Fashion, travel and lifestyle

If you hoped for fancy pictures of my Greek getaway in dreamy dresses and lustful sangrias, congratulations! you just got played! I neither have the money, resources,a photographer boyfriend or a dumb brain to pout and pose on my vacations (or even go on vacations for that matter) . So I prefer to do what I do best ,which is, humor.

This post is about my everyday tryst with fashion as I embattle the dirty, dilapidated roads of Delhi to  reach the Metro for more dirt and dilapidation plus sweat as a premium and finally attempt to reach office in true Carrie Bradshaw style, minus New York and the glamour. And all the couture and Blahnicks . And the droolworthy bags. That’s  basically everything, damn:(:( I have Carrie’s hair though,  wild and unmaneagable, just the way both of us don’t want it to be….

Anyway getting back on track, since I recently relocated to New delhi I’m temporarily hoarding at my best friend’s place. Considering I’m cheap,  I ensure I make friends at all possible places so I can freeload as much as I want to. However this friend of mine stays in South Delhi. So whenever anyone asks me where I’m put up,  I tell them I stay with my friend in South Delhi and they all pry at me with envy. South Delhi is considered to be a very posh, ‘far from being in India’ kinda locality.  But as fate may have it,  the south Delhi I was hoarding at was far from being fancy. In fact it was far from anything that you may name – civilization, cleanliness, roads, water….just anything. It was a locality that would seem like Danny Boyle’s dream-half naked children taking a shit in the middle of the road accompanied with dogs and cows as poop-mates,   roads smeared with red pan that closely resemble the Jallianwala bhag massacre site, people who look like they have saved millions of rupees by never having to spend on toiletries, men ogling at the slightest trace of skin, so on and so forth. Amidst all this,  when people roll their eyes and do the ‘so you stay in south Delhi ‘at me,  I take it like its no big deal. Of course the real deal is far from what they think it is…Poor losers Buhahaha!

As all of you know,  I work for fashion and so I have this gargantuan challenge of always having to look like a million bucks. At least I could’ve been a designer, the bunch who are perpetually dressed as refugees and get the leeway of being the ‘creative’ lot and can live life as per their whims and fancies. But I ,on the other hand work as a freaking  buyer and I have to constantly attend trade shows and  business meetings with vendors. So I have no way but to look goddamn put together.

But I’m poor and I stay in so called ‘South Delhi’. God may not have given me the money but certainly gave me the brains to fake like I have loads of ’em. Everyday I spend at least an hour on my hair and makeup to look bomb AF.  Fyi, I have expensive products (courtesy: EMI on Amazon…oh what would the world be without you Amazon?) But I obviously cannot step out looking like that in our ‘South Del’ for I’ll be bombed. So I use like 5 scarves of different colors to wrap every part of my body and top it with a dirty old cardigan to sign off in style.  I carry my heels in a separate bag and wear dirty chappals. Basically I step out of the house looking like Deepika padukone on the inside and Ranveer Singh on the outside.

As I enter the Metro Station everyday ,  I notice people looking at me with a variety of expressions. Funny, clueless, disgust, fear and even paranoia. Of course they have a reason..Delhi has the reputation of getting bombed every now and then, as if there is no enough mess already. But I don’t really care, as I’m not gonna meet these people again even if it means boarding the Metro at the same station everyday. India is a home to 1.2 billion people and the probability of meeting the same person twice at random is an improbable event except when your life is a Bollywood movie starring Shah Rukh Khan. I step into or rather pushed into the train and within a few seconds begin to gasp for breath. Being vertically challenged, my face levels with most people’s armpits and never have I felt so unfortunate in my life for being born a minion. After twenty minutes of battle between my nose and  sweaty armpits, I get down at my station to reach my workplace.  I quickly take an auto in the same mummified look and prod the already enraged autidriver (don’t ask me why enraged?  Everybody in Gurgaon is perpetually enraged. Just accept it and live with it)  to drive faster. Finally as I near my office, I hurriedly remove my Ranveer Singh outfits and slip on my heels. One day it so happened that the driver was so engaged in raging his way through the traffic that he completely ignored my shenanigans at the back of the auto. When I got down to pay the money,  he asked ‘Why are you paying me?’ and ‘Where is the girl who I dropped here?’. It took a whole twenty minutes to explain that I’m the ‘girl’ ,with my near to pathetic Hindi skills!

With this,  I wrap up my fashion and travel post.  For all the b*****s who post fancy pictures in Seychelles and Maldives and mess up my stomach by aggravating my acidity, this is for you! On your face…


Malice in tinderland Part-II

Before I begin, this post is for you AK….He is one among the small group of people that WordPress lovingly calls ‘My followers’. This post is a part-II of the very first post I wrote here

For all my non-Indian followers, a small footnote: Tamilians are an ethnic majority in the southern part of India, and the main reason why Trump hates immigrants. (Because, when you are a Tamilian all you get to do is sit in the Bay area and write endless codes to save the Googles and Microsofts  of the world) With this bit of info, read on….

After he sent that text, I got very curious. Then I asked him how do you know that I’m Tamil? And he told me that he was kinda one himself as his dad was from Coimbatore, and he can easily recognise Tamil faces. I was actually offended at this revelation because even  I’m one among the 1.2 billion Indians who speak nationalism but wouldn’t take pride in buying anything that’s Indian. I love my language,  I love my people (or rather love to fake it that way) but hate it when someone says I look like one. With that began our endless chatting. We discussed our interests and  passion (Read: Just a whole bunch of lies to seem really cool). After an hour , out of the blue, he asked me ‘Do you smoke?’  I got enticed and typed YES! He was like, ‘Oh in caps and all huh?’ I told him I smoke just two everyday and try to keep it that way because  nicotine addiction is crazy ( especially for girls, with crazier jobs) and I don’t want to become a living chimney. He replied saying , ‘Ewww so you thought I meant cigarettes? ‘,I replied ‘yes’ in my usual affirmative, know-it-all self. It was then that he clarified that he meant pot. Ohh,now I get the California connection,I thought.

The next thirty minutes were spent in him educating me on weed edibles, the kind you would find in Amsterdam. This guy somehow managed to smuggle them into India. He asked me out and we fixed our date the very next day. He told me that he would bring the edibles along  and I was ‘only’ super excited, nothing more….(In the meanwhile I ditched the poor IIMian who I led on so much, and didn’t feel even an iota of guilt about that. Yes, I am what guys fondly refer to as ‘BITCH’ in all caps)

The next day I woke up to get ready for office. We fixed our date after office at 7 pm. I did not think much on deciding what to wear because I was more interested in the edibles than the guy.Also I got this vibe that we are gonna end up as good friends and nothing beyond. And also, I didn’t wanna look like I was trying too much. Nothing is hotter than looking effortlessly hot, I thought. I just paired my super distressed skinnies with a white tank and spent only an hour on my hair and makeup . I strapped on the highest  heels that I ever owned. And then, after all these efforts,  I did look effortless. I reached office and resumed my usual business of putting on earphones, switching on some music and straddling off to oblivion far from my obnoxious colleagues. The day passed and then ‘The clock struck seven , I ran down….Hickory D**kory  Dock’.

He was waiting downstairs and  we greeted each other with a customary handshake.Then we got in the car and began our Odyssey with Bangalore’s traffic. Yeah, if there was a contest between Odysseus and Bangaloreans as to who would reach their homes first, the former would win hands down. Any  Bangalorean would vouch for this.The traffic was turning out to be nightmarish as I’m a good talker but a very poor conversation starter. Yeah, I can’t handle uncomfortable silences. But the Vincent Vega beside me couldn’t get any better. He did not roll me ‘one of those’ but definitely fed me one of those. ‘Time for the edibles lady’, he screamed and showed it to me . I freaked out. It was a tiny white pill and looked nothing close to pot. I popped one and it tasted like what could’ve if Mentos slept with pot and decided to sleep with it forever. After that, a sudden feeling of panic struck me…’this is not some date rape shit right?’ I asked him. He did not say anything, instead he gave me a creepy smile…..a very creepy smile…a very very creepy smile……

P.S: Don’t worry, I survived that night…maybe just enough to share my story!