Big Fat Psychotic Gathering – Broodstock part 1

“Wear a ghagra choli. All the girls will be wearing one.”

This is Delhi in end January. The temperature is dipping lower than Mahima Chowdhury’s neckline.*

I state the obvious. “And freeze my ass off?”

My aunt looks at me like the goo that got stuck to her slipper when we walked the streets of Karol Bagh in search of the perfect matching gota purse.

She turns to my mother, pity written all over her concerned face “ Hai N, teri beti badi practical hai.”

Practical? Its 4 degrees, you can get pneumonia if you wear any less than two sweaters and she wants me to go to a wedding, at a mehrauli farmhouse, in a skimpy ghagra choli.

This is two years back. I never went for the wedding, which is good because the couple split up in five days anyway. I would probably have spent more time in hospital for frostbite.

Now the thing I was dreading the most is happening. My brought up on a staple diet of dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge cousin is getting married. And the same masi called me yesterday. You could hear the glee in her voice all the way to Vaishnodevi.

“ Fishtail design is the latest. And we kept your pneumonia in mind, the wedding is in August.”

Freaking hell. Twelve days of wedding frenzy, hundreds of relatives, non-stop havans, sister of the bride in a fishtail ghagra choli.

I’m getting ready to channelize my inner Karan Johar.

*please watch Kudiyon ka hai zamana. and don't blame me for suicidal tendencies displayed after that.

lau diwas in a rickshaw

all franships to you! (and if you can't see this video here, please go to the rickshaw page on facebook..yeah, i'm pimping!)

no time to blog...

... heck, no time to even do my upper lip.

i haven’t written in ages. And i had sort of promised myself that this blog would not be an update on my life.

But, i changed my mind.

And this post is going to be just that.

Actually this post is going to be about the stuff you don’t know about yourself. So in February last year, if you had told me I’d give up my job, and start my own thing I would probably have snorted in your face.

Me? Nobody in my family has ever run a business. I’m a duffer in maths. I have as much patience as the amount of hair amitabh bachchan has. (On his head okay. Yesh...I think I’m going to throw up. I see disturbing visuals in my head) I can be extremely blunt. I cannot say no. I stress over small things. I’m a creative person not a business person. yada yada yada.

And now, I’m all of that. Give or take some. I have a business. Which I absolutely totally love. I don’t really see it as a business though. Sure, I want to make money. But I see it as something that’s freed me. I can make less money than I did, but be so much happier. I carry no angst, suffer no idiots.

And, here’s the thing, I always worry that I don't think about things. I just sort of peer down this cliff and say, “ooh, what’s that thing at the bottom”, and jump. I don’t analyse my life or my actions. I don’t do swot charts. Or weight the consequences.

And we have a really tiny office. Six chairs. Funky wallpaper. An office boy, sorry man, who talks with marbles in his mouth. And our first employee today.

I have no idea how far this will go. And it doesn’t worry me. The only thing I know is some days I wake up and realise that I don’t have to go to an office. But I have to go to my office. And I sort of just laze in bed for five more minutes and grin my head off. And stop myself from pinching me.

Gosh. I think i’m going to get my period. I would never write such a sappy post in my right mind.

rockstar

My friend ,the celebrity, goes to the golden temple.

She and mom get there early in the morning. Heads covered, feet dipped in the cold water outside, they step onto the freezing marble, and start making their way around the temple.

“Aithe aao ji...pehle a dekho.”

(Come this side ji ... first see this)

They turn. It’s a pimply, gangly Sardar boy. He must be 20. He’s waving his long limbs pointing to the right.

They politely smile and keep walking on.

But he’s pretty persistent. Now bow your head here, look up there, take Prasad from there, say your prayer here... he’s decided he’s not going anywhere.

They are polite, and because it’s a place of worship they don’t tell him, “buzz off fuck face” and bear with him. Though my friend says she was totally irritated with him. Every time she and her mom take pictures he wants to stand with them. She’s trying to stay calm and zen.

Finally after two and a half hours of having him plastered to her elbow, they reach the exit. At which point she firmly turns and says, “ Chaloji, thank you very much.”

He grabs her hand, my friend is startled, and before she can react he says, “ Manu singer bannna hai.” (I want to become a singer)

My friend is rolling her eyes in her head. This happens to her all the time.

She feels bad for the tall, lanky, pimply Sardar of 20, and kindly asks him, “ Who is your favourite singer?”

“ Miley Cyrus ji.”

My friend chokes. He continues.

“ Mai Miley Cyrus da bada fan hoon. Mainu kuch advice do te mai bhi miley cyrus banoo.” (I’m a big fan of Miley Cryus. Give me some advice so even I can become Miley Cyrus)

She looks at him, frantically wondering what to tell him. A sex change operation? Blonde hair? Barbie? Ken?

When suddenly it hits her.

“ Tusi kabhi give up na karna. Aur roz mandir zaroor aana.”

(You should never give up. And pray really hard)

here it is, rockstar by miley cyrus. oh dude!