One Big Holiday

Sometimes these vacations start ever too slowly - sometimes even painfully. You’d be in the middle of one and it wouldn’t even feel like it. Going even so far, as to be quite the opposite of what it intended out to be.

Sometimes they hiccup, threatening to stall but coming through at the very last moment. Like old yet faithful cars. Or unplanned for Visa issues. It's really the same thing, no? :)

Then there are the vanilla vacations. Neither here nor there, but good for the soul. Nothing more.

And then, then there are those that start way before. Way before the actual holiday would. As the days narrow to the flight date, the tingling in your spine becomes both, unbearable and a new found love. The scent alone drives you mad. And there's also the constant stupid smile on your face you have to deal with.

I have to go to work on Monday and then I leave for the actual holiday on Tuesday. If my boss manages to get any work out of me on Monday, I’ll readily buy him a bottle of the choicest scotch and mysteriously put it on his desk. The impossible deserves costly gifts.

Like Dylan In The Movies

So, in case I haven’t mentioned, I've recently moved to a highly gay concentrated neighbourhood in the city (It does have some great coffee shops but a bit too many gyms, if you know what I mean). And no, I’m not homophobic. Far from it. I mingle and have gay friends.

I am what the intelligentsia likes to call “liberal” and my mother “why??”, followed by a “I don’t get you. Befriend all this, but please marry a girl.”

So yes, I do befriend all "this".

But then, there are days...

Friday night.
Party 1. Bar near my hood. I think it was a birthday party. And I wear what are my straightest clothes possible. You know, regular fit jeans, black boots, grey polo and a light blue sweater.

(Come to think of it, my wardrobe's become very boringly straight off late - I think it’s my subconscious defense mechanism lighting up to the gayness around me).

Gay boy singles me out in the party and hits on me.

Party 2. Barhopped to another birthday party (don’t too many people get born around this time!). Now with previous incident in mind, along with my straight clothes I wear what is my straightest attitude possible.
But no, not enough. Another gay boy wants my number.

Saturday night.
House party near Soho. By now I’ve had enough and am leching at girls just to prove a point. But like a bad bollywood movie you know what's coming next. Right?
Sigh.

Now, as you know, I’m not homophobic. Far from it. But not far enough to like the extra attention in every party. It belittles my self chosen sexual orientation. And that just won't do.

Which is why now, I'm paying my female friends some serious money to hit on gay men. Give them a taste of their own medicine, so to speak, or rather, do.

Also, girls, if a boy's being the lecherous kinds, don’t jump so quickly and be so harsh. He might need pity more than the usual routine you throw his way.

Ma Rewa

You know what - writing insightful, soul bearing, prioritised desires in single succinct lines should be all the rage. No one can escape it I say. No one.

And if you’re strong enough to, then shame on you.

But seriously though, isn't there this charm that a list bears? Cathartic, binding, freeing, screaming, unchanging, constraining but dynamic if you have an eraser. Not entirely explainable but not entirely unexplainable also. It’s like the twilight zone.

Or, to bring things more in perspective and ask what is perhaps a much more valid and penetrating question - is it just the wine?

Yes, I’ve been drinking and here's my 20 prioritised desires before 35 list.
Cause 20’s daunting enough and 35’s a ripe old age.

001 Travel for 6 months, at a stretch. Anywhere remote.
002 Publish a book of poems.
003 Speak French fluently.
004 Buy a roadster.
005 See the grand prix in Monaco, the carnival in Rio and a polo match in Argentina.
006 Learn to cook. The fantastic kind.
007 Spend a weekend in Venice with the love of my life.
008 Spend a month in Tuscany with the love of my life.
009 Get married.
010 Bungee jump.
011 Master the tango.
012 Adopt a Labrador and buy a horse.
013 See Machu Picchu, the Pampas and the Aurora Borealis.
014 Shave my head.
015 Learn how to make wine and actually make it.
016 Start a band and record three songs. And then disband.
017 Have washboard abs.
018 Learn the nuances of photography.
019 Get a tattoo.
020 Always have an eraser.

Subterranean Homesick Blues

There is no denying that homesickness is real. But even though it lurks, it does so, wearing different masks.

For when I was in boarding school, it mostly broke loose when my tummy grumbled or on still, bright, weekend afternoons, when you could free your thoughts and imagine what home would be like.

But never when the seniors ragged or the teachers scolded. Never when the sports injuries bled all day long. That was just the nature of the beast.

Now, in a foreign culture, much like a boarding school, only worse at times but never better, the sickness brandishes an uglier mask. Yes, the tummy's been grumbling for Ma’s food, the thoughts trail on most afternoons, but having lived through that before, what troubles most is the lack of an anchor.

The alien sports culture, the strange accents, the school or college stories that office colleagues laugh at, to which I can’t relate.

No one to talk to about cricket victories, or break into hinglish every second minute or to laugh at exaggerated stories about that road trip to Dharamshala/Goa. No one to joke about how we survived college or floundered school rules that seem trivial now but made us heroes then.
I miss the raucous parties, the huge deal a simple event such as a rock show was, the hunting for food late at night, tons of people no matter what.

Booked tickets for Delhi. As you can see, can’t wait.