Appeared in December 2007 issue of Outlook City Limits
Two Haats Beat As One
Prince Charles in Pitampura? An unlikely scenario, you might think. But considering that Dilli Haat, South Delhi’s hothouse of indigenous folk art and ethnic cuisine has been an alluring stop for most foreign dignitaries visiting Delhi, it wouldn’t be surprising if those touching down in the months to come take a detour to its new outpost in Pitampura, scheduled to open in the latter half of December.
If the pictures you see here are bare, devoid of all the colour and cacophony one usually associates with Dilli Haat, it’s because tenders for the craft stalls and food kiosks are still being floated. But if history has any validity, I’d say it won’t be long before residents in the area welcome this rustic, roots-y commercial enterprise, for it’s like a refreshing clearing in a thicket of uninspired, copycat megamalls.
Sitting alone on the weathered, red brick steps of the 450-seater amphitheatre (it’s rare that you get the place all to yourself), can be overwhelming, with the TV tower, well, towering in the foreground and the curved, elevated metro screaming past in the rear.
An initial comparison with its 13-year-old sister-concern in the South and it looks like we have a dead heat. But soon we notice several standout features. For one, the good people at Delhi Tourism thought it important to provide a free, park-like area within the complex. What has resulted is a green, open lung space peppered with park benches up front, before the ticketed section begins. A pleasant, shaded area to take a walk, read, play chess, practice tai chi, whatever. Add a sculpture court, an art gallery, a spice market and a fine dining restaurant to the list and it’s got a South Delhi snob like me sitting on the fence. What really tips the scales in its favour though is the roomy underground parking lot that will ensure that an INA-like gridlock doesn’t occur (although the new automated, stacked parking system to be introduced at INA promises to change this, but that’s another story.) At the core of Dilli Haat’s enormous success (16 lakh footfalls a year; Rs 3 crore a fortnight) is its ability to draw artists from all over the country and shepherd them to success. At Pitampura they have taken this quite literally, by constructing a 96-bed dorm so artists from outside the city will feel at home.
Back at the Delhi Tourism office in Defence Colony, an official tells me that as part of the Commonwealth master plan efforts are underway to mimic the INA model at Janakpuri and Geeta Colony as well by 2010. I suppose they expected that I’d clap hard at hearing this, but strangely I left feeling slightly disconcerted. Worried, that overkill might spell the demise of this distinctive bazaar I’ve grown to love.
Tuesday, 4 December, 2007
Taaru - the back story
Appeared in the November 2007 issue of Outlook City Limits
If you lived in Delhi around the 70s and 80s, it is likely the furniture store Taaru will unearth a cache of pleasant memories for you. Perhaps you said grace at one of their solid, teak dining tables? Or arranged your books on one of their sleek, classic wooden bookshelves? It’s possible their gleaming, trademark double-boiled linseed oil finished coffee tables still occupy pride of place in your living room.
“If you wanted classic, clean lines of Scandinavian design, Taaru was the only store that manufactured this kind of furniture in the 1970s,” recalls Pami Singh, who set up The Shop in CP in 1971. “Theirs was excellently seasoned teak. The kind of detail that went into joints and dovetailing, you simply did not find anywhere else.”
Minnie Boga, who set up Taaru in 1966 started with scant interest in furniture, let alone its design and manufacture. A graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London, she cut her first teeth in design after a stint as a consultant to the Cottage Industries Emporium in 1961.
“I learnt draughting from the famous architect Cyrus Jhabvala, another mad Parsi like me. Then I spent a year travelling around Sweden, Denmark and France, picking up everything there was to know about furniture making,” says Boga, now 75 and living on a pretty farm in Bhatti Mines with her two dogs for company.
Back in India, Boga made the first entry in her accounting books on September 3, 1966. “Rs 10,000 which I borrowed from my father to start the store,” she recounts. “I didn’t want to call the store Wood Craft, or wood something or the other, so I asked my tutor, Kapila Vatsa, to draw up a list of suggestions. I picked ‘taru’ which means ‘tree’ in Sanskrit. I added the extra ‘a’ and together with a stylized elephant logo and a one-man workforce Taaru was born in a Green Park barsaati.
In the early years, Boga worked closely with designer Ravi Sikhri who crafted the first couple of lines in the Taaru series. “I think we sold our first tables for Rs. 90!” exclaims Boga. Taaru’s popularity peaked in the 80s, with orders being shipped all over the country. But in 2001, when she found herself “not paying enough attention to detail” and also approaching 70, Boga decided to shut shop. (The Indi Store in Shahpur Jat sold licensed Taaru designs until 2003.)
“I suppose I was very possessive, because I turned down a couple of sale offers. It was a stupid decision, and the berating I got from loyal clients was rather painful,” she says. “If today, you’re still interested in my story, there must have been some magic to it.”
If you lived in Delhi around the 70s and 80s, it is likely the furniture store Taaru will unearth a cache of pleasant memories for you. Perhaps you said grace at one of their solid, teak dining tables? Or arranged your books on one of their sleek, classic wooden bookshelves? It’s possible their gleaming, trademark double-boiled linseed oil finished coffee tables still occupy pride of place in your living room.
“If you wanted classic, clean lines of Scandinavian design, Taaru was the only store that manufactured this kind of furniture in the 1970s,” recalls Pami Singh, who set up The Shop in CP in 1971. “Theirs was excellently seasoned teak. The kind of detail that went into joints and dovetailing, you simply did not find anywhere else.”
Minnie Boga, who set up Taaru in 1966 started with scant interest in furniture, let alone its design and manufacture. A graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London, she cut her first teeth in design after a stint as a consultant to the Cottage Industries Emporium in 1961.
“I learnt draughting from the famous architect Cyrus Jhabvala, another mad Parsi like me. Then I spent a year travelling around Sweden, Denmark and France, picking up everything there was to know about furniture making,” says Boga, now 75 and living on a pretty farm in Bhatti Mines with her two dogs for company.
Back in India, Boga made the first entry in her accounting books on September 3, 1966. “Rs 10,000 which I borrowed from my father to start the store,” she recounts. “I didn’t want to call the store Wood Craft, or wood something or the other, so I asked my tutor, Kapila Vatsa, to draw up a list of suggestions. I picked ‘taru’ which means ‘tree’ in Sanskrit. I added the extra ‘a’ and together with a stylized elephant logo and a one-man workforce Taaru was born in a Green Park barsaati.
In the early years, Boga worked closely with designer Ravi Sikhri who crafted the first couple of lines in the Taaru series. “I think we sold our first tables for Rs. 90!” exclaims Boga. Taaru’s popularity peaked in the 80s, with orders being shipped all over the country. But in 2001, when she found herself “not paying enough attention to detail” and also approaching 70, Boga decided to shut shop. (The Indi Store in Shahpur Jat sold licensed Taaru designs until 2003.)
“I suppose I was very possessive, because I turned down a couple of sale offers. It was a stupid decision, and the berating I got from loyal clients was rather painful,” she says. “If today, you’re still interested in my story, there must have been some magic to it.”
Aftab Alam - Tailor Made
City Secret – Textile Restorer
For the last 14 years, Aftab Alam has been mending holes. In all sorts of fragile fabric - over laundered saris, wedding veils, fraying quilts and vintage lace, this textile restorer painstakingly breathes life back into beloved family heirlooms.
Fanciful and extravagant in his work, Alam is reclusive and guarded in manners. “I prefer to keep to myself,” he says, seated in the far corner of his no-pretense studio, a narrow sliver of space in Hauz Khas Village. Sometimes it is almost difficult to spot him, hunched amongst the bundles of multi hued fabric waiting for his expert T.L.C.
Alam spends a lion’s share of his time scouring the country for old fabric to restore. (He is even interested in buying old, valuable fabric, so if you’re looking to sell a vintage piece, he is a reliable option.)
“I spend several months in the year travelling to Mumbai, Ahmedabad, Bangalore and Madras, picking up work along the way. The rest of the year is spent in Delhi completing orders, and these are either shipped back to the client, or personally hand delivered on subsequent visits,” he explains. Although he’d rather not name them, his client roster includes some of Delhi’s top designers and “individuals who are culturally inclined and interested in fabric.”
Prices vary according to the job. “It depends on how time consuming a task is,” says Alam who charges on a per-hour basis. An hour’s darning could cost as little as Rs 20, but reweaving a square inch of a jamevar shawl, a task that takes days, could see your bill mounting into the thousands.
Strangely (for his is a craft that was handed down over many generations), Alam’s is a one-man set-up, and he refuses to employ apprentices. “It’s difficult to find young people who are interested in working with a needle and thread. It can get very monotonous, and requires much patience.”
Where: Building #2 Hauz Khas Village
Phone: 98118 81847
For the last 14 years, Aftab Alam has been mending holes. In all sorts of fragile fabric - over laundered saris, wedding veils, fraying quilts and vintage lace, this textile restorer painstakingly breathes life back into beloved family heirlooms.
Fanciful and extravagant in his work, Alam is reclusive and guarded in manners. “I prefer to keep to myself,” he says, seated in the far corner of his no-pretense studio, a narrow sliver of space in Hauz Khas Village. Sometimes it is almost difficult to spot him, hunched amongst the bundles of multi hued fabric waiting for his expert T.L.C.
Alam spends a lion’s share of his time scouring the country for old fabric to restore. (He is even interested in buying old, valuable fabric, so if you’re looking to sell a vintage piece, he is a reliable option.)
“I spend several months in the year travelling to Mumbai, Ahmedabad, Bangalore and Madras, picking up work along the way. The rest of the year is spent in Delhi completing orders, and these are either shipped back to the client, or personally hand delivered on subsequent visits,” he explains. Although he’d rather not name them, his client roster includes some of Delhi’s top designers and “individuals who are culturally inclined and interested in fabric.”
Prices vary according to the job. “It depends on how time consuming a task is,” says Alam who charges on a per-hour basis. An hour’s darning could cost as little as Rs 20, but reweaving a square inch of a jamevar shawl, a task that takes days, could see your bill mounting into the thousands.
Strangely (for his is a craft that was handed down over many generations), Alam’s is a one-man set-up, and he refuses to employ apprentices. “It’s difficult to find young people who are interested in working with a needle and thread. It can get very monotonous, and requires much patience.”
Where: Building #2 Hauz Khas Village
Phone: 98118 81847
Saturday, 20 October, 2007
Kuki - A Review
Appeared in the October 2007 issue of Outlook Delhi City Limits
It’s a spanking new but very welcome addition to Delhi’s lagging electronic club circuit. Kuki, a funky three-levelled space in Greater Kailash II (where Forum once used to be) brings sexy back with its mod interiors and groovy electro music. Throw in its boozy conviviality and brio and you know its certain to draw in Delhi’s beautiful cashed-up people.
It’s raining butterflies in Kuki. Large, red, transparent ones suspended from the very high ceiling, on the walls, waiter’s uniforms, menus, coasters - It’s hard to miss them.
The theme only falls into perspective once we learn that Kuki means “orgasm” in German. (Who knew? Ask the waiters and they vaguely allude to terms like “happiness” and “joy”.) “The butterflies symbolise a free- floating, ecstatic sort of feeling you’re supposed to achieve once you’re going full throttle,” a chatty South African bartender told us.
But Kuki’s sweet spot is its music, and its uncluttered interiors allow for plenty of dancing. Expect to hear lots of electro, funk and disco, punctuated with a few retro pop numbers for good measure. On Saturday nights, the ground floor is frenzied, so try and wangle a space on the first floor, where the DJ’s console is stationed. It’s usually reserved for special guests and those willing to buy booze by the bottle, so this is more difficult than it sounds.
Mixmaster Rummy Sharma, a stakeholder in the club, will be spinning his magic on the console every Thursday, and Wednesdays are Ladies Nights.
Cocktails at Kuki are a bit pricey. The Long Island Iced Tea (Rs. 400) was potent enough and the apple mojito and appletini (both Rs. 365) didn’t disappoint either. If you’re a beer drinker try the Paulaner Hefe Weiss wheat beer (Rs. 400 for a pint). Word has it that a champagne bar is slated to open on the top floor in the coming months.
While Kuki’s got its basics in place (great music, nice ambience, sparkling loos, good service) there’s still a few kinks that need ironing out. We didn’t, for instance, notice any emergency exit signs, a must for a split-level space such as this. So far, the way in, is the only way out.
Although it should find a permanent fixture on the clubbing diaries of Delhi’s swish set, its got to be seen how long the party will last. Stand alone night clubs have not had the greatest run in Delhi over the last couple of years, plagued by licensing and law and order issues. Ask Kuki’s management how they manage to keep the club grooving until 3 a.m. on a Saturday night and all you get is a knowing smile.
Kuki – E7, Greater Kailash II, Masjid Moth Commercial Centre.
Phone – 29225241
It’s a spanking new but very welcome addition to Delhi’s lagging electronic club circuit. Kuki, a funky three-levelled space in Greater Kailash II (where Forum once used to be) brings sexy back with its mod interiors and groovy electro music. Throw in its boozy conviviality and brio and you know its certain to draw in Delhi’s beautiful cashed-up people.
It’s raining butterflies in Kuki. Large, red, transparent ones suspended from the very high ceiling, on the walls, waiter’s uniforms, menus, coasters - It’s hard to miss them.
The theme only falls into perspective once we learn that Kuki means “orgasm” in German. (Who knew? Ask the waiters and they vaguely allude to terms like “happiness” and “joy”.) “The butterflies symbolise a free- floating, ecstatic sort of feeling you’re supposed to achieve once you’re going full throttle,” a chatty South African bartender told us.
But Kuki’s sweet spot is its music, and its uncluttered interiors allow for plenty of dancing. Expect to hear lots of electro, funk and disco, punctuated with a few retro pop numbers for good measure. On Saturday nights, the ground floor is frenzied, so try and wangle a space on the first floor, where the DJ’s console is stationed. It’s usually reserved for special guests and those willing to buy booze by the bottle, so this is more difficult than it sounds.
Mixmaster Rummy Sharma, a stakeholder in the club, will be spinning his magic on the console every Thursday, and Wednesdays are Ladies Nights.
Cocktails at Kuki are a bit pricey. The Long Island Iced Tea (Rs. 400) was potent enough and the apple mojito and appletini (both Rs. 365) didn’t disappoint either. If you’re a beer drinker try the Paulaner Hefe Weiss wheat beer (Rs. 400 for a pint). Word has it that a champagne bar is slated to open on the top floor in the coming months.
While Kuki’s got its basics in place (great music, nice ambience, sparkling loos, good service) there’s still a few kinks that need ironing out. We didn’t, for instance, notice any emergency exit signs, a must for a split-level space such as this. So far, the way in, is the only way out.
Although it should find a permanent fixture on the clubbing diaries of Delhi’s swish set, its got to be seen how long the party will last. Stand alone night clubs have not had the greatest run in Delhi over the last couple of years, plagued by licensing and law and order issues. Ask Kuki’s management how they manage to keep the club grooving until 3 a.m. on a Saturday night and all you get is a knowing smile.
Kuki – E7, Greater Kailash II, Masjid Moth Commercial Centre.
Phone – 29225241
The beginning of my new life...
It's been a while. The last time we spoke, I was at prestigious w.place #2. Happy to note that I've moved to #3 since then, and I'm lovin' it. Hereafter I will post all the wonderful things I've written for #3. Hopefully it will give you a teeny peek into what I do in New Delhi - my adopted city and wonderful, wonderful home away from home.
Glad Rags
Shanti Mohalla – The name belies its appearance, for this bustling wholesale textile market close to Seelampur in East Delhi is anything but peaceful. Home to every conceivable type of fabric – from uber trendy cotton linen, to sumptuous silks, knock-off jeans and even home furnishing fabric, its higgledy-piggledy alleys are a playground for the serious fabric shopper.
Although most traders were not quite able to put a finger on exactly when the market was set up, it’s clear that it has been an export hub since the early 1990’s, with produce from the mills of Bombay, Ahmedabad, Karur, Jaipur, Coimbatore, Kanpur, Assam and Bengal finding their way here.
Picking through the tiny shops in its dirty, ramshackle gullies, we unearthed a treasure trove of goodies – fine corduroy in earthy browns, rusts, aubergine and cobalt blue (Rs. 40 per metre), lightweight pre shrunk denims in a variety of washes (60 per metre onwards), old bits of lace and brocade to give your satin blouse that Victorian touch (Rs. 25 per piece), old sari borders (Rs. 25-100 depending on the quality), brass, enamel and wooden buttons (Rs. 10-30 per dozen), cotton and terry cloth towels, flannel blankets (prices vary), printed cotton curtains (Rs. 60 per piece onwards)…
We could go on. You’ll have to go and see for yourself. Go energized. Take an empty bag. At Shanti Mohalla, haggling is par for the course, so you won’t even have to worry about putting your credit rating in jeopardy.
A word of caution, traders here are accustomed to selling their wares in bulk and are rather suspicious of casual shoppers who make “per-metre” enquiries, so don’t be put off by their hostility, and check thoroughly for weaving flaws before you make a purchase. Also, the entire setting is a bit seedy, so go with company and watch your belongings carefully.
Where: 5 minutes by cycle rickshaw from Seelampur metro station
Glad Rags
Shanti Mohalla – The name belies its appearance, for this bustling wholesale textile market close to Seelampur in East Delhi is anything but peaceful. Home to every conceivable type of fabric – from uber trendy cotton linen, to sumptuous silks, knock-off jeans and even home furnishing fabric, its higgledy-piggledy alleys are a playground for the serious fabric shopper.
Although most traders were not quite able to put a finger on exactly when the market was set up, it’s clear that it has been an export hub since the early 1990’s, with produce from the mills of Bombay, Ahmedabad, Karur, Jaipur, Coimbatore, Kanpur, Assam and Bengal finding their way here.
Picking through the tiny shops in its dirty, ramshackle gullies, we unearthed a treasure trove of goodies – fine corduroy in earthy browns, rusts, aubergine and cobalt blue (Rs. 40 per metre), lightweight pre shrunk denims in a variety of washes (60 per metre onwards), old bits of lace and brocade to give your satin blouse that Victorian touch (Rs. 25 per piece), old sari borders (Rs. 25-100 depending on the quality), brass, enamel and wooden buttons (Rs. 10-30 per dozen), cotton and terry cloth towels, flannel blankets (prices vary), printed cotton curtains (Rs. 60 per piece onwards)…
We could go on. You’ll have to go and see for yourself. Go energized. Take an empty bag. At Shanti Mohalla, haggling is par for the course, so you won’t even have to worry about putting your credit rating in jeopardy.
A word of caution, traders here are accustomed to selling their wares in bulk and are rather suspicious of casual shoppers who make “per-metre” enquiries, so don’t be put off by their hostility, and check thoroughly for weaving flaws before you make a purchase. Also, the entire setting is a bit seedy, so go with company and watch your belongings carefully.
Where: 5 minutes by cycle rickshaw from Seelampur metro station
Sunday, 10 December, 2006
I'm not getting any...
WORK that is....(durrrrty durrrty minds). Yes, much as I hate to admit it, it's true. I think I might hate my job at current prestigious workplace #2 on about a 7 out of 10 scale.
This is a good place to mention that my work is embarrassingly easy. I make tables, earnings tables that is, of strange sounding companies in Yankee-doodle-dandy-land. Enid Blyton would have loved 'em. (ahem.. cough.. sputter) "The Cheesecake Factory" "Dick's Sporting Goods Inc." and "The Grand Toys Inc." are a case in point. Boo effing hoo.
Mostly, us 100 journos in the v.posh (upside! upside!) newsroom spend our 9-hour shifts at v.wee hours waiting tables, aligning numbers so that the decimal points are, well, aligned. (Google me, you'll see I'm not kidding.)
The flip-side, is that my work:pay ratio is obscenely skewed, although, (admittedly, I'm the biggest brand slut there ever was,) I'm not sure this makes me as tingly with excitement as it did when I started off.
How I long for my poor-journo days, days when I wormed my way into the Dalai Lama's security cordon:
Excerpts from our conversation:
Poor-journo: Sir, Would you care to comment on the Pope's death?
His Holiness (patting me on the head): Young lady, how old are you?
PJ: 22.
HH: You're far too young to be working. You should be out having fun. Do you have a boyfriend?
Or the time I was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Tony Blair at an AIDS awareness function, with only a jute rope between us.
PJ (yelling): Sir!! Sir!!!
TB: A lot more needs to be done.
Later that evening I was to write - "In an exclusive quote to prestigious workplace # 1, Tony Blair said "a lot more needs to be done". hehehe!
Oh! and I forget the time the Musharraf's were in Delhi, when I tailed Madame Mushrraf, as she went gadding about town... and Laura Bush when she recorded for the first Sesame Street India episode (Gulli Gulli Sim Sim, it's called).
Ok, so I'm so officially on a job hunt now.
The only good part is that this has freed up vast swathes of time for me to spend googletalking with strange but interesting people on the internet. I find, that I'm quite a tiger on chat.
Excerpts: (Sincere heartfelt apologies. But try as I did, I couldn't resist. Hate me for the rest of your life?)
me: so how do you plan to spend the weekend?
STRANGER: I am heading out to NYC
12:21 AM me: oh cool...
i'm very envious.
12:22 AM STRANGER: would you like to join me?
me: i'd love to. :)
will we be staying at the waldorf?
12:23 AM STRANGER: no.
we'll be staying at my friend's apt
me: oh ok..
:(
STRANGER: you will have to sleep in the living room with me.
with a pillow in between us...so that you don't roll over to my side!
me: errrrrr
me: it's ok. you can keep the pillow. i'm not a roller
STRANGER: i am.
ROLL OVER, BEETHOVEN.
...and so on and so forth.
I did have my biggest internet crush on HBM a month ago, though. Although, I doubt I stand any chance with him anymore, considering I acted all huffy the last time we spoke.
Ah well, my only consolation is that there's plenty of other equivalent flotilla out there, a phrase, which here means, other stoic singletons sailing in the same boat.
This is a good place to mention that my work is embarrassingly easy. I make tables, earnings tables that is, of strange sounding companies in Yankee-doodle-dandy-land. Enid Blyton would have loved 'em. (ahem.. cough.. sputter) "The Cheesecake Factory" "Dick's Sporting Goods Inc." and "The Grand Toys Inc." are a case in point. Boo effing hoo.
Mostly, us 100 journos in the v.posh (upside! upside!) newsroom spend our 9-hour shifts at v.wee hours waiting tables, aligning numbers so that the decimal points are, well, aligned. (Google me, you'll see I'm not kidding.)
The flip-side, is that my work:pay ratio is obscenely skewed, although, (admittedly, I'm the biggest brand slut there ever was,) I'm not sure this makes me as tingly with excitement as it did when I started off.
How I long for my poor-journo days, days when I wormed my way into the Dalai Lama's security cordon:
Excerpts from our conversation:
Poor-journo: Sir, Would you care to comment on the Pope's death?
His Holiness (patting me on the head): Young lady, how old are you?
PJ: 22.
HH: You're far too young to be working. You should be out having fun. Do you have a boyfriend?
Or the time I was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Tony Blair at an AIDS awareness function, with only a jute rope between us.
PJ (yelling): Sir!! Sir!!!
TB: A lot more needs to be done.
Later that evening I was to write - "In an exclusive quote to prestigious workplace # 1, Tony Blair said "a lot more needs to be done". hehehe!
Oh! and I forget the time the Musharraf's were in Delhi, when I tailed Madame Mushrraf, as she went gadding about town... and Laura Bush when she recorded for the first Sesame Street India episode (Gulli Gulli Sim Sim, it's called).
Ok, so I'm so officially on a job hunt now.
The only good part is that this has freed up vast swathes of time for me to spend googletalking with strange but interesting people on the internet. I find, that I'm quite a tiger on chat.
Excerpts: (Sincere heartfelt apologies. But try as I did, I couldn't resist. Hate me for the rest of your life?)
me: so how do you plan to spend the weekend?
STRANGER: I am heading out to NYC
12:21 AM me: oh cool...
i'm very envious.
12:22 AM STRANGER: would you like to join me?
me: i'd love to. :)
will we be staying at the waldorf?
12:23 AM STRANGER: no.
we'll be staying at my friend's apt
me: oh ok..
:(
STRANGER: you will have to sleep in the living room with me.
with a pillow in between us...so that you don't roll over to my side!
me: errrrrr
me: it's ok. you can keep the pillow. i'm not a roller
STRANGER: i am.
ROLL OVER, BEETHOVEN.
...and so on and so forth.
I did have my biggest internet crush on HBM a month ago, though. Although, I doubt I stand any chance with him anymore, considering I acted all huffy the last time we spoke.
Ah well, my only consolation is that there's plenty of other equivalent flotilla out there, a phrase, which here means, other stoic singletons sailing in the same boat.
Friday, 8 December, 2006
Teshting. Teshting. Sun is Shining, weather is sweet.
Ok. So I've been slow off the blocks with this blogging thing. But with good reason, which I'll elucidate in fine, rich detail now.
You see, in an effort to make this an instant high-trafficking zone, I was set on the idea of publishing my grand inaugural post on the Scandinavian skinny-dipping society that cohabits my apartment block, complete with hi res. visuals to make all you online folk pleased and eye-bally. (Some of you may already have heard of them, some of you might not, but REALLY, they behave like Norway doesn't get a spot of sunshine!)
So last Sunday I fished out my high-end camera and went skulking about my terrace experimenting for innovative angles and all. This is what happened:
I'm panning my camera with super zoom lens at maximum efficiency, peeking out from amongst mamma's birds of paradise (v. spiky, pointy-tipped things. some ppl. call them flowers) when to my utter shock and disdain, I'm staring into viewfinder of pimpled tenth-grade Iyer laddie in the adjacent block of flats. My first reaction was "Ha ha Gotcha! Naughty, naughty, I'm gonna tell your mummeeee!" Only Oily Iyer eyeballed me back with matched pride in having found his catch.
The point being, I'd completely missed the truth that it's SOOOO OK for testosterony teenage boy to be filming naked women at the poolside.
Whereas how could I (who btw, have acquired something of a reputation, you know being in the noble field of journalism and working at prestigious workplace #2 and all...) possibly explain!
Bah! now my credibility is shot. All the kids in the building look at me weird. This is a good place to mention that in my building, live only kids, old people and skinny-dippers. My mother is the secretary. Bah!
(In side/obliquely related story): There's an Aussie neighbour I've become friendly with at building. Following is my recounting recent run-in with Ozzy Osbourne to ex boyfriend:
Dear Babe, pig in cyber city,
Remember Aussie neighbour who planned my work-out sked? Well I ran into him after an age, and I happened to be wearing your dragon insignia jacket.
OZZY (just to give you a visual, a buff lenny kravitz. aboriginal streak, methinks, which is good.): "Hey. You're lookin' toned. (This is true. If you saw me now you'd be all eyeball-y and aoooga.) That's a neat jacket you got on there."
ME (fuckwit): "Yes. It belongs to my ex-boyfriend."
Under the circs, even a "Yea mate" would have passed as an average IQ response. I have failed you, sensei. Forgive me. *bows deeply.*
BUT don't put me to the stake yet, for dragon-lover here (he can't be v. bright. accounts for major character flaw, which explains why I'm attracted to him) invited me to (drum roll... pa da ta da) dinner at his apt. Dinner's with the rest of the Scandinavian skinny dipping society. (Aye, THERE'S the rub) I have a strange feeling i'm gonna be the only brown girl in the ring, reduced to pimping Indian culture, feeding them with B. lore. To go or not to go?
You see, in an effort to make this an instant high-trafficking zone, I was set on the idea of publishing my grand inaugural post on the Scandinavian skinny-dipping society that cohabits my apartment block, complete with hi res. visuals to make all you online folk pleased and eye-bally. (Some of you may already have heard of them, some of you might not, but REALLY, they behave like Norway doesn't get a spot of sunshine!)
So last Sunday I fished out my high-end camera and went skulking about my terrace experimenting for innovative angles and all. This is what happened:
I'm panning my camera with super zoom lens at maximum efficiency, peeking out from amongst mamma's birds of paradise (v. spiky, pointy-tipped things. some ppl. call them flowers) when to my utter shock and disdain, I'm staring into viewfinder of pimpled tenth-grade Iyer laddie in the adjacent block of flats. My first reaction was "Ha ha Gotcha! Naughty, naughty, I'm gonna tell your mummeeee!" Only Oily Iyer eyeballed me back with matched pride in having found his catch.
The point being, I'd completely missed the truth that it's SOOOO OK for testosterony teenage boy to be filming naked women at the poolside.
Whereas how could I (who btw, have acquired something of a reputation, you know being in the noble field of journalism and working at prestigious workplace #2 and all...) possibly explain!
Bah! now my credibility is shot. All the kids in the building look at me weird. This is a good place to mention that in my building, live only kids, old people and skinny-dippers. My mother is the secretary. Bah!
(In side/obliquely related story): There's an Aussie neighbour I've become friendly with at building. Following is my recounting recent run-in with Ozzy Osbourne to ex boyfriend:
Dear Babe, pig in cyber city,
Remember Aussie neighbour who planned my work-out sked? Well I ran into him after an age, and I happened to be wearing your dragon insignia jacket.
OZZY (just to give you a visual, a buff lenny kravitz. aboriginal streak, methinks, which is good.): "Hey. You're lookin' toned. (This is true. If you saw me now you'd be all eyeball-y and aoooga.) That's a neat jacket you got on there."
ME (fuckwit): "Yes. It belongs to my ex-boyfriend."
Under the circs, even a "Yea mate" would have passed as an average IQ response. I have failed you, sensei. Forgive me. *bows deeply.*
BUT don't put me to the stake yet, for dragon-lover here (he can't be v. bright. accounts for major character flaw, which explains why I'm attracted to him) invited me to (drum roll... pa da ta da) dinner at his apt. Dinner's with the rest of the Scandinavian skinny dipping society. (Aye, THERE'S the rub) I have a strange feeling i'm gonna be the only brown girl in the ring, reduced to pimping Indian culture, feeding them with B. lore. To go or not to go?
Freakishly yours,
Slim Shady.
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