Prose before hos

I lost my Bombay virginity recently. Truth be told, there's hardly a few things one hasn't done/seen by this age. Losing virginity acquires a special form where you inner monologue goes all, "hey, another thing accomplished!" Doing/experiencing anything for the first time is usually memorable. I am trying to recollect all that has been filed as long term first-time memory, in this case.

That Time I was "in" Bombay.

The thing about the city is that it hit me when I was least expecting it. I was numb to the impact when I found out I was leaving in less than twenty four hours. Barely having recovered the whirlwind Pune stint, I could not grasp the intensity of the shock. It hit me when I was being transferred to my flight, standing next to a gang of skinny girls with decaf Starbucks crap. It hit me, when the lady, sitting on the window seat kept chewing Lays Magic Masala with her mouth open, making the co-passenger (ie, me) very uncomfortable through the turbulent flight. I remember coming out of the airport with wry smile across my face. "This is what everyone's been talking about." Half expected to come across familiar spots and signs, I avoided using my phone in transit from the airport to my friend's flat. To capture the first images of Bombay as much as I could, with just my eyes, I was glued to every sight, sound and smell on the road. Not the most pleasing thing to hit your sensory system with. I felt terribly claustrophobic. As if, someone cut my limbs and stuffed me in a plane toilet. Don't ask me how and where that image comes from. There was a sense of joy- of having made it, finally. Without anyone, without a plan and without any instructions, here I was in a city that everyone around me raved about. I've always gotten a whole lot of, "You would love Bombay! Everyone would love you there. That city is made for you!" from god knows, everyone who's ever been there and known me. Naturally, I had come armed up favourable reviews.

Now, if you're looking out for fables on getting robbed/mugged/losing heart etc, please close this tab and move out. None of that happened. Neither did random acts of kindness where someone offered me a shower and a room with clean sheets for each night that I was there. It was far less shimmering and definitely not as inviting as other cities have been. A part of the blame has to go to Pune, for making everything so warm and comfortable that you end up imagining, "Bombay must be a better version of it!' It isn't, sweetheart. Bombay is harsh. The weather is fucking awful. The city has a stench, similar to that of Hong Kong. For the record, I love Hong Kong. It's the kind of place where everything is out of your limit. Outside your pocket and boundaries mean you'll be inspired to work hard or go home. Something similar is the case with Bombay, only, I felt like going home.

Bombay isn't a city for dreamers or believers. It's a city for those who can follow a set of orders or a template for that matter. You remember the preparation for CBSE board exams? The kind where you've to follow those Sample Papers and keep practicing the format? Bombay is a city meant for those who would answer those question papers, without asking a question to themselves. It's meant for those who can continue to pedal daily, on the same route, in the same queue, wearing the same outfit and doing the same fucking thing. It's like a Metronome. Only so much can go down, rhythmically. Only predictable outcomes will lead to occasional splashes of happiness. Or sadness. The binaries can sustain without battling an eyelid because there is no space for the grey to thrive. The city lacks space, for an unrestrained flow of emotions, which spring from actions other than the ones programmed under the Ford model.

There were parts of the city that I loved, instantly. I took to them, the way fish takes to water. I never wanted to leave the filthy Juhu beach. Prithvi Café transported me back to the literatti alleyways of Habitat evenings (one up for Prithvi folks, for the delectable food). Colonial architecture in and around South Bombay makes you fall in love with the space, sure. But, those spaces are unreal for you, if you're staying near the fisherman's wharf in the opposite corner of the city. Almost like calling Greater Noida, a synonym for Connaught Place. Every city has it's charming corners and spots. This one had it tucked away, for those who can afford it.

I remember this sunny Saturday afternoon, I spent with a close friend in 'bay. He took me around to his favourite corners of SoBo (purely through the car window), only to stop at this residential area along the sea. We walked till the sea, after leaving the car at a distance and I swear on all things holy, that area smelt like Delhi. It did not smell of fish, or struggle or daily anxiety filled rides. It smelt of all things pleasant, a happy memory, an old photograph conjuring smiles and nothing else. Walking around that space made Bombay feel humanly, for once. All the things that people ever said to me about the city, came true. However, the illusion did not last very long. We got munchies post-sundown and as we came close to wrap the evening, I felt morose. Helpless, even. Anything to not get back to the fisherman's wharf. Perhaps, it was knowing that I wouldn't be with my friend for long, and that any contact with familiarity in that city was all that I needed to keep me going against everything.

Having said (mostly) everything, I go back into one January afternoon at my advisor's office. She's possibly the only one who maintained the notion that Bombay is hardly a city to live in. Her reasons for the same may exactly be the reason that would make a Delhiite stand against a Bombay kid (and I'm not going to give that here), but in all honesty, her version about the city is possibly the closest I experienced. No, it doesn't have anything to do with the fact she's written a whole damn book about Bombay, as the cinematic city. It possibly has to do with not falling for small nooks and crannies as treats and knowing that the spaces of illusions cannot hold the everyday experience. The people constituting the experience rarely give you a chance to sit back, look and enjoy it. Everyone out there is chasing something so unreal, and with so much straightforwardness that they no longer look out for magic or living the dreams. Bombay is all about the chase, and not the kind that gives you a rush. In all likelihood, you're not going to live opposite Marine Drive, neither are you going to chill at Cuff Parade and nor are you going to have a movie evening after shopping at Colaba. Bombay is about the survival of the fittest. In that jungle, if you aspire to dream then keep that dream to yourself. No one's got the time to hear yours.



Leaving this old number, that I found myself singing each time I visited SoBo. I find it ironic for a Delhi guy to sing this number on Bombay streets. But then again, I look at the Delhi guy and see that he's achieved it all. Perhaps, it's worth it. For me? Not one bit. Not right now. I think I'd forever be a pauper in Delhi than giving it all up for the chase. 

I may have traded writing with watching television but neither is going to get me out of this slump. I think what has happened here is that I've become too comfortable, too cushy and extremely lazy in painting things to the right angle for this state. It's as if, everything I ever wished for came true. The next step is obviously that of confusion, because what is it that I can do, now that I have everything going on. 

I'm surprised none of my drafts are saved here...

It's really not despondency as much as the domino's not falling in place for any writing. I wouldn't care for this ideally, but, circumstances leading to the events where drafts aren't being saved are making me believe I should.

I saved three drafts on one night, two on the leap night and two on two different mornings where I got WiFi access in Pune, in the class.

Fuck Apple. Another reason why their mobile devices and I aren't made for one another.

Besides everything else, living by oneself makes you question the need to write. As intricately woven this narrative is in my head, I was repeating it twice a day to go through my tasks for the day besides the schedule for classes, set routine for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner. The need to write and express was taken care in a space where I didn't know a single person or had the luxury to spend time with those who knew me. Instead, every minute spent with strangers was like reciting all that I would write here, or what would constitute for interesting posts here.

Although, to be very honest, I hardly think I have anything interesting to say. About my life, about myself. Yet, I allow myself the privilege to use interesting in the same sentence as myself. Come to think of it, after having met the people I did, if I had to go back and meet myself in the room, I'd possibly be like why would I bother to spend 5 minutes with her?

That's the problem then. I've lost my shimmer.

I don't necessarily mean glitter nail paint or sparkling body lotion, in spite of my knowledge on make-up. I used to be this person, I would be proud of. You know, someone who did things and got her shit together, somehow. Now, I eat lunch and want to take a nap and then go on to watch two episodes of Mad Men because they're pending. I used to be angry at people and I used to have ideas and ambitions. Now, all I really care for is my bed and if I am going to get 8 hours innit.

New bed is nice-ish. It's got what the painter calls Antique Scrap Paint, in the shade of grey and brown. It's a cane bed with six panels of cane woven at the back and the front. It looks nothing like the ugly carved shapeless wood boxes on which the rest of the world sleeps. I apologize if you're one of them but look at the carving. Only a certain politician from a certain state in the country would want that in their room. Not me, certainly. It took me a long, long time to decide the bed. Even when I thought I knew I wanted these 60s structured bed or tiled bed, I was unsure. The minute I saw the headpost for a Cane Bed, I knew I wanted it.

It's really not a big deal, this bed. It's just I've never had a bed to myself. All my life I shared bed with my grandparents and later my sister. Also, when you're tiny and your boobs don't take half the bed, it's okay to do so. But when you're neither tiny nor in possession of flat chest, you ideally like some space. My bed takes extra cushions, boobs, pillow, sibling, two different blankets and sheets. Not exactly keeping things minimal. Not that it affected my sleep quality but it did, bother us (sibling and I) for most part of last decade (boob heavy and her, ass heavy). Now that we have a large-r bed than last instance, it feels great. I can turn around and although it takes time to believe that I can turn around another time before I bump into a body part, it's a good feeling to have.

The politics of sleeping are never uncovered until you sleep badly. Last night I found myself awake at 5 am, realizing I slept without brushing my teeth and passed out in my tshirt alone. I woke up, straightened my face, brushed teeth, popped medicine and changed clothes- all in 7 minutes flat and then went to bed again, feeling much fresh than when I woke up. Ofcourse, this satisfaction of crashing on  a bed is a luxury right now. Five months of renovation and two months of homelessness is hard. This is ceremonious, since it's four months since I left my room and wrote a post. The position of my laptop on the bed, and I on a chair. I'm at it again, only wrapping it to manage at least 8 hours in the same coveted bed.

The pleasure is all mine. 

I was at this comedy show earlier in the evening. This is happening for the second time, at the same venue in the duration of my course. A significant number of these performers are my research subjects, and given they're obnoxious as fuck when it comes to responding to emails for non-commercial academic research (aka chutiyapa, their words), it all comes down to seeing them here or not at all.

The funny co-incidence between both the trips have been the sheer discomfort while hearing the set and the volatile journey back from the venue. Both of them concern the same reasons for the discomfort, on your way back. To be able to constantly question, for the duration of the research, how morally corrupt everyone seated around is and whether your grandfather is going to make it.

It's infact a larger, ethical debate and a philosophical question to be raised if humour can be born out of what's not a morally corrupt situation, but also the fact that the ones who enjoy or participate in it, are liable to be judged guilty as morally bankrupt people. In the audience, amongst you are the internet trolls, the virtual extroverts who in reality are nothing more an insignicant occupier of the space purchased through their significant other or daddy's credit card. I know, I fall in the latter category and given I'm participating in the activity, I know better than to just accuse and leave it at that. I'm equally morally corrupt/bankrupt. In so far as my active participation includes laughing at points which are not funny, because of one or more reasons:

1) The photographer is pointing the camera right at your face. I'd be lying if I were to say, it didn't happen at least a dozen times tonight. You can't be sitting with a resting bitch face when they do that. Even with caged teeth, I know I can't.

2) The comic is looking in your direction. This is debatebale for seating and pricing, but let's just say I've been fairly lucky and gotten seats in spots which had a decent amount of attention thrown in, in lieu of my money.

In both these situations, you're forced to chuckle if not naturally incited to laugh at the moment. That forceful chuckle becomes problematic as you're debating and editing the appropriateness of the content. While, I do come from extremely liberal chain of thought in my ideology, I'm also bound by the conditioning of a family that taught me better than that to laugh at jokes made on alzehmiers. Call it snobbery, but given the after effects of reading every thing possible in sight, I'm aware of what treatment calls upon epilepsy attack and by the virtue of growing up with my grandparents, I have a sizeable amount of love and respect for people who are over 65. Now, communalism, racism, caste and other pet related causes are all done to detah by arm chair activists on the social media and I understand, how they're often not "relateable" in situations as these, where you're inviting masses at large to come watch you speak against monetary sum. Not everyone will understand your left liberal joke and burst out laughing, but everyone will laugh at what's an everyday situation. Everyday situations in comedy writing for these performers can range anywhere between using cuss words like salt in boiled eggs, only garnishing to establishing the flavour, to set the tone to the ideas being communicated. They can include anecodtes from childhood (only if you've established yourself as a headlining act or are significantly pretty), or self deprecating humour (usually very well received). These are broadly speaking, the heads of what the conversation from the comic's end will be like. What's grossly disturbing in this part is, the moral bankruptcy act is shoved somewhere in the middle. It will be thrown in like a slap in your face.

You've paid to hear about how old people, your grandfather, someone else's grandfather is liable to celebrate his birthday, each day after waking up because he's over 75. Each day of his survival post his 75th birthday is like a birthday. The reason for his existence and why he looks forward to life is because good food occupies his thinking space. It's that quest to look forward to the next meal and investing time in taking over food as a project is what keeps the old people alive. Their orgasm in life comes from spending time preparing/cooking/eating food which keeps most of them going. In essence, there is a larger reality to this statement. However, at the insensitivity at which subjects like these are handled, only to induce a chuckle or moving laughter is what should bother you. That insensitivity becomes a pass to collect and inspire a chain of reactions and actions outside of the auditorium where those, who did not carry the sight and sound in their cell-phone were possessed by the words of these comis. In process of talking about a feminists are insane and how their mother is so sexist, comes out words so shrill, that you've got to be stripped of all morality to be able to conceive it out loud, much less share it with a gathering such as the ones that comes in for these shows. Perhaps, my palette to handle humour which isn't exactly parody centric on existing popular culture is not mature enough, however, I'd like my humour as well as thought process to be able to tick on my list of musts. Insults don't always translate into jokes and that is something, which bothers the whole of me to be sitting there and attempting to laugh while being horrified at the idea of things being uttered out loud. The comfort comes in the form of supporting act by the audience, usually very unidirectional and focussed to applaud at the every punchline of the sentence uttered by any artist.

As far as going home is concerned, I've also been hit by severely sick grandfather on my way back. The kind which will leave you in shock, the same sort. You left someone absolutely fine and healthy, only to return two hours later and see him being delirious. In a state, where you know it's a matter of sliding to either side of the thin line he's resting on. You mentally curse the jokes you were forced to laugh at. You wonder if everyone around you indulged in the same form of embracing moral bankruptcy because having arrived in a certain sense would mean dropping all the pretensions of moral conscience and ethics in your head. If this is what induces laughter, works as a legitimate profession then call me old-fashioned but even someone like me can't bear with it. Let's bring back the sexist business professionals. They're easier to digest than these cunts who've no control over their tongue. 

"You fail, only if you stop writing."

However, what Bradbury didn't take into account is the lethargy that accompanies the will to write forcefully. For the heck of it. 

Tues 2:09 am

Him : Waddup?

Today 12:05 am

Me : My classmate had a baby
Me : and I'm still trying to figure out who to take my plus one for another friend's wedding

Him : HAHAHAHAHA

Me : her kid will learn alphabets sooner than I will find a plus one

Him : Yup and then She'll be sendng him off to college
when you get married
And that's when she'll regret everything
coz you waited

Me : I hope so. it's not waiting as much as not finding any one

Apparently another one of my classmate had a child. I found out in a group text today, which I promptly scrolled through twice without noticing the word "mother"/"child".

The girl who's recently become a mother once told me about her first pizza experience. She was on a pilgrimage with her parents, must have been about 7-8 years old around then (yeah). At Vaishno Devi, the trip's "hip" leg, she spotted a board that read "Pizza" and her elder sister (story for another day about how her first marriage alliance was broken and how she was left after the engagement for another time) wanted to try some. Both the girls went to their father and asked him what a pizza is.

Father, who had no idea about a pizza took the girls, aged between 7-10 with him to the pizza parlour and proceeded to have the first pizza of his life with his family during that trip. Why yes, god is real. Pizza made it's way into their family. She told me about this, long long ago when we were at a school picnic. I doubt if the fake Burberry wearing girl now would recall this/resonate with the facts here but somethings never leave you. My first memory of pizza comes from what most of my 'hip' recollection comes from. Grandparents and father having lived in Italy for a solid part of their life were saturated with pizza and how homemade pizza triumphs Domino's pizza at any time.

We had Domino's pizzas for dinner tonight. This acquaintance who works at that particular outlet is on his notice period out to join another notable family favourite food group. All you need to do is order your pizza and let him take the charge to make it. It'd be loaded with three times the cheese you'd order + double toppings- all at the base price.

After finding out that the girl has become a mother, and having an overdose of pizza for dinner later, I've come to the conclusion, pizza is overrated.