I

 

Anna Parkart

In order to be the one you love –
I have to remember another city
its empty streets – gnawing,
the impressions of a bra, etched across my back.
another route back home, a pack of Marlboros,
store-bought wine
our respective anxieties sitting in the sockets of our eyes.
I let your sadness rest inside me
I give it shape and roll it out into
palatable mounds of
pretty words and prettier glances.
You watch with a fire in your eyes and
I blink;
I’ll walk with my ass up, tits out,
and maybe you’ll learn to love me the way you love your mother.

Another land, another language,
pizza dough on your lips,
stench of raw meat on your breath – I tell you it doesn’t matter
When I think of you, I think of hugs wrapping themselves like
a grip around my wrist – impressions of hands that don’t quit.
I wrench it away;
I want to tell you that it isn’t enough.
Don’t make the same mistakes my parents did
My mother, with her herbal medicines and her spite
My father with his sullen silences and heavy machinery tools,

I can’t see too much, but I see
Enough.

We slip away quietly, no sound, not a whimper, not even a nod of acknowledgement.

Your eyes burn with fire but it isn’t enough.

I can’t be with you, you say –
I am not with me yet.

All image credit/copyright: Anna Parkart

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On House Hunting In Bombay

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Sat pillion behind a man named Faiz

The name of my

First love.

“My girlfriend is Hindu,” he asserts

Narrow, hazel eyes and a kind disposition

I would say a kind heart but you never know

Around here.

I nod, my eyes fixed vacantly, my hands clutched aggressively

at the Angry sea – blurs of grey and mud, screaming at me to tell

him that my mother is Hindu too.

Us both, ignorant, unabashed

about wearing our bigotry on our sleeves.

“Look at me, my blood is mixed up of those who you hate – where do I fit in?”

Cut up the city in tiny boxes

Cut up its people, cram them into the boxes

Al Hilal, Al Qareem, Al Saba

Each house smells different – years of pain, age, wisdom, heartbreak, love, loss, death, bills, taxes, payments, cum spreading itself across is walls

“Where do I fit in?”

Close your eyes and imagine yourself within the four walls – talking to somebody you love,

Envisioning last night’s orgasm as you smoke a cigarette and watch the tea boil over.

“My boyfriend’s Brahmin,” does that help?

His blood looks the same as mine. He has strong arms and a lovely smile and he holds me when I keel over, my uterus exploding into a thousand prickly stars

and I imagine we can do this within the four walls of this house.

Hazel eyes replace the jade ones of the white colony cat who’ll take its pick of roti

irrespective of your name –

Sundar, Darshan, Ajanta, Kalpana

Look at the lot of us – waiting to be boxed in.

The angry sea, a moment’s respite, from the relentless holes I try and skip over

but fall flat, face down into;

Inhale the dust.

Brush it off, begin again.

Close your eyes – can you picture yourself within these four walls?

Image credit : Anurag Banerjee

That Special Brand Of Bombay Anxiety

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Sadness has clawed its way into your heart and taken you in its sweaty, clutch grasp. It follows you around like a dog you exiled only returning to leave dead birds at your doorstep. Wake up in the grab of dawn, alone in your bed and experience a flighty jolt – a made-up sense of repartee with time, the weight of the duvet vanquishing all existential dread. Put a kettle on to boil, watch the tea leaves swirl like flower petals as you smoke a cigarette and envision the funeral of a loved one, stretch your arms out, still ringing from the breathlessness of the last orgasm, peel oranges and pop them into the mixer – the steady whirring accompanying the dullness of your thoughts. Wash the fresh orange juice down with a sliver of aspirin; it’s a morning full of the feeling of letting go. It’s certainly not pleasant, you’ve tried being indifferent but you’ve always had that feeling in your gut – of skipping your meals again. There are days you try too hard and days you don’t try at all but none of this is important. The way your hands move makes me think of the sadness etched in their veins as you lovingly feed the colony cats with bits of old roti and milk. They watch you with piercing grey eyes and eyes like almonds dipped in honey. They circle around you surreptitiously and on good mornings, one lets you touch its soft, silken coat as the morning sun dapples through the few remaining trees on the block. You turn your face up to the sun, eyes scrunched and remember the time, you lay at the edge of the world, one eye shut against the sun, lips grazing a stray nipple, the dip of a shoulder eclipsing constellations.

*

You will do things, all sorts of things to give your life purpose – build birdcages with chicken wire but no bird would inhabit its insides, you would buy plants that can survive without too much care or sunlight, not listen to your local botanist and still water them every evening. Before you know it, the plants would bloom, held in place against a Velcro fence, growing and curving towards the slivers of sunlight that you similarly, curve towards as you wake up. You will look up recipes your mother didn’t teach you since she was too busy working and buying you books that kept you company bored, lonely teenage afternoons. You’d buy an apron, complete the sacred picture of domesticity, skin the chicken like you’ve only seen on DIY cooking videos, sprinkle it with parsley, thyme and basil, a lick of butter and lemon and pop it in the oven. You’d set the timer to 350°F for 30 minutes, smoke another cigarette, remember the time you slid on top in the cold, bare attic with mattresses that felt like blocks of ice as snowflakes floated up to your window. You clung on to each other in the Eastern European cold that had a way of crawling into the crevices in your blanket and settling in your bones, making your eyes heavy from the mulled wine and steady waft of wood smoke, you’d skinned a freshly caught silver carp as it floated right below your fingertips swallowing planktons, you were nervous about your skinny frame, bones jutting out at oblique angles, nervous about your music collection (how is ‘disco’ the defining genre of what you listen to?), nervous about your ability to fish; you considered yourself a city rat, a voyeur to the many similar stories of people encased behind glass walls, you had fingers like sausages capable only of rolling out wheat in round mounds of a roti and recently, snapping fingers as you mimic the people surrounding you at open mic events, your inherent skepticism, quietly envious and admirable of people putting themselves out there, you think of a time when everything was a bit easier, the hardest days were tinged a brighter shade of blue with an idea to look forward to. Now, love was a concept for rich people and sadness more tangible.

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*

Get off a bus at 7 am opposite the old colony with the taste of sleep and longing in your mouth, trudge home in an auto that refuses to go by metre but it’s too early to argue for 40 rupees, the wind whips your hair against your face and wakes you up and you wonder if you’d benefit from living in another neighbourhood – a less gentrified neighbourhood. “Places turn far less interesting once the rich move in,” you think to yourself as you look out at the fat SUVs spilling over public pavements turned to slopes to accommodate the imported tires. Rush on home, you’re out of groceries but the chai masala sits ominously on one end of the stove, call for milk, pour it in, watch the tea leaves swirl, let it boil, pour it out in a tumbler complete with a cap to keep the liquid in place, hail another auto, ring a doorbell to an unknown house and wait.

 

Wait, and question your decision to surprise your lover who’s just moved out.

You’re in his arms, and he’s in yours but the chai’s gone cold despite the tumbler the shopkeeper promised would keep it warm. Your arms are entangled with each other’s’ even though the room feels alien with its retro-futuristic stone walls, the pale blue bed-cover that reminds you of a sky you crane your neck to catch an eyeful of every morning. The way you two kiss has always been slightly off – like two tongues confused about where they are, hesitant, questioning; it’s been two years but the way you kiss refuses to change so you turn to astrology for answers because literature provides you with none. The romantic turns sexual, perverse, you just wanted hugs and cuddles but he has therapy in ten minutes so you leave the tumbler, you put on your sunglasses, you can never catch up with the coastal sun and its persistent rays lighting up nooks and corners you try so hard to not look into, catch an auto and you return to your singular room with a rusty fan that you’ve never switched on but you like to look at, lying face up on your bed as the bedsheet sticks to your perspiring body, you consider the fan, almost a relic to the meagre life you’ve spent here, Instagram stories the only testament to your experience in this city. The din of the morning rush hour fades, the flutewallah, sharp at the strike of two, plays a Bollywood tune on his flute – impeccable from start to finish. Their pop culture symbols repulse you despite you practicing the expensive mindfulness techniques you’ve picked up at the nearest yoga studio, you don’t like the pungent smell of fish that seeps up your nostrils and sits like stones on top of your eyes and you don’t relate to the general lack of conflict, the desire to be unseen, barely even a face in a milieu of people, people clinging to their average day as they’ve stopped subscribing to newspapers, phones tuned to the newest OTT platform, streaming glossy videos about shiny people with problems that make yours fade away for the time being, meditating on other’s struggles as a way to ignore your own pain is a heady place to exist in, one that finds its place of equal delusion and envy plugged in by social media and yet – you cannot stop. You accrue all the minute details of your life, hoping that it paves the way to something more profound, you look at your friends returning from foreign universities, 1 crore down in student debt but with bylines in the Guardian (UK, not India), and you think of all the eyes and smells you pass by on the road every day – the one with the genital warts, their worries and fears deep in their eye sockets and in the folds of their skin, the ones at the Mountain Climbing Forums with the gashes across their calves, you look at the relic taped to the ceiling of the old-Parsi style house you live in (you pass it off a revival of the Rennaisance but in reality, writing paycheques don’t cash that hard), you think of your father and his kind eyes and how much you love him but he identifies as Muslim and won’t understand why you chose to fall in love with a Brahmin boy from Karnataka and soon, your eyes chase the sun’s last rays like sharks cruising waves as the sky turns pink and people trickle out of their glass homes and offices, onto the roads, a woman roasts corns and peanuts by the corner, locks on bars loosen and you think of how warm his eyes feel as they rest on you lovingly, how when you both watch something funny, you turn to each other to acknowledge the sudden mirth you feel, a lightness of mind and body that jars with the weight of everyday mundanity that sits on your limbs, you think of how you discard your own sadness and he does the same when you two can’t afford dinner at the nearest restaurant so you look up recipes on BBC ‘How To Cook’ because the British-Indians just have simpler recipes for the dishes your mother could cook with her eyes closed and on some days, you can’t discern between cumin and coriander powder but work calls while you’re on your way to collect some herbs and date night is cancelled but he comes home to you with his exhausted arms and tired eyes and you hold onto each other like a crucifix and nod off to a dreamless sleep, hugs suffice when words don’t and you look up at the relic on your ceiling and wonder how many such small miracles has it borne witness to, you wonder about how you used to believe sadness was infectious, certainly, but not half as much as your grudging acceptance of happiness.

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All Image credit to Akshay Singh

 

 

 

 

 

On The Politics Of Identity

“Bigotry is no longer a guilty secret to be shared with close friends in drawing rooms; it is now a badge of honour that is proudly displayed in public.”

A recent quote from a scroll article by Meera Rizvi got me thinking a lot about a topic I’ve consciously avoided expressing my thoughts on for a while lest I be branded as a “zealot” or an “an unfree thinker” by my peers. I’ve always prided myself to belong to a certain brand of political consciousness that transcends politics of religion but since 2014, I’ve been forced to reconsider my stand.

Even the free thinker knows that nothing really comes free.

While, I by and large, am immune to the sudden upsurge in communal tension due to my class/privilege, a certain trickle-down effect cannot be ignored. One that comes knocking on my comfortable cushioning of big city life when I try and rent an apartment as a single, ‘Muslim’ girl in Bombay (touted as the only “real” Metropolitan city in the country), or when I’m reminded of my religion often at Indian Immigration when I go to visit my father in Dubai – a sudden hostility, wariness that I ignore for my own mental peace or the constant current of conversation where my peers (some more educated and far richer than I or my family is) talk about how their families have steadily negated and/or warned them of their romantic involvement with somebody of the opposite sex of the Muslim faith without any given reason has led me to believe a constant discourse of “us vs.them” is now more a part of public dialogue than it ever has been. And as it is with any discourse, it’s forced me to look at my own limitations that I’ve been consciously toeing all my life – forcing myself to disassociate with my own last name, a particularly embarrassing incident as a child where my maternal grandfather gave my pet name (a self-proclaimed Hindu name) at a doctor’s clinic instead of my real name which has a more obvious Arabic connotation to it (despite having Germainic roots) or the time collecting a fabric my mother had given to the local Muslim tailor in our colony in Noida (back in the ’90s when NCR was leafy colonies, clean air and summer morning swimming) to be stitched and when he asked me my mother’s name, the ten year old me innocently said ‘Zeba’ (the name given to her by my parent’s family when they got married) – an act of betrayal that my mother brought up with me with tears in her eyes and I was too young to entirely understand

I should mention here that my mother is of the Hindu (Aryasamaji) faith and for the time I spent at home (until I was 17), we celebrated Eid, Diwali, Holi, Karva Chauth (the slightly misogonystic implications of this festival are not lost on me as I write this) with the equal excitement and fervour. I remember my father carrying out buckets filled with coloured water to our terrace to drop on my mother and her friends rolling out gujias in the sun. Time went on seamlessly with no outward display of religion in my household – everyone was free to do as they deemed. Pujas, havans, namaaz – little punctuations in daily routines when one, as an adult feels they’ve had too much, and needs to find succour in constructs larger than them and their little struggles. My father moved to Sharjah (an emirate infamous for its enforcing of stricter laws based on religion compared to Dubai) for work and along with it came money and a sudden consciousness of a ‘Muslim’ identity. I attended Qu’ran classes (against my adamant wish) when I was 15 but it felt like my father was trying to live a life scripted for him by someone else – he still had the occasional drink but he wouldn’t miss his Friday namaaz for anything whereas my mother felt her identity dissolving slowly in a more majority-driven society. From the call to namaaz five times a day to the conspicuous lack of temples to scores of women in abayas, Muslim was the new normal. Couple that with the pressure of starting a life from scratch abroad with a family and all the Immigrant woes that come with it, my mother drifted back towards what she knew best – her maiden, Hindu name, an identity handed to her by her first family – without understanding its larger implication on her new family and suddenly, new fault lines were exposed in a marriage that had  happened despite the events of December, 1992.

I yearned to move back to India, I felt like I’d been unceremoniously uprooted from my own country and that no amount of money or pomp and a gleaming exterior that Dubai had to offer could replace the authenticity of being back home. I didn’t subscribe to the consumerist culture Dubai had to offer and dreamt of pursuing the Arts so I applied to a boarding school in the north (Welham Girls’) and as they’re wont to do, my parents supported my decision. Identity in Welham ran on the lines of talent and mere hard-work and for two years I was blissfully unaware of any other kind of identity until I decided to pursue a Bachelor of Media Studies in Pune. From a certain professor singling me out to wish me Eid in private instead of in front of the whole class as they might on Diwali, etc. or a kid from Bihar calling me “a dirty, NRI Muslim” and asking me to go back where I came from in the first week of college – I was suddenly thrust into a world where religion seemed to be at the forefront of any public discourse. My last name said more about me before I could.

So, I moved back to Delhi. A city I remembered from my childhood. A city, more aggressive and materialistic than most, but one where religious identity was never under scrutiny, where a small, burgeoning community of artists, journalists, writers found solace in one another and were united by the memory of a shared past (Pre-Partition). Muslims were a plenty from manning grocery stores to the local hairdresser to the girl doing the community beat at Hindustan Times, to an ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, it was cool, exotic even to be an attractive, intelligent Muslim woman and I cashed in on that exoticism with impunity. A certain “saleeka” (refinement of a general sensibility) was the domain of the erstwhile residents of Delhi (and the consequent Awadh) and well-respected amongst most. They didn’t need to be apologetic about their culture and customs, Urdu literature was taught in schools, Muslim names populated some of the performing and applied arts and while, reservations remained in place about inter-faith relationships, bigotry wasn’t worn on the sleeve by any.

Delhi changed rapidly and without warning. Suddenly, gruesome rapes were reported in mainstream English newspapers, rapes which were earlier confined to villages and towns on the outskirts of the capital were now happening a mere 30 minutes away from where I stayed, the pollution was getting worse each winter, rumour on the grapevine was the Centre was punishing Delhi and choking it of its clean air as a retaliation for Kejriwal being elected and slowly and surely, tired of its quiet patriarchal constructs and a general disregard/disrespect by its men for the opposite sex, prompted me to seek meaning elsewhere.

A certain incident stands out in my memory in Prague when an English-Czech actor I would often collaborate with did a double take when he learnt that my last name denoted somebody Muslim. I couldn’t explain the fissures within my identity to my own people, much less to a different race but I remember the warmth comfort of familiarity coming home as I got off Alexanderplatz in Berlin in the neighbourhood of Neukölln with its myriad kebab shops, young Arab kids running around, their chubby cheeks rosy from the December cold , cussing each other in German, more brown faces on the underground metro than white and once again, I was reminded of the unsaid comfort and confidence granted by the idea of ‘numbers.’ In film school, the identity of religion was sidelined heavily by the identity of an artist but nonetheless, I was confronted by certain truths I’d been elegantly avoiding when I arrived at the more diverse city of Berlin.

The pursuit of authenticity brought me to Bombay in June, 2017. The first onslaught of who I am, who I’m looked as by everyone else came to me when real estate brokers would ask for my ‘caste’ blatantly. The problem with the concept of ‘saleeka’ is a lot of real problems and discussions are brushed under the carpet under the guise of ‘good manners’. You are not to ask anybody how much they earn, what their age is (if they’re visibly older to you), where they lived (even though pin codes go a long way in determining who you are in the world); all my childhood fears of saying the wrong salutation to the wrong side of the family (Namaste to Dad’s side and Asalamwaleikum to Mum’s side) came rushing back as I began navigating the messy, deeply hierarchical & misogynistic space of the film-making industry. Bombay had entire buildings dedicated to specific communities, what you ate and what your last name was could largely determine what real estate you were destined to, the East of every posh suburb relegated to the ghettos – the city seemed to be most comfortable with its divisive identities united by two things: money & survival (and an artistic vocation for some but I’m not sure if that ambition comes from a place or art or fame or both or that maybe it truly doesn’t matter).

With hate crimes against minorities and underprivileged communities at an all time high in the last five years, with a bought-up mainstream media and the very real culture of fake news, I found myself, for a better part of my time, insulated against the communal tide enveloping the country. The politic that mattered in Bombay was different with different communities (veganism and yoga for Bandra, late-nights and caffeine for Advertising, social realism for the indie film circuit, etc.) but politics of any kind wasn’t the mainstay discussion of anybody I was around. Life, for most, was a haze of work and drinks and the occasional Facebook post about the latest uproar. My attempt to ignite a conversation to understand some of my friend’s opinions on the looming elections on a Thursday night was drowned in protests of – “are we really gonna do this right now?”

A corollary to this large political apathy around me was to turn to counter-culture news outlets to understand my own views on what the country was preparing for and a lot of discussions in the bedroom with my partner about his politic. My partners hails from a highly educated, traditional family from Bangalore and through his perspective – I begin to understand the politics of a space I haven’t been exposed to as much as I’d like to be. And, I realise that the south isn’t divided on communal lines the way north and north/central west is so what I deem to be parochial on his part, is actually just a different environment, different wants, a different world he was brought up in.

We both find protection and shared values in our middle class guilt that propels us to hustle (that dreaded late-capitalism word now a popular justification for ungodly work hours in unorganised industries and disproportionate wages for the same) and a deep desire to get to the root of creating itself, so it’s easy to leave our ‘society-given’ identities behind but the looming idea of officiating partnerships brings forth both new and familiar fears – different cultures, different religions, different regions. Will our societal identities overtake a shared identity we’ve created when and if things get hard the way my parents did? Children carry wounds into adulthood consciously and sub-consciously and a lot of lives are dictated by a collective fear harboured by a community (the pressure to marry the minute you turn 25, the pressure to earn a certain amount, to go into the family business, to marry within a certain community, to have a certain number of children) rather than taking stock of values that jar – those discrepancies is what defines us to the truest extent.

One of the biggest wounds that Delhi as a city carries is the destruction of its language – when you want to destroy a people, you take away their language. Suddenly, Urdu is spoken of as the language of ‘Islam’ but it wasn’t so originally. It was the language of the arts, of a certain sophistication that comes from creating, from pursuing a sort of spiritual truth, it’s the language of my father’s love letters to my mother, of his poetry scribbled on yellowed papers that my mother has painstakingly saved (despite her consciously adding her maiden name as an affixation to her married name on Facebook recently). We, as people, have funny little actions of returning to our identities, of wanting to feel like being a part of a community, of something larger than us to give us meaning outside of the exhausting cycle of and bills (and mediocrity for some). I truly think the arts can be a sort of deliverance from the existential angst which is unavoidable but that too, comes with its own share of insecurities and isn’t for the faint-hearted.

As I conclude this, I realise I have nothing to offer in terms of my identity except an all-consuming confusion. Stunning moments of clarity only come through in sudden moments of love – and perhaps, acknowledging that, identity is less about being, and more about becoming.

Obscure Ways I’ve Taken To, To Kill My Time

    1. Watching Boiler Room sets long enough to pretend that I don’t live in Bombay
    2. Downloading and using trial versions of paid apps
    3. Obsessively cleaning any surfaces that reflect light
    4. Logging onto Pornhub more out of technical interest than any sexual interest
    5. Taking walks around the neighbourhood to run imaginary errands
    6. Fruitlessly stalking my ex on social media while being aware that he’s blocked me on all platforms
    7. Carrying out a six-step skincare routine every morning that gives me the vague impression that I have my life in order
    8. Lying down very still and pretending that I’m not alive until the phone rings
    9. Staying up at night to listen to the tree rattling to the storm outside my window
    10. Avoiding said phone calls but immediately texting: sorry, missed your call. is everything okay?

 

Kinds Of People I’ve Met In Bombay (so far)

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  1. Basic ass bitch in Adidas with a latent STD and a gym membership.
  2. Magnetic Fields attending bro-dude who’s actually in audit but DJ’s on Fridays at the local bar because he still stays at home and saved enough money to buy a turntable. Also dates women who still wear white sneakers (like it’s 2013). His idea of excitement is a meticulously sliced hari mirchi in his weekend G&Ts.
  3. The guy who made a word up for his Instagram handle and believes that that makes him unique. Also got into Cryptocurrency two years back but considers himself an expert on the same.
  4. The dude dressed in all-black (forgetting that we live in Bandra, not Berlin) who’s in his late-thirties but still works at Viacom and vehemently claims to anybody who’d listen that Nh7 is still relevant.
  5. The screenwriter with a cross-body leather satchel. Often dabbles in LSD for “creative inspo.” Often searches for deeper meaning in Colaba.
  6. The guy with the black and white Instagram feed who painfully insists on referring to the aesthetic as “chiaroscuro.” He is also still learning how to spell said word.
  7. The “wild Bandra chick” (who’s actually from Agra) with orgies in Parel and threesomes in Bandra who claims that rampant, unprotected sex with strangers is a great way to burn calories and “work that bod.” Her dad still pays her rent.
  8. The rich SoBo guy who bought a Hasselblad for the sole purpose of clicking shots of skinny, dusky women with daddy issues and low alcohol capacities against the Goan sunset.
  9. The over-achieving assistant director who claims to have been “doing it for a decade” like it’s something to be proud of. Like, I dunno, read a book or something instead.
  10. The tired assistant director who wants his big foray into directing but spends more time on shooting schedules than treatment notes. Is also often found siphoning off footage and making his own edits that he later uploads on Vimeo with descriptions that often involve emoticons.
  11. The actress turned producer (because that’s her only shot at actually starring in something).
  12. The struggling actor who thinks gym time is equivalent to acting props.
  13. The coder who accidentally discovered sex while he was chasing money. Also pumps iron similar to gym-dude and considers himself an artist because he once read a quote by Borges – by mistake.
  14. The girl in fashion who routinely doesn’t shave and insists on wearing a septum ring and shirts unbuttoned down to the navel – until you realise she’s actually a boy.
  15. The capitalist white dude who would be a “Ramu” back in white-land but now has a hot, dusky Indian girlfriend with an ass & gets invited to a lot of parties to balance out the brown:white ratio. Owns a sherwani but still carries tissue paper wherever he goes.
  16. The buzzfeed/scoopwhopp/social media champion who can’t sleep at night because of what he has created (or so I hope).
  17. That one feminist woman director with less talent, more grudges.
  18. People who routinely think it’s still acceptable to read Murakami and worse still, search for meaning within its glib-Jap pop culture nonsense with cherry blossom fields and dream sequences.
  19. The chef who went to an obscure town in Europe to study gastronomical food engineering and now only drinks locally brewed IPAs and proceeds to write an essay about it on Instagram. Or, a kala khatta chuski. Or, a bread and butter sandwich. You get the drift.
  20. A plethora of people who grew up in Chembur/Andheri/Powai eating missal paav but are now gluten-lactose-dairy-carbs free & wear a shirt with a pattern of fruits on it at some point during the week. Said pattern is also often turned into themed parties (for reasons I will never understand). Something about being from the suburbs gives unprecedented power to start cults. Think about it
  21. That upright bassist who used to have taste before he started playing in Bombay.
  22. Freelancing ad lady who hates on capitalism(irony lost) just cos she spent a year in Eastern Europe. Considers herself a writer with a blog called “a maverick’s monologue” updated every 10-12 months (aka me) (courtesy Aman, my forever NemesisxMuse)

(whoever gets that Nicholas Cage meme, hmu. I wanna be friends)