Prose before hos

I was certain and sure about the large fact that I didn't want to do what my dad or grandfather did, professionally. Although, to be honest, and fair, it was more like I didn't know what to do and in the process of arriving at a conclusion, I began eliminating options. 

The first elimination was a desk job. My dad was doing one at the time, my grandfather had done one all his life, and I? I was a little too cool for my own head and self. Not that I had any idea about figuring a source of income consistently but I somehow knew, "9-5" wasn't cool. 

You see, as the first child of the house, not only are your parents just as invested in your life, you are pretty much hanging by the first dumb idea you conceive. In going forth with it, you wing it and convince everyone around you to play with it. 

So I did what had to be done, made an academic plan and stuck to it. To a large extent, that worked. It paid off in a way of making me culturally sound and aware and at 31, when I look back at the time, I was a little too cool for my own good. All of it was in my head anyway and to be fair to my 22-year-old self, I was doing well. 

Problems began professionally. The roadmap I had carved to be a wild child magazine editor didn't work cause life isn't a fucking rom-com and Delhi is not New York, giving a 22-year-old opportunity to play the bass in the evening and work as an editor-in-chief in the day. It was also all my fault to disregard the idea of 9-5. 

In the past two years of running amok as a freelancer and essentially, living that 16-year-old self's dream to scratch the itch of not following a 9-5 desk job outfit, I realised the flaws in the plan. Did I tell my 16-year-old self it was stupid? No. But it's also entirely on me, to choose to take a 16-year-old version of myself this seriously that I based my whole fucking life around it. 

At 30, I found myself in therapy, telling the expert on the other side of the screen about the lack of structure throwing me off, sharing my insecurities of growing out from a disciplined individual to going all out ham on my own self. I learned to take breaks, to appreciate the beauty in rest, to accept the failures and especially mine on the professional front. I don't think I ever chased a professional roadmap for myself. It was always about my growth as an individual and in doing that, I was left far behind professionally. In a way, what I did with academia, should have somehow transferred to professional life but it never happened. I was too busy collating cool things and acquiring cool experiences and hanging out at cool spots with cool friends while being mega uncool about my professional life. 

To be completely fair to the situation, I had also never experienced what it was like to be on the other side; when you do indeed get an engineering degree or a marketing degree what does it look like? I had been rolling around with gigs in the arts and culture space, which is typically notorious for exploitative practices and poor payments; all of which I had wholeheartedly embraced. I didn't think I'd get a second shot at life. 

I'm so grateful to be here. I'm fucking thrilled to be alive and be given this opportunity. Sometimes, it feels like a dream. 

I used to tell my therapist that back in the day even when everything was going wrong and life looked bleak, holding on to my day job gave me a sense of anchoring my life to the shore. We are back at it and even on the worst days and nights, the purpose to go to bed and wake up has been defined and I couldn't be happier. 

This one time I went out with a guy. It was completely harmless and couldn't have been more blas but my intuition told me otherwise. Bear in mind, I was in my teens and not half as pre-emptive about people and reading the room. This is one of those. 

As young people do, we had a meal, some conversation was made. I'd go into the details but I have far too many people in common with that gentleman and he's now married so why ruffle feathers (why I miss anonymity here). 

The highlight of the meal was not the fibrous meat and bread and all that excess salad that neither of us needed, but it was this gesture. Since the eventful luncheon was being split on account of some payment both of us had been scammed of, and I was in possession of the funds, we were basically splitting the amount we had earned.

Anyway, the meal got over and the bill was cleared and I was trying to rest my nerves until the man started to scribble some stuff on the tissue paper. Within ten minutes, he gave me a piece of that tissue on which he had written a short poem about us and the meal. Effortlessly charming. 

Ofcourse, I was a bag of nerves after. 

Some other stuff followed (if you're my mom, you should know we didn't have sex) but largely harmless. 

I returned floating on a cloud and recited that to all my friends the day after in class. 

Anyway, about a quarter into this and our staccato conversations, I found this man has written another one of his masterpieces on Facebook. It was mellow, something on the lines of unrequited fondness (surprise, surprise on the subject). In hindsight, what else is an 18 yo supposed to write in the peak of their heat but ofcourse, my convent school hadn't prepared me for that. I was convinced it was about me because my grandeur of delusions and overconfidence knew no bounds. 

For about a year or so, the highlight of my rather uneventful life was in total belief of the masterpieces, one with me and one for the public. 

It took a few months after, just a year short of that luncheon for me to realize that not only the guy had a girlfriend who he was massively head over heels in love with, that she was actually smart and all that. 

Back then, I imagined my life was parallel to this rom-com which I shan't name. However, if you're this intrigued and somewhat invested, you can always put two and two together (that my dear friend, the Ice Prince, once told me, "I've been putting two and two together since age 5." Okay then). 

The iconic line that resonates with me to this day about my delusions and overconfidence is how I learned that my favourite love song is written about a sandwich. 

That, my friend, is the reality of it all. 

Perhaps, that entire piece of writing devoted to me, that I'm to this day using as a bookmark in my favourite book from 2009, is perhaps about the meal we had, and not about me. 

How I look at myself in the mirror every morning is truly beyond me. 

(Title reference; track of the day)

About two months ago, I booked myself a solo trip to the hills. To the ordinary, it may seem like another coping mechanism by an average day job slave. But to those who know me, they were appalled.

"Are you sure you're okay? Do you want to maybe talk about life?"
"Who on Earth is making you travel to the hills? This person must really mean a lot."

Well, technically she does.
D's been ferrying my cosmetics, mists and the sundry for my luxe-life from the Big Apple for the last couple of years. Sinner confused her as my 'school friend'.

Here's what: our foundation for me to travel to the hills goes all the way back to all the food consumed during 5 weeks of having lunch together. She may have been the reason I survived NCR for a month. It doesn't mean a lot yet it does.

I think the idea of travelling for someone no longer goes down well with me. I do it, sure, grudgingly but I can't feign a tiny bit of interest in the same. Naturally, weddings require a lot more effort. As much as I'm willing to put in the effort and time, the deterrent here is the hills.

I mean, I don't think I'll travel for a person anywhere, anymore. And perhaps that's going to cost me my upcoming review and appraisal (if I get out of probation) but no, I shan't do that for anyone or anything.



In a larger scheme of things (as I was told today 'you're not thinking THE BIG PICTURE'), I foresee losing people because of my obstinacy on not travelling for anyone. But I also see this as growth. Not giving a damn and a sense of ownership to my upcoming 30s.

I including 'moving' in the gamut of travelling. Do I allow myself to be moved by people? I would like to think yes. However, I can name people here who would not agree with me. Then again, those are the same people who read this page and I don't want to give them more importance than I do.

Speaking of my hypocrisy, I can't even get myself to travel for myself. I don't know what prevents that, and I have in the past, tried to address it. Yet, I struggle to put words to this situation of helplessness, anxiety and stalling decisions.

Let me give you a background; I'm expected to be on a work trip to a beach town (yay!) when I'm not getting to see the face of the beach whatsoever. Just before that, I sm supposed to be wearing a new Indian outfit to my friend's wedding in 3 degrees, which is this run to the hills trip of a lifetime. As explained in great detail, I'm probably getting out of that only to find myself initiating a plan out of the city with P. Which is also something I have stalled long enough and literally on a deadline. In the meantime, I have solidly dug my grave with a lot of people. Case in point.

Exhibit A.

"Let me know about DDN by Thursday?"

We are supposed to leave on Friday.

On the other hand, I find saying yes to unplanned plans easily.

Exhibit B.

"Hey, want to go to eat turkey tonight?"

"Sure."

(Narrator: no turkey was had. The name of the restaurant is misleading and they serve no turkey.)

Similarly, for the wedding weekend.

Exhibit C.

"Let's hang over dinner this weekend? Let me know asap."

*takes three business days after confirming three other plans and comes back with*

"Yes, let's do Friday night!"

Exhibit D.

"Don't you dare think of cancelling your trip. Go on that train and take pictures and send me some. You'll have fun."

Essentially, business is open for Friday night. I'm all over the place and yet nowhere. Certainly not travelling for anyone and if I do, you are either a terrible decision or a result of one.

Earlier this year, I was seeing someone (let's call him the man from Quarter-1) and I'd mentioned this page to him. My planning of putting two pieces a week regularly went out of the window as I spent all my time staring at the screen of my phone, alternating between giggling and going red in the face. My writing became sparse and for the most part, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because I was truly having fun. I was stoked beyond belief and nothing else seemed important.

I recall having a discussion with the man from Q-1 on this and he showed concern. He wanted me to keep pursuing my hobbies, when I was trying to decide if he was good enough so I could add fussing over him as a hobby in itself.

That explains a lot why that didn't work out.

A quarter of the year later, in totally bizarre circumstances I met someone else. The supposed man from Q-1 was out of the picture completely. I wasn't looking for anything at all. Despite that, this somewhat happened. This is the man from Quarter-2.

There were sparks alright, but not without the cloud of doubt. What were we doing? Were we doing anything at all? I could tell you if I knew, but to this date, I don't. The good part is, I've stopped trying to unravel the mystery.

Somewhere between action (and lack of thereof) and speculation, we began bickering more than I have argued with anyone, ever. I tried all possible rational explanations- maybe this is going to do more good than ever. Perhaps, we were going to come out so strong that we could take over anything. Maybe, it was all in my head.

All in my head, it was. A large fucking vertically challenged chimera, that's what.

In the process of trying to save someone and later save myself, I lost two months, my pride, emotional response and every shred of self-respect I had. I did things that my 16-year-old self would cringe reading (read: bawling my eyes out). To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was bawling my eyes out for a man, for employment, for academics, for myself but that is how I remember myself to be.

Every morning I'd wake up, I'd howl in the shower. This act on repeat by putting on a fabulous outfit, going to work, staring at the screen to slap the keyboard, and come back. I tried calibrating my life with the lipstick bait. One overpriced lipstick to get over a man, each time in case of an impending colossal heartbreak.

I was poorer by 3.5k and still fussing over the motherfucker.

Was this some kind of voodoo? The tears of my biological clock revolting at the idea of hitting snooze or just my hormones acting up? I don't know.

To this date, I have no idea.

I could say I'm doing one hundred percent great and over the trauma or past the drama but I'd be lying. The truth is, I allowed myself to built versions of things that were not said out loud, in a gigantic proportion. I allowed myself to think I deserve those things and I'm the rightful owner of all that and more, for once. I deluded myself into believing there's one such thing as a cinematic ending, for whatever it maybe- happy or sad or mellow or traumatic.

Instead, there was reality check. That version was akin to using Internet Explorer which you have deluded yourself into believing that IE is better than Mozilla Firefox. Explorer could be great, but not for you, especially when you need a snappy browser. I'm a wee bit traumatized from this experience, and for the most part unhappy that I put myself through this misery for no rhyme or reason when I could have just spent the energy trying to write.

Six months into this disastrous, fucked beyond measure year, I realized the biggest fucking thing about writing here, on this page. My Achilles heel to writing, and writing well, is love. Or something that deludes me into believing it is love. Or could touch, smell and react like love does.

That's it. It explains everything. Why I had six half-written drafts that I didn't have the energy to post.

A few months ago, a dear friend told me the shortcoming of my approach with online dating. "The problem with you is that you are looking for love and not for hookups."

I vehemently denied. Later, when another friend confronted me on my funk, I denied with utmost surety that love is not on the agenda. 

"Motherfucker, what do you want? Why are you sad? What did you think you were going to do with this person anyway? Neither of you are in the mood to bone, you're not together and you don't want to have the burden of maintaining a boyfriend so to say. What the fuck do you want?"

Got me thinking, which it hasn't done in about two years. What is it that I really want- personally, professionally, physically and mentally.

I'm pleased to say it's been over a month and I have no answers. However, I'm more pleased to announce my return on this page.



Summer's over for the both of us.
But that doesn't mean we should give up on love. 

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.

Cookbooks, to my mind, always come across as a treasure passed from a generation to another. While someone like me prefers to note things on paper and take along to the kitchen, the concept of cookbooks on YouTube and other hypermedia links is on the lines of taking forward the legacy of our kitchen secrets into electronic binaries, and in turn making them stand out as a star dish on the table. 

If there's anything I hate more than being "Hmm"-ed at, it's being acknowledged for kindness. Especially when there's no way out but to be kind and being a fucking human for once.

You could say, I (I being Snobster) hate humanizing myself. You could also say, "There, there. It's okay to be a human once." But let me tell you, it's not.

To be human, is to be fucking weak. Put on a show where you wear your heart and take it out and display it to everyone. Look ma, I got a heart that works just as good as anyone else's. It's brand new, shiny and definitely in mint condition.

That's where the problem begins. When you're kind and show your heart on regular basis, it's prone to wear and tear. When you're me (by that I mean, heartless slab of stone), displaying signs of being human can be a setback to oneself.

The opposite of corporate clients are NGOs. My new, favourite topic, that I'm beginning to realize is literally poles apart from working for a corporate ho. These NGOs are the new bone of contention in my life, they are responsible for my employers paying for my weekend special white bread slice slathered with salted butter. I've been working on a new project which involves me liasing with these organizations and quite literally, touching the radioactive material ie emotions, kindness, reality and grassroot level problems that people deal with, to make lives better for those who are less than #blessed.

Imagine this, you're sitting at work. Hating everyone and everyone hating you back, while you dabble sending cold email after the other.

"Please send the content."

"Please send the content." x25870

Until the moment the phone next you to rings, a man very politely requests for you. Once you claim that it's indeed you, he proceeds in the most empathetic manner to request for an extension of two hours for submission of the said content.

"We haven't had electricity in two days, our devices are not charged. It will be very kind of you if you could please give us the liberty to submit it late by a couple of hours. We would be more than grateful."

"Please take 48 hours, my kidney and liver and all the stuff I bought from Thailand."

I shouldn't cut onions when I'm at work, or infront of my Mac, or even when I'm planning to write.

The 48 hour deadline came to an end this evening, and even before I could react (and believe me, I'm on acid when it comes to chasing deadlines), the man shared three emails with content. The landline rang for the 67th time today and it was him again,

"Hello Ma'am, I wanted to thank you for giving us two extra days. It was very kind of you. You see because of Diwali, our village gets less supply of electricity than usual and we do not have ample time to charge our devices and finish our chores that require electricity. This extension helped us immensely. I wanted to thank you again for this, and also I hope you've received the content. We shared it 10 minutes back."

Drat, onion chopping again.

Here's pretending that I'm unaffected by emotions, that Twitter is dead (according to a colleague who was popular on Twitter when Twitter was popular) and that I'm spending my weekend far away from emotions at a virgin beach with a Piña Colada and a plate of curly fries.

In no specific list of want/need, here is my list of crap that I desire to be gifted (if you're planning to buy me something for my Twenty Sexth) -

1) Personalized sticky notes and letter heads - Complete with the title on the top "From the desk of *insert Aadhar card name*. Contact me for design ideas.

Location - Can be done at Nehru Place.

2) Adidas Stan Smith - Been a while since I invested in footwear and what better than these nummy ones which can be teamed with a dress and jeans alike. I wear a size 8. Prefer yellow colour but green will also do.

Location - Multiple (including Adidas' website, go lookitup).

3) Neon Glow Sign Board - I have been trying to get this done for two years now, never managed a day out to execute this. There's a quote I'd like and a colour I'd follow. It'd be great if a bunch could get together, put their resources and get this done!

What do you do when you wake up on the wrong side of luck?

I always believed that Midas was a dumb muthafucka. That man gave away his power for his inability to control it. He was literally daft not actually employing people to do all the 'touching' on his behalf. I mean, the man had the resources to hire two people (with legit four hands) to do all the 'touching' for him. For Pete's sake, he could touch turd and make it into solid gold. I hope it was all 22 carat and that he paid his employees in his gold turd (remains of gold biscuits turn to the gold turd, geddit?).

Yet, he chose to exit that wonderful blessing (or whatever power) he was granted exclusive access to. I've heard many a version of that man cursing his luck for being blessed (hashtag blessed like all Delhi teenagers) to turn everything into gold, yet, he cribbed so much that someone wrote a whole fucking fable about him.

Where was I? My luck.

I'm the opposite of Midas. Whatever I touch, it turns to turd. Throw a gold biscuit my way for sample. Address on request.

You throw a project proposal, complete with everything in order and favourable conditions and I will give you back a mess, which can neither be evaded nor destroyed. I've a great example but I'd like to believe people from work are reading this and I'm on tenterhooks (I've been informed). Right now won't be the best time.

If I believe I've found love, it often always turns out to be a gastritis attack. You know, in my head, which clears as I proceed to tell the second of my three friends about it. The man literally becomes one with the ether, leaving sulphuric after effects of his presence. Or, as the doctors refer to it in science, farts.

If I think, there's no better negotiator than me, an agency will show me my place by ignoring my phone calls, messages, sweet nothings, angry everything, only to respond in the first instance a senior colleague writes to them. So much for me being the loyal client and insisting on going back to the damn agency.

Just when I think, I'm gold with not consuming carbs and processed food and refined sugar, I get pissed drunk and stoned and book a ticket to Pune. I eat crap for three solid meals for over three days and come back to eat at McDonald's because shit it's shutting down. WHATTODO?

First, I don't drop any inches or kilos for two fucking months and just when I feel that starts to happen, I start to binge eat again.

"How's the peanut chocolate? I didn't like the milk coated in rice crispies one. Oh, you don't want yours?" Fuck people distributing food in offices. That shit should have gotten over with celebrating birthdays in school and having pineapple cakes at birthdays. Those two things are legitimately stuff of past.

On a different note, I don't get people who bring back goodies from their vacation, to work. First, you get the privilege to fuck off for a while (lucky cow), then you return to rub it in everyone's face by distributing chocolate or some such to the entire fucking office because you had a gala time, while some of us were stuck in the office with people who believe are finding the cure to cancer.

That's HR's idea of no appraisal, but how about refined sugar and cocoa as vacation leftovers? You get something for being a good girl and sticking around all Summer. Did you see their pictures from Cancun? Oh, how stunning!

There's also not getting beef samosas, beef steak burger and patrani macchi, but I think a Facebook status was more than enough rant about turning my life into turd. I literally booked a return ticket to eat those things and got none of that. Instead, I drank calories in the form of a Thumps Up (which I could have done at home, thank you very much), battled body odour, and cringed at the idea of unclean bedsheets, a pet peeve I never let go since I found this friend's sibling and her boyfriend were having sex on the mattress they had lend me during a trip.

There's also my words here. I write about people and their behaviour towards me turns turd-like.

Instead of people being grateful that I'm immortalising their ridonkulously boring asses on my blog, there are those insufferable, arrogant bastards who look at me like I've infected them with AIDS. Well, if you think you're better, then make yourself better. You are literally a lot more pathetic than my words make you sound like. And, to be honest, writing about you is like doing charity. My right hand does not approve of what my left hand makes you sound like but a girl's gotta live. And write.

It's Friday and it's my writing night tonight. Time to burn bridges and turn gold into turd.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with my blog entry. I just wanted to brag that one out of my three friends think this qualifies as 'literature'.

In the midst of my Invincible Summer, a man entered. Brave enough, he tried to shake things up by asking me out for dinner slash drinks slash both. To my misfortune, carbs, by ginormous quantity prevented the execution of his brevity. Date stood cancelled, and well, the fever saved me the dreaded trip to the parlour lady.

I could have within me an Invincible Summer and all that jazz. Only, I won't have in me is the metabolism slash courage to face the wrath of the parlour and the ladies who make the experience there, worth writing about. For all I know, that fever may have been up against my arse because of the thought of facing the parlour and the ladies in the morning, but I'll save the man that information (for all you know, he doesn't care).

I know, there are too many desi parlour tropes floating on the internet. BuzzFeed, Mallika Dua, ScoopWhoop and almost everyone with a voice and over thousand followers have written and contributed to the large repository of the parlour stories, memes, jokes and some such. However, we don't have people talking about parlour aesthetics amongst us. The sheer act of wanting to spend close to an hour with other women, half naked, willingly in a cramped room full of the nauseating scent of armpit sweat and talc. The joys of being born with an invincible Summer!

The thing about stepping inside a beauty parlour is, stripping clear of shame completely. For years together, I used to have a woman come home and tend to my body hair removal. I don't know why exactly that stopped, but I distinctly remember what re-started my trips to the parlour.

It was the Winter of 2014 or maybe 2013, and I'd accompanied May to her parlour in Amar Colony. A hole in the wall, the parlour ended before it started. There were two ladies handling the show for an aunty, an elderly lady who was most interested in knowing why their regular didn't show up for a whole month. The thing that I liked the most about the place was that there was no small talk. The whole reason why I decided to get someone to come over and avoid staring into the eyes of the person who's just witnessed the ingrowth of my pubes and other things. There's also the public watching you display your armpit which you've been coyly hiding for a fortnight now (where are those days now?). A healthy mix of embarrassment and shame added with the fear of living through small talk is what put me off for years.

This place was different.

The ladies handling your business were only interested in the 4x4 TV screen. Channel was selected as though someone was in a state of comatose and their relatives had lost the remote to the television. Each time I dropped by, these ladies were completely enamoured by whatever was playing on that screen. It was almost a relief to see them interested in something other than my blackheads, my tattoo, my discoloured feet, my pudgy stretch marks- everything. Going to them was like having a lover who wasn't interested you to ask for head, but just interested in going down on you and getting done with. That's how easy it was. Go, tell them what you want, let them do things to you. Next thing you know, you're set for the date. (as long as you top with a shower before stepping out of your house, please do that- please.)

That parlour where I used to go was analogous to single screen theatres, which are now getting extinct faster than the meteor that hit the dinosaurs. A rare phenomenon in a constantly shifting space like Delhi, these parlours are now a thing of ancient history or well the 90s.

A case in point, these parlours will not provide you magazines to read, coffee to drink or an unlimited supply of fresh towels. They will not have the ladies recommending you underarm wax strips at INR 500. Instead, they'll insist that you go for chocolate wax on your arms which cost only INR 30 more than the regular wax at INR 100. I have been paying 400 odd rupees to get my body squeaky clean and have survived. Meanwhile, the parlour next to where I work may just ask for that amount only to tend to my armpit hair and sweat.

Which means, there is a distinct class divide in these varieties of beauty parlours. For starters, INR 5oo for armpit places call themselves "Salon" or "Ladies Room" and the INR 2o for upper lips and eyebrows are still the humble parlour. The outfit to change into at these salons are clean, ironed and definitely worn once. The outfit in which they propose to wax your armpit hair off at these parlours have been worn at least seven times in a day. The rule of thumb is that if it smells clean, you'll be asked to wear it again, as the eight customer of the day.

Pro Tip- Like me, if you have been going to the dying breed of the parlour, carry your boxer briefs and vest to change into, better still wear it under your outfit. It truly helps with your mild case of OCD.

The other visible difference in the parlour and salon divide is that of visibility. In Pune, during my last trip, I'd dragged Ashmita Guha Neogi with me to get her waxed. We went to a parlour in a student colony, which was more chic than where I work at present. Not only did they have a designated space for waxing, they did not allow others to join in there to wait. At the parlour where I've been going (since 2014, where I accompanied May once), you strip almost publically. By the end of the hour, you'd have seen atleast half a dozen sets of legs with varying hair growth in and around. The most amazing part of that place is this table like thing, where you're made to stand, your head touching the room and the lady scoops out wax and slathers over your leg. The perfection with which she does, she puts me to shame, reminding me of the times, I missed a corner on the slice of bread while slapping marmalade. Utter perfection.

As all good things go, the ladies at the parlour I used to go to quit. May found another place, before that happened and switched. I was left with the choice of following the ladies or following May. I decided to go to the new space which is now owned by the lady who used to wax me. It's even smaller than the previous place (which is a miracle that such a space can exist), it's got no table, television or magazines. Just two chairs to service you, and a door to show yourself out. It does the job, almost as discreetly as you'd like for it to be. Nobody to judge your armpit, the boobage popping out while removing hair on the arms.

As for my pubes, they're not seeing the light of the day, cramped room or the eyes of anyone anytime soon.

No wax in over five weeks. Date night gotta wait till I'm mentally prepared to bare my soul legs to the ladies.

My academic advisor successfully taught me one thing about writing- and that is- don't let your work be dated. Much like me, she's trained in the craft of filmmaking and thus, as an academic, she knows how critical it is to produce something out for everyone, which doesn't age or have a time earmarked on that piece.

Given how blogging is perceived to be a certain kind of writing, it's hard to then, keep your work relevant.

However, if there's one great work of art (as in the written word) that adds retains snobiety, while keeping the work relevant is Gossip Girl.



Yes, I love the show. I have no fucks to give on how much you judge me for this confession, but god is that great fucking writing or what.

GG is a simple show, so to speak. If I've to loosely explain, then just know that everyone in the show sleeps with everyone. When they don't, they're in fabulous outfits making love to New York. It fits right in with all popular academic themes such as 'cinema and the city', 'existential crisis', 'po-mo', 'bourgeoise struggle'.

I'm not kidding.


Okay, fine. But they did make six seasons (when's the damn movie out?) of everyone sleeping with everyone and not an episode where you get up and say, "SWITCH IT OFF. I CAN'T TAKE THIS." They brought incest to television and made it totes normal, before Game of Thrones ever did.

GG is perhaps one of the rare shows where writing a blog as a premise can make and break things. But here's what. Not every TV show which trivializes fashion can use writing as a tool to scandalize the audience. Because technically, all that's happening is that there are people who fear this 'Gossip Girl' figure and go out and do stupid shit. I'm putting my best step forward in ruining the show for you but this is one TV show that probably will see the test of time.

Just as how any good blog should go, there's a lot to learn from this series (and its writing).

• If Gossip Girl has taught me anything it’s that, not everyone can and should be Blair Waldorf, there will be Jenny Humphreys and Vanessas but you gotta do your thang. And stick your guns. There can be one Queen B and that won't be you. Thank you. 

• Psst, you daddy's lil girl. I'm talking to you. Don’t be stuck up on wanting to be a princess. Not everyone manages to snog Monaco’s monarchy and that is OKAY. You can live without it. Just be a bloody Raina and move on. Nobody cares about you. 

• Blogs and Bloggers make and break friendships, relationships. If they don’t, they are not good bloggers. If they do, you were never meant to be. I'm ever so proud of losing a few friends and foes because I once decided to be outgoing and trash them for the piece of shit they were. Ofcourse, we never got back to each other.

• Unless ofcourse, you're Chuck Bass. Chuck Bass is everything. Let’s face it, it’s not Serena or Blair or even the lonely boy from Dumbo. It’s Chuck Bass and that, as you should know, is reason enough to have as your role model. Drop your panties. Chuck Bass with a dog is immortal. No blogger can pull that down. 

• Following from Mr Bass to real talk. Never trust a man who can write. I’ve been getting that for many years but it’s only solidified in a year or so. If you’re dating a writer, run in the opposite direction. You don’t need their words in your life. If your girlfriend/wife is a writer, don’t leave your unpublished manuscripts in the open. If they’re anything like me, those will see the light of the day and how. Go Vanessa. I’d do the same with a great piece of writing and then head out to shoot a documentary on the Thai Orangutans. 

• Ideologies are good but you know what’s better? Decadence. You’ll give up on ideologies as soon as you experience a 400 thread count bed sheet. I’m talking to you, Rufus. 

• Speaking of which, people are fucking cunts. Don't try to win them over by cooking for them. Waffles don't help. 

• People can surprise you. Most of the times for good. Let’s face it, if they surprise you for the worse, then you totally deserved it for not having seen enough Gossip Girl and knowing it’s about to hit you. 

• Rules of feminism are farcical. Sleep with everyone. Your step brother, your other step-sister, your best friend’s ex and her current boyfriend. Your ex’s best friend who roofied her.

• Having a threesome when all three know each other is possibly as bad an idea as masquerade balls. Don’t indulge in either. 

• Let Lily Bass plan your party. Some people are naturally gifted. You should have a Lily Bass in your life. This blog's anniversary party card is loved by everyone. I'm Lily Bass minus her five and a half husbands. 

• Film festivals are totally cool. Blair Waldorf approves, as does Dan Humphrey. 

• Write about everyone- your sister, her cocaine dealer of a boyfriend, your step-mother, her husband and your step-sister/girlfriend, your dad, your best friend and threesome partner, your best friend and his ex. If you don’t then you’re wasting stellar writing opportunities. 

• Where there’s smoke there’s fire. And Thorpe. And Jack Bass. Stay away from men in suits. Unless they’re named Chuck Bass. 

• Between Eleanor Waldorf and Lily Van Der Woodsen, I’d pick Cyrus. He’s the best. 

• Don’t let any Jenny Humphrey tell you that you’re not cool. She’s from Brooklyn. I’ve met her counterparts in men who have said shit to me. It’s their insecurity that drives the venom. Stay strong and research the shit out of them. Bring them down and tell them off. 

• if Lady Gaga doesn’t perform at your party then you’re not cool enough. We have to bring her to my blog party in the next ten years. 

• Be mean. Georgina Sparks didn’t evoke Jaysus out of nowhere but she did put the fear of god in man with her appearance afterwards. Be horrible, your worst. Let people know you. I am yet to pick one character from Gossip Girl and say in all honesty that they’re good.

• If everything fails, go shopping. There’s nothing that plastic money can’t solve. 

• Have secrets. Lots of them. Tell different ones to different people, in permutations and combinations you can’t remember. Fuck your happiness. Self-destruction begins at home.

• Always be ready to take down people in sequins. I love sequins and none of my friends gets why. You need to shine when you show people their place. 

• If your family has political connections, you’re never going to get any. Case in point Rahul Gandhi Nate Archibald. 

• In the end, love and fear your resident blogger. They love you just as much as you love eating cheese croissant and don't really mean a lot of harm, even if they've written shit about you. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll fight the urge to watch Gossip Girl on Netflix. Having Dan Humphrey as your spirit animal can be exhausting on days when you want to excel in academia but also want a social life.