New Market.

Ishani dragged me off to New Market the other day to do some shopping. It sounded good at first because to me, shopping always sounds good as long as I'm not actually doing it just then. The morning we were supposed to go however, it was looking more painful than anything else. Walking around smelly New Market being touched on the legs by beggar kids (they seem to have a strange affinity for my legs) and being yelled at by shopkeepers and being jostled by coolies and choking on the stench of meat because I always happen to end up two feet away from the meat stalls whenever I go there.

So I phoned Ishani.

Me: Listen, are you sure New Market's a good idea today?

Ishani: *after a deadly pause worthy of Minnie* Why not?

Me: It's so sunny. We'll probably get heat stroke.

Ishani: It's mostly indoors.

Me: Yeah but we'll have to walk from the car to the market and that's always dangerous.

Ishani: *in a scary voice* Do you not want to go?

Me: No, no. Of course I want to go.

Ishani: *scarier voice* Don't you want to shop?

Me: Yes, yes. Of course I want to shop.

Ishani: Good. I'll come over to your place at three and we'll leave from there.

So she came over to my place at three and after a half hour's delay because I needed my nap, we left. As usual, there was a huge jam outside the entrance and there was a car behind us that constantly kept honking. I got out of the car, feeling very aggressive and independent and Delhi-ish, and the honking was annoying me so I went over to the car behind us and told the driver exactly what I thought of him and lectured him on noise pollution. He looked at me with his mouth open and I was feeling very triumphant since normally I'm unable to say boo to a goose (not that I've ever actually seen one; if I did, I'd probably run away) when Ishani tugged on my arm and hissed, "You fool. He wasn't the one honking."

We hurried away.

I followed Ishani dutifully through the streets, stopping whenever she stopped and looking at the clothes she looked at. They all looked quite horrible to me and she evidently shared my opinion because she harumphed and moved away. I trotted after her wishing I was at home in bed.

We finally entered New Market and I could be sentimental and describe how good it was to see the dirty, familiar place after so long but it wasn't. I don't like dirty places and even though I've been there hundreds of times, I keep getting lost so it's never familiar. We walked along aimlessly stopping at promising shops but not really finding anything. Ishani finally remembered this shop she'd been to a long time ago, which sold really nice dresses at very cheap prices. After making a couple of wrong turns, we finally got there. It was right next to the meat market. Just my luck.

I actually stood in front of the meat stalls for a while, a little dazed, because it was the first time I'd ever seen a real live dead cow hanging from the ceiling. Like, you could make out it was a cow. It didn't have any skin or hair or a tail or udders and it resembled a chunk of raw, red meat but it was definitely cow shaped. For a brief moment, I thought of the poor animal- alive and well, not too long ago- walking the streets of Calcutta, brushing away flies with its tail and mooing happily when it was time for dinner. For a brief moment, I thought of becoming vegetarian. But then I thought of Bouchi's beef steaks and changed my mind.

I probably would have gone on standing there for a while but Ishani (who has evidently been picking up tips on how to bully me from Minnie) dragged me away to this little stall nearby. It did have dresses, lots of dresses, and some of them actually looked wearable. They were dirt cheap too. Of course, the trouble was we couldn't try them on. Now this is okay for someone who is tall and thin like Ishani and who would look good dressed in a sack, but it is not okay for someone like me. Still, I rummaged through things and in five minutes, I'd chosen what I wanted. A summery white dress and a summery white top. Both very white, both very summery. Sure to look nice in photographs. You know, the ones you'll look at years later and say, "Mmm...I remember that summer. That summer when I was nineteen. That summer when I was nineteen and wearing a lovely white floaty dress."

I had to wait another half an hour for Ishani to make up her mind between a black and white dress and another black and white dress. She finally chose the nicer of the two and we left. By this time, it was raining. There are gaps in the New Market ceiling and we could see the sky which was dark grey and gloomy and very monsoonish. My mother called shrieking about how it was cyclonic weather and that we should get ourselves home immediately. I told her to stop exaggerating and hung up. We stopped to buy a table cloth (don't ask) and went to one of the entrances/exits which, like all the entrances/exits, was crowded with stranded shoppers eebaba-ing about the rain.

We looked out. It was cyclonic weather.

Anyway, since Ishani and I are both wild and free spirited, we decided we'd walk a bit in the rain until we caught a cab. We were trying to make our way out when Ishani accidentally bumped against a woman who dropped her mobile. The cover fell off and so naturally, the phone switched itself off and she thought it was broken and started screeching and grabbed Ishani by the shirt, telling her that she couldn't go anywhere until the phone was fixed.

A man took the phone from her, put its cover back on, switched it on and handed it to the woman. The phone was fixed.

This did not please the woman however and she kept screaming. She had a very loud, shrill voice. Ishani silently mouthed 'help' to me and the woman caught that and started screaming some more. What did we think of ourselves, she wanted to know. Did we think we were better than everyone else because we wore pants and talked in English?

I failed to see what this had to do with the phone- which was fixed- and pointed this out to her. It did not go down well. Her voice went louder and shriller and everyone around was staring from her to us. I then curtly told her (all this was in Bangla) that her phone was fixed and it wasn't my friend's fault and even though we were wearing pants, we weren't screaming like fishwives.

This did not go down very well either and the screaming went on and on and suddenly Ishani yelled, "Gadha Mohila!", grabbed my arm and we ran out into the rain. I would have given anything to see that woman's face though. Gadha Mohila. Haha.

We laughed about it, not even caring that we were getting completely soaked and there were no cabs around, and we cheerfully walked in the rain, past the shops filled with hoards of people staring at the mad girls who were going to catch Noo-monia from getting wet in the brishti. Halfway to Park Street, an auto with a nice Chinese lady in it, stopped to pick us up and dropped us off at a cab. I thought this was very nice of them, and fondly compared the unworldliness of Calcutta to grasping, heartless Delhi, when the autowallah demanded twelve bucks. Oh well. It was a nice feeling while it lasted.

We then tried to get a cab but all of them were charging extra because of the rain. We finally found one driven by an old Sardarji who only charged us fifty so we got in and trundled home in style. We paid him a little extra because if we'd gone by the metre, it would definitely been more.

And then we came back home absolutely dripping. I tried on the floaty white top and I looked very pregnant. Then I tried on the floaty white dress. It may have potential. I only look slightly pregnant in it and I think it gives me a calm, serene Virgin Mary kind of aura.

Then we went to see my school's production of The Phantom of the Opera.

That was a disaster of another kind.

The Autowallah

Time: Wednesday morning.

Place: Near the Civil Lines Metro Station

Purpose: Finding an auto to take us to college so we can write a pathetic exam paper. 

Mood: Exhausted (lack of sleep), woebegone (obvious reasons), impatient (getting late). 

An auto finally trundles up. The auto driver is a relatively old man. We ask him to take us to college. He is willing to oblige for the sum of forty rupees. After (not much) haggling, we agree that he will take us there for thirty. As I climb in, I make the mistake of telling him to take us over The Ridge. The Ridge is a road that kind of looks like a mountain road. It's hilly and it curves and it's surrounded by forests on either end. Real forests. I kid you not. 

The driver realises that I'm evidently not North Indian because my Hindi is less than perfect and as we start. he asks me whether I'm Japanese. This is something I've heard before in Delhi and it reinforces my belief that Delhi people are, on average, complete morons. 

No, I say, I'm not Japanese but I don't elaborate further. I'm too concerned trying to recall what some obscure critic had to say about the use of fantasy in Christina Rossetti's poetry. As is my custom, I light a cigarette. 

The autowallah is evidently fascinated by me and Mawii. He asks us whether we're sisters. I'm about to say no, when Mawii says, we sort of are.

What does that mean, asks the autowallah. 

We have the same mother but two different fathers, Mawii tells him. I look at her carefully- I see no sign of humour anywhere. She sounds completely serious. She's obviously been unhinged by the exam stress. 

TWO fathers! The autowallah exclaims. 

Yes, Mawii says. 

I decide to enter into the conversation and I agree with her, nodding gravely. 

One mother? The auto driver cannot get over the shock. Who's older, he demands. 

She is. Mawii points to me and I instantly sit up a little straighter and try to create an expression of patience and suffering that all responsible older sisters must feel, on my face. 

Your mother must be a very bad woman. The autowallah is sad for us. 

I feel compelled to defend my mother and I inform him that she's a wonderful person who was compelled to find peace and happiness with another man since my father was incapable of giving it to her. 

The autowallah wants to know why my father was incapable of giving my mother the peace and happiness that he (the autowallah) evidently seemed to think she didn't deserve. 

He drank, I say. 

Do you drink? 

I'm about to say yes but I don't want him to abduct me and take me to a bar so I shake my head virtuously. Besides, I have to set a good example for my younger sister Mawii. 

She smokes ganja, my younger sister tells him. 

He gasps but eyeing my cigarette, evidently doesn't find this too surprising. 

Who taught you? 

I blame my father. He introduced me to the intoxicating substance and then abandoned me and went off to Thailand where he made a lot of money. 

The autowallah shakes his head but once again informs us that it's our mother who must be a bad woman. 

I insist she isn't bad and I once again point out what an unsatisfactory character my father is. Mawii agrees- for it is with her father, after all, that both my mother and I found a stable home. 

If she had two men, it means she is bad. The autowallah is unmovable on this point. A good woman has only one man. 

Realising that we won't be able to change his mind, Mawii and I fall silent. We're close to college now and I can hear the exam calling me. 

The autowallah is examining me in the rearview mirror and suddenly, as if he's tried to suppress it but can't any longer, he tells me that I shouldn't smoke. When he sees me smoke, he says, he feels like he would if he saw his daughter smoking. Smoking is bad.  

I throw my cigarette away in a gesture of conciliation. It's practically burned down to the end anyway. The autowallah nods in approval and warns me again I mustn't smoke. It leads to sex. 

This last sentence mortifies me. Talking about my personal family life is amusing but if it's going to lead to a moral lecture on sex, I won't be able to bear it. 

Luckily we've reached college. Mawii hastily pays the autowallah who warns us once more to stay away from bad bad things. It is evident that he feels we are good girls, despite having such a mother. I thank him for his advice. 

Then he drives off, probably to sit with his friends and tell them over a cup of hot steaming tea, about the unfortunate girls he drove to college that morning and the unfortunate girls walk to the room where they're going to give their exam. 

It's nice when strangers come together, even if its for a few moments, to share the story of their lives. As Mawii said, if they want to know your story, you might as well give them a good one. 

11. Intestinal worms.

Reasons Why My Life Sucks Right Now

1. There has been a power-cut for the past two and a half hours and the outside temperature is 42C. I place the inside temperature at 43.

2. A wasp stung me while I was bathing. On the butt.

3. I have to finish reading Hard Times in five hours. I've spent the past seven trying to, but I keep falling asleep by the time I reach Chapter 3.

4. The only person who's called me in the past twenty four hours is my mother.

5. As I type this, there are about five mosquitoes attacking my legs. Despite the fact that I'm covered in Odomos and I sprayed the room with so much Hit that I can't breathe properly right now.

6. I left a couple of text books behind in Calcutta and the delivery costs are coming out of my bank account. I noticed that this term's college fees and Mrs Khera's rent also came out of my bank account: an account I'd been planning on using to fund a trip around the world or something similar.

7. My cousin keeps calling me to tell me about all the boys who are in love with her. Twelve to fifteen boys, give or take. I counted the boys who are in love with me- one. He's a universally acknowledged creeper.

8. My best friend thinks I have a neurotic, twisted and deeply disturbed personality and will never find true love unless I hide the real me from my future beloved or whatever.

9. I definitely failed the Hindi exam and now have to spend my second year of college studying it. If I fail second year (likely), I have to do it in third year. If I fail it in third year (possible), I don't get my degree.

10. The past seems disastrous, the future worse, and the present solely comprises pain thanks to that fucking wasp.

I challenge any FML-er to come up with a more pathetic life than mine. Except perhaps, the woman who ran over her lost dog.

Epic Fail

I had my Hindi exam today. It's not fair that I'm being forced to take Hindi in college but that's D.U. for you. Trying to strip us all of our regional allegiances and turn us all into those J-people everyone warned me about. But D.U. magnanimously allowed me to do Lower Hindi. Doesn't matter. I'm pretty sure I failed anyway.

I couldn't understand what the first question said. I recognised the word "bhasha" and it was for seven marks. So after racking my brains a bit, I wrote: Hindi bhasha bahooth purana bhasha hai.

No clue what question 2 was about, onto question 3 which was grammar. I got some synonyms- not all, but some. For the opposites I just put an "a" before every word. Didn't know what the idioms meant but there was one sentence about pouring ghee on anger so I thought maybe it meant anger cooling down or something. So I wrote a long, incorrect sentence about a father and his truant yet repentant son.

Then was an essay on "Plastic ki duniya". I laughed a lot to myself while writing the answer to that.

Then there was a letter. Actually, two. We had to choose one. I wasn't sure what either of them meant so I just scribbled the format and wrote "Pria Mataji" and then at the bottom, "Apka beti, Mira" (I was too embarrassed to put my own name in). Mawii went one step better and addressed her "Pria Dost", saying she was "theek hoon", was the Pria Dost also "theek hoon?" We later found out that they were both formal letters dealing with rising school fees and the construction of parks in localities.

The last question was 400 words on what I'd do if I was a crorepati. I said I'd travel the world, educate children in India and live in a chota koti by the sagar and take a nauka out to the sagar and never come back.

And I never thought I'd say this but I'd give ANYTHING to do Bengali instead. I kept slipping into it while writing my paper. It's so much more elegant. None of these "yuhs" and "nahis" and "yahas" and "hos" and their tables are all 'its' like tables should be.

Twenty One Things to Do Before I Pass Twenty One

1. Grow hair to elbows (and then cut it off) 

2. Drink white rum in a Portugal bar 

3. Scuba dive off the Great Barrier Reef

4. Write a novel on the Tudors and get it publicly praised by David Starkey 

5. Boil an egg 

6. Get one of my brothers to procreate so I can be an aunt before middle age OR take part in a gay pride parade

7. Have a one night stand with an incredibly attractive and suave Spaniard who can't speak English. 

8. Learn to stand on head

9. Dress in green and shoot an apple with a bow and arrow  

10. Get into an excellent university abroad for post-grad/ decide on a career path

11. Backpack through Eastern Europe 

12. Do something- anything- to make the world just a little bit better than it is now. 

13. Milk a cow

14. Attend Wimbledon 

15. Swim with a dolphin

16. Oktoberfest and the Rio Carnival 

17. Go whale watching 

18. Go to a Bob Dylan (or Rolling Stones) concert. 

19. Spend a night in jail or in the wilderness, alone. 

20. Watch an orchestral performance in Vienna 

21. I can't decide between these two: a) climb an active volcano, b) spend an entire week in the cosiest bed in the world, with lots of chocolate and books and pillows. 

The next two years are going to be busy. 

Doors

I have, today, realised that there exist two kinds of feelings that are capable of heartbreak. One of them is when a door that you've never noticed before- despite the fact that it was always there- shuts forever. The other is when you tug at a door, for as hard and as long as possible, knowing all the while it will never open. Despite the fact that you want it to with all your heart.

I don't know which is worse. The one that could have been or the one that will never be.