Thanking her Lucky Stars

At a recent drunken gathering I was asked what my will-he-make-it-to-a-second-date tests were. (Which probably just goes to show just how drunken the gathering was, because asking ME for second-date-tests is a bit like asking a kake-da-dhaba-da-butter-chicken eater, whether they want their beluga caviar on crackers or plain chilled. ‘Pointless’ is what I mean). So anyway, I thought really, really hard (I was drunk too) and came up with this:

”He shall not be queasy about street food.”

And then I thought about it some more and I realised that I’m probably at my wisest when drunk. Because you know, not-queasy-about-street-food says so much about a man. No, seriously. I will not date a guy who goes all ‘organic aloos’ on me. A man who is NQaSF is a man who is not afraid to take chances. He’s been there, eaten that, had the jaundice and risen like a phoenix from the ashes. What has not killed him, has given him a stomach of cast-iron and an immune system that pooh-poohs at sissy amoeba.

The NQaSF guy is not just tough, oh no he’s not. This man, much like the perfect vada, is all crispy crust and soft insides. You might not think it to look at him, but ladies and gentlemen, he’s a romantic! This is a man who knows the joys of eating roasted bhutta while walking along bandstand, and the comfort that comes from conversations punctuated with the silent, contemplative munching of corn-kernels. He knows the sense of community that comes with standing around the paani-puri-vaala’s red-cloth-draped matka and struggling to finish the paani-puri in your plate before the lightning-fast vendor starts his second round. He knows the stomach-flipping way of using his (clean) handkerchief to wipe off that dab of imli-chutney from the corner of your mouth (which might sound gross but is actually all awww-inducing when the hormones are a-ragin’).

He knows that nothing completes a rainy day better than a glass of sweet cutting-chai, strong with the flavours of adrak and elaichi, and he knows that the best accompaniment to this chai is piping hot samosas, smothered in green chutney, served in those faded-green leaf donas.

And now, the government wants to ban them all.

It’s a good thing I went and got married when I did.

Coincidence?

That the one day in the year that getting smashed out of your skull is legitimate, done, approved of, is the day yours truly was born.

Now I'm not superstitious, but really, coincidence?

I think not.

Happy St. Patrick's all! I'm off to get very, very drunk and pass out on a beach.

Madraka vs. Mishra

In all those years and years spent with the family, we often wondered, HOW is it that none of these people look remotely like us? WHY are we the only ones who ever come home drunk? WHY does no-one else in this family say, "Pass the beef please, and the extra-garlicky sauce while you're at it."?

Turns out, we're actually Madraka*.

Thank you, Jai.

*Madraka women, to be precise.

Conversations from Last Night

Me: Boss, ye XYZ building kahan hai*?
Fruit Vendor whose cart is FIVE STEPS AWAY from XYZ building: Nahin madam, nahin dekha.
Me: Achcha, aap Toto's** jaante hain?
Fruit Vendor: (smiles shyly) Toto's?
Me: Haan, Toto's.
FV: (giggles coyly) Toto's? Toto's??
Me: (beginning to get a little worried) Haan...Toto's.
FV: (Blushes red, avoids eye contact, and frantically re-arranges the fruits on his cart) Nahin madam, main 'Toto's' nahin jaanta.
Me: (walks away convinced that there is such a thing as too much fruit) Achcha...thank you.

* See, I'm *allowed* to be lost even though I'm five steps away from where I'm supposed to be - it comes with being hopelessly navigation-impaired - what's his excuse??
** is a pub.

***

Inside Toto's:

Me: You know, I've never actually seen anyone in that DJ enclosure.
Young man: That's probably because it's not a DJ enclosure.
Me: But it says "No Requests"! Why would it have a sign saying "No Requests" unless, you know, there were going to be...'requests'? Unless, they were expecting requests of the non-musical variety...
YM: (thinks about that for a minute)
Me: (launches forth, driven by rum and a pet grouse*) Don't you just hate it when DJ's say, "I don't take requests". You know, you'd think that entertaining the crowds is their job? But noooo! They're all like, "Oh no, this crowd is so pleb, it is my divine duty as a DJ, to *educate* them. I'm just too cool (weird arm-flappy, raised-hand gesture) to take requests."
YM: They do take requests if you slip them a hundred bucks?
Me: (faking shock) Duuude, noooo! DJ's who take money to play are like, the lowest rungs on the DJ ladder. They have SOLD their DJ SOULS, other DJ's totally look down on them. They're like the...sell-outs of the DJ world!
YM: (giggling helplessly) Yeah, I'm sure Akbar Sami never takes requests.
Me: WTF is Akbar Sami??
YM: He's that guy who remixed Jalwa?
Me: (still driven, still grousing) Which is another thing I just don't get. I mean, so you add a couple of dhinchak beats to some random song and suddenly you're a musician? Explain this to me, please!
YM: You're just jealous that they make a whole lot of money. Why do you think people pay them so much?
Me: Because there are a whole lot of stupid rich people in the world. I mean, how else can you explain Rohit Bal actually managing to sell his..."designs"? See the thing is, when you're really sozzled, you don't CARE what's playing. You're drunk, you're happy, the world is a beautiful place, you love everybody and look! There's a guy behind that glass-shield thingy, wearing headphones! and a bandana! and funky shades! and apparently trying to fly by flapping his one free arm, because the other one's holding headphones to his ear! I think I'm going to give him a warm hug and tell him that I love him.
YM: You know, I no longer remember what we were talking about, but I'm glad this place doesn't have a DJ.
Me: I think this is one of those times when you actually make sense.


* And I don't mean one of these.