefer to be observers than participants. Does that make me boring? Maybe. Do I mind it? Absolutely not.

Yet, it's only ever during parties that if someone initiates a game of 'Never Have I Ever', I go blank. I mean, the most exciting thing I did in college was to get 98.16 percent attendance in all three years.

That should tell you something about me.

I recall this same friend's party (which was judged and dismissed unfairly by the sibling) several years ago. We started a round or two of that- and thus came out material, as did the blush on my cheeks.

"Never have I ever pooped in the shower."

"Never have I ever sold crack, got caught by the cops, and lied my way out."

"Never have I ever slept with my best friend's boyfriend."

"Never have I ever have eaten my booger."

"Never have I ever urinated in public."

I have no recollection of what I said (and if at all I said). Although, I do remember a friend throwing up all over this host' lawn and I also remember crashing awfully early while everyone around me continued to chat.

All these years, I waited for an opportunity to say something. You know, something salacious. Something ludicrous. And I did get an entry to make, after all.

Around two years ago, this friend's friend feigned some interest in me (what?). Let's call him Abéy. Our boy Abéy was quite charming; if I had to review him he'd be a straight 7.25. We did the usual- talked till we exhausted all possible talking heads, went out and saw some sights (a very interesting Zomato review followed- hit me up you're interested to read), wasted each other's time until we got bored. It fizzled just as how it started, for no rhyme or reason.

Six months later, I'm sitting in the living room. Watching TV and drinking beer, or something equally mind-numbing (when I should have been writing my thesis). I get a call from the mutual friend and she says,

"Abéy has been jailed. It's all over the news."

I tuned to news, nothing. They were highlighting how drinking gau mutra clears pimples on your face.

Preliminary Google search later, it was confirmed. Abéy did actually land up in jail. His name and face splashed across most TV media channels, newspapers, websites etc. Turns out, he got into a bit of an altercation with a high profile political buffoon.

Most of Abéy's friends and well-wishers were all for, 'Fuck yeah Abéy, great going!'. Except, if you do actually look up his name, it tells you all about the time he was in jail. A move, I thought at the time, could be a disaster for someone's career prospects.

Last I heard, Abéy's doing pretty well for himself professionally. He also had Man Friday's attention at a party when our friend walked up to me and asked,

"Listen, isn't he the same guy who went to jail? Can you introduce me to him? You guys are friends right?"

(I did no such thing if you're wondering.)

Thanks to Abéy, if I'll ever get down to playing, "Never Have I Ever", I can confidently say, "Dated a man who went to jail" and lock a few jaw drops. Until then, I'll reserve my idea of partying to listening to Kendrick Lamar at best.