On a bad hair day, i look like one no three celebrities.

As an urban independent woman, if you ask me what this country urgently needs apart from clean toilets, a rape free society and gawkish salesmen at lingerie stores, my answer would be a hair academy that trains people to not mess with other people's self esteem. That's right, a bad haircut takes away more from  you than precious hair, hard-earned money, and time. It berefts you of smaller joys in life like accidentally catching your reflection on another persons's sunglasses. Or running into your batch mate from a time when you were you and not an unsurgically morphed mutant.

A bad haircut is basically universe saying, hey I warned you against that bully in the salon, but you never paid heed.

I have been bullied many times in life. Let's begin with the year 2011, when I came out of a very sassy and posh salon in Vasant Kunj looking like Justin Beiber with boobs. I remember promising myself that I will never cut my hair short again unless I'm paid to be the cover girl of a LGBT magazine. Every day I woke up, cursing our gene pool for giving me nylon ropes for hair strands with the veritable texture of a witch broom. I remember untagging myself from all the pictures from friends' albums, clicked that year.

As months passed, I recovered my confidence little by little. My hair grew up to shoulder level, just about enough to save my face from snarky laughs and the reassuring look I would get from boys when they learnt about my sexual preferences.  

Needless to say, I didn't go to another salon after that. I changed my priorities. I allowed my hair to grow in the same way, parents with a drug problem allow their kids to grow. My hair turned out to be wild and unruly. While it lacked neatness and styling, it gave me the quintessential character of a bohemian on the run. Heck, I was doing a favour to the current generation by bringing the 60's back in vogue. To help yourself visualise better, search Janis Joplin on Google images right now.

Now being retro and nomadic is all fine until one fine day, I heard a friend from another university introduced me to her mom as  'aghori'. I would never be able to put in words the look I got from her mother. I felt damaged, judged, and reprimanded for what? Having hair that on a good day looked like a cross between noodles and chopsticks. I mean, I could have been born much worse, I could have been born as the singing sensation Justin Beiber himself.

The name hammered nails into every living cell of my brain. In the process, it deactivated the sloth inside me and I consciously began investing in expensive shampoos and hair conditioners. I was testing all kinds of products in the hope of a Cinderella makeover for my hair. If a brand today wants to take on its competition, I would happily volunteer to diss all the shampoo ads shown on that make obnoxious claims to protect your hair against frizz, dryness, sun damage, breakage etc.

This should tell you, none of them were of any great help. So I do what a person having a crises of faith does. I run to the Mecca of hair care (an expensive salon)on a Monday evening. I wasn't sure if I will find the place open in the late hours of evening but I'm surprised to know that they are happy to serve me. That should have been my first clue. A salon that's okay with last minutes appointments is clearly not getting a returned and loyal clientele.

I sit down at the dreaded chair for their star hair dresser's consultation, I tell him  that It took a me 3 years to grow my hair and I wouldn't want him to shorten them. He nods. I repeat the part about the
length. He nods again.

He examines the density and texture of my hair with a disapproving look.

I tell him, I just want the hair to look neat, and have them layered just a little bit. He asked me what brand of shampoo I use, I tell him the list of shampoos used in the last 7 months. He's impressed and probably threatened too. So he darts off some mumbo jumbo about wavy hair which get dry and rough at the tail. He scorns me for not getting a hair cut in so long. I begin to get annoyed with his terrible anglicized accent and effeminate hand gestures, and permit him to do what he thinks is best.
You can't argue with those effeminate creatures can you?

He asks me to keep my head down. Chop
I resist, desperate to see what he's up to. chop
He smartly, engages me in another conversation about my most studied subjects, the shampoos in the market. Chop
I deftly agree with his views on the recently launched herbal shampoo. Chop
He says I actually have nice hair on the top, I'm flattered. Chop

I look up and realise my hair is one third of its original length now. I'm fuming. Raging at this nincompoop. Any kind of damage control will only have dastardly effects. So I let him cut the other side of my parted hair. He offers to blow dry and style them. I refuse, I disagree to let him off by making them look good artificially right now. I tell myself it's better to accept the loss now than scream at yourself after the first wash.

I want to punch his face, for displaying such evil antics but just then a realisation dawns upon me that It's impossible to find a hair stylist in the country who can style your hair without chopping them with the brutality of an underemployed barber. I dream of magically turning into the happy old lady who is pleased by Zohan the hairdresser from 'Don't mess with Zohan' but that's only before I see myself in the mirror looking like this





Grouchy, will you please edit my name, saved as 'aghori' in your phone book now! Thanks

Make hay, while it rains.

Over the years, I've turned from being an impulsive, hell-lets-do-this person to somebody who plans a holiday weeks in advance to feel better about life, work and as such. So when Grouchy called this Friday, brimming more with desperation than enthusiasm, about doing a Gokarna trip, my first reaction was to go back to bed. Forget all about it, when I wake up.

It's not like I had the most enviable plan in place to optimise the holier than holy long weekend. All I expected from the non-working next four days was to sleep tight. Yes, a piddly wish but you see the only thing I crave these days is a good nights sleep. So I could put my over-active brain in a state of inertia. So I could wake up in the morning without feeling like a crushed banana peel. So I don't mope over events that aren't under my control. So I could recuperate from the heaviness of everyday life. In short, I was looking forward to a weekend, free of Woody Allensque neuroticism and self-deprecation.

But instead of chasing sleep and rest I ended up throwing them out of the window of a half decent sleeper bus to Goa. For those who haven't spotted the anomaly already let me be direct, I had a phenomenal mini vacation in Goa because halfway through the trip, grouchy(who landed in gokarna a couple of hours ago), tells me the place feels like its ready for a Honey Singh live concert. At which point, we decide, let's just drop the over packed Namaste Cafe to make most of the slightly less over packed Spicy Bella cafe at Paloleim beach.

Cut to Toto and I strolling in the picturesque fields of Goa, tired but placated by the warm sunshine and cool breeze(which lasted not more than hour of our arrival), basking in the over night success of turning a drab weekend to a fun vacation. For starters, I owe to Grouchy, my eternal trip compatriot for yet another small but significant much-needed retreat. Here are some highlights/observations


1. Everything in Goa is sombRE during monsoon for a reason. unlike Mumbai, the sky isn't mischievous in a wait till you get soaked way. It is merciless, as it requires you to change clothes thrice a day without even getting into the sea. Too bad, I rain checked on the idea of packing an umbrella along.

2. Nothing intoxicates me more than good conversations. It wasn't the Jamaican breezer, that turned Saturday night and Sunday morning surreal and sprightly, it was realisation of the fact that grouchy and I can be at complete ease while sharing a room, inspire of going off the radar for a substantial part of the year. The only downside to that is, everybody else feels boring/unappealing all of a sudden.

3. beware of the a-list thugs called Atmaram travels. Everything they promise, is a a big fat lie. Right from the pick up destination, to the arrival time. Not to mention, their staff is rowdy and unhelpful. Turns out we paid 2400 rupees, to sleep under a leaky ac vent, and starve for 16 hours to reach Mumbai.

4. Most trips are governed by the need to break away from the rut, for me it was breaking away from the grief inflicted upon F. I'm glad I didn't think much about you F during these last 3 days. I was at peace, even if it was momentary and fleeting. I wasn't tormented by you last act. And that for me made up for all the excruciating things we did to make this last minute plan happen.

Here's to a seasoned friendship, and an unseasoned vacation.

On a foggy night

Its 3 am. I didn't mean to write you, but looks like I am not left with much of a choice.

I am spiralling down in a dark and decaying dungeon which probably holds the caskets of a rabid ghost. The ghost of the gentleman who was mistaken for someone slated to die on  that unfortunate night. He couldn't escape his fate.

And at this moment neither can I.

Save me Barry.

Let's all be glow worms.

"I wish I were a glow worm.
A glow worm is never glum
Cuz how can you be grumpy
when the sun shines out of your bum?"

Tonight we die in hell. muhahahah.

I woke up to the sight of two giant ugly rats in the kitchen today. Actually, I woke up to sound of them scampering about in the kitchen. The dirt bags were all over the place, the kitchen stank of rat poop, there were ketchup and gravy stains on the walls. If I were a war soldier, I would have described this morning, as a colossal disaster. A ruthless enemy invasion. A contingency situation, which calls for a national rescue operation.

Anyway, it took me twenty minutes to pick my more urgent fears. It was a choice between an enemy cross-fire which would involve a broom stick, high-pitched screams and a tom and jerryisque chase and cutting a sorry figure in front of a Modi-isque boss for turning up late for the 10,000^th time. Unlike the ordeal I was to face, the choice was easy to make. I decided to give a rat’s ass about the former and headed straight to the kitchen.

What I did next, can be best described as Lord Tyrion’s militant strategy to combat assailants. I got up and sourced two granula sized bars form the local pharmacy. The bar goes by the name of D-con. I immediately felt assured by the ‘rats eat at home, die outside’ promise, it carries on the wrapper.

I came back home and generously dropped my granula-looking arsenal everywhere on in my kitchen. Hoping, this shall go down as a breakthrough in the history of all vile executions.

Come on boys, dinner is served. 

The much awaited listicle about Mumbaicle.

1. It takes one ride in the local to figure out Mumbai's geography.

By the power of train routes on your side, all you need is an explorers hat. if you lose your way just look around, your fellow passengers will go out of the way to guide you.

2. Mumbai is a melting pot of uncanny aspirations.

Whether you want to become an Amitabh Bachan or an Ambani, a sorcerer or a saxophonist-Mumbai backs all your eccentricities and how.

3. when in doubt, turn towards the sea. 

Whether it's Marine drive or Worli-Sea face, nothing calms the nerves better than the soothing sea breeze.

4. A place where money is the greatest religion, leaves little room for communal hostility.

Agreed, Mumbai has witnessed an unholy amount of sectarian violence in the past but each time, it has only come out stronger and braver open Batman style

5. It is most chivalrous to the fairer sex.

I don't know too many cities where I don't have to think twice before hopping into a cab at 2 am by myself. This by means turns Mumbai into a chill pill.

6. If you're not from here, you soon realize, you'll never have enough to indulge and never too little to starve in Mumbai.

This balance keeps you on your toes, with an adequate dose of  vada Pav and Misal Pavs

7. it's got no space but it has a giant heart.

It takes one trip to the suburbs to reckon with the saying, "Ghar bada nahi hai toh kya hua dil toh bada hai".

8. As soon as you leave home, you enroll yourself for a crash course in cultural studies.

6 months in Mumbai, and I saw myself soaked in the spirit of  Holi, Good Friday, Eid, and Gudi Pava in equal measures.

9. Mumbai has a desert culture that's unparalleled.

Find me a Theobroma, Oven Fresh, Candies or an Indigo in any other city pretty please!

10. the expansive roads and cobbled architecture of Colaba transports you to another time and place in history.

For every India Gate, there is Gateway. Along with Elephanta caves, Nariman Point and Queen's necklace.

11, Mumbai houses this cuddly race of human species called the Parsis.

This goes out to all the Rustomji, Bomanji,  Pestonji, Sorabjis of the world- you can't have as much fun anywhere else as you have here.

12. Liberal should be Mumbai's sirname.

Mumbaikars are the most accepting lot of Indians I've met. The cosmopolitan temperament of the city instantly makes you feel one among the many. 

13. 'Work hard, party harder', was probably coined exclusively for Mumbai.

Whether you leave work at 6pm or 11pm, you would never complain of being bored or jobless. Hop into a club in Bandra and see how rewarding work-life can get for you.

14. And on days when it the crowds, the sheer sights and sounds, the lack of space saps all energy out of you, you realize Mumbai like a disciplined parent has prepared you for life.

because anywhere else you go would be a cakewalk here on. 

Written for Scoop Whoop http://www.scoopwhoop.com/inothernews/amazing-mumbai/?ref=homepage&type=mainmast

Bombhi Week 1

Left Delhi airport on 30th morning in Black shoes, grey socks and Pink(floyd) jacket. Haven't seen them ever since I got here. Adjusting to the sudden change of temperature was only slightly less morose than being sandwiched between an over chatty quintessential Bengali aunty (henceforth called as Charulata) and an obese Maharashtrian uncle who spent two hours of the two and a half hour flight making excel-sheet type charts on an annual diary. He might have been a bookie who knows. To his credit, he kept to himself (presumably because of his weight) and left me happily with my book until 20 minutes into the blue sky, Charulataji spilled a can of Diet coke on me.

The next 120 odd minutes convinced me to never befriend/date/ adopt/acceptatissuepaper from anything Bengali. If you're anywhere in the radius of one, make sure you rush to the nearest exit door, call up your emergency number, pretend that it's 2009, and wearing a face mask is not just fashionable in a religious way but a state declared mandate to protect oneself against the deadly avian flu virus. Ofcourse, none of these help when you're sitting an elbow's distance away to a blabbermouth I mean a Bong wearing a pink jacket and a damsel-in-distress expression.

Charulata, as it appeared to me later was praying for the Diet coke to spill so that she could kill her boredom by killing me with her CJM -LSR-TISS graduate daughter's leftist leaning and feminists world-view while i mastered the art of sleeping with eyes wide open.

So yeah, arrived in Bombay feeling like a white trash backpacker with flushed cheeks, non-stop dripping sweat, and an incurable need to discard pants for the rest of my stay. did some house viewings which turned out to be an utter disappointment. Lugging all the heavy bags to Jughead's house left me with a sore back and a sore arm to keep me away from the proverbial B'bay night life. 

the next few days were mostly consumed in house viewing trips. running like a headless chicken in the middle of honking cars and Shiv Sena posters. Finding a dream house is possibly as hard as finding a dream job and a suitable boy. Have my heart set on one house, the details of which shall only be revealed after the registration and paper work is completed to avoid jinxing it. Till I have a place of my own, my days in Bombay just feel like an extended vacation. Living out of the suitcase, living on roadside Dabelis best served with sewage stink.

Okay okay don't cringe and run away feeling disgusted for you- dear (imagined) readers are in for some exciting details of the new work place and my stay at the dearly jughead's place in the Bombhi part 2 coming up shortly.