the conspiracy.

I need atleast a couple of days to recuperate when I get back from India.

It's not that I get jet-lagged. India is just 2.5 hours ahead of Kuwait for Heaven's sake. But the Kuwait Airways flight departs from Chatrapati Shivaji Airport at 6:10 am, and the entire night prior is spent trying to stuff forgotten bits and bobs in the suitcases and then at the tedious check-in and immigration at the airport, in a lousy mood throughout.

But besides that, I don't get much sleep in Bombay. Unless I'm on an adrenaline rush, I'm in a constant state of exhaustion.

I stay at my aunt's house wherein every single inhabitant is a raging insomniac. We spend half the night talking, convulsed with laughter, and then sleep by 3 or 4 am. I settle into bed, setting the alarm for 11 am on my iPhone, forgetting in my naivety that I was in India.

My cousin begins his morning karaoke session at about 8 or 9 am, i.e. he cranks up the volume on his speakers and sings along in his room, shattering my sweet slumber. I wake up groggy and tousle-headed to him blasting LMFAO's Shots while playing Guild Wars 2, and close the door to the room I'm sharing with his sister (who continues sleeping peacefully). The door is mysteriously ajar despite my having shut it before turning in. I then settle back to sleep, my eyes wincing in the sunlight peeking through the curtains.

An hour of very disturbed sleep later, the doorbell peals incessantly, penetrating into my dreams. I wake with a start. The house and everyone in it, including my sister beside me, is still, except for my lunatic brother who is now passionately singing Coldplay's The Scientist at the top of his voice, oblivious to what's unfurling outside his lair. Shaking my head in disbelief, I take in a deep breath, trying to muster the energy to walk to the hall and open the front door. It's the milkman asking for his dues. I politely ask him to come back later in the afternoon. I bring in the paper and nariyal pani* left on the doorstep and then struggle to go back to sleep.

Barely thirty minutes later, the doorbell unfailingly rings yet again. Nobody in the house has stirred. No sound of music from my brother's room; I assume he's finally turned in. Disgusted, I open the door with a ferocious scowl. It's a delivery from Flipkart, a few books I'd ordered online have arrived. Only slightly mollified, I make arrangements for the payment, dump the package on my suitcase and head back to bed, falling asleep.

The doorbell rings once more.

I swing open the door with murderous intent. It's the servant. I let her in while singing praises of the Lord, now she could open the door for the next disturber of the peace! I climb back into bed and collapse, dead to the world.

Ten minutes later, my 11 am alarm rings.

*nariyal pani: coconut water

(Bombay, Feb '13)

bombay, how do i love thee...

Gateway of India, lit up in all its splendour.

Bombay may fail to appeal to one for a multitude of reasons. The traffic is loud, never-ending, and stops for no one. The beggars and eunuchs that haunt certain streets leave no vehicle unmarked with their grubby hand prints, whether it's a Bajaj scooter, an auto rickshaw or a Mercedes. It's almost always terribly humid—you could wring out your clothes at the end of the day and fill two buckets to the brim with your sweat. There are slums in perhaps every area, accompanied by filth and squalor. Too many of the residents are shallow and conscious about impressing an equally shallow society. I'm not sure I could ever live there.

Worst of all, in my opinion, the locals are completely contemptuous of the gods of English grammar and scorn the staunch and unyielding faith of the grammarians, repeatedly disrespecting and ridiculing it, trying to inveigle them into joining the Dark Side, as evidenced by this ad from Sony India (October 2012):

The copywriter wasn't too...bright.

Nevertheless, I love Bombay. It's the only city that I've been to (so far) where the branches of trees on either side of the road often meet in the middle, their leaves whispering and cajoling, paying no attention to the noisy traffic that drives by below them. There isn't much sunlight allowed into the side streets; the dense foliage of the many trees stand guard to prevent too much from creeping in.

Bandra.

somewhere in the suburban side of the city

And then of course, the family I adore lives there.

I made a quick trip to Bombay last week, the primary reason for which was to complete my dental work (three crowns on root canals, one cap on implant). To the dimwitted (who unfailingly inquire, "don't you have dentists in Kuwait?"), the cost of getting all that done with a good dentist in Bombay, plus the airfare, was about a third of what it would cost me here. Thankfully, it wasn't humid at all.

When I wasn't getting crowned, I spent my time with friends or family, usually at home or in a restaurant. My cousins have told me only too often of the 'awesome' food in this restaurant in Bandra or that one in Juhu. I love trying new things (not necessarily food), so I decided it was time to try a variety of food in as many unexplored places possible, with relatives or friends in the short time I had (nine days). The result was that I often had to have lunch twice with different people to ensure I spent adequate time with all I cared about.

It was worth it. Mouth-watering appetizers, dumplings and sushi (the range of veg sushi included mango sushi and olive sushi. That was a bit...strange) with my aunt at Global Fusion. Mocktails and a very forgettable dessert with close friends from MBA at TGI Friday's. Pizza with cousins at Alfredo's. Churros sprinkled with icing sugar and dipped in white and milk chocolate (YUM YUM YUM!) with a friend I met online at Chocolateria San Churro. Nachos and pizza with cousins at Bombay Blue two hours later. Ginormous crabs with half the family at Gondola where I appeared to have no knowledge of table manners. Chicken rolls, tarts and eclairs with another friend I met online at Candies. Portuguese Chicken with my aunt and cousin at Gaylord.

Damn that's quite a list. A couple of days I felt I would explode. It's weird; I lost weight despite the gluttony!

When it comes to interiors, a restaurant and a cafe completely floored me—Global Fusion and quite surprisingly, Starbucks.

Global Fusion has a lovely ambiance. The plentiful lunch buffet is served all around the restaurant, so you work up a bit of an appetite walking to inspect the buffet tables. It was busy; every table was occupied. A single table stood on a wooden platform above a pool of water. There were a couple of large toads (not real ones silly), with water jutting out their mouths, between tables in another, long pool of water. I didn't look around too much as the restaurant was closing and I wanted to eat more sushi, but it was very appealing.

A glimpse of Global Fusion.
Image source: http://mumbai.burrp.com

Shockingly enough, Starbucks in Fort takes the grand prize.

My cousin was immensely excited about Starbucks finally coming to India (in October 2012) and had made me promise we'd go there together, even though she'd been before. Having lived in Kuwait most of my life, where a Starbucks branch lies on every street corner, I wasn't particularly enthusiastic. I also despise beverages. My choice of drink is water (iced tea or nariyal pani* in India). If I'm in a cafe to catch up with a friend, I order hot chocolate. My aunt however, said it was a beautiful place so off we went.

Oh Lord. It was beautiful.

This branch of Starbucks was the epitome of the 'East meets West' concept, merging the American brand with European architecture and Indian culture, as my aunt put it. The Fort branch is in the Elphinstone Building, which is built in the Neo-Gothic style of architecture courtesy of the British. The quaint interiors of the coffee shop are reminiscent of places in North India, with wooden rafters, trunks for some of the tables, old-fashioned suitcases stacked in corners, carved wooden arches, high back armchairs, some antique furniture...very unlike the Westernized outlets in Kuwait and elsewhere around the world. The rustic look worked very well. I was smitten.

Don't miss the carved wooden
partition beneath the arch

                                                       

Another carved wooden arch

A closer look at the fine carving...can't seem
to get enough 

Note the milk containers and the print on the quaint
little suitcases!

Wooden rafters. I love them wooden rafters. 

A cozy corner :) I couldn't get closer for a better pic 

The drinks and cakes weren't a hit with me, but that's probably because I wasn't in the mood for hot chocolate, hate coffee and dislike cake.

It's always hard to leave Bombay. This time it was almost unbearable (in other words, I went emo). It's been a little more than a day since I got back but it seems like a distant memory now, as it usually does when I leave a country, even if it's Kuwait. I suspect I will post more to immortalize how I felt there so I don't forget. I forget too much too soon. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm developing Alzheimer's...

*nariyal pani: coconut water

(Bombay, March '13)

the much-delayed return of what seems to be self-assurance.

Dear Reader,
(if anyone but me is reading this that is)

Have you been wondering where the devil I am? Excuse the archaic latter half of the interrogative if you think it inappropriate for this century; I have recently discovered Sherlock Holmes, and while I can't really recall reading it in any of his cases, I feel I must credit it to a possible dialogue uttered by Watson.

I digress, as usual. If you've been with me right from the beginning, you might perhaps be aware that I often do so. I think it a little entertaining. Do you?

Anyway. I have a confession/outburst/resolution to make.

This blog was meant to be for me. My little spot where I could nurture my writing. It was supposed to be an outlet for the creativity that lay dormant deep within me. It was meant to transform that dormancy into a seething, ferocious active volcano that would erupt with fabulous vignettes. Because I was told by near and dear and loved and not so loved ones that I had a gift with words. That I could write. That the drivel I often spouted had the potential to be something greater (okay those last few words are mine but the near and dear and loved and not so loved ones meant the same thing). For a time the volcano remained busy. But then somehow, somewhere, my blog lost its identity and as a writer, so did I. I began to crave followers, comments, page views, like an obsessed wanna-be tween with a newly uploaded profile picture on Facebook (I think I'm being unfair to tweens everywhere. I could accuse plenty of adults of harbouring the same obsession). At one point I even longed for my blog to be one of the most-read in the country. To be on those ranking lists. Phooey.

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to my followers. It makes me feel good that there are people out there who think what I write is worth reading (even if a lot of them are my friends who I've coerced into doing so) and who take the time to discern the annoying-as-hell captcha code and post a comment. I still feel a thrill when on the rare occurrence, I notice a new follower has joined the ranks of My Beloved Stalkers.

Reading so many different blogs, especially local ones, somehow got me muddled about what I began blogging for. I'm not really interested in telling people here what to do with their time and where to go. There are plenty of other blogs on which they can find that kinda info. I don't care to give anyone advice. I will perhaps continue chronicling interesting events I attend as they are part of my experiences and I believe there's something to learn from every encounter, every experience, although I think my last few posts have only been about events, which is going to lessen. I'm pretty sure I have more to write about than to inform people in many words of what a good time I'm having.

Of course, it is a part of every writer's dream to be read. To be recognized. To see their name in print. To write something that an editor thinks is worth publishing. And get published. And keep getting published. On second thought, I'm not going to generalize. I don't really know any other aspiring writers (but one) so I'm not going to speak for anyone. This is a part of my dream.

I don't want to lose my touch and I fear very much that I will if I continue my disappearances for such frequent and prolonged hiatuses. I don't want my blog to die. I don't know why I stopped posting for so long - it might be listlessness, a waning of enthusiasm, an inexplicable reticence, of not wanting to be read mingled with a despair of 'oh who's going to read it anyway', which in retrospect is quite unfair, as I'm pretty certain there at least 8 people who regularly read my deviating narratives and like them. It's definitely not writer's block, for I have many more drafts than actual posts. I think I just have a serious problem with finishing what I begin writing - I need to be completely satisfied with the conclusion.

But this has gone on for far too long. I am suddenly overcome with an impatient fervour to just sign into Blogger and do nothing but type.

To ensure that something (of hopefully, considerable quality) is churned out at regular intervals on my darling blog, I solemnly swear that, henceforth, I will have a post out (and not just save it as a draft, but hit the 'Publish' button) atleast once every fortnight.

I do value and welcome your feedback, criticisms and any pointers you may have for me. How else will I improve? Whether you love a post or hate it, I want to know. Especially if you hate it. Unless it's in your nature to just hate and spread the hate for the sake of it. Then I don't really want to hear from you, as I dislike unnecessary unpleasantness, more so if it's uncalled for. The alliterations were unintentional (HA!!).

Oh and in case you were wondering where the devil I've been (come to think of it, I might have lifted the expression from a Wodehouse novel), I found my first full-time job and have been working since Jan-end, and vacationed in Central Europe (yes, again) for three weeks in Aug-Sept. So I've plenty to write about.

Since you've been such a patient reader, I'll leave you with a not-so-terrible photo I took (of Schloss Eckberg, a hotel in Dresden, Germany that serves the most gorgeous and delicious breakfast EVER) and Bertie Wooster's endearing words of farewell: Tinkerty-tonk!

Schloss Eckberg and the sun peering though the branches

a penitent letter to a patient soul

Dear blog,

I've missed you. No really, I have. How could I not seeing as how you're such an integral part of my existence now? An ideal friend that accepts everything I say. I harbour a deep affection for you. And what do I get for it? A drastically altered, extremely aggravating and very drab new version of Blogger.
You may feel abandoned but the truth is I wanted to shelter you from the drudgery that life deals out to one from time to time.

We needed a break - atleast I did - to mull things over.
And now baybeh, I'm back with a bang.

I refrained from mentioning to you that I joined the Toastmasters in Feb. My first meeting at the Bright Horizons club as a guest was lovely to say the least and I joined the same hour. Though the purpose of the TM is to improve communication and oratory skills, I became a member 'coz it looked like so much FUN! The people were so warm and gracious that it developed a want in me to belong to something like that. And I proudly announce my membership to anyone I encounter and encourage them to check out the club by attending a meeting.

There are various roles in a TM meeting that can be played by different members which eliminates the possibility of a humdrum, monotonous, formal atmosphere that could have befallen upon one. It's not limited to mastering the art of public speaking but developing a creative streak through the desire to do things differently and the creativity that stems out from within because of it. In the last meeting I was the Grammarian (representative of the grammar police) and oh MAN did I love it. I could do it everyday for the rest of my life..

So far this year's been an awesome one to catch up with old friends I haven't spoken to, let alone seen in years. I've met atleast five and with each of them, it was just as where we left off
. 

Towards the end of March I started an intership at a used bookstore. It's going smoothly. My boss is all heart :) and I love being surrounded by books. I've come to perceive them as bits of people - a smidgen of their lives, their souls, exposed to the world. I've dived headfirst into social media marketing by creating and handling the store's Facebook page. It grows... slowly but surely. Still got plenn'y learning to do though.

The sister and I hit the stores with sales today. Nothing special really. I loved the visual merchandising in River Island - an artificial tree with shoes suspended from the branches right at the entrance :D Very quaint. But the store we went totally bananas in was Desigual. O. M. G. There were tees and jeans hanging from rods in the ceiling, clothes set out to dry. Super awesome innovative idea. The entire collection is like an explosion of colors - the wackiest harem pants in the craziest combination of rich gorgeous hues.. We usually never waste time in stores that are overpriced, but we saw every single piece that place had to offer.

It was fun hanging out with the sister - despairing over the wretched taste of the designers who came up with the most absurd collections, slurping up frozen yogurt from Ikea, sneaking food into the fitting rooms, falling in love over and over again with the pretty floral print tops that are the rage again as they are every spring..

My dear sweet blog.. my own.. my precious. I've been reading a lot too. One of the benefits of working in a bookstore is that I can borrow anything I like ;) From Archies (my stress buster) to The Pictorial History of the SS. Super innit?

But that in no way means I will isolate you again. I am, and always will be, your beloved

 purple moonbeam

a look back - ghost of the year past

2010's been a blur. Honestly. For some months, I had to refer to previous posts. It's been a great year for shoes though! And books too, as I rediscovered my love for reading.

Let's recapitulate.. This is more for my benefit than to entertain you.

All through Jan-May: Last semester of MBA. In terms of studies, it was a fruitful sem, it made me glad I chose Marketing and I learnt a lot about it. Some relationships thrived, some suffered, but everything ended on a good note. The sole incident in April that held any excitement was that I fell down the stairs. It was thrilling. The pain was not and my phone lost a crucial key. I haven't replaced the key or the phone. Now it has a story behind it :D

June is a total blank.

July: A bloody AWESOME trip to Bombay.

August: Extractions and Gossip Girl. Period.

Come September and it was all about audieu, one mind blowing day out at a lake with my entire family and some of the best times I've had with my friends. Which inspired me to write this, so far the best post on this blog.

October: Interviews and a couple of amazing morning outs. And books.

November was a test of our hospitality as home was more like a guesthouse. My bff was down, then my cousin, then my mom's bff and after they left my grandmom (who I almost poisoned UNINTENTIONALLY, but let's leave that story for another time) and my cousins from Hyderabad for a couple of days in between. And another fab fab fabulousssso two trips to Bombay. Best month of the year - strengthening the bonds with family, friends and Damon Salvatore (YUMMY!) from The Vampire Diaries. I admit the relationship with the last is a bit one sided.

And December? I sliced the palm of my right hand. How, you ask? Indeed you should.

Well, I was walking. Maybe it was with a little skip. It was dark. The road was bad. And the rest of me decided to join my feet on the ground. My cousins helped me up and I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my right hand. I turned it and was surprised to see it trying to drown itself in my blood. I turned the palm down again lest they should see it and freak out. Which they did. What followed was people gathering and gazing at my hand in dazed horror, a rickshaw driver trying to stop the blood with 'spirit' (so he said which I suspect was his daru ki bottle), a two hour wait for a surgeon at Jehangir Hospital after the nurses patched me up and a lie down in the minor operation theatre getting stitches by the craziest doctor I'd ever met who made me promise my next holiday would be in Paris.

That's a promise I don't mind keeping.

And then there was my birthday. 23. Some great gifts. 'Nuff said.

Now I'm back in Kuwait. I've caught up with all the series worth watching (Outsourced is a good one), lost the mood for movies and have a whole bunch of books to read. The stitches and bandages are off but my skin still feels tight. I still love my own company and prefer to be left in solitude most of the time. My age is still mistaken to be around 15-18 years and I found in me a passion (of sorts) for photography after I was blessed with a hot purple compact camera (Canon SX210 IS - a cam so cool, so mod, it has sex in it! xD) which takes gorgeous pictures without giving me the need to tweak on photo editing software.

I have time to read again. My muse reaches out to me more often than it ever did before. And as long as I have that I don't need much more.

Except that holiday in Paris. ;)