Five Ways to Find Love in Gurgaon

Remember that saying about the Universe conspiring to bring us something we
really want right when we need it?
 
Well, that’s hokum. I don’t believe in it at all.
 
If you really want something, you have to go out and get it yourself, not wait for the Universe to do its thing. Which is nothing.
 
So if your goals for this year include finding love and getting hitched, you need to get off that couch, switch off the telly and get busy.
 
Life isn’t a movie, even if you would love for it to be so. It’s certainly not the desi version of Serendipity where you bump into the love of your life at the neighbourhood kirana store while buying bread and eggs, fall in love, get separated and then miraculously reunite just before the end credits roll.
 
Real life is seldom like that.
 
So don’t bother wishing on stars or snowflakes and expect the love of your life to materialise in front of your eyes with a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. It’s not that simple.
 
However, with a little bit of ingenuity, you could hunt down the chosen one and update the relationship status of your Facebook profile with a smug smile. No Universe required.
 
Curious to find out how? Here’s what it takes.
 
Join a Gym!
 
Gurgaon residents are very particular about the way they look. So you will find that your friendly-neighbourhood gym full of hot guys, girls and the occasional Aunty or Uncle (if that’s your thing). With all the happy chemicals in your body on overdrive mode (from all that exercising), there can only be good things in store. Plus, you end up looking like a million bucks. What’s not to love?
 
Start Running. You could talk too!
 
If being cooped up with strange, smelly people in a small room gives you the heebie-jeebies, do consider an open-air activity instead. Why not join a running group? Or a walking one, for that matter. Plenty of eligible men or women there. You could strike up a conversation while huffing and puffing your way to the finish line. Who knows where that could lead?                      
 
Hit the Malls!
 
There’s nothing quite like retail therapy. Especially when it gets you the man or
woman of your choice. Gurgaon’s fancy malls are teeming with fancy, young people and one of them may take a shine to you. The multiplexes, food courts, designer stores. Brawny young men and nubile nymphets. What are you waiting for? Get moving, you!
 
Get a tattoo!
 
Tinder is passe, get a tattoo instead. Who knows, your better half might be getting ready for the needle right this minute at a tattoo parlour somewhere in the Millennium City? Sparks flying over whirring needles? Forget the momentary pain and think about the stories you could tell your children.
 
Drink some coffee. Or Tea!
 
Tiring isn’t it? Hunting down the love of your life. Time you took a break for some coffee. Or tea, if that’s your potion. Walk into a Starbucks or a Café Coffee Day, find your corner, sink into that sofa and put your feet up. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” someone may ask you politely. Well, that’s your cue.
 
Live happily ever after and don’t thank me. Or the Universe.

(Originally written for the Juggernaut Books blog in 2017)

 

Hair today, gone tomorrow!

A few years ago, I was at the salon getting a haircut when the hairstylist suddenly announced that a clump of my hair was missing.

“What do you mean it’s missing?” I turned around to glare at him. “Did you chop it off by mistake?”

He stuck his tongue out, tips of his ears turning red. “No Madamji, I did nothing of the sort. It is not there only.”

“What do you mean it’s not there?” I couldn’t believe my ears. It was there this morning. Where on earth had it vanished?

Seeing my face turn purple, the young lad hastily fished out a mirror and positioned it behind my head. I watched with horror as he flicked aside a few strands to reveal a shiny bald patch.

“It’s a keera (worm), madamji,”  he said consolingly. “It ate up your hair. You need to rub a paste of onion and garlic on it for a month and your hair will grow back.”

I wasn’t about to rub masala mix on my scalp! I was a human not tandoori chicken. I got up from the chair, paid my bill in a hurry and rushed to my doctor’s clinic in the floor below the salon. She examined my scalp, listened to my rant calmly and told me that I had alopecia. The clump of hair had fallen out possibly due to stress and there was an alarming possibility that more hair would vanish.

She told me to apply Rogaine for a month. My hair would grow back soon. Only I had to be mindful while applying the solution. One false move and I would turn into Thomson and Thompson from the Land of Black Gold.

It was either that or Persis Khambatta from Star Trek. I didn't have much choice. 

Thankfully, a few days (of Rogaine) later, the missing hair reappeared. I was relieved. Not just because the hair grew back. I was beginning to tire of the Rogaine drill. I wouldn’t have minded going bald if that meant not having to fuss over my hair.

Which made me wonder why men go through the ordeal of dressing up their bald pates with transplants and ridiculous looking toupees. Or even endure the Rogaine ritual. Why don’t they own their receding hairlines? It’s only hair. Hair today, gone tomorrow.

 

Missing: A Lizard!

Is there a word that describes what you feel when there is a lizard in the house but you don’t know where it’s at? A mix of fear, desperation and complete exhaustion? 

Both the herbal lizard spray and my patience has run out. The reptile has decided to pull a Pooja Khedkar on me and I’m not sure what I can do to draw it out.

In this round of lizard versus human, lizard is definitely winning. There have been no sightings over months other than the excreta it leaves as cryptic clues just to let me know that it is still around, I shouldn’t be getting too comfortable. The guest bedroom where it was last seen is kept under lock and key and I rarely go there unaccompanied.

I don’t like the thought of resorting to violence but if there was a gentle way to shoo away Lizzie to another flat, I’m willing to consider it. Coffee and cake on me if your suggestions actually work.

The (failed) Quest for Literary Success and Other Misadventures

The other day, my neighbour Mrs X accosted me in front of the elevator.

“You say you are a writer,” she wagged a finger at me threateningly. ‘How come I’ve never seen you on TV or in the newspapers?”

This is the same woman who had offered to get me a souvenir from the Glitterpuri Lit Fest that she religiously attends each year. 

I turned white under her accusing gaze.

“I do write books,” I protested feebly. “If you want, I can show them to you.”

I know she doesn’t read (other than the Fabulous at Fifty and Domestic Diva magazines) so I was on safe terrain. She looked queasy and promptly changed the subject. “You know my niece, Silky? She’s just published a book and she’s going to be at Glitterpuri this year. There are plenty of articles about her book in the newspapers. You must have seen it. It’s called Mr Lover Lover and it’s about love-shove. She was on TV recently talking about love in the time of corona. It's going to be a bestseller, I can feel it."

I jabbed the lift button with superhuman force, mentally willing the metal box to transport me to ground zero so that I could escape from the woman’s clutches.

She had touched a raw nerve. I have only been to two and half events in the last nine years – the half being a dinner party that I gate crashed and subjected the guests to a book reading. There have been a few blink-and-you-miss mentions in newspapers but only because there was space that needed to be filled. Glitterpuri remains an elusive dream and I don’t think anyone will ever interview me on television unless I do something drastic -- like kidnap a cow maybe. 

“You should come to the Litfest with Silky and me next year,” Madam announced, a parting shot, before she climbed into her brand new Audi. “Do some networking-shetworking and the invites will keep pouring in you’ll see.”

A conspiratorial wink and the Audi was gone. Not before blowing clouds of dust my way.

Suddenly, a life of crime-shime didn’t sound half bad. 
 
 

The Book Club

 

When Bansuri `Bee’ Kohli’s dead body is discovered in the middle of a high society book club meet, everyone assumes that her death is due to natural causes. Bee had just turned forty and heart attacks were increasingly common in women of that age. But, as the investigation progresses, it becomes obvious that there is something sinister afoot. All the guests present at the meet that night - from the hotshot novelist to the cut-throat socialite - had a reason for wanting Bee dead. And one of them is prepared to go to any lengths to keep a terrible secret hidden.

A twisty thriller about friends, deception and murder from the author of Gurgaon Diaries.

Click here to buy The Book Club.

Game of Smog

Is fog-hardened a word? Like battle-hardened ….

If it is, I am claiming the descriptor for myself. I might even put it on my LinkedIn bio. After all, having survived the Gurgaon fog for well over two decades is experience worth flaunting.

Before you call me a brag, let me tell you that the Gurgaon fog is unlike any other kind of fog. It most definitely does not come on little cat feet. More like heavy buffalo feet, to be honest. I’m sorry, Mr Sandburg. You haven’t lived in Haryana.

Perhaps I should call it The Smog. Because there’s an extra layer of filth from all the different kinds of pollutants in the air. Don’t even ask me what these are. I’ve simply lost count. There’s construction dust and vehicle fumes and The Thing we aren’t supposed to be talking about. It involves farmers and crops but that is all I can tell you.

For a few months every year, The Smog in Gurgaon turns one’s life into a science fiction movie. Remember The Mist? There is a thick blanket obliterating everything on the ground except instead of monsters, you have to battle invisible predators in the air that make it difficult to breathe. There’s no soundtrack to this movie just the ominous drone of nebulizers.

Driving in The Smog is adventure sport. A bit like one of those arcade driving games except you can’t tell a cow from a lamppost and if you hit either, you are dead. Game over. Of late though, we have been grappling with something called the GRAP III or a Graded Response Action Plan — the III should tell you how serious it is. The GRAP III bans non-essential construction and certain models of cars from plying on the roads. Not that any of this helps. The filthy air continues to swirl around us, GRAP or not.

My marriage has survived many smogs. Literally and metaphorically. The first run-in with The Smog made me want to go crying back to my mom in sunny Kolkata. The scenery outside our poky flat in Gurgaon stayed the same no matter what time of day it was. Our car didn’t have fog lights and it was dangerous to go out and risk ending up in a ditch somewhere, battered and bruised. I threatened to divorce my husband so he taped yellow cellophane paper on the headlights of his car and agreed to take me on a drive every once in a while. Thankfully, no cows were hurt and before we knew it, we had turned into experienced smog navigators.

Gurgaon’s smog is not for the faint-hearted. All it takes is one winter in this part of the world to find out what I’m talking about. Are you up for the challenge?

Game on.

First published in Medium.

A Mixed Bag of a Year

This year’s been a bit of a mixed bag. For the most part, I sat around waiting for things to happen and ended up feeling really dejected when they didn’t. So I turned to writing as a way to make myself feel better. Writing works as therapy for people like me. 

 

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation ~ Graham Greene

The year started off with one of my novels, Mr Eashwar’s Daughter (a modern-day retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion) getting a mention in two articles on South Asian writers and their fondness for Jane Austen (Juggernaut & Globe and Mail, Canada). In fact, when the Canada-based journalist reached out to me for a quote, my joy knew no bounds. It isn’t easy to get noticed in India leave alone globally – if you don’t have a massive publicity budget or a team to help. It’s incredibly gratifying to have your writing reach foreign shares and I am really thrilled that it happened.

I published a short story that was initially commissioned by Juggernaut Books but somehow slipped under the radar due to the pandemic. The story, Chasing the Clouds, is about a young man who takes up a job in a remote village in the hills and ends up having a life-changing experience. You can read it here if you want.

 

Earlier this month, the third instalment of my Dragon Aunty series –
Mangar Mayhem was published. In this caper, Dolly Luthra and her sidekick Mini go to a spa in the Aravallis for some rest and rejuvenation and promptly get caught up in a murder investigation. It’s getting good reviews and the perfect short read for the holiday season.

That's it for this year. See you in 2024. Stay healthy, happy and read my books if you can!