Sex and the Indian City (Mila)

Sex.

S-E-X.

The idea of me talking about sex is highly amusing. I mean seriously, I have no experience whatsoever in this area. Thirteen year old in the States probably have more experience than me. So when Arya talks of the Sex and The City type posts, I could talk about the City while she talks of the sex.

Okay, I’m kidding.

Arya had a brainwave about us becoming the Carrie Bradshaws of India. It will be challenging. I mean, we were all fostered in environments where sex was taboo in every sense of the word. I remember seeing a television show where a mother gives her daughter the pill. I thought of my own mother. She would probably slap me across the face and lock me in my room with as much drama as a Karan Johar movie.

Sex is such a taboo topic in our country. Even that part of society which prides itself on being “modern”and “forward” will object when the women in their family start wearing jeans. Seriously, the bigotry in India is so appalling that it’s funny. I guess, people need to talk more and freely. I remember the sex-ed classes (the few that there were) during which everyone was giggling and a man droned on standing on a stage. Come to think of it, we didn’t really have sex education. We had AIDS awareness. Funny that- holding AIDS awareness for kids who don’t know what sex even is.

Also, we couldn't be this open about talking about sex in our real lives. I mean, our mothers would love to know where we amass this information. Sad really, but this stab should make some difference.

So, maybe I don’t have any experience whatsoever. But that’s all the more reason to talk about it, isn’t it?

Carrie Bradshaw knows good sex (Arya)

Spending a night watching Sex And The City is not good. What’s worse is sitting and work and thinking about it later. Honestly, though. I’ve been thinking about how nobody would ever think of writing a Sex and the City-type column in a country like India. Because we’re just so damn scared.

So scared of everything that has anything to do with sex. Forget sex, just the idea of a girl on the road in a dress or in shorts draws “No, no, beta, don’t step out looking like that” comments from parents. The saddest part is, they’re not wrong. They’re only doing the best they can with the society they got. And yesterday, when my parents said to me, “Get out of this country as soon as you can.”, I got to thinking. What makes India such a painful, yet daunting country to live in? It could easily be the age-old mentality, the prominence of societal life and other, similar psychobabble bullshit- but the real reason is that we’re stuck. We’re stuck in a flux- the change from ancient to modern envelopes us, and after two decades of a semi-gradual transition, there is finally a gaping generation gap. A chasm, if you will, that separates the Indian citizen from the citizens of the world- that allows two different kinds of teenagers to grow up at an arm’s length away from one another. There’s the kind who is okay with pre-marital sex, watches Sex and the City and night, and can has no qualms allowing a charming man at a bar to think he has a chance with her if it means she can have a free Cosmopolitan. (Okay, scratch that last. Usually we only say yes to a drink if we’re considering the sex. Never if it’s out of the question. Still, you get the picture.) And then there’s the kind who spends a large chunk of his childhood chanting prayers, shouting slogans and being told that his duty as a proud Indian was to keep the West out. The kind who, if you overtake in a car, will nurse his bruised ego by chasing you to your house and threatening to beat you up till you bleed, who will call you a whore if he sees you holding hands on the road, and will lech at you when you’re wearing shorts.

And that. That is why we cannot write about sex. Think about it. Your column becomes big, you get your own billboard like Carrie Bradshaw did, and instead of being proud and happy, you worry that some creep will see you and follow you around because he knows you write about sex. Or face gossipy neighbours, who’ll blame your poor parents and your upbringing, and eventually discuss how people like you are taking this country to the dark side, as the sip their mint teas at their weekly kitty parties. It’s not as romantic as you’d think.

I’m still a strong believer, however, that sex-ed doesn’t end in high school. It’s a never ending, lifelong process- and one in which all women are together. So, in the spirit and womanhood, and to encourage women everywhere not to abandon each other in times of need, I strive to write- in addition to all the gobblesmack I put up here, one column.

One column about things I know, things I don’t, things I think about, things I never did- about sex. Because SEX, is fun. And free. And unashamed. And I don’t care about the bitching neighbours or the tutting schoolteachers anymore.

And because inspired somewhere in the midst of a long night of Cigarettes and Coca-Cola and Carrie Bradshaw, I shall pay her tribute. Let’s call it…’Carrie On’. Because it fits and I like it.

(PS: I don’t know what Mila’s opinion on or inclination towards said column is. But she knows she’s always welcome. Damn her.)

"That crazy concept that we’re not really responsible for the course our lives take. That it’s all predestined, written in the stars. Maybe that explains why, if you live in a city, where you can’t even see the stars, your love life tends to feel a little more random."

-Carrie.

The One With The Ghosts, The Creepy Guys and All The Nudity (Mila)

So, Arya and I decide to watch a horror movie. And then, one of our friends (he’s the same guy who made Arya promise she’ll kiss him) says that he’ll watch it with us because he loves horror movies. We agree. Besides, he’s huge and teddy bear-ish which would he’s a comfort when we need to hide behind someone.

We watched the damn movie, The Grudge 2. It was so bad. It was sooo bad. I don’t watch horror movies. The last one I watched was the Chronicles of Narnia (The Lion, The Witch, The Wardrobe). I didn’t keep my eyes open during most of the last half. Thank the fucking Lord. I would have killed myself if I had seen anymore of the movie. The next morning when I was taking bath, I heard pigeons and thought that the ghost was behind me. Seriously.

Creepy Japanese Ghost.

And then, Arya goes off to do her work and I’m left with this annoying boy who won’t leave. He kept telling me he would. After a while, I was wondering how he could stand someone being downright rude to him. And then he said let’s watch  a movie. So we put on some chick flick. And he started tickling me. And then his hand went under my shirt. And then it creeped up.

I didn’t know what to do. I kept preaching to Arya how saying “No” was important but I didn’t know what to do. It was an hour of weirdness on my side during which I made three work calls and made several excuses. Finally, I called Arya and she came back.

He apologized profusely later. And I said with false bravado that it was okay. Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I didn’t feel violated and all but why do men think they can just put their hands up whosoever shirts whenever the fuck they want? Because I didn’t say no. And because people like me don’t say no.

There was this other guy I knew who made me intensely uncomfortable. Let’s just say, he put his hand into my pants in class one day. And he kept following me around, on field trips, during classes- everywhere basically. He wasn’t interested in me but he did it when he saw me. I avoided him. Successfully.

And today, he messaged me apologising for the way he behaved. Now, the incident is long passed so I told him that it was all chill frankly because I’m just glad he realises that he was a dick. But how do I know that he’s not going to do this again?

I don’t.

Anyway, Arya and I did our nude photoshoot. Honestly, it was daunting. It was all bravado but when we came down to stripping that night, it was weird. I was nervous. At the end of the day, I wish I had a few different features. But I knew that we’d both chicken out so when Arya told me to go first, I did.

It wasn’t liberating. I didn’t fly high. I felt nervous and weird and shy. When I look at the pictures, I still do. But once I was done, I felt awesome. Honestly, I can’t believe I did this.

I can't believe I did it!

It’s a big thing because it’s so intimate and personal and artistic. I love the idea of being 80- old and wrinkled and nearly senile-and looking back at the time when I was young and carefree. 

XOXO (Arya)

So. Now for things that are of great relevance. Globally.

I found a style inspiration. When I was on my way back to Bombay last weekend. (See how I never write?!) Anyway, it was one of those movie-like 'Aha!' moments. Ever watched the show, Gossip Girl?
Heard of Serena Van Der Woodsen? It's her. And no, it's not because she's hot. I'm not hoping that by picking her, I'm going to magically get her amazing body or glorious hair. (Damn the Bombay humidity.)

It's just, the tastes match on many levels. I tend to go with the messy-hair, bohemian-with-an-edge thing like she does. I'm very likely to wear a floral dress with a leather jackets- just like she is. I LOVE my legs (as you may have seen from my proud display in the previous post), so shorts are my Number One fix on days that I feel shit. While I have a truckload of shorts, her collection is enviable, to say the least. Man, if I could get my hands on those Tibi leather shorts she wore.



I could've died and gone to heaven. Plus, we both have a thing for textures and prints, and mix-and-match outfits.
Like this dress. This is EXACTLY like something I'd wear. It's Jenny Packham, I think. Enough to make me swoon.



And her wedding dress. Sigh. It made me melt. Ah, Georges Chakra. I could just marry you.



But, most importantly, my current dress obsession is also one she wore on the show. It's a green lace Zuhair Murad. And I just want to die. LOOK AT IT!



But I've become boring. I wear jeans and t-shirts and old jackets now. With flip-flops. FLIP-FLOPS.
Can you believe it? It's just ridiculous. Which is why I want to go shopping. Get the groove in place again. I do know that when I go back home, I pamper myself every day. I take long baths, steam, use face packs, hydrate my hair. Here, there just isn't any time. So here's the plan. I will shop here. Get the raw material ready. And when I can, and I have the time to look awesome here, I will.

But when I go back home, I plan to be the boss of everything. Watch me, world. I will finally let my Serena out.


So. My major fashion related plan for the next ten days- as long as I'm in Bombay, is to shop. Shop, shop, shop. Off the road, in thrift stores. One or two keeper pieces from the brands that created them. Shoes, skirts, shorts, tops. The mixing and matching will do itself.

And while she's not the brightest, I understand Serena best of all the characters on the show. She's unashamed about her indulgence, but she's also relatively no-nonsense about the things that matter to her. I wouldn't say I identify with her, or that we're similar in any way- just that I understand her. Her fashion sense, however, I identify with wholeheartedly.

You know what my favourite thing about Serena is, though? She's so fearless. I mean, I wish I could step out in the day in those heels. But I can't. I'm too chicken. So I trade the heels I wish I was wearing to my trusted flip-flops. Her clothes, her shoes, her hair- make her the person she is, in so many ways. And in so many ways, she wears her personality on every piece of clothing, every accessory, every hairstyle she's wearing. If there's anything I could learn from her, it is to be more fearless in fashion.

And it's a lesson for everybody. Fearlessness. Because who the hell cares.

Love,
Arya.

(PS: I just bought an adorable floral jumpsuit and an amazing strappy bohemian top at lunch. Writing these posts makes me so hungry. Not for food, though, apparently.)

The Drinking, The Dancing and All That Jazz (Mila)

Everyone needs to loosen up every once in a while.

Alright, this is one overdue post. When Arya went back home, I told myself that I needed to get over myself. Thankfully, a good friend of mine- let’s call her Emma- came to Mumbai. She has a gang of friends here in Mumbai and asked if we could go clubbing with them. First, I was surprised. A hanger-on? That’s what I had become? But then, Emma’s the type who’ll go out of her way to make sure that you’re feeling awesome. So we went. We shopped forever and finally landed up at her friend’s house where we were set to change.

Did I mention her friends were fashion students who studied in some fancy Parisian college in Mumbai?

Well, they smoke only Dunhills- I loved them when they offered me mine. Usually, I;m awkward and silent around people who I don’t know. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t THAT girl.

They dressed me up, gave me accessories and shoes, did my make up, straightened my hair and they were so damn nice. I realised that I need to stop condescending people who do not have literary inclinations. These people could give no two fucks about Austen but they’re awesome.

And they had a car! We crammed into it and would have died if we were claustrophobic but it was fun. I haven’t been around Mumbai in a car. We drank in it and then went to a swanky bar and then Emma warned me that they had often been thrown out of there for not meeting the age limit. Sometimes, I feel fed up with that damn thing. I like my petite figure and my short hair but I am so sick of being stopped everywhere. But they didn’t stop me that night. I went in and we danced. We danced our hearts out.

Emma was wearing Aldo heels that was as long as an Reynolds pen. After a while,  she was about to cry so I offered to switch. We went to the balcony where couples were making out and did it- the switching, I mean. When we went back in, we went and sat at the bar just to rest her feet. And then, a really drunk guy came to me and then held out his hand asking me if I wanted to dance. I looked at him. And I was about to refuse. And then, I remembered the damn bucket list. So I accepted.

I went and danced with him. He was average looking but piss drunk and he was starting to get into my personal space. One song was enough for me- I smiled at him and then went to Emma. “They’re waiting for us!” I fudged, hoping she would catch on. She did, of course. Only my drunk guy’s friend had kept badgering her to dance and had finally only relented when she let him buy her a drink. So when I went to her and told her about how everyone was wondering where we were, she had just told him that she wanted Redbull in her vodka cocktail. “You promised me a dance!” said my drunk guy, angrily. I knew better than to piss him off.  “I’m just going to be back in two minutes.” I said earnestly, smiling at him. And then we walked to the other end of the club and stayed away from them forever. But hey, I did it. I went clubbing and got picked up by a guy.

After a while, we all got tired of the club and we left. Seven people fit into one Maruti Zen or some similarly small car. But the guy, sitting to my left, Neil I think he was called was damn cute and great conversation. We drove around the city- the whole city- for about three hours and then finally everyone became hungry so we stopped at this place where we could get Chinese food. As we drove over the Sea Link, I knew for sure that I loved this city where so many people like me live and breathe and fight every single minute.  Finally, I came home at 4.00.

And then I slept like I hadn’t slept my whole life.

Rants and Raves Won't Break Our Bones (Arya)

Let's get something straight here. I have a biological problem that prevents me from working in discipline. Or under pressure. I'm more of the fuck it, this is what I feel like doing right now kind of person. Except, of course, when it's things that will decide everything. The make-or-break things. Like studying, and college admissions. You know, the stuff I'm insanely anal about.

But otherwise, no use telling me, or my telling myself to do things. I decided to write this blog. Actually, we did, but still. And instead, I wrote about everything else. I have an assortment of pointless pieces sitting in a 'My Work' folder on my desktop. We have been doing things on the list. Obviously. But we're short for time. We have ten days left, and a FUCKLOAD of things to do. Huh. So we're going to have to cut a thing or two off the list. Please. There's no list police, nobody has to know, right? Right.



So, obviously the no smoking week is out. Either way, I've cut down to about three cigs a day, which is, if I may say so myself, the boss. I mean, that's 21 a week. That's how much I used to smoke over two days, a week ago. So I'm going to give myself a pat on my back, and, as a reward, I will not do the no smoking week. Right? Seems fair to me, too.

So, coming to the list. We watched a play this Saturday. It was awful. I'm sorry, Motley, but if you want to experiment in theatre, stay the hell away from George Bernard Shaw. He is not to experimented with. While the actors belted out the dialogue in cheesy accents and fake voices, Shaw lay in his grave, moaning and begging for his pipe so he could calm his frazzled nerves. I could hear him.
On another note, one of my favourite musicians in the world, Ray Manzarek, keyboardist and the glue that bound The Doors together, died last week. I found out while I was at work. And this may sound silly, but it hurt. It really hurt. It felt like everybody I respected in the world of music, was leaving the world to the idiots who made music off computer programmes. That day, I pulled out my earphones, played The Doors on a loop, and wrote poetry to Morrison's voice, Manzarek's music, Krieger's notes and Densmore's beats- hoping that someday, somebody would want to sing my words, too. That's what they gave me. Hope. First Morrison, then Lennon, now Ray- I don't know how much longer I'll be able to stay sane in a world where Akon is all things cool in the global music scene. Maybe I can count on Dylan, though, That man NEVER dies. ;)



We went all around the city. To South Bombay for drinks. Prithvi for the play. Into this AMAZING shopping complex in Powai, where shopping is this mysterious, beautiful monster that seduces you into the darkening shadows of ATM machines and reducing bank balances. I just can't stop shopping. It's a disease. Speaking of shopping, I really want to go to Colaba Causeway again. I saw this pair of killer shades there I've been having wet dreams about. And besides, one can never have too few accessories.
Mila and I plan to go clubbing this Friday. Bring out the Nine Wests, ladies and gents! But that said, we need to be a little thrifty in general, so we're Googling Ladies' Nights all over Bombay. To no avail, of course. But mainly because when a website says 'Free alcohol all night!', we instinctively suspect them of having concocted a very elaborate scheme to extort five grand from us, anyway.

Oh, and I had a bit of a pregnancy scare the other day. And when I mean scare, I mean SCARE. I didn't tell anyone, obviously, and it's not like I missed a date or something. It was just a day of utter paranoia and despair. I had stomach cramps, nausea, the whole deal. Yes, I know, symptoms like those emerge only three weeks into the fertilization- yeah, I know my Biology, babe. But you can't blame me. Try talking to a weeping me, who thinks she's going to have to quit college, marry some guy her parents pick and move into the suburbs, about implantation. What's worse, I didn't tell anyone. Not even my boy. Because I KNEW I was being an arse. I really did. But I couldn't help it. Don't you know? Worrying is a compulsive trait. It's all fine now, though. I've been thinking about other things to worry about. Maybe I could now fixate on how the house is so dirty. Yeah, there come the palpitations. Predictable bastards.

Oh, AND, I made a new friend! A lot of new friends, actually. But the most surprising one, was Sushmita. Mila and I met her on a train to CST. Mil and I were talking about this:

And she said she couldn't help overhearing, and that our conversation made her miss being a girl. So we included her in it! We spoke about shopping, places to relax, and how much we loved the city. It was great. And sort of reaffirmed my faith in people. And in this city.
They really don't care enough about each others' lives. That's why everybody gets along so well.

Speaking of cities and their people, I don't think I want to ever visit Japan. EVER. I have a non-racist explanation, wait!

Mila and I watched The Grudge 2 in the darkness the other day. I still can't close my eyes entirely in the shower. I can almost hear the burp-like breathing of some dead Japanese woman. Why do they do this to their audiences? No, why?

It WAS pretty funny when the electricity failed when Mila was in the shower, though. She FLIPPED. Ah, life's small joys. But the movie. Crap. It was bad. I knew that. I dissected it as much as I could, so I could take focus off the content of the film. Didn't work. Shut my eyes through most of the movie, ended up- by pure accident, watching the only two ACTUALLY frightening scenes in the movie.
Eep. No more horror movies, ever. The only thing that made me feel better is that Mila was fifty times more scared than I was.

This is what I dream about at night. I hate little-kid ghosts. Fucking scary.




Okay, enough of this nonsense. On, to more interesting things.

So Mil and I did a nude photoshoot.

Told you it was interesting.

It was SO liberating. Man. I made Mila start, because for some reason, I was nervous as a fuck. I must've gone through two packs in three hours. But, in the end, it was really good. It felt relaxed, and easy, and empowering, in a weird way. It felt like fetters were being loosed, and burdens were let loose. Did I mention I love being naked? I mean, not in front of other people, but just in general. So this felt like letting go. It was nice. Plus, looking at the pictures made me feel like a sex goddess. In my own head. Love the feeling. Make mental note to feel it more.

Sneak peek? This is Mil's photograph of me. Before the clothes came off, that is. *blushes*

On another note, I wrote another post about my style inspiration, to whom I owe an independent update. I'll put it up in a bit.

In the meanwhile, I'm wondering how much fun it'll be if we combine No Bra Day and Red Lipstick Day into one big, slutty day.

Love,
Arya.

Letters To Juliet (Mila)

Dear Juliet,

I am writing to you because you were 14 and you barely knew him but you still killed yourself for him. Frankly, I think that you’re clichéd and a stupid hormonal teenager because neither do I endorse killing oneself (for heartbreak or any other reasons) nor do I think you knew him well enough to love him.

I am writing to you because I’m having an annoying day. Ah, Juliet, I love my mother so and sometimes I feel so ungrateful. My dad told her that I would react to a certain news in a positive, caring daughter-like way and she disputed it. So, to check, she called me up. As it turns out, she was right. When she hung up, she said “Thanks for proving my judgement about you right.”

I hate that she knows me. And I hate that I can’t dispute her. I hate that I’m not the better daughter she deserves and I hate that I don’t even want (or care enough) to be the better daughter that she deserves.

Enough about my mother, let’s move to that guy I was moaning about- the sweet, cute, amazingly charming one who I romanticized. After he moved away, I started writing him emails because letters are much better than random messages. So, he told me that he didn’t write much so out of my six letters, he replied to one. I kept writing because I had this romantic notion in my head of this girl who wrote a 100 letters, one a day, every day over the summer for this boy she liked. I guess that it happens only on cheap television.

Today, he told me to write shorter letters so that it prompted him to reply.  I don’t write spools of yarn about how much I like him, Juliet. I don’t. They can’t be longer than 500 words at the most. That’s barely anything. So guess what Sunshine? I’m not going to write letters at all. How’s that for short?

I don’t know Juliet. I’ve moved on- I understand that but I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. I feel normal. I feel good. I've gone clubbing (and I got picked up by a guy. I stayed out till four in the morning. I've gone to a concert. (All of these are stories for later, of course). I feel like I did before I was with him. And that’s good. He’s an amazing guy and things didn’t work out but in my irritation today, I realized that I have moved on. I’ll write him a last letter- a brief, poetic one that he wanted.

Somehow, there are no ifs and buts. I’m surprised. I got closure Juliet. I’ve moved on. I’m happy and I love it. I love this summer Juliet. I’ve met so many new people and I’ve done things that I haven’t before. Often, I look at myself and feel guilty but I’m not splurging in a splurging sort of way. This summer feels normal only everyday feels like a good day. Except this one.  Okay, maybe today’s a good day and I’m just whiny.

Juliet, I’m writing to you because I saw the movie, Letters To Juliet, last night with Arya. I wanted to pour my heart to you in the most romantic, poetic way but as I am writing, I realize that I am not suffering and I am not unhappy. I live a good life Juliet.

Love,

Mila