Hands full of glasses, lungs full of smoke, large laughs, little skirts, high heels, big dreams. It scares me when people look this good and stand so tall, confident taking up space and conducting their lives, zero jhijak, full throttle. Empty bottle. Khali botal, masti total. The scene has gone beyond the hotal, and spilled out across Delhi's spacious periphery. Dust blows back from under their wheels into the city's interior as they emerge from it, unscathed, unfazed, freshly bathed at midnight. Like a compulsive calorie-counter, I begin silently to compute how many hours went into that make-up, that hair, that outfit. Not just tonight; years of practice until the right shade, the right style, the right fit. Every one of them self-trained in a highly evolved curatorial art.
I bite. I am mesmerized. I stare at the women and even peel open an eye for the men. How did these people happen, and where have they been? Are they the same kids I went to school with? I didn't see it, but they must have grown past routine considerations of social etiquette, likeability, glamour; past even bravery, to blossom into a realm of pure, unselfconscious being. How did they do it? How do they do it? I simmer, humiliated that the implicit altitude of my high road hasn't actually allowed me to transcend anything. Here I am, craning my neck, watching these strange beings casually stand around on my glass ceiling. I experience a sort of myoclonic jerk, and almost fall. When I realize the ground is still beneath my feet I feel euphoric with relief.
They must always have been around. They must have looked different before now. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention. Now I am, and here they are. Groomed. Lipsticked. Perfumed. Pleated. Yelling one more song. Shelling out bills like handfulls of confetti. Air kissing on both cheeks. Talking to each other like they have something to say. They must do. But what is it? I am aware of a web of knowledge being spun and respun all around me. But what is it transmitting? They all know something I don't. They are serious about it. They understand the importance of trading this information. I don't know what it is or why it's important. I'm full of questions. I can't tell if they're good ones. I think they started out rhetorical, but now I don't know my own answers.
Does it mean something when a kid hoots about holding MDMA during a drug-satire? Why am I drawn to the one man in a Fabindia vest? Why does the word fuck seem to have an echo? Is there something to say about the blond girl weaving intensely in front of the blond boy, both sets of pupils exploding? The lead singer's wig, the musicians clothes; the drunk Tibetan girl throwing up in the loo; the posh Delhi club and the reference to Frantz Fanon; the tiny top-hat in the hair of a girl from Lucknow---are these things noteworthy?
The taxi driver plays Sai songs. He introduces himself with his name, followed by the focus, location and progress of his education. He's at the same college as my Dad. I went to the same college as his cousin. He plays cricket and goes home to eat his mother's homecooked food. His brother owns a cab company of thirty cars. He's an extra for the night. He drives like a mosquito flies; a mosquito propelled by jet fuel. He calls me ma'am. For the first time ever, I don't protest. I lock the gate, go upstairs, call my mother to let me in. Pixie-cut still perfect, she comes to the door. I debrief briefly, and say goodnight. Five minutes later, she calls me to say hi. Ten minutes later, I have my face in a navy blue silk sari that once belonged to my grandmother. Three hours later, ma'am is asleep.
I bite. I am mesmerized. I stare at the women and even peel open an eye for the men. How did these people happen, and where have they been? Are they the same kids I went to school with? I didn't see it, but they must have grown past routine considerations of social etiquette, likeability, glamour; past even bravery, to blossom into a realm of pure, unselfconscious being. How did they do it? How do they do it? I simmer, humiliated that the implicit altitude of my high road hasn't actually allowed me to transcend anything. Here I am, craning my neck, watching these strange beings casually stand around on my glass ceiling. I experience a sort of myoclonic jerk, and almost fall. When I realize the ground is still beneath my feet I feel euphoric with relief.
They must always have been around. They must have looked different before now. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention. Now I am, and here they are. Groomed. Lipsticked. Perfumed. Pleated. Yelling one more song. Shelling out bills like handfulls of confetti. Air kissing on both cheeks. Talking to each other like they have something to say. They must do. But what is it? I am aware of a web of knowledge being spun and respun all around me. But what is it transmitting? They all know something I don't. They are serious about it. They understand the importance of trading this information. I don't know what it is or why it's important. I'm full of questions. I can't tell if they're good ones. I think they started out rhetorical, but now I don't know my own answers.
Does it mean something when a kid hoots about holding MDMA during a drug-satire? Why am I drawn to the one man in a Fabindia vest? Why does the word fuck seem to have an echo? Is there something to say about the blond girl weaving intensely in front of the blond boy, both sets of pupils exploding? The lead singer's wig, the musicians clothes; the drunk Tibetan girl throwing up in the loo; the posh Delhi club and the reference to Frantz Fanon; the tiny top-hat in the hair of a girl from Lucknow---are these things noteworthy?
The taxi driver plays Sai songs. He introduces himself with his name, followed by the focus, location and progress of his education. He's at the same college as my Dad. I went to the same college as his cousin. He plays cricket and goes home to eat his mother's homecooked food. His brother owns a cab company of thirty cars. He's an extra for the night. He drives like a mosquito flies; a mosquito propelled by jet fuel. He calls me ma'am. For the first time ever, I don't protest. I lock the gate, go upstairs, call my mother to let me in. Pixie-cut still perfect, she comes to the door. I debrief briefly, and say goodnight. Five minutes later, she calls me to say hi. Ten minutes later, I have my face in a navy blue silk sari that once belonged to my grandmother. Three hours later, ma'am is asleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment