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.

Of Haircuts and Terrible Bosses (Mila)

So I've been in Bombay for eight days now. In that time I quit one job because of a bastardic boss. And my other job loves me. And I can read Wattpad there. And drink chai and take chai breaks whenever I want.

First, I’m going to tell you about the bastardic boss. He’s from Delhi (I’m not surprised either) and first he tells me I've to hardly work for 15 hours a week. Then he makes me work for about 12 hours in the last two days. Also, for whatever I do, he yells and screams. I’m usually confident and you should know this fundamental thing about me- I don’t fuck up.

I don’t fuck up my work or my academics. It’s not something I live by; it’s something that is ingrained in my system. So at the job, all I did was apologize, tell him quietly that he was the one making the mistakes and listen to him call me dumb. Now, I may be a lot of things but I am not stupid. I’m the nerd, the geek, the hard working child who all the cousins hate. I had to sit and listen to this fucking bastard tell me to use my head and not ask so many questions when he was ambiguous and vague. And I’m sorry but I am going to get my instructions right because if I don’t, it gives me an excuse to fuck things up. And you will yell. Again.

Bastard.

The man  pissed me off and made me feel angry, guilty, incompetent and stupid. Though I did nothing wrong  he was just angry all the time. So finally, I quit.

And then, the world became a better place. I was so caught up with not screwing up, with getting to places and being on time that I, for a minute forgot what the summer was about. I had a meltdown- literally. I panicked and broke down and cried. Poor Arya. She had no idea what to do. It’s funny if you look at it from a third person’s view: me weeping uncontrollably while Arya tries to pat my shoulder and say the right things. But she came through for me. And she spoke to the bastardic boss- she got yelled at too but then I don’t think I've met anyone who he hasn't yelled at. She was very close to a meltdown too- she's had a rough week. (Yes, I read her post- I gave her a warm tight hug).

And we were so glad to get out of his shackles, that as soon as we got done with our job, we booked an appointment with the hair salon.  Yes, tick number 4. Off that list. We got out new shiny hot haircuts!

We considered getting Rs.100 haircuts from a hair express nearby. Basically, these haircuts are for Rs.100 and that’s it. Slight problem though- the people I know swear by it while the people Arya know swear at/against it. So there was that chance that we could end up looking like the hobos that Arya secretly wishes we were.

So, we chickened out. We paid much more and got the haircuts done. My hair is not cropped and it just reaches to the nape of my neck. I got bangs so my face is framed very well too. It’s damn nice. I kind of love it but it’s annoying when I’m travelling in the local sometimes.

We went back to Prithvi Theatre and it was beautiful. We didn't go for the plays- we just went, sat, had cutting chai and talked about everything. And Prithvi is beautiful. There was an old man who played the flute and when he saw that we were listening, he turned a little more towards us so that we could hear. There was a weird guy who just sat there and sang to himself. There were hot guys in kurtas who smiled and talked about important things. There were artists and actors and weirdos and aunties and cultured people. We somehow fit right in.

Prithvi Theatre= Comfort

Anyway, I love my haircut but this is the last time I’m cutting my hair in a long time. I want it to fall  well below my shoulders after this. There was this one guy who I liked who told me that he really like my long hair. I’m not growing it out for him. I’m doing it because when I was with him, I could see flashes of the future (like a movie montage in my head) in which I could feel his hands through my hair. I could see it so vividly that I could almost actually feel it. I want to be the person in my movie montage and I’m doing it for her.

Welcome, World (Mila)

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I don’t know who is staring at me.

When I look back at my brutally short life, I wonder where I lost myself. I know exactly where- that doesn't help. Through my childhood, I have struggled to find myself- I still don’t have all the answers. And now, I study in a swanky college and I am working in Bombay over the summer. I am the smart one, the geek, the one who reads a million books. I am that girl who is scared of relationships, of emotional bondage and of cockroaches (they’re creepy, don’t laugh.) And now, I am tired. I am tired of being that girl who is one of the guys, I am tired of being the nerdy best friend, the one sporty one.

This summer, I am going to be the person I've always wanted to be.  I want to wear skirts, lipstick and high heels. I want to be proud of the fact that I love chick-lit and Gossip Girl and Sex and The City. I want to tell people that I know my Coco Chanel and that my bag is actually Fossil. I want to tell people that behind the baggy clothes, I actually have a slim figure.

I met Arya in college- we’re roommates in Bombay. (Have I mentioned that we love Bombay? Bombay -not Mumbai- is the city of dreams and desperation, of love of hope and faith. It is the New York of India) We had bonded over our love for classics, capitalism, theatre and politics. And guess what? Over Marlboros and Menthols, I figured out that she had a pair of Tres Mode heels hidden in her suitcase while she wore her father’s large shirts. So, we were travelling back by the Mumbai Local and we've come up with a bucket list for the summer. You can read it here.

Every time we do something on the list, we’re going to write about it. It works well because I had wanted to write The Great Indian Summer Novel, and this works well for me.

But the actual story doesn't start this summer- it probably goes back to our messed up childhood. No, we didn't know each other as kids but we Indians have similar parents. But for me, it goes back to the semester. It has been one messed up semester. I don’t know who I am, what I am doing (with my career) or my life. I liked a guy but it’s not going to work out and now, the world is different. And I need to change in order to keep up the pace.

So, we've the summer in front of us. Now we can talk about our smoking in the house, the wine and beer every other night and use un-parliamentary language without worrying that our parents will see it and be screwed by the conservative aunts and uncles and neighbour of the world.

What is the summer at the end of the day?

A collation of memories that seem more dreamlike than ever. When the heat passes, we remember only flashes of it. We actually remember the places, the people and the situations. We remember the smaller details like the ice cream, the pleasant midnight breeze and the satisfaction of slumber. We remember the people we were and the people who we became.

That is what this summer is going to be about. 

Love,
Mila