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Was featured on Mumbai Boss! Yay

How sweet is that?

Speaking of sweet there is a free worldwide shipping offer on at Society6.

Go buy some Kala Khatta Stuff now.

http://mumbaiboss.com/2012/04/25/the-good-buy-kala-khatta-gola-laptop-skin/

Role Reversal

Fruit wala in Juhu Market

While in Bombay, which seems like an age ago, my mother and I are walking down Juhu market.

Every inch of it is dug up. They dig up the road every single fucking year. It’s a government tradition. Like corruption (See? I can be political.)

Cars are honking constantly and ricks are driven by lunatics. It’s a chaotic, noisy, pot-hole filled, obstacle course.

My mother is not looking up as we are trying to cross the road, and is furiously texting some bum-chum.

“Mom, must we do this now? You can text who-ever when we get home or are off the road.”

“Haan, but it’s urgent! I need to reply to Vivek about our milonga!”

(Apparently a milonga is some dancing get-together thingummy. My mother has grown addicted to Salsa and Tango classes.)

Our roles have rather reversed of late.

For her birthday my mother wore some deadly off-shoulder, tight, lace mini (see above), while I was fully covered up to the neck.

She was dancing away, while I was at the bar drinking.

Chatting to my folks these days is like have a conversation with teenagers.

Mom’s tango class teacher (who is 30 years her junior) is sulking.

People have left his class and have gone to someone else’s class, then have being saying all these bitchy things about him behind his back, so he’s upset and is now saying he won’t come to Mom’s milonga and if he doesn’t come, Mom won’t enjoy the milonga because he’s her favourite and so she’s trying to convince him to come to the milonga. 

Who knew you could say milonga so many times in one sentence?

She’s such a dedicated student that she became class assistant. That’s my Mom – class apple polisher.

All this milonga drama and dance class back stabbing made me have vivid school flashbacks.

“Oh my god! Have you heard?? Karishma said that Shipali said that she had a pakoda-nose-pimply-face! No one is going to talk to her ever again!”

That actually happened. Then it turned out that the person who said that the other person said that thing about their nose was lying, so no one talked to her after that. (A garbled business, I know) It brought her crashing down from position of social queen to social leper (for a little while anyway).

It was perfect example of social politics (I love school politics, don’t you?). Instead of taking part I documented it in detail in my diary back then like a huge nerd.

I told my mother that I recommended a nice tight slap for Sulky.

“Aare how can you say that? Poor fellow. These people are being damn mean. But there’s so much politics in this small tango community of ours.”

I love how my father says that. Like he’s experienced dance politics for eons.

“Yes, of course. Didn’t you watch Black Swan?”

I’ve learned a lot from Black Swan. That and watching ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ religiously.

“I thought I had resolved and smoothed out issues but then today he’s sulking all over again.”

“You should just leave it. What is this? High school?”

Seriously. I feel old listening to this.

“Just tell mom to slap him. Slap him hard.”

Man I really want my mother to slap someone.

“Mom says how can you talk like that? Poor chap. These people are making his life a misery. They say they don’t like his dancing. How can expect him not too sulk?”

Oh.my.god. So much drrrrrama!

“But if they don’t like it, they don’t like it! Loads of people tell me they don’t like my drawings. I’m not so lame that I would sulk. He needs to grow up.”

“Mom says she will bash up these people who say this to you.”

You see – This is what happens when you get a tattoo. You’ll start trying to ‘bash up’ people for no reason.

“Then she needs to bash – Munt, My boss, The ex, and various other sentimental types. Tell this guy to sort it out and go to the milonga.”

The ex and Monty think I need to be more ‘commercial’. They don’t approve of my dark material. Kittens and ponies, that’s what I need to draw. Preferably kittens riding ponies. You just can’t go wrong with material like that.

“Mom says she can kick ass. She works out at the gym. She says tell them that when she comes she’ll kick their ass.”

Aw. Mom is gonna fight people.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

She’s gotten another tattoo by the way (ankle). Thought you’d like to know.

Rape Rick Finished

Rape Rick Final (I scanned it before I stuck the sequins on, as they won’t scan)

So I’ve finished the Rape Rick at last.

By the by, in case you were curious as to why I drew this, please read this post here.

The reason it took so long is that I sort of lost interest half way through making it and it stalled for ages.

Partly because of that app project which started eating into my evening hours as it wound up to a close. (Which I ought to post about at some point but I’m scared that people might find my blog via it. Is that paranoid? Can people do that? I don’t know but I’m nervous.)

Then I started setting up my shops and put up the Enthu Cutlet & Indian woman prints.

I was discussing this with the Fourth A, who is simultaneously doing a PhD, a jewelry class, house-hold DIY and also plans to open a chaddie (underwear) business.

I said she needs to focus more.

So do I. I also need better time management. I spend too much time faffing around instead of knuckling down and just finishing a project. I have 4/5 other projects and drawings that are half-finished. I need to make a list and tackle them one by one, and not start anything new until they are done and dusted. (Mighty last words!)

I had a wretched time painting the Rape rick. The first coat of yellow came out too wishy-washy.

Then I coloured in the black lines and promptly smudged it accidentally. So I had to paint the white again and add another coat of yellow.

So I did a second coat. Then I thought it might be too flat so I added some orange.

Too much orange I think

Then I wanted a gradient so I added more orange on the 4th coat. (I know, madness)

Then I started painting all the leaves and flowers, until on review I decided it was now far too orange so I spent the better part of 2 evenings fixing the orange back to the yellow.

Then I needed to re-paint all the flowers and leaves. Argh!

However I think the chrome yellow is a marked improvement. It had to be done.

Then I scanned it all in, and then finally stuck on the sequins. I love these sequins. The glitter didn’t work on the heavily painted yellow acrylic but I had bought the rhinestones you get to stick to bling up mobile phones and those worked really well. I’m dying to glitter something else up.

You can’t tell from the scan, but the flowers also have gold glitter on them. The text is also coloured in with a red glitter pen, and the thick black lines with a black glitter pen. The glitter pens are quite subtle. When you move you see it glinting.

Penis Close up

Text & Sequins Close up

Girl Close up

Rape Rick Photo

Rape Rick Sequins

I also bought a Gouache set recently, in a fit of New Years stationary madness, that I’m now beginning to slightly regret.

I keep putting my hand on the paper before the paint has dried. Or dropping water on it.

Or even ash if I’m smoking and painting.

Even my ear phones are now covered in yellow and orange since I’ve been watching TV on my laptop while I paint and the wires tend to drag over my palette.

So I don’t know why I bought the Gouache set. (Gouache will move if you add water. Acrylics once dry, set solid.) All that will happen is that I’ll make an unholy mess all over the place. At least acrylics don’t shift once they’re dry.

God painting is so hard. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Flight Back to London

Flight back was not as bad as the flight out. 

At Heathrow I was off the plane, through immigration, collected my baggage and in 30 mins flat was on the Heathrow Express. Not content with this I called my cab company who were there waiting just as I got off the Paddington Express.

I have never been this efficient in my entire life.

Noticed this sign on the loo door on the plane.

There was turbulence so I couldn't get a steady shot of the 'No Smoking' sign.

But as you sit on the pot, lower down the loo door is a little ash tray. How odd.

Mixed signals or really old plane?

Breeders On A Plane

Disclaimer:
If you are a long time breeder, or even recent breeder, please look away now. I would also like to remind you that I shall never be breeding nor will I ever be responsible for a child. You have been warned.

At long last, I’m in Bombay.

Remind me never to fly Kingfisher again. Frankly if it wasn’t for their generous baggage allowance (40kg) I would never fly Kingfisher. (The entire collection of vintage Agatha Christie’s I bought in a job lot were tranported home with ease.)

The start of the flight wasn’t the most auspicious.

It was clear the company had no money. (I’m not sure what’s going on, but basically they might be going bankrupt.) Even in First Class, the seats were scuffed and grotty. Everything looked old and tired and worn.

There were no little packs of toothbrush/ paste/ socks/ eye mask. Not even any peanuts! (Yes. An outrage). This is budget long-haul travel, and the price of the ticket was certainly not budget (£850 return).

To make matters worse, significantly worse, there was a child on board. A crying child. In fact there were two crying children on board.

The first was a fairly hum-drum crying child. Nothing special. It whimpered and gave out short, sharp, high-pitched sonic shrieks in bursts at random intervals. Like morse code. This was tolerable. I pitied its hapless parents and put on my iPod. If I can’t hear it, a crying baby rarely troubles me except for the rare, odd pang of pity for its creators.

However, (to my horror and irritation) the loudest volume setting did very little to drown out the sound of this second child.

It made the shrillest, vilest, most piercing noise at the top of its lungs. The noise was continuous and unabating. It had unusual stamina and lungs that never seemed to be the least likely to tire.

That’s when I realised I was dealing with no ordinary child. This was a devil child.

(I really don’t know why breeders travel with noisy offspring. I’m sorry (not really) but why should their non-use of contraception be inflicted on other weary travelers? Or at least, why can’t they get placed in a separate section that’s sound proofed? Like a small insulated pod somewhere near the loo?)

As you know, I have no maternal instincts, but I actually surprised myself by how much violence and rage this devil child inspired in me.

For about 10 minutes of this shocking shrieking I indulged in mere flights of fantasy:

• Visions of the baby falling helplessly from 20,000 feet…
• It’s cherubic, chubby, legs poking out from the airplane loo, as it is unceremoniously flushed down. Preferably by its own parent. More poetic.

As time wore on and it’s noise only grew more insistent, these fantasies turned into vague delusions of what a plastic bag would look like over its head. (I know that’s wrong. I just want to point that out. Besides, the clear ziplock I picked up at security had a big hole in it. It wouldn’t have worked.)

After 30 minutes, I was gritting my teeth, rolling my eyes and directing muttered curses at its mother who was really the source of the problem. She brought the abomination on the plane and then didn’t even have the decency to drug it. (Seriously, some brandy, a little opium, laudanum, anything, by god!)

I began to sympathize deeply with those babysitters and exhausted parents who shake their babies. It seems like a perfectly understandable thing to do.

To my utter relief as soon as we took off, the devil baby was silenced. (I don’t know how, nor do I care.) And it remained silenced for nearly 9 hours! It was a Christmas Miracle!

Someone did a giant poo in one of the loos and vomited in the sink. Neither worked.

I think it might have been the devil baby.

I wonder what the return flight will be like.

The Distance from Bombay

Just watched Dhobi Ghat. The first Hindi movie I have seen in the cinema in over a decade. Probably more.

The last movie I watched starred Aishwarya Rai and two other dudes (I can’t remember who, maybe Salman Khan). She has an arranged marriage, her boyfriend who is heart-broken goes to Europe (if he could afford to go off on a jaunt, why didn’t they just elope? And who was giving him a visa anyway?). Then her hubby takes her to Europe to look for her boyfriend (instead of bitch slapping her), so there are 2 hours of moping and fucking singing on the Swiss alps with sulky wife and earnest hubby to find sexy boyfriend. Finally Aishwarya Rai finds boyfriend only to tell him, I love you and shit, but my hubby is my duty (whatever) so chalo bye. The end.

The girl sitting next to me switched seats half-way through the movie because my huffing-puffing and violent eye rolling interrupted her crying. I can’t say I feel particularly bad about it. She was damn sentimental and the movie’s conservative moral message made me want to puke. (This is also the same girl who broke up with someone because they tried to hold her hand.)

Dhobi Ghat (which I liked very much) stayed well away from the easy-breezy-cheezy ending. It seemed (to me anyway) more like a love letter to Bombay. But don’t worry, I won’t be playing critic anytime soon on this blog. This is just a post about feeling a tad homesick.

Visiting home is the highlight of my year. I pretty much look forward to it for 11 months out of the 12.

I like to imagine, if things fall apart here in London, that I would move back. That I would love it. That I would fit in easily. Recently I’ve started to doubt these fine sentiments. Would I really? Would I miss the independence of London? Would my folks drive me crazy? What do I even know about Bombay now? It’s been over 8 years.

It’s like a good friend you used to hang out with in school or college. You move away and you’re still in touch via the internet, but when you meet in person you suddenly find you have nothing in common anymore. A long distance, email based relationship is the only one you have left.

Bombay (for me) has shrunk into two separate and extreme worlds.

One is the ideal Bombay, the dream Bombay – The garden, sitting outside at night drinking and smoking. My friends, the ones I see only once a year, (usually in the garden). Sea View and Rang Sharda and the few places I remember from long ago, the places I can take a taxi to without having a mental breakdown. The lazy Bombay, where chai is brought to you every morning and you’re fed properly for lunch. Not the London dusty tea-bagged shite. Kaddi-Chaval and Pav Bhaji and Misti doi from Parsi Dairy. The perfect Bombay.

Then there is the nightmare Bombay – Of being lost in a city you should know but don’t, the people staring at you when you just want to go unnoticed. Random men who seem to constantly hang around on the street, everywhere. Endless crowds of people, no sense of space. This feeling of anxiety, alienation and paranoia. The Bombay I hate.

This last visit the feeling seemed heightened. The longer I stay in London, the more the two Bombays spin away from each other and become more and more extreme.

I was meeting Riddhi and Lovebunny at Alfredo’s, near Juhu Market. A mere 6 minute walk from my house. I used to take this walk nearly everyday when I was in college.

Now my mother wanted me to call her as soon as I got there to know if “I’ve reached safely”. People will put me in a van and take me away, she says. I will get raped, she says. She worries she says. (Again, this rape business. My mothers favourite subject. No wonder I turned out so fucking fucked.)

I’m too gori now, she says.

Sigh.

It was clear that I was no longer the Mumbaiker I used to be (and I was a pretty useless one to begin with), and it depressed me.

London is nothing like a home. When people ask me where I live, I always say

“Oh, I’m staying in London, right now, but my home is in Bombay”.

But at least in London I am totally invisible. No one ever notices me. I’m relatively independent. I have no fear of rape taxis (which admittedly is irrational, but knowing that changes nothing), I don’t think twice about walking around late at night (which is stupid). I never ask anyone to drop me home. I’m not anxious. But then, there is also no feeling of belonging.

Watching Dhobi ghat made me feel quite home sick. I feel like Bombay is moving further and further away the longer I stay here. Even when I was there, it was at a distance.

Leaving Bombay

 

Wah Wah Rona dhona

Last year, when I left Bombay, my parents dropped me off at the airport. (Well, they always drop me to the airport.)

As soon as I got there, I saw the check-in queue and started crying.

Sure, the queue was long, but not long enough to make me cry. My parents had already left, and I was relieved not to be bawling in front of them. The humiliation. The humiliation.

I’ve never done this before, crying at an airport. It freaked me out.

Initially I tried crying discreetly, but that’s the worst thing you can do. There is no way to cry discreetly, you just start making weird scrunchy faces. Everyone starts looking to see why you’re acting strange.

It’s better to give up and just cry quietly. Then no one tried looking. No one wants to look at someone crying.

Not only did I cry, but I didn’t stop crying right through check-in, walking through security, immigration, waiting in the duty-free and even on the flight. (Immigration didn’t seem remotely suspicious of my sniveling. Maybe it looked good that I didn’t want to go abroad.)

At first the ex tried to be comforting and was giving me the ‘there-there-pat-pats’, then after a bit tried the ‘come-on-now-stop-this’ and then the ‘everyone-is-looking-hiss’ and finally a few hours in just gave up and ignored me.

Half-way through the flight I ran out of steam (thank god), when we landed I was reasonably cheerful. By the time we got back to the flat I was in a great mood.

(No, it wasn’t PMS, which always gets the blame for any display of emotions. An emotion is no less real just because you happen to have a uterus.)

Well, anyway there were no such dramatics this time out. It was all very sedate. I was at the airport 3 hours early because my mother gets very twitchy out about flights (she used to be an air-hostess). She won’t stop nagging from the moment you get up until you’re in the car. Just to get some peace and quiet you do what she says. It’s a good tactic.

So I spent Rs.1000 on a 30 min back and neck massage. Yup.

I felt very slick doing that, like a professional traveller instead of a sniveling idiot.

Ladies Night

Note: I’m so back-dated on my posts that I’m still writing about Bombay, even though I’ve been in London for nearly a month. But regardless…

In my quest to find Mumbai-chi lesbians I coerced Riddhi and J to come with me to the ‘Ladies Night’ at Firangi Pani. Ladies night, from 8:00 pm to 9:30 pm, advertised free drinks for all girls.

Apparently this draws all the lesbians like moths to a flame. (At least this is what I had heard, hence my coercing J to take me there.)

First Riddhi insisted we needed to go with Lovebunny to the middle of nowhere, to pick up a free pizza. It took us an hour to get there and back. Riddhi drove back while Lovebunny ate and gave a running commentary on Riddhi’s driving. I sat in the back listening to an Adele song on repeat. I’m not sure why we did this chakkar instead of just going somewhere for a drink while Lovebunny went to pick up his pizza. I’m sure there was a reason, but I never understood it.

We finally get to Firangi Pani, just as the Ladies night-time slot was ending (slot is such a dirty word, especially in the context of ‘ladies night’). Three more women turn up to join us (yay).

The place is disappointing. It’s gloomy and enclosed. The DJ is playing soft rock very, very loudly. Riddhi grows to hate the DJ. He was playing Nickleback and Green Day I can’t say I really blame her…(Ok look don’t tell Riddhi but after a drink or two I quite like Nickleback). There were no discernible lesbians in sight and worst of all, you couldn’t smoke.

There is no terrace for smoking, only a small room in a corridor, much like a dentist’s waiting room, with two bland black couches and some tables. There is a match box with only 3 matches in it on the table. There are two tall, industrial sized ash trays. The room reeks of stale smoke. There are large glass doors facing a lady’s toilet. At least the Ladies night theme is consistent.

The majority of the women a la FP’s Ladies Night seem to be camped in the smoking room. As were we, for most of the evening. Dreary as it was, it was better than the inside of Firangi Pani. J and I think we have spotted at least one lesbian (in the smoking room because that was where the party’s at yo). We are very excited. Yes that’s right, that’s how lame we are.

When we all run out of drink coupons (4 each) we give up on the lesbian hunt and bounce to Bonobo. At least you can smoke and drink simultaneously. At Bonono we play sex Antakshari (you name sex related things instead of songs) for an hour, because in our old age we can’t go anywhere without playing a game.

J keeps appending words in front of the word ‘pussy’ for various letters. ‘Y’ – ‘yummy pussy’, S – sweet pussy, H – hot pussy, and so on. She really likes to say pussy. She lengthens and really drawls out the word ‘pussy’.

‘Yummmmmmy Puuuuuusssssssssy’, like so. With relish. I begin to wonder if she likes it a bit too much.

Eventually we leave and go back to the garden to wind up the night (or is it wind down? You wind up a yo-yo, but then a wind-up toy eventually winds down….I’m confused. And English is my first language).

We sit around smoking and drinking, trying to zap mosquitos with my brother’s electric racket. J, the reigning Queen of the electric racket, nails them every time. Sometimes twice . *wink wink nudge nudge*

Riddhi forces us to play more games. She has become some gaming demon. There is always at least one board games in her purse so at 2 am in the semi-dark, we are playing a variety of games (which is the best time to play really). I got into it and now I have an intense desire to play cards while drinking.

I learned how to play Shithead, Icall, Mongoose , Masala Uno and Sequence. I’ve never had such a solid repertoire. But if you’re not careful, Riddhi will start yelling if you break any of the arbitrary rules of that particular game.

“THE RULES SAY NO TALKING! NO TALKING!!”

“YOU CAN’T PLAY THAT! IT’S CHEATING!!”

or

“IF YOU DON’T PICK A CARD YOU FORFEIT YOUR CARD!”

She is rather Fascist about game play (which I secretly enjoy).

My evenings in Bombay usually end with a stint in the garden. I like to soak up as much of the garden as possible while I can. London is such an ice box that I probably will be wearing sweaters and double socks well into June.

It’s also a very comforting way to end an evening and if you’re really lucky you might win a few rounds of cards.

Mumbai Photos

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Commuting Unchaperoned

Rape Taxi

My mother never let me take a rick until I was 15. She’d tell me how people get taken away and raped in ricks. Like this was standard procedure. This wasn’t the occasional remark either. This rick-rape was drilled into my fragile eggshell brain until it cracked.

She didn’t let me cross the road alone until I was 12. In case I got hit by a truck. Like that too, was standard procedure. This is why I came to the strong belief that she only had two kids so one would be a back up if the other died. (Although this is my theory about why all people have more than one child, a genetic back-up as it were)

The sum result of all this conditioning is that now I have a high level of anxiety when traveling alone at night in Bombay. It doesn’t even have to be particularly late. (I can’t drive yet, and I’ve been in London so long there never seemed to be any point in learning. I can barely afford public transport, much less a car)

After 10pm I start feeling a slight anxiety but it’s still OK, 10 pm isn’t really late. At around 11:00-11:30pm there’s a knot right at the pit of my stomach. I make sure I watch the road incase he tries and leads me down some dead-end alley. After 12 I’m gripping the side of the rick and planning escapes.

One of R.’s friends was telling us a story about how when she was 3 she got lost and now every time she gets lost (if she is driving) she cries. Or if she’s stuck in traffic for ages, she cries. At the time this sounded a bit bonkers, but on reflection I’m very nearly crying when stressed.

So I’m standing with my mother at around 7:30-8:00pm on some hole of a street in Bandra, she’s on her way to Tango classes and I’m on my way to R. classes of smoking.

We find a taxi after 30 minutes of waiting. He’s a young guy. My mom says,

“Hmmmm he looks a bit young….”

But I get in because there are no other taxis around and we have been waiting for ages. I ask him to take me to Worli Naka by the Sea Link. He has to ask another cab for directions. This ought to have been my cue to ditch this cab, but I didn’t. He drove jerkily, slowly and stalling occasionally. This also ought to have been my cue to ditch this cab, but I didn’t.

He kept asking guys in passing ricks and taxis for directions. Go straight they said, and then turn left. I had to stop him from turning after every straight and left. Then he tries to go up on the highway to Pune. I started to wish I could ditch this cab, but I couldn’t.

Then he goes up on the right ramp to the Sea Link at last. I breathe deeply. Now how can he possibly get lost? After 5 minutes I notice he’s taken the exit lane on the right and is going back to where we started.

My mother calls to check up on me;

“Where are you now?”

“This guy can’t drive. He’s on the sea link and has just taken a full chakkar around”

She immediately goes into hysterics;

“GIVE ME THE CAB NUMBER! YOU’RE GOING TO GET RAPED!! HE WILL TAKE YOU AWAY AND RAPE YOU!!! GIVE ME THE CAB NUMBER! PASS HIM THE PHONE!! YOU CAN’T GET OUT OF THE CAB! YOU CAN’T GET OUT OF THE CAB ON THE HIGHWAY!! LISTEN TO ME!! YOU WILL GET RAPED!!”

Do you see why I have anxiety? This is hardly helpful.

I insist I am getting out of this cab, he is fundamentally useless and he can’t even drive. I refuse to even try to take him to Shazu’s house. I don’t know the way and this guy knows even less than me. It is my long-standing belief that at least one person in a moving vehicle ought to know something and I no longer expect this fool of a U.P.ite bhaiya, who left his farm the day-before-yesterday to learn how to drive, to know the streets of Bombay.

My mother forces me to go to Lilavati Hospital by screaming about rape and calling every 5 minutes.

“Mom! I can’t concentrate on anything if you keep calling! I have to get out of this cab! He doesn’t know anything! Fine!! I’ll stop at Lilavati Ok? I’m not going anywhere! We’re stuck in traffic!!”

R. calls to ask me where the hell I am. She tells me I might not get a cab at Lilavati. I insist I am ditching this cab. Shazu calls to tell me he will speak to the cabbie, I say no I am getting out of this cab. Shazu tells me I might not get a cab at Lilavati. I insist I am getting out of this cab. Then I hang up.

So I’m stuck in non-moving traffic on the road to Lilavati for 30 minutes. I could have just hopped out across the road but the taxi was on the right and it could have been awkward. My mother was frantic by this point and it was only 8:00pm. It was maddening, I wanted to cry. Instead I yelled at this cabbie in my fuck-all broken hindi. Why did he waste my time if he doesn’t know where he was going?

I also wished I was someone who could speak better hindi only so I could give galis in a proper, legit way. Like R. or J. or a fisherwoman

Then, to add insult to injury, I even had to pay him.

Chut.