Archive for March, 2010

Gay night out!


2010
03.31

WHEN a gay fashion designer invites one for the opening of his new signature store, be ready for both drama and surprise. Not that all gay people are dramatic. Some folks are subtle, and prefer maintaining a low profile (such as my friend Sunshine).

But coming back to the evening, post working the zombie hour for a couple days with pasty skin and disheveled kurtas, this soiree presented a nice opportunity to transform from geek to goddess. It was time to deck up to the nines, with heels, pencil jeans, chunky silver jewellery, the works. It was also time for eye shadow. Powder blue.
I landed up at chic little boutique, which had stark white décor and found myself in a room teeming with gay men. A familiar face popped out of the woodwork, and some air kissing happened. He introduced me to his friends. One of them was a doctor who also choreographs. Another owned an art gallery and sweetly invited me to explore it on a Sunday.

Post white wine, sushi and banter, someone christened me with an epithet that is popular in the gay world. It sounded a lot like ‘Fat Hag’. I stared at the boy curiously, and turns out he meant Fag Hag; a straight woman who hangs out with gay men (detailed description available on Wiki). Someone then asked me if I had noticed so-and-so’s brand new shoes. I said,” No”. “Then you’re an FFH…a Fake Fag Hag,” he said, tweaking epithet with precision.

In the course of the evening I chatted with this chap who grew up in a predominantly Roman Catholic country. His coming out (at the age of 12) was a horrific journey, and I was shocked to hear that he was beaten up every day by family and at school kids were encouraged to throw things at him. Daily living was a nightmare and he finally fled to the US. Since then he has been very happy with an Indian partner, who’s own coming out story was much more tender. His mother cried for one night. Now, all is well.

Post the inauguration, we proceeded to a nightclub owned by a well-known fashion designer in Delhi. One of the straight boys in the group (who hails from my hometown), looked bewildered, flabbergasted, flummoxed by this explosion of effeminate men, who air kissed, dressed chic and expressed themselves with a certain joie de vivre. The doctor who choreographs took me under his wing and began scoping out straight men in the vicinity, and with a vengeance.

While he went off to continue with his R&D, one chap came up to me and asked for my number. This very forward gesture by a Delhi straight male, reminded me of something I was told when I first came to the city. It is the gay capital of the country. “Also, everyone is sleeping with everyone,” the person said of people in the upper middle class and upper class, where promiscuity reigns supreme. Indeed, the folks oozed sexiness from every pore. As they canoodled with one person, they also scoped out remaining eye candy in the room.

I shooed away the chap, figured that all straight (or most) men in room looked kinda daft and joined some people on the dance floor. A couple was grooving together just a stone’s throw away, when one of them dropped his beer.

Two drops fell on my sleeves, and he apologised profusely. Seizing the moment, I told him that he could make good by buying me a drink. And he did. And guess how much this measly pint of Kingfisher cost? Rs 300. “This would have cost me Rs 5 or something to that effect in Goa, “ I whispered to a friend.

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He’s a pistol. Not an AK-47


2010
03.29

Daffy, the survivor. An auto ran over him when he was a baby.

For the last one month or so I have been coordinating with a local NGO, which works towards the welfare of animals, especially street dogs. I wanted to get ma boy Daffy – a little street un’ whom I feed everyday – vaccinated. Many people feed street animals but don’t vaccinate them. Besides it being a prevention measure, since a dog is a dog is a dog and it will bark, most people feel safer in the presence of a vaccinated street dog.

Finally, I called up the owner and told him very agitatedly that if we don’t vaccinate ASAP, the little fellow is going to bite someone. Paranoia will strike the neighbourhood and someone would also come after me, blaming me for the debacle. Anyways, he agreed to send his people.

They landed up at 10 am, an army of four, equipped to face the lion in his den. Except that this lion is one and a half years old, has a back that is slightly squished (an auto drove over him when he was little) and who will wag his tail at anyone who expresses a smattering of affection.

The plan was that I would take him to his usual corner where he would be fed, and then we would proceed to vaccinate. Two of the boys landed up with their dog-catcher sticks (two long poles with a noose at the end of each one). The boy started barking at them with a vengeance. I think he smelt something fishy. One chap slipped in from the other gate. He then grabbed the boy using the skin at the back of his neck, and not in the right manner. This tactic proved disastrous; Daffy peed, not one but twice out of fear, and then scampered away in fright. It was a horrific sight, and in the bargain I found myself fending off some tears. The guys looked at me as if I was a ninny. I told the dog catcher that I would go after the boy, but he must stay as many square miles away as possible.

Boy was found crouching on the porch. As dudes approached, he began barking at the ambulance and all the local dogs joined in the symphony, which pretty soon reached deafeningly-high decibel levels. I tried feeding him a biscuit, but all appetite was quashed. Finally, he came and sat next to me but refused to follow me to the ambulance.
So I finally lifted him myself (he was heavy as hell), walked towards the ambulance and sat with him in my lap. By now he had calmed down significantly.

The door was pulled shut and one chap standing at one window, held his mouth closed (gently) and another sat on the driver’s seat and gave him two quick injections. It was over in five seconds, and Daffy did not as much as wiggle.

He hopped out of the van, and I paid the folks after they took 15 whole minutes to tell me the details. In dog years that is several hours, and the dogs in the neighbourhood grew very, very agitated, howling themselves hoarse. I requested them to park the van outside the compound, but they were callous and nonchalant about it. “Madame, they also bark at our NGO,” one told me in the most sub-moronic manner. ”True, but the local people here will get very irritated and not understand what the drama is all about,” I said, and right then a man came and tossed a large stick on one of the howling dogs.

It is far fetched to expect the average pedestrian to be kind to animals, considering that they are often not kind to even humans! However, one would expect these boys from an NGO that uses celebs to promote their cause, to be both, sensitive and sensible. But no. This is a job for them, and they are not attuned to treating situations with some amount of finesse. But let me not blame mere mortals for earning a living, in a manner can sometimes prove fatal.

While I have no doubt that the owners of the NGO have the best intentions and love animals to distraction, it currently functions like a one-man show, and that is not condusive for the survival and expansion of any initiative or enterprise. When a volunteer wants to join hands to help, one is left standing for a couple of hours at the venue with no one to give you any instruction in the areas where there is much to be desired. The call-to-action is missing as is resource mobilisation. The website states that they need newspapers and clothes and things. On several occasions, I have asked them to come and collect all these items and more, neatly stashed away in garbage bags at my house. They just answer in the affirmative and never show up.

Sadly one has very few alternatives in this city that are besides being committed, are consistent in their functioning. So, one has no choice but to call this one in question since vets will never come to a street doggie, let alone any doggie even if you are ready to pay them. On a different note, many people claim to love dogs. But this is really code for approving of a particular brand of dog, that comes with beautiful sheen, costs a ton of cash, is walked and attended to by a dog walker and may eventually be abandoned by being tied to a pole somewhere.

PS: 3-year-old Rottweiler found tied to pole (abandoned by owners) in Delhi. Very docile. needs good home, desperately. call Ritu @ 9810111691

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Eggetarian days


2010
03.27

I AM giving eggetarianism a serious shot. It’s not a health and fitness decision, but an emotional one (as my Editor pointed out); I realise that I can no longer suffer the cruel methods used to butcher animals in this country (maybe others, too).

One of the worst killing rituals I have witnessed is the excruciatingly painful and gruelingly long manner in which we butcher pigs in Goa. I was about 10 years old. Some folks cooed and whistled with rapt excitement akin to Spaniards at a bullfight. Both are equally inhumane killings, though the bullfight would figure higher up on the cruelty scale. They prepare the bull; intoxicate and agitate it sufficiently, by poking it with spears before it thunders down the rink. The matador’s job is to massacre it, and this spectacle entertains fair maidens and royalty.

I watched a documentary on a bullfight at a bullfighting rink, which is no longer functional, in Barcelona. Thank God. It made the bile rise.

Coming back to the little piggy, a slit is made in its throat, and the blood is collected, and later used to add flavour and thicken the gravy in certain dishes. For some time the poor thing scampers about, looking very alarmed. Then it bleeds and squeals itself to death, literally. The entire village knows what’s happening and so do the remaining pigs in the pen. That’s how loud the squealing gets.

Some have asked: what about plants? Yes, they suffer too. But having been born a non-vegetarian, giving up meat by itself is a tough nut to crack, but I am committed. Every now and then, I feel very tempted to bite into some salami, and then I remember the squealing piggy. So if you see me taking a bite of a chicken wing, forgive me. It’s probably during a moment of weakness, when the flesh is weak.

Baby steps.

I also come from a family, with a legacy of meat eaters. In the past, I have jokingly called myself a carnivore when people enquired if I eat meat. Turkey, sorpatel, vindaloo and tiger prawn balcao, grace the dinner table at family dos. Holidays and dinners may prove difficult if there’s only meat on the menu. How does one tackle such limitations without causing a scene, inviting difficult questions and being labeled as someone gone cuckoo? It’s something I need to figure out.

On the bright side, I am sampling a variety of vegetarian food in a city, which has some of the best food I have ever tasted in my whole life. This transition is forcing me to do it, and there were some wonderful surprises, along the way. Dal Bhatti, a crunchy Rajasthani delicacy, best consumed when warm. Paneer Tikka Masala, a spicy concoction, relished with a garlic naan. Bhatura. Paneer Chilli Fry.

A veggie friend should be thrilled about this development. Now, we can break bread together.

Update:
I was a vegetarian for around two months but ultimately I resorted back to my non-veggie ways. But I don’t feel great about it. Perhaps, in another life or even in this one, in the future…

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Seeking the WOW factor


2010
03.26

READING, examining, reviewing, trashing, repositioning, writing, rewriting, editing, reediting, googling, junking, referring, discussing, dissecting, crunching, sipping (saccharine-sweet chai), designing, redesigning, instructing, tweaking, polishing, refining, chatting, smiling, giggling, coughing, blushing…I spent my 33rd birthday doing all of that in the office whilst wrapping up a magazine edition. Not drinking. Not partying. Not binging (except for a monstrously sinful cake of chocolate, cream and caramel).

My friend Dr Jo reacted with “WTF”.  So this was my (nonchalant) retort, “Excellence does not come from scuttling home at 6. A job maybe. But not excellence.”

Not that the outcome of what we do is anything near excellence. But the spirit is willing (as well as the flesh) and that I think is what matters.

The good doctor who ironically does several zombie hours from home on weekends, agreed and told me something interesting. He said,” My ex-boss before leaving gifted everyone a photoframe with something written on it. Some got good attitude, trainer hard work, and other such epithets, et al.”

Then he added,” She gave me EXCELLENCE. It’s still on my cabin wall.”

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Sweet 33, and what happened 10 years back


2010
03.26

33 promises to be a good number for me. The crap of the 20s is finito. I am in an interesting city with much exploring to be done. I like my job, which is in line with my long-terms goals (drumming sense into the recesses of young, impressionable minds), and I have good friends and family.

10 years back I was living in Anand Bungalow, a cosy little house in Pune, sharing a space with seven women (shudders!). Some were cranky, some were materialistic, some were sluts.

Cat fights were a regular feature, every now and then. One girl wrote her name on the eggs in the fridge, post a few thefts. Those were the days of random living but high thinking. Guitar sessions on the porch. Chit-chats and dissection about, which boy liked who, and why and how. Should we head off to Lonavala on bikes at 2 am or marinate for a barbeque by the Khadakwasala dam?

Every now and then we had a pathetic soul knocking on our door and asking with sincerity,” will you make frendsip with me?”, while we would giggle, meanly. I remember NDA cadets “proposing” randomly on Valentine’s Day bang in the middle of Ferguson College Road; we would giggle, meanly.

Feeling miserable is a part of “finding yourself”, a process which began for me in Pune. But I don’t ever recall ever being too miserable, except during the last flushes of love, when the flame is dying out, yet you do all you can to make it last a little longer. Destiny has other plans; it’s not meant to be. And thank God! I would have been ruing the day. But no regrets. Just memories of which, even the bad ones are good.

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