To my ideal woman

Ever since the days when I was a juvenile delinquent wreck hooked to Sid Meier’s PIRATES for hours on end, my fantasy woman has been Spanish. Whether it's because the game made Spanish women seem hotter than the French and the Dutch or maybe because I feel an inexplicable love for that country I don’t know.

I've never been one for experimental relationships because as Sam, this exhausted Briton I met at the airport last year told me, I’m waiting for THE ONE. He did say a lot more, but under the influence of expensive alcohol, so I won’t repeat it. What it boils down to is a dreamy film sequence that shows two strangers making that decisive eye contact that will decide the rest of their lives.

As optimistic as I am of my chances of bumping into THE ONE before my knees go wobbly and I have more grey hair on my head than I can count – in short in the prime of my life – I really can’t be sure if I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning, our world is just too dangerous today and Bombay isn't exactly a peaceful settlement.  

Hope you don’t mind if I address her directly now.

So considering all the possibilities – that you’re waiting for me too, that you live somewhere in the depths of the Amazon, that you’re stuck in outer space, that you aren't yet conversant in English, that you are indeed Spanish, hot and a mix of Penelope Cruz and Selma Hayek and that you are reading this I’ll let you know what life with me can be like.

As is mandatory I’d like to start by telling you that I am not inclined towards drinking and smoking and I hope you aren't either because if you are then –

1. You’re not THE ONE
2. I’ll smash the nearest bottle on your head and stick a cigarette up both your nostrils.

Call me conservative, but it’s just not cool.

Do not expect me to make the first move. If I do, you know I’m dead serious about my intentions. I am going to take an exasperatingly long time about it though, only after I’m a 100% sure, until then bear with me. I know I shouldn't be pushing my luck but I hope you’re a writer/aspiring journalist too; we’d make a fantastic team and imagine how awesome winning a Pulitzer together would be. Of course being a fan of The Killers, Kaiser Chiefs, Bob Dylan, The Arcade Fire, The Kinks and Juno and Tottenham Hotspur would only be a bonus, but no pressure, I’m pretty flexible that way.

Know that once I’m into you, you will be my world, although I will be dragging you along as I try to save the Earth from destruction. Which doesn’t mean putting up with me for as long you live will be by any means easy, I do have some quirks –

1. I can’t be separated from weekend football and I shout and swear loudly if Spurs aren’t winning and no amount of shushing will ever change that.
2. Similarly, I am a sore loser. Unfortunately this isn’t restricted to football games played thousands of miles away that can’t affect our relationship. I don’t like losing, at anything to anybody unless that loss is going to benefit me somehow. You’ll see me at my worst after a loss. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen too often.
3. I can suddenly and without warning, lose interest in life completely. Weird bouts of depression. When that happens I just need to know that you’re around, trust me to heal myself, can’t say how long that’ll take. On the bright side, I bounce back pretty well.
4. I’ve got too many theories about everything under the sun which don’t always make sense out of my head but I defend them with my blood whenever their complete worthlessness is exposed.    
5. I like to think of myself as a really funny guy, always cracking up those around me. And in the time you spend with me (all your life) you will be the number one target of my gags and sarcastic and often cruel tongue. Maybe I’m asking for too much if I appeal for you to put up with it, I normally know my boundaries. I occasionally cross them and instantly apologise, but you’re more than welcome to let all hell loose if I go too far. But on the whole, I’d like it if you laughed along. Making you laugh would be my greatest source of happiness, I’m having fun as long you are. I don’t shine if you don’t shine.
6. I’m proud of the fact that I posses very little if any of the famed male ego. The only time I have one is when I write. Hope you’ve seen the problem here, writing is what I plan to do every single day that I live from this day on.  
7. I don’t get angry, I keep my cool at all times or at least try to. This kind of means that there are times when I betray very little emotion. I fully expect you to find it freaky if I don’t react to certain situations with as much emotion as people are expected to. It’s just that I can’t risk losing my control. The only times I’ve come to regret my actions – few and far between – is when I let my emotions get the better of me. I cannot ever let that happen, for fear that I’ll do something I won’t ever be able to repair. Hope this doesn’t put you on your guard, just thought I’d let you know why you’ll find me a little unemotional.

Hmm, might have overdone that one slightly. Anyway, here’s a confession. My goal in life is not to become a phenomenal writer, I am that already. I want to become a father. Pretty rich coming from a 20-year-old, but there you are. Think I’ll give you a couple of minutes to get over the awkwardness that must have caused.

But since I don’t have all day, forgive me, I must continue. You might be reading every word with suspicion now but I’ve got to finish sometime today and move on to making fun of the chumps in European football.

If and when we do own a nice little house by the sea I plan to quit my job to look after the kids. My real job will start then, but that won’t stop me writing for The Rotten Egg and send in stuff on a weekly basis to some or the other rag to help you keep the bread coming in. If, by a stroke of luck we have twin girls, I’ll be returning to working full time much later than expected. If you find this daddy obsession a little creepy, know that I need to prove to myself that I can be a good pop. But that has never been my sole motivating factor and you’ll know that in time it won’t matter at all once we’re past the preliminaries.

The anthem of my life is ‘All these things that I’ve done’ by The Killers, don’t mistake an unmelodic humming of that tune as a sign that I’m off my rocker and have begun talking to myself. I do that, just not aloud.

The only promise I can make to you is that I will be there for you always and no matter what. Not because that covers almost every aspect of our lives or because it sounds grand enough, but because that’s what I do. Because I know you are never going to give me a single reason to leave your side. Because you can count on me to help you get out of the muddiest muddles and make you think that you’ve done it all by yourself. That’s because even in the worst of fixes you are going to make your own decisions, I am never going to make them for or on your behalf. I’m just going to make sure you don’t fall while instantly picking you up as many times as is required.   

If you kick the bucket before or after I do, life will be boring, I doubt I want to spend even a second of it without you once I finally meet you, where’s the fun if the lead actor disappears? The only fitting end I can imagine is of that old couple on Titanic who stuck to their bunk in their cabin and were shown to be engulfed by the onrushing water. Not that I want us to end in tragedy, just together, whatever the situation. Only, if I do go before you, I’d like the following songs played at my lavish funeral in the exact opposite order as played at our modest beach wedding –

1. Kaiser Chiefs – Ruby
2. The Kinks – All day and all of night
3. The Kinks – Waterloo Sunset
4. The Kinks – See my friends
5. The Killers – Bones
6. The Killers – When you were young
7. Goldspot – Friday
8. Goldspot – Foundations
9. The Killers – Romeo and Juliet
10. The Killers -  Mr. Brightside
11. The Killers – The ballad of Michael valentine
12. R.EM. – Supernatural Superserious
13. Kasabian – Fire
14. Mott the Hoople – All the young dudes
15. Dil Se – A.R. Rahman
16. Roja Jaaneman – from the soundtrack of the Hindi film Satya
17. R.E.M. – Everyday is yours to win
18. The killers – Smile like you mean it
19. The killers – Read my mind
20. The killers – Bones
21. U2 – Vertigo
22. The Verve – Bittersweet Symphony
23. The Beatles – Hey Jude
24. The Beatles – Baby you’re a rich man
25. Hoobastank – The Reason
26. Queen and David Bowie– Under Pressure
27. Foo Fighters – Resolve
28. The Arcade Fire – Wake Up
29. The Arcade Fire – Goodnight Boy
30. Kings of Leon - Pyro
31. Kings of Leon - Back Down South
32. Kings of Leon - Red Morning Light
33. Kings of Leon - Molly's Chambers
34. Something Relevant - What's Done Is Done
35. Something Relevant - Tomorrow
36. Something relevant - NH4
37. Something Relevant - Love Me Like You Do Me
38. Junkyard Groove - Been So Long
39. Junkyard Groove - Folk You
40. Junkyard Groove - Imagine
41. Junkyard Groove - Save Me
42. Junkyard Groove - It's Ok

        

By touching upon the funeral I’ve brought this little memo to its natural conclusion so I’ll go back to waiting now as I wait for you to find me / find your way out of the Amazon / return to Earth / learn sufficient English / ditch Javier Bardem and Francois Henri Pinault respectively / or any other outrageous possibility I haven’t yet considered. My patience is wearing thin now so be snappy about it. 

The Roundabout in Nariman Point and a couple of hours in the sun

My stark ignorance as regards the city in which I’ve been born and bred hit newer lows today. I can say that I know a fair bit about Mumbai - notwithstanding its history – but there are plenty of grey areas and today’s adventure added another one.

So ever since I gave my final year mass media exams earlier this month, I’ve been without a job. Of course, that’s a normal situation for any individual freshly freed from the shackles of worthless education. But it’s not a good feeling to count yourself among the millions of unemployed Indians, to be reduced to just another stat and importantly, to add to it. But that was as inevitable as Suresh Kalmadi’s conviction the other day. (Cheers to the CBI)

So I had an interview at Times Ascent at 2 pm, which means I had to enter the Times of India building, located opposite Victoria Terminus Railway Station. Now that building has never appeared in my dreams, for until last summer I didn’t know what its front entrance looked like. But ever since then, it held promise. It’s as art deco-y as those high society chumps keep saying, vintage and modern at the same time. It’s a shame they’ll be shifting to a nondescript high-rise in Lower Parel real soon.

The minute I got in, I couldn’t keep my eyes fixed to one spot for more than two seconds, I had to take in every inch and I knew I wouldn’t be waiting at the reception too long. Anyone standing beside me would call me shifty to say the least.

The 2nd floor (my destination) is like something out of a colourful medieval Indian dream, the interiors are a cross between the fantastic Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur and an art gallery. It made the cubicles resemble a hedge maze bang in the middle of the Diwan-i-khas in Fatehpur Sikri Fort. It looked the sort of place where a tiger could erupt out of a flowerpot and you could expect to find drunken cobras slithering around the minimally carpeted floor. There was a magic about the place that I just didn’t have enough time to explore.

The interview was cakewalk, the customary written test even simpler, but I was too focused on surveying the office to concentrate completely. I’m not sure if I’ll hear from them, it’s not like writing about HR, and professional opportunities and playing soothsayer to jobseekers in print and on a website isn’t something I can’t handle, I just don’t see myself doing it too long, I need to be out on the streets all the time, dishing up the story of the century every week or twice or thrice a week whatever.

I crossed Azad, Oval and Cross Maidans to get to Marine Drive where the crazily expensive towers looked like imposing slabs of concrete in the gritty summer sun. I still had time to kill before my appointment at The Indian Express so I said to myself, ‘kill it nicely’. Five minutes later I was sitting on the promenade gazing mindlessly out at sea when I realized I hadn’t checked my mail all day. Over the past week, I’ve never missed my date with hotmail – nothing useful on yahoo, just spam from Suzanne Mubarak – and I sure wasn’t going to miss it today. Five minutes of internet on my phone would surely zap me off all my credit so I set off towards finding an internet cafe.      

The second I crossed the street, a million diamonds were glittering on the surface of the filthy Arabian Sea, shouldn't have turned to look back. Now Nariman point is the biggest commercial district in the country and if you emptied up the coffers of all the ritzy corporations contained in it and even the Mantralaya and Vidhan Sabha for good measure, Sierra Leone’s financial future would be secured for the at least a decade and there’d still be money left to buy a couple of islands in the Pacific Ocean off French Polynesia. Ten minutes into my quest and I figured that it’s impossible for a seedy internet cafe to exist among the stately premises of the State Bank of India, the Oberoi Trident Hotel, the Union bank of India and countless other boring 101-storeyed structures. While I passed Vada Pav stalls, a sandwich-maker operating out of what looked like an improvised pigsty, chaat vendors and numerous other lowlifes selling food to the workforce and lifeline of the country’s financial nerve-centre, I still hadn’t found my frigging cafe.

I had to eventually settle for a dingy print shop that extorted Rs. 10 for a 10 minute session interrupted by a creaking door, the mood swings of dial-up internet and a bucktoothed girl looking over my shoulder as I instinctively deleted Facebook notifications. By the time I walked out of there, rounded freedom Fighter Ramnath Goenka street twice, said hello to Free Press House, flirted with the possibility of returning to the sit next to the water and finally pushed out that thought to enter the spidery Express Towers one thing was clear – I’d scared off Yuva by mailing them the posts from The Rotten Egg and been completely ignored by Time Out Mumbai. The journalist I finally met at Express told me offhand that I had the rest of my life to work and there really isn’t any rush. Wish she had something slightly more cheerful to say about what I’m going to do in the meantime. 

Goa Shmoa

It’s been four days since I returned from Goa and I’ve been waiting to pine for it, to crave for its sizzling sands and expensive coconut juice but the feeling is yet to come. I woke up around 3 pm on Sunday aching all over. The room was just as I’d left it a week ago, bed sheets kissing the floor and curtains half open.  By the time I got down to some grub, the magnanimity of the situation still hadn’t hit me – I’d just been on my first week-long Goa trip with my best friends! (like Vegas is to Americans) It’s a vairrrry big deal. I should be moping around with glazed eyes and no appetite. I should be texting my companions non-stop to see if they’re awake and indulging in group mourning and reminiscing.

A couple of hours later, a really close family friend lost his battle with cancer. As the cliché goes, the old man had lived a clean life, you couldn’t point a finger at that upstanding citizen and you’d have to dig real deep to find any chinks in his character. He’d lived as honest a lifetime as is possible and yet had been struck down by cancer. Sure, he was diagnosed pretty late, when he was beyond saving and yes he’d been reduced to a piteous skeletal hermit in the past few months but no one expected him to go on a peaceful Sunday evening. I can’t say I was exactly close to him, he was never much of a talker. Selfish as I sound, the passing away of that old man took away whatever little was left of the post-vacation blues. I am in no way belittling the grief his family is now in, just putting into context his demise with my existence since that is the only perspective on offer to you here.

In the meantime my friend Radhika Mohandas got around to uploading our Goa pictures http://www.facebook.com/media/set/fbx/?set=a.10150557058455274.652117.568270273, but the whole thing seems too distant now, like I’d worn a permanently happy mask for the week that I was there. Goa was a drug, it was the perfect vacation, the getaway I needed and had earned after an exhausting graduation year. Even as the train left Mumbai behind, the rose-tinted glasses were coming into place. Goa surpassed all expectations; it was exactly how everyone had said it would be. You aren’t just in another land, but another state of mind. Something about the geography of that place soothes you and quietly packs away all your worries to some distant corner of your brain where they’ll stay until you’re back home. It doesn’t matter how uptight you are, in Goa you’ll be trippy to say the least, going with the flow and letting loose, the place will compel you to concentrate on one thing – having fun.

For me, the only relics of Goa are the Facebook album and a sore back that came from colliding with sand too hard. My back isn’t tomato red anymore, but healing slowly and peeling away at snail’s pace, it’s like my shoulders are slowly exfoliating and I can’t help picking away at the dead skin just to know what it feels like to be an onion.     

I’m going to remember Goa as one of my best vacations ever, it’s going to difficult do any better, not for lack of trying though. I just wish there was time to gloss over it, to laugh over our shenanigans there, to respond to a life-changing experience as normal people do. The welcome back has just been too harsh.