Lapses of lingy…

So, I’ve joined this band, which performs at a swish gourmet restaurant in South Mumbai every Sunday and is frequented by people from all walks of life.

Bohemian fashion designers, effeminate hairstylists, jet-setting CEOs, folks of other nationalities, and the like. In between renditions of Summerwine and This Masquerade  and I Will Survive (dedicated to my queer friends), I closely observe the way the people move, sound, carry of their wardrobe, sip their champagne and shake a leg (mostly when sufficiently drunk).

One prominent fashion designer (high fashion) is a sight to behold, post a couple of swigs. He flits from one table to the next, urging people onto the dance floor. And he  does it all so engagingly that even the uptight succumb to his trigger-happy charms.

And just the other day we celebrated two birthdays; that of a pretty young thing wearing a dress with a floral print and a 71-year old grandfatherly chap, with a bit of a hunchback, hailing from two different parties. Grandpa asked the girl for a dance and she obliged the old dear. Sweet.

Crooning at swish gourmet restaurants has its perks. The food is top-notch (nutritious and non-greasy) and comprises cheese (the more fungus the better), antipasti, cold cuts, seafood and veggies like asparagus and broccoli. And the white wine is good, too.
 

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My new resolve is to meet people outside of my usual social circuit. Of course, I do love these individuals to distraction. But I’ve figured that cultivating the same clique all the time, can make the morning after (partying ie) a little too toxic for comfort.
 
A bevy of phone calls will follow mostly concerning who did something remotely risque, who kissed and told (alternatively which depraved soul did not get any), and the like.

It plays out like an episode of Brothers & Sisters, a free-for-all where discretion is scarce. Incestuous. Contemptuous.Some salacious gossip, is of course, vital to spice things up, but a tad too much can stain the best of friendships between the most well-meaning of friends. Luckily, everyone seems to have things to do this week (gallivant in Germany, attend weddings, other mundane stuff).

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Watched a monologue this weekend, titled ‘Fat Feminist & Free’ and performed by Pramada Menon, a lady who is indeed all of these things — fat, feminist but the kind that harps on equality, not bra-burning and free (lives life on her own terms).

It’s a hilarious piece of work that recounts a series of mostly ridiculous incidents from her own life ranging from how random strangers offer unsolicited advice on how to lose weight (sounds familiar to moi) to what it was like to grow up as a Malayali in Kolkota to how people (policemen, auto drivers, security check personnel, and the like) mistook her to be male. 

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Pop’s surgery went off as smoothly as medical science will allow in the circumstances. Turns out that the wee bit of colon preserved inside of him during Surgery 1, was visibly inflamed and could turn cancerous in 10 years’ time (or earlier). It had to go.

But he’s such a positive, adaptable sort. He has reconciled to living with an external pouch that rests on the right side of his tummy (making anus defunct for life). Sounds awful I know, but there’s good news, too.

There was no incision and it was all done using a laparoscope. We viewed the entire procedure on DVD post the surgery. Colon flesh congealed shawarma-style, with the application of heat (which makes it tough to now eat a shawarma sandwich, without grotesque images of burning flesh flashing across the mind’s eye). 

Also, he can eat all the spicy food he wants. He need never take any medication (oral, anal, et al) for ulcerative colitis and there’s no fear of malignancy. And since, there’s no colon, it’s the end of awkwardly painful colonoscopies.

When we returned home from the hospital, I visited two more recovering uncles. One has an amputated leg (my dad tried to console him before his surgery saying ‘If I can live sans a colon, you can live sans a leg). The other may have a tumour. Personally, I hate to see the elderly suffer. Blame it one the follies of our youth. We abuse our bodies (and I am not generalising) smoking like chimneys, drinking ourselves silly, eating crap etc.

A colleague of mine was recently complaining about the new vendor in the canteen. “It’s expensive and the quantities are so less,” she moaned.

“But the food is healthier and you may end up spending a lot less on healthcare and hospital bills in the long run, “I reasoned. She smiled and quit complaining.

Pop is yearning to get behind the steering wheel ASAP. My mother wants him to take it easy for a month. Well, good luck to her with that!

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So, I am off to Goa tomorrow for what hopefully will be the last leg of my dad’s recovery from ulcerative colitis. He needs a surgery, and for a change it’s being planned, and we are in control.

When I mention this to the good people of Mumbai, they don’t hear beyond the word Goa. I have received responses to the effect of:

‘O wow! You really need a break. Have fun!”

‘So, will you be moving outside of home, while you are there?” (yes, to the hospital…duh!)

“Maybe you will meet someone really interesting at the hospital.” ( love in Apollo!)

I think the good people of this city need a break, to gain perspective of how delusional they are becoming!

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