As Ever...

... Bombay was superb, sublime...beyond words, even.

I'll attempt a few, but maybe next post, when I'm over my homesickness and the horrible wrench of missing A.H. and N.M. and all the others. I honestly can't wait for that old-age home we're all moving into in our 80s ...at least we'll all be together!

That's What Friends Are For....

I kinda pity N.M....he's a harmless soul really: very into cars, bikes, hiking and busty women. I think he often wonders what crime he committed to be cursed with a best friend like me. Especially since we've started mailing back and forth every day at work, and he's forced to endure (practically daily) tripe like this from me:

I'm really bored and I don't know what to do:
If I get any bored-er I might eat my shoe.
There's piles of paper and work to be done,
But it's almost the weekend; I want to have fun!

Alas, however, I must get home and study:
Exams and assignments are nobody's buddy.
Somebody remind me why I'm doing this degree?
Oh yeah, it's all greed, I wanted more money.

Well, if nothing else, this has helped pass the time:
Boredom is alleviated when I'm penning a rhyme.
To you, my friend, who puts up with my shit:
Thank you for understanding when I'm being a twit :)

You see what I mean? He's a gem, a prince among men with the patience of an angel, a sweet soul doomed to hell purely because of his acquaintance with me, and it's beyond me how he's gone all these years without killing either himself or me!

So here's to you, N.M. I'm safe in the knowledge that you never read my blog (or read anything other than a t-shirt on a particularly buxom woman, actually), so I can be as sappy as I want!

Escapism

I got back from Bombay over a fortnight ago, but I still can't bring myself to write about my trip. Why? Because it'll mean I'm not there anymore .... leaving this time just felt harder than ever. No particular reason why, except that nowadays I welcome falling asleep at night because I get to delve under the covers and pretend I'm in bed in Bombay, where I belong more than anywhere else on earth. Anyway, to counter the aforementioned bit of doom and gloom, I'm recycling an old piece of crap I wrote, ohhhh, 4 years ago. Ah, for the age of innocence :)

A novice's guide to the game
Checking out a member of the opposite sex is a time-honoured, prolific and surprisingly tricky pastime. Time honoured because, well, please, you so know that your great-great-great-great-great granddaddy stood in those ballrooms and watched the waltzing women, waiting for their voluminous petticoats to flutter and expose a thrilling one inch of ankle. La, what a shocking charlatan that woman is, I saw her ankle. Prolific because, as with a lot of things, you can do it anywhere, anytime, any how, in a variety of ways, and the playing field is huge. They ain't kidding when they say there's a lot of fish in the ocean! And I've always rather wondered who the 'they' is who keep saying things. But I digress. Ah, yes, and surprisingly tricky because you don't want to get caught. Unless, of course, you do want to get caught.

As with every other species, human beings have their hunting grounds, and of course, the predator and the prey. This is probably one hunt, though, where the predator and the prey intermingle fearlessly, and often exchange roles as well. There's a secret (well,okay, not-so-secret) language of nudges and winks and lascivious stares and hisses of "Psst! Hottie at 3 o'clock!" Sometimes, of course, the guerilla warfare can get a little confusing. A friend and I were sitting on a hot summer day at Leopold's and I was delighting in a chilled glass of coke while she was delighting in the scenery. Said scenery was a beautifully proportioned German hunk-extraordinaire, and she was getting her jollies watching the movement of his manly throat as he guzzled beer (sad, I know, but we were socially retarded.) To get my attention, she whispered "Pssst. 4 p.m." I, of course, promptly checked my watch and was rather nonplussed, since it was barely noon. Then, again, she said "No, no, 4 p.m." Ah, that made more sense. Cute guy. But whose 4 p.m.? Hers or mine? Giving up on that, I simply swivelled around in my seat till I was faced with a vision that made me go "Hubba hubba". But quietly, of course. And I made a mental note to learn whose side the time zones actually referred to, because we passed quite a blissful, but confusing, hour exchanging hisses of "3 a.m." and "9 p.m." which always culminated in us just giving up and blatantly looking around till we spotted the quarry. Of course, the highlight was at the end of the hour, when the aforementioned German hottie paid for his beer and, before leaving, strode up to us to whisper in his sexy accent: "It doesn't matter whether it's a.m. or p.m., it's just 4 o'clock. And it's more effective if you speak softly." Really, I've never used the time zone technique again.

Another time I was out with my friends at some pub or the other that seemed to have a wonderful assortment of the most magnificent women. For the guys, of course, it was like a box of chocolates, and for me, well, I was just watching the fun (and letching maybe just very little). As women walked past., the boys would mutter "8" or "9.7" or "6.5", an archaic and offensive rating practice amongst men that is nonetheless highly amusing. More amusing, in fact, when one woman heard my friend T.K. say "5.8" and, in a fit of temper, sloshed her drink all over him and said "In your dreams, I'm definitely a 9". Lesson number 2 is the same as number 1: always keep your voice down.

Now, as I've said before, there's an art to this game. Sometimes you don't want to get caught checking out the goods, and sometimes you do (don't play innocent, we all want to get caught sometimes. Isn't it just totally worth that knowing smirk and twinkle in the eye?) Me, I play it rather safe. Never approach men in pubs, or anywhere, really, but I sure do look. Only once, I remember, at Jazz, did I see someone I might actually want to approach, but of course, propriety (and the fact that I'm a total chickenshit) forced me to play it safe. Lots of heavy eye contact, a little toss of the hair (that famous attention-grabbing move of women the world over), slight pout to the lips (damn, where's the lipgloss when you need it?), a little spark of satisfaction when he looked at our table. The boys were frowning in disapproval (of course, it's alright for them to indulge in such games, but I have to be protected. Bah. Hypocrites.), but they did concur that he was looking in our direction quite a bit. The final triumph,I could see, was about to come about, since he had just risen from his table and was coolly sauntering over. I was getting ready to play it coy, maybe accept a drink and haggle over whether or not I'd give him my phone number, when he stopped in front of my friend N.K. and said: "Do you want to dance?" Lesson 3: acquire gaydar, or gay radar. Really. It helps.

While not every person is a willing participant in the game, it does tend to suck you right in. Pretty soon, you'll find you're even checking out men with your mom. Of course, this is a little...er...what's the word...different. Mom and I were at the CCI once, ostensibly swimming but in actuality checking out the ample goodies on display. I spotted a specimen that redefined the term six pack, and was telling mom in hushed (yes, I had finally learned to whisper) tones just how attractive I found the physique laid out a few chaise lounges away. Flash forward a few days, and we were at the CCI again, meeting mom's friends for lunch. The next thing I know, in walks Mr. Hotbody, and, wonder of wonders, he's the son of one of mom's friends. So we're introduced around, and my mom (dear sweet soul) winks at me and says to the guy "Oh, it's you...my daughter couldn't stop gushing about your...what did you call it, sweetie? Six-pack? Yes, that's right. Wow, you must really work out a lot." Lesson 4: Tell your mother nothing. NOTHING.

With the help of these few lessons, I hope others will be as enlightened as I am to the ways of this sometimes treacherous, often perilous, always entertaining game. All the best to everyone out there - to the men, may you find women whose drinks won't stain when thrown at you. To the women, I hope you're more attractive than your male friends.

My Only Thought

...Is that this time tomorrow, I’ll be in Bombay!! As N.M. soooo sweetly and soooo graciously said: “No sleep, no peace, no rest, no alone time…no sleep!” I can’t wait!!

Plus, H.T.’s getting married! Chronicles on one of our own getting shackled…er,hitched… to follow (sure to be filled with biased observations due to my enduring Peter Pan complex).

BUT! Bombay!!

I Won, I Won, I Won!!

...Though not at poker, sadly, where I'm continuing on a month-long losing streak. Sigh. BUT! Even better! I won the competition being held by FriendsOfBooks for Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's new book: Confessions of a Listmaniac. Eeeeeeee. Okay, so I'm being all fan-girl here, but I can't help it... I've followed her blog for..oooh 4 years now, and then loved her first book, You Are Here, and now I'm one of the 3 winners selected to get a signed copy of her new (and undoubtedly hilarious) book. Say it with me: Eeeeeeeeeee!

The competition involved listing the things we love (d) and hate (d) most about being teenagers. After straining to remember that far back, I was able to come up with a few pros and cons of teenage-dom: hardly a set list, but what came back to me with the most startling, laugh-inducing, pain-in-the-chest-in-a-good-nostalgic-way clarity. With a few additions, here's what I wrote:-


LOVED

- The excitement that came with a crush, and the thrill of seeing the object of my affection, however fleetingly!

- Meeting with friends in corridors in the too-short time span between the school buses arriving and the assembly bell, and catching up on what we missed in each others’ lives in the past 16 hours (6 hours, if you count from when we FINALLY got off the phone).

- How EVERYTHING was of vital importance!

- That the little things mattered the most: the biggest concern was whether or not I'd pass maths; the main goal was to ensure my skirt was at JUST the right length to make melook good and not incur the teachers’ wrath; the highlight of the day was when my crush talked to me and didn’t even bat an eye at his friends’ hooting and catcalling.

- The ability to talk on the phone for 5 hours straight and still feel that there was plenty more to be said.

- The single, everlasting moment before my first kiss.

- That "being there for each other” and ”having your back” and ”unswerving support” weren’t just random terms, but actual qualities prevalent in a circle of friends.

- Sleepovers at friends' places and sneaking out for parties - is it just me, or did it make the party SO much more fun knowing you weren't supposed to be there?

HATED

- The double-standard and labeling that was prevalent when it came to romance…no matter how much they did, the boys were studs; no matter how little they did, the girls were sluts.

- Getting my period and having to wear a white uniform in summer…talk about constant fear!

- That popularity mattered so much to some people that they’d treat those who were different (too tall, too thin, too fat, too pimply, too brainy, too poor) with extreme cruelty.

- How easy it was for teachers to judge students only based on marks and not personality, efforts, extra-curriculars…

- The people who'd gossip for the sake of it, with no basis or regard to truth: so at the age of 15 I had a random girl in the school bathroom, who had no clue who I was, telling me of my own purported exploits - boob job, threesome with 2 guys at a party, sleeping with the Head Boy. On the plus side, her face when I introduced myself was PRICELESS! :)

- How emotions were so extreme that a break-up felt like the end of the world (maybe that’s not just a teenage thing, though).

What about you? What did you love and hate most about being a teenager?

Apparently I Repel The Undead Too...

How a conversation would go between my best friend and me if he was a vampire:

Me (terrified): “AAAAAAAaaaaaa……”

Him (holding head in pain): “Stop that screaming! I have super-sensitive hearing as a result of being an undead sex god.”

Me (terror subsiding, replaced by curiosity): “….aaahhhh!!!!....Wait. What does the hearing have to do with being a sex god?”

Him (trying to look superior, but a little uncertain): “UNDEAD sex god. And it’s one of the perks.”

Me (in full-fledged nerd-mode): “How would you even know you’re a sex god? You just came back from the dead an hour ago. Scaring the crap out of me, I might add, since I was mourning your supposed death and whatnot.”

Him (annoyed): “Gee. Thanks. That’s touching. And it’s a given. Vampires have undead sexual magnetism. We HAVE to be sex gods.”

Me (logically): “Uh-huh. Or vampires could just use their hypno-crap to CONVINCE people that they’re sex gods.”

Him (completely abandoning all pretence at logic): “Oh for…! I FEEL sexier!”

Me (moving into super-geek mode): “That’s another thing. Vampires don’t cry. Don’t pee. Don’t poop. Don’t bleed. No bodily functions, basically. So how can they …you know, get it up? To do stuff?”

Him (looking heavenward for patience): “We just can! We don’t ask questions about it!”

Me (skeptical): “Riiiiiight. Oh, wait, so if you do it with a live person, then would that person be a necrophiliac?”

Him (rolling eyes): “That’s not very original, I’m sure others have asked that question.”

Me (not giving up): “Yes, but have they gotten an answer?”

Him (grinning hopefully): “Probably not a verbal one. Maybe a practical demonstration.”

Me (rolling MY eyes): “Hmm. Yeah, that’s not going to work.”

Him (whining): “Not even with the hypno-crap?”

Me (my turn to be annoyed): “I can’t believe you’re dead and still trying get in my pants!”

Him (aggrieved): “It’s UNdead!”

Me (curious again): “And that’s another thing. How come you’re not decomposing? Why aren’t your bits and pieces rotting and falling off?”

Him (horrified): “You keep my bits and pieces out of this! Of course I’m not decomposing, I’m not some common zombie!”

Me (even more curious): “So how come zombies decompose but vampires don’t?”

Him (almost crying with annoyance): “ I DON’T KNOW!! I’ve only been back from the dead for an hour!”

Me (oblivious to his mental anguish): “If a vampire and a zombie had to, you know, do it…would something rot and fall off?”

Him (with a mixture of awe and horror): “It’s amazing that you are even more disgusting than the prospect of drinking human blood.”

Me (blushing): “Awww, you’re sweet.”


So in a fit of boredom, my friend and I were talking about my vampire fixation, and went through this hypothetical scenario. The above conversation is actually ours.

End result, he decided that if he DID come back from the dead as a vampire, he’d kill me just to shut me up. And wouldn’t drink my blood, because he’s pretty sure there’s something seriously wrong with me.

Hmph.

I Get By With A Lil' Help From My Friends...

There was a time in my life (mid-teens) when lines were clearly drawn, boundaries devoutly demarcated: friends are friends, best friends are best friends, potential love interests are fleeting, and NEVER the twain shall meet. These distinctions were important back then, because all my best friends were hormonal teenage boys who had an alarming propensity to suddenly develop this mysterious thing called “feelings” for me. I eventually worked out that these “feelings” coincided with me hitting puberty and developing a decent-sized rack, so I managed to maintain a healthy sense of skepticism and didn’t let the attention go to my head (much).

Around the time I hit 20, I had a stellar group of friends and we were all quite grounded in our love for each other – it was there, it was solid, it was non-negotiable (much to the chagrin of several over-possessive girlfriends and boyfriends who came and went). If there was a time when any of us within the group suspected we might be developing feelings for each other (and you throw a group of 20-somethings together, it’s kinda inevitable), we dealt with it with a minimum of fuss and drama – things NEVER worked out (sad, but true), so we quietly went back to being best friends and promptly resumed the ridiculously comfortable camaraderie we had always shared. I don’t know whether this was a sign of the maturity we possessed (I SERIOUSLY doubt it) or simply the fact that it was ingrained in our psyches that no relationship (or lack thereof) could ever possibly be as satisfying as the friendship we shared.

I often wonder why things didn’t go better. There have been several men and women in the group who have, on occasion, suddenly seemed to wake up to the fact that maybe they felt more than just friendship. But despite knowing each other for eons, knowing every thought and feeling and PMS-induced moodswing, things would invariably go awry. When you’ve known someone for years and years, does that make it easier or more difficult to fall in love with them? I wonder if getting into a relationship when you’ve already seen the frog’s warts is a bad idea…those relationships where you keep discovering things about each other seem to work out better than the ones where you’ve seen each other in tattered boxers, or without make-up, or witnessed each others’ severe morning breath on overnight trips to Pune and Goa.

It’s been about a decade now, and all of us are in our mid-to-late 20s, scattered across the globe; some dating, some engaged, some blissfully single and some scarred by past relationships. Distance and jobs and different time zones make it difficult for us to talk everyday, but we’re all so secure in the knowledge that we love each other, it doesn’t matter. Boyfriends and girlfriends will come and go, but we’ve all stood the test of time, and bad hair days, and acne, and psychotic significant others. The days of wondering ‘what if’ about each other are over, because we’ve settled into our comfortable grooves…furniture, if you will…I’m the bean bag in front of the tv, N.M. is the sofa in the corner, D.S. is the recliner over there…etc. We’ve confidently declared that we’re all pooling in our money to buy a huge house so we can all move in together – something big enough to give each of us our own space, but small enough to keep us close together. And, of course, we’ll all be going into the same retirement home in our 80s, where we’ll terrorize the staff by having wheelchair races in the corridors.

Childish fantasy? Sure. Unrealistic? Maybe. Naïve? Definitely.

But it keeps us going. It’s our version of happily ever after.

"Days Go By...

...And still I think of you." Okay, that's how the 'Dirty Vegas' song goes, at any rate...not entirely apropos of my thoughts right now, but I find I always have to complete the lyric. And now the song's going to be stuck in my head for the next 3 days. At least it's not Britney Spears. Argh.

I can't believe it's 2010. Over a decade of the new millennium is gone. And I'm OLD. When did this happen?? I get tired by 1 a.m., I can't drink as much as I used to (well, I only really started drinking a couple of years ago, but nevermind), I can't dance for four hours straight in four-inch stilettoes, I get exhausted after an hour-long session at the gym (but at least I'm going!) and want to do nothing but curl up in bed for the rest of the evening, and my memory is most definitely going. Plus, horror of horrors, I've become one of those crabby OLD people who keep complaining, as evinced by this entire paragraph.

Right, no more. I'm counting my blessings as of now, which, when you think about it, is also something that OLD people do...but the nice ones, so that's alright :)

- My health, which is thankfully back on track after what seems like forever. I'm still susceptible to every bug out there, and my constantly runny nose makes the Niagara Falls seem like a pesky leaky faucet, but hey, no hospitals!

- My family, who are kick-ass and quirky and fun and supportive and everything, literally everything, to me. Especially my mom, who hasn't murdered me yet.

- My B'bay friends, who like me despite the 15 extra kilos, and seem to be handling growing old a lot better than I am! Maybe because they're all guys and don't obsess about crow's feet and laugh lines as much. Or maybe they hide it really well...

- My friends in this part of the world, who are the most entertaining people I've had the fortune to meet (although some of them are definitely the most annoying, obnoxious, irritating brats I've had the misfortune to meet...well, really only D). And NV and RV, whom I meet once or twice a year, but who make me believe that there really are sensible, fun, intelligent women out there who know their own minds and aren't just...sheep. And P and T, who make me feel like I would've liked a couple of little sisters. And K, who was by far the most sane person around for the last few weeks...despite his sheesha obsession.

- My local friends, who are loud and fun and sweet beyond belief...how amazing are you guys, Queen and Standy? Give yourselves a hand!

- My sanity, which is sometimes questionable, often shaky, but always present. At least in comparison to a lot of people I've met recently.

- My life, which, when reading over the last few points, really IS something to be grateful for.

Hence, no more complaining.

For now :)

Father, Forgive Me For I Have Sinned...

....Obviously, by the way my weekends are going, it's not too far a logical leap to say I'm turning into an alcoholic and a compulsive gambler. But, can I just say that kamikazes are the yummiest, most diabolocial things ever invented? Taste like lemonade, but 7 or 8 of them and I'm rendered insensible for the rest of the night...fun! As for the poker...I think I may want to take up permanent residence at A's dining table...won 41 rials (a little over Rs. 5000) and won a hand with 4 Aces...oy, what a rush! Pity the other guy, though, he lost on a full house with Aces and Jacks.

....Got a facebook message from I.P. asking me what's been up, seeing as how he hasn't heard from me in ages. Is it ridiculous to feel a little guilty? I've always been manic about keeping in touch with my B'bay friends, and I just counted back and realized I haven't spoken to him for over 2 months...that's not long in the normal world...but in the cozy, crazy little world I inhabit in B'bay, it's an eternity. Right, making phonecall pronto.

....Crap, just realized I haven't spoken to N.M. in ages either. Crap, crap, crap...feel guilt trip coming on, considering I've been either playing poker, table tennis or just been, you know, flat-out-incoherently-sloshed the last few times he's called.

....Despite the best of intentions, went to the gym only twice in the past week...but it wasn't my fault! The trainer sent out an SMS saying he was sick!! Nevermind that I saw him at a movie on Tuesday night and at the same party I was at on Thursday....

....Will probably end up going only twice this week too, since Mother Nature has seen fit to curse me and actually have my period show up on time for a change. This makes it 2 consecutive months...I don't think that's EVER happened to me. See, this is why my uterus is christened Dorothy....somewhere over the rainbow, indeed.

....I've had Kelly Osbourne's version of "Papa Don't Preach" stuck in my head since morning, and I'm driving my colleagues MAD by belting it out in my can't-carry-a-tune-in-a-bucket voice. God, that's FUN!

Things I Realized In The Past Week

So the last week has been an eye-opener for me. The earth-shattering (okay, I'm prone to exaggeration) revelations just kept coming:

- I went to the gym precisely once during the week. Now, I never worked out when I was younger; didn't start, in fact, till about 2 months ago when A and V practically dragged me kicking and screaming to a circuit training session (and the fact that I had put on 12 kgs had very little to do with it). And now, shock-horror-dismay - I actually like it. And feel guilty when I don't go. I've turned into one of those people. The next thing you know, I'm going to start obsessively worrying after my 4th can of Coke. And laying off the Lindt Hazelnut. Bah.

- I attended a friend's birthday celebration. Queen's cousins and friends planned a surprise gathering at her place; and man was it loud, fun and crazy. I've never hung out with the women of this country very much, but I have got to do it more often... can't think of the last time I had that much fun. Oh yeah, the revelation: nothing really new, but - I miss female company. Good female company, of the non-bitchy-non-whiny-non-complicated variety.

- I met the coolest woman ever. Hello, Standy!

- I suck at beer pong. Like, pathetic does not even begin to cover it.

- I have led a very sheltered life. Okay, not really a revelation there, I kinda knew this. But I was at A's place on Friday and we were winding down post-poker with drinks (and the yummiest, cheesiest, most satisfying food at 3 in the morning - Doon School Maggi noodles...mmm). Listening to A, V and D discuss various drink-and-hormone-fueled escapades made me realize 2 things: I canNOT down vodka and wake up hangover-free; and I have not yet begun to live. Cheers guys, here's to getting out a bit more and being able to contribute to the crazy stories.

- I miss my previous colleagues way more than I thought possible. Dropped in at the old office to wish Queen and met a few of the old work buddies and the old boss for a bit. Felt all warm and fuzzy, in a way I just don't at the new place. Then bumped into S.B. from the old office at Rock Bottom on Thursday night and shared a laugh over Kamikazes. Yeah, there's no one to do that with here.

- I actually miss R, who's away for a while. Was semi-lucidly expostulating to A on Friday that there actually is a biiiig difference between a potential love interest and a best friend (in my books, anyway). R is very firmly in the latter, but that doesn't stop me from missing nice long chats about the Watchmen and Alan Moore and Arthur C. Clarke (and he puts up with my vampire fixation too!)

Let's see what this week brings. With V in town for a fortnight, and NV and RV here for a while, it's bound to involve copious amounts of alcohol, at the very least. Better hit the gym again...

...My morning Coke can looks like it's frowning disapprovingly at me. Sigh.

Venereal Disease (Well, okay, no, but it sounds more interesting than 'Valentine's Day')

I have never celebrated a Valentine’s Day with a significant other (even when I was dating, there would invariably be fights on either the 13th or the 14th itself (ah, tempestuous romance of college days, how I miss thee. NOT.). But the day is still pretty damn special for me. Okay, I’ll admit, it’s so blatantly commercial that it’s difficult to see where the romance begins and the promotional schemes end. And honestly, if you’re a woman and you’re PMSing and you’re – god forbid in these hearts and flowers times – single (gasp!), the copious amount of red-heart-bedecked store fronts and ultra-mega-gigantic billboards shouting “Valentine’s Sales” and “Two-for-One Lovers’ Discount” get to be a bit much. Well, when I say a bit much, I mean only in the hitting-in-the-head-with-a-bulldozer sort of way.

Sour grapes, you say? To which I heartily rejoin: Nahhhh. Sour grapes is this woman I know, who’ll walk down Marine Drive in the evening and scowl at all the poor privacy-deprived couples and mutter about taking them out with a bazooka. Oh, or this other person I know who’ll walk into every greeting-card store and not-so-surreptitiously stick all the heart-shaped balloons with a pin and then gleefully proclaim “I broke 75 hearts today!” Um, note to self: must find new friends’ circle. But really, what I don’t get is how people don’t see the day for the corporate-sponsored malarkey that it is. I know it’s been said a million times before, so it can stand to be said again: Why should there be a separate day allotted to love and showing it? It’s a nice concept, I’ll grant you that – a special day set aside like any birthday or anniversary (and there’s no such thing as too many special days). But card companies and restaurants and TV and movies have turned it into this whole huge deal, to the point where I actually know people running around in a panic at the last minute because they don’t have a date for the 14th of February.

Oh, and since I have chronic foot-in-mouth disease, to these people I said: “So?” And boy, did I ever get reamed out. “Don’t you have a romantic bone in your body?”; “Do you want to die an old maid?”; “Don’t you know how important the day is?”; “Don’t you know how much fun it is getting all those gifts?”; “Do you WANT to be a lonely 80 year old with 47 cats?” and the like. I dunno, really. I’ve always rather liked cats, and as for dying an old maid…well, I really doubt one Valentine’s Day is going to tip the scales either way on that probability! As for the gifts….ok, yeah, I’m losing out there. But damn it, I’m a woman of the 21st century and I earn my own money (albeit not much), so I can buy my own damned Swarovski crystals (the teeny-tiny ones)!

I think what prompts most people to want to celebrate the 14th of February (aside from all the nummy chocolates and the cosy hand-holding) is the fear (or maybe despair) of being alone when most of the world is paired up. I said earlier that Valentine’s Day is a special day like any birthday or anniversary, but unlike those days, which are celebrated by family and friends and large groups of loved ones, Valentine’s Day is a day for two. It’s a more intimate day, a more exclusive one, and third wheels are not encouraged to tag along. It’s very firmly a Couples Thing. And, deep down, there’s a lot of people out there yearning to be part of a Couples Thing, especially on the 14th, when the Couple Vibe is on display EVERYWHERE. They want to walk down halls with fingers intimately clasped and play footsie under restaurant tables and gasp with delight at gifts received and seal the day with a kiss (or, okay, more).

So the thing is, what I miss today isn’t a significant other. This day is normally special for me because in Bombay it always meant going to Leo’s or out for dinner with the entire bunch and groaning over the fact that EVERY place insisted on playing “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love For You” and “Everything I Do” at least 6 times in succession. It meant looking at couples fighting and smirking to ourselves that we were footloose and fancy free and, most importantly, free to ogle without recrimination, even on this, the much-touted Most Hallowed of All Days of Love (pardon the oodles of sarcasm). It meant eventually piling into someone’s car and sitting by Marine Drive or Worli Seaface at 3 in the morning, speculating about what we’d all be doing and where we’d be, and who we’d be, 10 years from now. It meant a very real, and very visceral fear (confusingly laced with a little anticipation) that maybe next year, one of us wouldn’t be there, because we’d have found someone (someone else, someone not us) and abandoned our little ritual for the wonders of Valentine’s Day. Not romantic, no, not at all, but special in more ways than anyone can quantify.

And okay, now I’m in Cal, and we’re all running up our phone bills (yeah, no more Swarovskis for me...sigh) calling to and from Bombay and Delhi and Calcutta and Dubai and Sydney. But there’s still the smirking and the speculating and god, tonnes of catching up (and all without the sappy songs in the background!). And fine, even if it isn’t 3 in the morning in someone’s car on Worli Seaface? It’s still pretty damn special.