Lapses of lingy…

On my bday, Juggi (short for Jaggnathan not Jughead, though the too look very similar) gifted me a doll.

During the party he whispered to me: ‘I found a man for you’. ‘Er…you want me to open my present right now,” I asked. “Yes,” he said. So, we went to Maya’s room and sat on the floor. I pulled apart the wrapping, and eyed my latest acquisiton, rather amused.

It was a doll with chocolate brown skin, clad in a loongi-meets-sarong thingy. He also wore a vest, which sported a marijuana motif. In his left hand he held a joint.

If you pat him on his behind, he begins gyrating (rather obscenely) and belts out a song with the lyrics “I am a love machine”. Sulagna get a kick out of slapping the poor thing’s behind every chance she gets.

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My 30th bday was undoubtedly one crazy ride on the wild side. Apparently I was high as a kite, and in fact went round informing everyone who would care to listen, whilst in fact being in a highly inebriated state, that I was indeed high as a kite.

It all began on a kosher note on Saturday, when Larissa, the roomie, Viren and me headed to town for a play called ‘The President is Coming’. Yaell, the girl who did the lighting called me about it and I decided to take a chance in spite of the fact that the previous play, for which she also did the light, this infuriatingly, annoying excuse for a play called Still Single, was well, infuriatingly, annoying.

We were pleasantly surprised to discover that TPIC is in fact one of the better original local plays in English in recent times. Directed by this chap called Kunal it’s a satire on reality television. Here the president in question refers to George W Bush who is making a trip to India and 6 young achiever-type Indians are contesting for a chance to meet him.

In the beginning you think that the six characters are merely caricatures of some or the other typical Indian stereotype – the geeky South Indian IT chap who works for an American MNC, the intellectually NGO worker who writes poetry, recites Shakespeare and wants to get into publishing, the very South-Mumbaish daughter of a rich tycoon, this chap who is sexist, racist etc etc. Then the plot thickens in the second half and you realise – O My Gosh – these aren’t regualr people but a bunch of sinister maniacs!!

The dialogues are reminiscent of what’s happening today. And one or two of the performances are outstanding. On the downside you have some VERY mediocre performances. Now, if only all actors were good, it would come together perfectly. There’s a lot of humour, not the slap-stick kind. And there’s one super treat — the IT chap does a rendition of the South Indian James Bond in the song ‘If you Come Today”.

Anyways, I am digressing. Post the play we joined Vivin and the gang. We spent eons decided where to head for a drink, and after that encircled Colaba for many more eons, before zeroing in on Hawaiian Shack, the one in Colaba. Since no one in Colaba could give us directions, Meera called up Chandra, a chap in Bangalore, (our party and restaurant sleuth) to ask for directions! This chap knows where to eat and party, given any nook and cranny of Mumbai.

HS in Colaba is very unlike the one in Bandra. The latter pretty much resembles a local train post 10 pm on a Sat night, the only difference being that the deos and perfumes here, might be designer. HS in Colaba is pretty empty. No don’t go telling anyone this piece of good news and we don’t want the place to become the next big watering hole in Mumbai.

At HS, I had a about two vodkas. After that I vaguely remember sipping breezers, beers, bacardi etc. I do remember Maya and me doing lots of disco dance moves. Then the DJ made a birthday announcement and lots of random stranger came up to me and wished me, especially this one chap in the next group who kept enquiring about a birthday cake.

We got home at by 4 am only to discover that there was NO electricity in ONLY our house. The fuse had blown. Maya refused to sleep in the dark (Scorpio tantrums) and hence, I trudged all the way to the neighbour’s house at that obscene hour to borrow Sulagna’s key. Preety opened the door, handed me the key without much ado and then disappeared back to sleep slumber.

On a different note, one cousin texted me this message: Happy Bday! No balance to call!

Hrmp!! More dope on the Bday blues tom.

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After faithfully carting home tipsy girlfriends and pissed cousins, it’s now the turn of moi to have a little fun.

So, on March 25 I surrender myself (wine, vodka, et al) into the hands of good friends.

Actually, one good friend, Slug to be precise. The roomie plans to join me in this road to perdition.

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Lots ‘n’ lots ‘n’ lots has happened in the last few weeks — some of it very risqué (read unmentionable), some of it pretty mundane.

But the best thing about life at the moment is that I feel so carefree, like a child without any responsibilities.

I suppose this state of gay abandon is possible only when one does not feel terribly responsible for the very reason one one has uprooted myself to live in this chaotic city. As the saying goes: One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.

In Mumbai this feeling sneaks up on you, rather unexpectedly and by and by you realised that your job means more to you than it actually should. A colleague of mine has fallen ill several times due to job-related stress in the past.

And I am turning 30! Have great feedback from all the smart, single, successful 30-year olds I know. They maintain that the angst of the 20’s is finally over. Indecisiveness is history and is now replaced with a new awareness of one’s needs and abilities. Hmmm…

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Could not catch the Russel Peters’ show in Mumbai. The damn tickets were sold out way in advance.

However, caught him for a few seconds on Nina Manuel’s ‘airy-fairy’ (a colleague’s word for frivolous) show After Hours. A gushing Nina was chatting him up and the conversation somewhat went like this:

Nina: What do you think of Indian women?

Russel Peters: I think they are beautiful. I’d like to explore this beauty with a little more depth. However, they are a little low on the slut factor!

Nina: What do you think of Indian men?

Russel: Well, I don’t date them. They may work out, wear nice clothes, have a cool hairstyle. But overall they are very corny. Like a ferrari with no engine!

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Just discovered the good news — I shall be spending my 30th bday anchoring a fashion week from my desk in office. How fashionable is that, now!

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The good news is I have a new job.

The bad news is I feel pooped, mentally and emotionally. It’s like there’s this crazy influx of information bombarding me from ALL directions.

Newspapers, bosses, soon-to-be bosses, Orkut, bills, rent, television ETC, ETC, ETC.

I NEED A HOLIDAY!

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Sunday morning began on a peaceful note…almost.

I got a free dose of conditioning and moisturising — hair, cheeks, nostrils and all — from the roomie and her good friend M, with supposedly ecofriendly Holi colours (or so the packaging said). Might have a semblance of truth, because the colours came off with least resistance. We played with ‘pichkaries’ and took photographs, in which we looked like freaks. Hot freaks, though.

There was no Bhaang, which might be a good thing. My last memory of bhaang involves blood and gore. I was riding pillion on a Bullet with gay abandon and my stupid friend at the wheel began doing wheelies. Which is fine provided you don’t try these tricks on a pothole, not to mention when you are slightly inebriated. We fell, the skin on my right foot peeled off, and I joined everyone for a round of raucous laughter. Within 30 seconds, the pain hit me like a bolt of lightening. That nipped all cheap thrills in the bud.

Since we were in Goa and it was a Sunday, all the medical stores were shut. But my friends managed to lay their hands on some Band-Aid and medicine, despite their drunken stupor. I completed the rest of the Goa trip, hopping from beach to pub to hotel back to the beach, the pub and the hotel, on my one bandaged foot.

Coming back to this Sunday, once I looked human again, I felt a great need to declutter, in the literal and symbolic sense.

Began by reorganising my finances.

Next, chucked all fortified wines out of the ladder. It’s only naturally fermented alcohol for me now.

Then stocked up the fridge with healthy, nutritious (and not necessarily low-calorie) foods and cooked at home.

Also, identified a pile of clothes and other stuff to give away to the bai, watchman, ironing man and the rubbish lady. This poor legless chap who begs every Wednesday just a stone’s throw away from my office, will get Alan’s oversized, T-shirt, which is in mint-condition after languishing in my closet for eons. What you don’t miss you don’t need

The big idea was to let the energy flow more freely within the house, a concept I picked up from an ex-roommate, who preferred minimum furniture in her room.

Slept VERY peacefully and feel extremely rejuvenated this manic Monday morning.

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Visited THE most enchanting haunt called Tribal Route, the other day. A friend and his business partner discovered two ram-shackled old cottages in Versova, and transformed them into two very cosy, colourful, unpretentious home décor stores.

One houses everything from earrings to chappals, candles, mugs and other trinkets, and the price range begins from Rs 20. This one’s a solid destination to pick up your yearly supply of gifts for friends, family, bosses, the works, because the stuff has a good finish, the ambience is very serene and the place smells great, too.

The other cottage has household stuff like wooden sofas, curtains, cutlery, cushions, art etc. Everthing is arranged rather casually. Yet, there’s a definite method in the madness. Now, since my friend is an interior designer, he also has great ideas to help customers do up their homes. Outside you have lots of plants and cheery coloured walls inside and outside, which thankfully are not loud or flashy.

And the toilets are F-U-N-K-Y. Even if you don’t wanna pee, it’s worth taking a peek.

For unexplainable reasons, the owners seem to have a fetish for frogs (inanimate ones). Frogs of all sizes and shapes, and made of several materials, lounge all over the place. These are not for sale, though. And if you want to gift a frog to the owner, it would delight him no end.

Now, the super thing about this place is that it’s not aggressively commercial. And yet, you feel like going back, because it’s so inviting, with its odd kichdi of old world charm, contemporariness, simplicity and flair.

Once you’re done with your shopping, or if you hate shopping, you can plonk yourself outside on a chair, diwan or couch, and sip chai, smoke a ciggi, chat, or play with Brazil and Mexico, two teething puppy dogs, whose current idea of fun is to gnaw at your arm.

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