Pixie. Because I'm cool like that.

Don't believe anyone when they say that a girl's femininity lies in the length of her hair. It's a bogus claim. Truth being said, I have never felt this feminine in a long, long time. Add to this femininity, a dash of juvenile exuberance, and that's how I'd describe my close crop experience.

When my Pa saw a photo of my new hairdo for the first time, he instantly hated it. "You look like a wet bird!" he exclaimed. "I feel like a wet birdie, Pa!" I told him. I can now do a little head shimmy when I appear out of the shower, just like a wet bird. And I love the way my hair sticks out, making me look all pixie-like. The only maintenance it requires of me, is to wear an occasional wax and to wildly dandle up my hair with my hand. And honestly, the dirtier it gets, the better it looks!

Oh, and I'd forgotten in all these long haired years, how large my eyes really are. Or maybe they just seem larger now, making me look like those wide-eyed anime characters. I now wear kohl often and leave those glasses behind. My mane stands prouder. My naked clavicle begs to be flaunted in strappy dresses, off-shoulders, tube tops and to be adorned in retro tie-up scarves. I even bought little diamond studs to wear in my ears, which is kind of a big deal, because I never used to wear any jewelry at all. But now my ears demanded attention. When I wear those short bangs on my forehead, hold a cigarette, and make small talk, I feel very 'Audrey Hepburn', and want to refer to random people as "Darlings"!

I feel 16 again, or younger (and if you know me, you know I could get away with that easily). I feel like a girl who could get caught sneaking into the club without an ID, but who takes her chances anyway. The girl who the men at the bar give that "does your mother know?" look. I feel like I can get away with finagling for a drink on the house if only I could let my little-girl-eyes grow wide and pout about my drink getting over so soon. Who knows, I could pull off a floozy even, like Natalie Portman!

It all makes sense now that I should wear my hair short, though I wonder why I never tried it before. Long hair is meant for girls who grow up wanting to be Princesses. I was never that girl. I didn't grow up dreaming about a Cinderella story, looking for a Prince Charming. Me? I wanted to be a fairy; a pixie, like Tinker Bell. I would merrily settle for the role of the green, jealous side kick to the boy who never grew up. I wouldn't, I couldn't settle for being a damsel in distress, no Sir! No moping around in the dark corner of a tower, waiting for Knight in Shining Armour for me. Even as a little girl I thought I was better than that. My life was meant to be an adventure; it was meant for mischief and magic, for rafting down the Mississippi, for tackling Capt'n Hook, for surviving an island filled with cannibals. These are the stories I grew up reading and loving. Not fairy tales, mehh. Rapunzel is such a passé.

Of late I have been feeling that wide eyed little girl take over my personality again. She's mocking my 25 long years, willing me to get silly and naughty.

If you'd like to hear it from Mary Garden of 1920s, as she explained in her Article titled "Why I Bobbed my Hair":

"Bobbed hair is a state of mind and not merely a new manner of dressing my head.… I consider getting rid of our long hair one of the many little shackles that women have cast aside in their passage to freedom."

I do believe that this "freedom" is largely mistaken for imitated masculinity. When a woman cuts her hair, she doesn't necessarily sacrifice her femininity. Quite the opposite actually, it could metaphorically be described as a celebration of the innate femininity of a woman, which has nothing to do with her outer appearance; a femininity which is free spirited.

Coco Chanel once said "A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life". There's got to be some truth in that. You reckon?

Notes on not belonging to a City: Delhi & I.

"There are really patterns. It was a revelation, of a kind. Dreams and sand and stories. Deserts and cities and time."

- Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Fables & Reflections #39: Soft Places, (1993)

After two years, Delhi still remains what it always has been, a dispassionate lover who is the best kept secret, but never a friend.

It’s not for the first time that I feel intrigued by my impersonal, bittersweet affair with Delhi. I have oftentimes imagined myself as its Mistress, treated with a cursory nod of acknowledgement in society, and with utmost benevolence in private, but never with acceptance.

It would be ungracious of me to not acknowledge its kindness; often I feel it eying me as a step child - making up for its lack of affection by showering upon me abundance in kind. I owe it the exceptional opportunities it has provided, a thriving career. In Delhi I graduated from being a Missy to becoming a Madam. But ask me (or ask it) if we ever became allies and we’d both nod our heads with a dismissive smile and proclaim “we’re just old acquaintances”.

Not to say that personal histories have not been created and buried in its folds: chance encounters, opportune romances, circumstantial friendships and unpredictable trysts with love. Like the boy who liked flying planes so much, that I failed in keeping him grounded to myself. And another, who excelled in bizarre boyish skills: fire poi and skateboarding; who made for excellent conversations over Sunday brunches and etched himself in my memory forever as the Sweet Blue Eyed Boy. The girl at my dance club who asked me to go dancing with her; who was the queen of Delhi's debaucherous nights, and yet who then settled to marry a man chosen by her parents with little resistance. That beautiful dancer whose amorous embrace consumed me in a dervish swirl every time he took my hands and led me to the floor, but whom I left waiting, without remorse. And the Man who taught me how to use chop sticks on the first date and made me fall in love with him, so hard, in spite of my intelligence, my clairvoyance and my awareness of its limitations, that it felt almost criminal. What is it that they say about a lot of water having gone under the bridge?

I never belonged to Delhi like I belonged to Hyderabad. Good ol’ Hyd - how I longed to run into its arms at the end of every week, riding red district buses meandering through desolate highways, to escape my far off college campus and to set foot in the streets of Hyd, where I was free. We were kindred, Hyd and I, each looking to belong, each trying to shed the old ways of towns and adopting the new ones of a city. Unlike Delhi, in Hyd my friendships were never listless, my loyalties never trivial and my love never conditional upon loss.

I never belonged to Delhi, like I belonged to Bombay; throwing myself at its mercy, which is the only way it allowed its patronage. Hopping on and off Mumbai’s gritty locals, I felt comfortable in my skin. In its salty rains I felt submerged in reality. Its rocky sea shore reflected the conflict within. Mumbai demands your resilience, but also delivers itself completely to you. Unlike Delhi, Mumbai is a life coach, not a sugar daddy; it pats your back and hands you a spade, it never pats your head and hands you a candy.

I never belonged to Delhi, like I belonged to Singapore. Walking down Orchard lane, on the Christmas eve, hand in hand with my 9 year old huckleberry friend - I felt appropriately festive. Drinking wine right out of the bottle at Clark Quay with my namesake, who I serendipitously happened upon at New Years’ Eve - I never bargained for a lasting friendship. Dancing with the beautiful Indian boy up close and personal to the tune of “Stand by Me” played by a local band - I knew the night to be a shifting moment, never expecting it to last forever. In Singapore's utopia, I was not once disappointed. Unlike Delhi, Singapore delivered what it promised, and exactly what I expected of it: to revel in its ephemeral glory.

For long, Delhi liked to see me in captivity, be it in His arms or a cubicle; it never set me free. A fleeting sense of belonging to Delhi once came upon me, as a packaged deal with belonging to Him. I bought a car and there was a time when I wanted to buy a house. I had assured Him and myself that I would make a home for us here. I may have been disillusioned that it never came to be, but I am, all the same, relieved. Belonging to a city in which you are not free may come easier, but it is impossible to love a city in which you are not free.

I plan my escape every day. Will it be this year or the next? How much should I save? Should I learn Tango at Buenos Aires or try Ayahuasca in Peru? Maybe I should start taking Spanish lessons already? Maybe I should learn to swim better so as not to be embarrassed in Fiji's blue lagoons? Will I ever be able to save enough for a Round the World Ticket? But then again maybe I could take the Trans-Siberian all the way from Beijing to Moscow, with whatever I am able to save? My mind, dear friends, designs its own adventures.

Maybe it is me, and not Delhi. Me and my peripatetic ways, my impulsive escapism. Maybe I have spent enough time in Delhi to thwart its attempts at camaraderie. Delhi remains, a soft place, a place in transit, a sojourn: a place where you don't buy new furniture and don't plant bonsais in your terrace. A place where some nights you enjoy engaging company and at others you light a cigar and listen to jazz till midnight. My friends are not Dilli-Wallas or Dilli-Wallis, they are exiles, expats, small town boys and girls starting out here from scratch, people trying to make a living, just like me, or people surfing one couch at a time, awaiting a revelation through their encounters, travellers, tourists even. There is distant family liberally scattered in and around Delhi, which I choose not to socialize with much. When I hear of someone claiming to belong to Delhi, I do not relate, but I understand. Delhi, history's burden bearer, the City of Djinns, that has embraced so many, from the Pandavas to the Mughals to the partition refugees, never became mine.

Maybe when I leave, I'll look back upon Delhi with the fondness of a lost lover, and finally belong to it, like one belongs to the nostalgia of days bygone.

Missy is always up and about on the Weekends.

T'was a random, smoking-brunching-working weekend. Sexy Boy (as he likes to be called) and I, Sunday-brunched at The Yum Yum Tree; the sushi was good and I totally loved the conveyor belt system of buffet. My favourite parts of the brunch: the Prawn Tempura, the Chicken Satay with Peanut Dressing, the Green Apple Martini, the Peach Schnapps Martini, and the famous Yum Yum Tree New York Cheesecake, which is the best I've had in Delhi (and Vir Sanghvi agrees to that). I wore a dainty scarf over my collared white shirt tucked in the blue jeans and felt and acted quite up-street, for a change.

Sexy Boy gifted me those Sobranies. Also, he was the one to suggest that I try them as a subject for my new found interest in photography. Did I mention I had bought a new SLR camera? Those below, may not be the best shot, but I'm determined to get there, err, someday. I haven't made it out of the automatic mode yet, but I am hoping to, as soon as I find some quality time alone with my Canon. I discovered that while in fully auto mode the SLR focuses on the closest identifiable object in the frame, and therefore placement of subject becomes really important (yeah okay, so I'm a total novice, and maybe that was obvious and kind of d-uh, but one has to begin somewhere.) The Sobranies are literally so beautiful, I think I will just let them sit in that pack and refrain from smoking any.

The Travel Book photo figures here so as to remind myself and you, dear reader, why I bought the camera in the first place. The roads, my camera and me: The Ultimate Dream.

Oh, and I finally enrolled for weekend Spanish lessons. That was a weekend well spent. Now back to getting some work done, which has taken a back seat through all this.

Anyhoo, check out the Sobranie of London.

(Gasp! Knuckles, not very pretty; also must change nail paint. Sigh)

New ash-tray likes to pose.

Clickety-click with one hand and tapety-tap with the other.


Remind me again, why I need to just go.

P.S: Don't forget to feed my fish. Their names are: Red: Dhishum, Green: Golum, Orange: Tang, Yellow: Scuttle and Blue: Marina