Being His Daughter

Disclaimer: Ignore this. I am just talking about my father. Not what I’d normally share here, but what the hell.

It’s heartbreaking to know at any point that your father isn’t the man he used to be. The man who used to take you to school every morning, even after a whole night’s patrolling on the streets, can’t now ride a scooter without falling off it. The man who lived a life full of power is now resorting to fucking yoga so he can move his hands and legs at will. The man who taught you to ride a cycle and ran behind you is now falling on the platform of a train station. And you are living your life.

My father has Parkinson’s. The second person I saw affected with it was D’s father, and it was painful to watch him go from an able man to one that needs help. And now it is painful to see how my father’s hand trembles when he is not aware of it. This is one of those things you know, things that never affect you unless you see a very loved person have it. And my father? The man who had a sniper shot? The man who won the President’s medal every so often? The man who put his family ahead of everything, even a fucking sword slash down his torso? The man who taught me how to love and live without listening to what the world has to comment? It is difficult when you know he is losing balance, or can’t do as easily the things he used to. It is difficult that he can’t go back to his shooting, the thing that he was best at in his professional life. It is difficult when he has to ride a bus, and not his two-wheeler on his way to the morning fish market. It is difficult when you are signing an insurance document in front of him, and all the while through the corner of your eyes, you see his hand shaking.

If there is one thing that scares me, it is old age, because I have seen what happens. I, like all of you, had thought my father was going to live forever, in his police uniform, with me putting in his badges, and go out fighting the mob. I thought he was going to outdo his entire batch when it comes to target practice. I thought he was going to be around to take my niece to school, the way he always took me, and talk about the time when we flashed before his eyes when he got cut up badly at a Muharram gone bad. I thought he was going to be the man who fixes the cylinder, the man who does gardening when he finds time, the man who sits outside the room when I am getting checked for a low BP. But no, today I have to call him asking if he has eaten, if he could swallow his food right, and if he is exercising enough to put debilitation at bay. Today I feel fucking helpless when he falls off his scooter, or when he has to hold his left arm tight so it wouldn’t shake as much, or when he says he stayed up all night because he was not feeling good. But then I talk about not being able to accept his condition? Imagine what he feels, each time he cannot do what he wants to do.

I mean seriously, there could a hundred men in our lives, but as daughters, can anyone ever take the place of dad? Is that even a question? I mean, I might have fought with him and told him things, but at the end of the day, the man I loved first, the man who still wins gold for me, the man who is the reason for everything good in me is him. And as a daughter, I feel fucking guilty that I should be here, living life like it’s no one’s business and he suffers. I wish I could turn back time you know, and go back to the time when Baba was my hero without that little “but” in between. That proud man who was good in everything he did. That strong man who could do everything, and look majestic riding his red Enfield.

But then, such is life. At least he’s there. At least I can pick up the phone and call him. I am fortunate, ain’t I?

Five Years, and Still Learning

Come Saturday and I’d complete five years of being married. That seems like a biggish deal, but then, well, that’s how it is. So I may not have been a good wife (remember I can’t make coffee and I can’t be arsed to deal with housework?) but I have learned some lessons in the last five years. Here goes:

1. Do not delete stuff from the computer after a fight. All fights get resolved and then you spend a whole day running recovery software to salvage what you can.
2. If the man says he needs his space, shut up. Don’t hit the panic button yet. We women take our space all the time without them men knowing, and men can’t deal with space. It’s like a dog chasing a car…it wouldn’t know what to do with it if it did catch up with the car.
3. Good in-laws happen in movies and only if you had a lot of good karma. There’s nothing that some diplomacy won’t solve as far as troubles with them are concerned.
4. Husbands are easy to please. Wear something sexy, give them a beer, turn on the TV, speak nicely of his friends and family, ask for what you want.
5. Each time you let them do what they want to do, you get the licence to do what you want. If you don’t stop him from looking at that hot girl, chances are you can ogle at that delish man with six packs all you want.
6. You may not like most of the people he hangs around with, but still go ahead and be there. We women need to be the ears and the eyes. The need to know what our men are up to is almost physical for us. Even if he is dead honest.
7. Men bitch, sure, but they are going to be judgmental about you when you do it. Like my good friend S says, if our men learned to say the right things, we’d have better conversations with them. Don’t waste your breath telling him anything. Pick up the phone and call a girl friend. Avoid the look of exasperation your man throws you.
8. Buy the man enough beer or enough cigarettes to stay outside the shop when you go in. You don’t want constant reminders that the first pair of shoes you tried were good enough and that you have to buy from this shop because you brought half their stock down.
9. Don’t panic if the man is watching porn. Men can’t imagine so they need to have visual pointers. We women too watch porn, but mostly have vivid imagination anyway. Have pity on the men.
10. The easiest way to get things done? Offer sex. The second easiest way? Play along. “Yes, Transformers was an iconic film,” “Yes, you drank more whisky than all of them,” “I could never make decisions as good as yours” “No, I don’t like Reese Witherspoon either.”

Devious is the word, huh? But fuck these, really. Make the man feel loved enough, and you can go to the spa as many times you want in a month. Or, in my case, avoid cooking at least 20 times a month.

Conversation Five Years Into Marriage

Since I was telling you about conversations the other day, here’s a few more:

Conversation at lunch:

D: We’re playing NFS afer work today. Might take me a while.
Me: Your mum hasn’t called. Did you drink water?
D: S might be going to that party place in Arambol tonight.
Me: The J.J. Cale file is 1.6 gb. I need the 4 gig pendrive for it.
D: Where did you keep the ciggies?
Me: Did you know A hasn’t even heard about BusinessGoa?

He goes away for a shower.

Conversation at night.

Me: Fuck!
D: What, now?
Me: Oh fuck!
D: It’s 2 am, I am working tomorrow.
Me: No, it’s my game. I lost a turn.
D: *glaring

D turns the other way, I continue playing on my phone.

Conversation in the morning:

D: Bye Su
Me: zzz
D: Bye baby
Me: zzz
D: Bye love
Me: zzz

Shuts the door behind him and leaves for work. I pull his pillow to my side.

Conversation in the evening:

D: You won’t believe what happened at work today.
Me: Before that, I need some tea, we need to buy water and I am out of cigarettes.
D: Did the maid come?
Me: Can’t remember. Where is the lighter when you need it?
D: So I was telling you what happened…
Me: No, no, listen. I had a fight with the boss again.

We ride into the sunset.

Sigh!

The Men I Nearly Married, and The One I Did

I have always suspected I had a weak heart. Not the way doctors call it, the way I call it. Weak, for me, means a heart that loves quickly and decides even quicker.

The first guy I wanted to marry was a shopowner. All he did all day was sit on a camping chair fanning himself with the day’s newspaper, and sometimes lifting his vest for a little scratch on the very healthy and very hirsute tummy. I wanted to marry him because his shop sold the best sweets in the world (back then my world was a small neighbourhood). I was convinced he was going to marry me and feed me sweets all day. Yeah, people have a sweet tooth, I always had sweet teeth. He was going to get me nice laal doi in an earthen pot, fantastic ledikeni, awesome raj lyangchas and hot roshogollas. But then my dream turned into a nightmare when I saw he had hair coming out of his ears. That was the clincher. I was going to marry someone else.

The next one was a shoe shopowner (oops, I have a pattern here!) He ran a shop full of shoes and he was even good looking. Nice, tall, lean, and didn’t have hair in his ears. I imagined I would never need to wonder again if I have the right shoes for every occasion. Heels, flats, boots, sneakers, pumps, slip-ons, flip-flops, he had them all! In different colours too. All my life I have dreamt of a room full of shoes, air-conditioned and kept spotlessly clean, and this guy seemed to have it too. But damn, my friend snagged him. She went out on a date with him where he virtually raped her, and she came back with really swollen lips and teeth marks everywhere. I wasn’t going to marry into S&M. Nope. Cancelled.

The third one was a cop. I figured when my dad retired I would still need to have some kind of contact in the Kolkata Police, live in a nice house, and be invited to the annual nights. So I kind of humoured this one cop fella who wanted to marry me. But he was too tall…a good six four, and that was a foot taller than me. So no, even with designs on him, I couldn’t look bad beside him. Rejected.

Meanwhile I started dating and had a boyfriend. I didn’t think of marrying him because I didn’t like him all that much. Besides he had strange eyes. I slept beside him this one time and then when I woke up his eyes looked downright scary. No way I was letting myself be woken up to those.

The fourth one was an artist. I was really attracted to how unkempt he looked, how much grass he could have, and how one of his paintings was bought by the Finance Minister back then. But he smelled gross. He very nearly never showered. You can guess what happened after that.

The fifth one was a marketing guy. But he was Punjabi. He was loud and had a rather funny way of talking. I told my brother I was going to marry him and my brother said “Each time he eats, he’ll make you roll out and cook chappatis on a coal stove in front of him. They like it hot and instantly from the stove. You can’t do this.” I backed off.

So I ended up marrying D. The man doesn’t eat too many sweets, doesn’t know shit about shoes, doesn’t break traffic rules, doesn’t want me to slave in the kitchen and doesn’t have more than two drags from a joint. But he’s the sort that can take my kind of a girl. He’s got what it takes, did I say that before?

Oh, and funnily enough, he was only the second guy who asked me to marry him. The first one was a doctor who just landed at my home around 8 one morning and asked my father if he could marry me. I said no because I felt back then that most doctors are pervs (Apologies to good doctors, you guys are fabulous at what you do, but there are the other types too, no?)

Relax, You’re in Goa!

Why do people assume that when you are going to Goa, you need to be another person altogether?

I mean seriously, come out with me one day and see how people behave. You will see loads of legs and legs that have never seen the sun. You will see short shorts being tugged down. You will see husbands standing in front of wives to cover the little hint of cleavage. You will see harem pants in all shapes and sizes. You will see high heels stuck in the sand on the beach. What’s with people visiting Goa? Can these people not dress normally?

D says that for a lot of people Goa is the outlet they needed. A lot of women have to wear modest clothes at home, so wearing these things in Goa is like catharsis. But why is it so difficult for some people to admit that their lot in life is restricted to a certain kind of clothes and that they make a sorry figure when they arrive at Goa in pink jeans and ultra tight tops? Alright, so everyone has the right to live a little, but at what cost are you doing that? You are not blending in when you pair your tunic with a churidaar and not leggings. You are not blending in when you wear that shiny, sparkly top at the beach. If anything, you are drawing attention and the wrong kind of attention.

Sure, 5 years in Goa, and I have still not dared wear a bikini. I have issues with my body. But I do know that and I will not wear something I have to keep covered under the striped beach towel. Why is it so difficult to see that your comfort is yours alone? Why do you have to wear a bikini when you will finally go into the water still wearing the shorts and tee on top of it?

You are on holiday when you are in Goa. You’re not invited to the President’s pad for dinner. So dress down! Don’t wear that huge necklace to Britto’s. No one cares if you have gold. Or silk. Don’t let your bangles jangle when you are trying desperately to cut into that banana pancake!

Honestly, Goa might be a little state with a lot of people who wear strange clothes, but it is also a state where you can be yourself. Those sleeveless tees on men with a temporary tattoo on a flabby bicep are wannabe. No respect. Instant recognition of your being a bikna. Likewise, that halter you’re wearing under the tightly-wrapped shawl? Very bikna. Wear what you have to. You want to wear western wear? Go ahead, sistah. Jeans and jumpsuits are western wear too. Do not pretend to be what you are not and wear something that makes you so conscious, and your partner so uncomfortable that you scream for attention. People feel sorry for you when you do that.

Next time you google your Goa attire, do google sensibly. You don’t need those brown jeans and the pink top with a thousand sequins on it. You don’t need high fucking heels unless you are going to a club. It’s a casual place, so please, spare us the sight of you in brocade! Ok? Ok.

*bikna: a very offensive term for tourists who try too hard.

Such is Life, Well, Almost!

Conversation with my family on a random phone call:

Mum: I saw your photos on that site. What are you wearing? That thing has no straps!
Me: It’s a tube, it’s not supposed to.
Mum: How does it hold up?
Me: Elastic. Or glue. Can’t remember. (not sure where this is going)
Mum: Only because you live in Goa and have become a hippie, don’t forget you are Bengali.
Me: I never do. Why? (cautious already)
Mum: Make some Payesh (milk pudding you guys) on Sunday
Me: Oh, why? (relief it isn’t much)
Mum: Because I am telling you to. Now boil a liter of milk till it reduces to half.
Me: Er, ma?
Mum: Shut up. Do you get good rice there?
Me: ma, listen…
Mum: You’ll need sugar, cardamom…
Me: We get ready to make payesh/kheer here.
Mum: Oh. Why do I even bother with you? You and your shortcuts. Good, make some on Sunday.

Hangs up.

Dad: Found your Math text book. You remember you failed in math at the Boards?
Me: Dad that was 11 years ago (that’s all he remembers? Seriously?)
Dad: Doesn’t matter, you failed.
Me: Again, 11 years ago. (when I also got 90+ in other subjects)
Dad: What’s 27 + 18?
Me: Er…um…(still counting my fingers)
Dad: See what I mean?
Me: Sigh! Is ma around?
Dad: No.

Hangs up. Turns out ma is in the other room.

My Brother: You broke the SLR?
Me: Yeah, I rolled down the stairs with it.
Bro: You stupid girl, you broke the fucking SLR?
Me: I could have broken my neck. (nearly screaming)
Bro: You didn’t. You broke the SLR instead. Why are you so arbit?

Hangs up.

Yeah, so that explains a little bit about me.

Ranting About Work, Don’t Bother.

I am brain-dead I think. A whole day spent cleaning another’s shit (well, in a manner of speaking at least) and now I can’t feel my fingers, or my arm, or my brains. Smoking isn’t helping, and neither is ready-to-make coffee. Or thums up. It’s funny the things we do only so that money comes in at the end of the month. And I am sure you feel the same way about what you do.

Have you noticed how in the initial days of employment everything feels like just what you wanted? And then things settle down and you begin to hate your job as much as you hated the last one? With the first job I had, it was not so bad because I was dating the boss. Five-star dinners and copious amounts of alcohol, not to mention a truckload of money at the end of the month made up for mindlessness at office. Now it’s about keeping your mouth shut, biting your tongue in the process so you don’t end up fighting, and letting the boss make wild and completely untrue assumptions about your work.

I may not like Americans much (remember how UFOs only land in America?) but I respect how they can go back to school at any point in life and start afresh. I love how they have strange professions and can still command respect. I hate how we are stuck in one profession for the rest of our working lives, and come what may, we grit our teeth and try to survive it. For the most part, people earn enough to make up for the shit they do. Me? I don’t even do that. I get glossed over, and sometimes, plain forgotten. Yeah, that’s the flip side of all those “Oh lucky you, you work from home” comments.

Anyway, point is, I was standing a while back at the only window in my house from where I can see people, and not just sunsets and hills, and it made me wonder, was my dad right when he said I was throwing my life away? You could say I could get my radar right and earn a lot more, but at what cost, I ask? Because I might be making more money if I worked harder, not factoring in how little pay still remains, miraculously too, but to get there, I’d need something more than this whole janitor’s job. I am tired of cleaning up after other people, who probably earn way more than I do only because they are in-house writers, and I am a couple of thousand miles away.

Don’t bother. I just wanted to rant.

So I Made Coffee!

I should have never married. Bad idea that one. Not so much for me, because I got away from arbit doctors coming to my place asking my dad for my hand, but for the poor guy that married me. Let me explain.

I am not exactly your “Neighbours’ envy, owner’s pride” material you know. That means I am not a good wife. But this is just in some aspects, because in most others I am a bloody good wife. Ok, not so much a bloody good wife as a fucking good wife, but then well, let’s not go there. The point is, I do not like being the housewife.

I can’t make coffee. No, I can’t make tea either. I am one of those princesses who has never had to make coffee for herself, let alone the man, or worse, guests. So today, while I practically dozed off writing shit and editing even greater shit, I decided to make coffee. The expensive one my mum gifted me (seriously, what was she thinking?) So I googled how to make coffee (reminds me of two other times when I googled “how to iron a shirt” and “how to polish a shoe” when I wanted to help D get ready for his trips). Did you know the internet is rather useless at this one? One answer began thus

You’re joking, right? You can’t make coffee???

Yes, I can’t. So sue me. No, don’t, because I am Sue to some. To D and Q and A back when he thought I was an investment. Anyway, so I can’t make coffee, and don’t snigger because I can cook better beef than you can. Some told me to mix so much water to a Nescafe 3-in-1 and some told me how to filter it. Fuck, how do you make Nescafe instant coffee? With milk, because I like my coffee like that.

One guide told me

Heat water, and follow the 1-2-3 rule. 1 teaspoon of coffee, 2 teaspoons of sugar and 3 teaspoons of milk.

Great. I had found the perfect way to make coffee, but the ass never gave me the amount of water I needed. So I ended up filling a large-ish mug with water and then the 1-2-3 and had half a mug of really watered down brown coffee. Not what I’d have again. Oh, I also followed S’s way of stirring the coffee and the sugar together before I added the milk. Didn’t work. In the brown watery coffee that followed, there were lumps of milk and I suspect the milk had curdled. Not that I’d know. I am no domestic diva, in spite of watching Nigella inspire that way.

I might be cussing a lot because we women are not required to cook and clean while the men go hunting gathering (I hate housework, I hate professional work) but thank god that’s how it works. What would I give the man when he came back with a nice wild boar slung across his shoulder (assuming he’d eat wildlife)? Coffee? I think not. If there’s one thing modern times have given hapless princesses like me, it’s the liberty to open the fridge, then open a can of beer and serve that. The number of beer cans you have at home is directly proportional to how good a domestic diva your friends think you are. The rest of you who think I should learn to make coffee now, take a hike. Cafe Coffee Day is another blessing to the modern woman.

So the coffee I made went right down the drain, along with any desire to make it again. So there.

PS: Why did this start anyway? Because I stayed up till 5 am reading about the sexual connotations of The Ecstasy of St. Teresa and then played a word game on my phone. And 5 am is late even by my standards, especially when the boss says I need to work more seriously. Worse, I woke up early too, at around 12.30 pm, thirty minutes before my time, and having called me the “muezzin of Facebook” and “royalty stalker” earlier today, the man thinks I need a doctor, not coffee because 7-8 hours of sleep is enough for most people. What would he know? What do husbands ever know? Blah!

Viva Delhi!

So I have never had much respect for Delhi, y’know. First it was a city, then it was a state…basically all messed up. To top it, while Bombay became Mumbai, Madras became Chennai and Calcutta became Kolkata, the national capital of the country retained the name the Brits had given it…it did not become Dilli, in spite of the fancy Dilli Haat it has.

But no, I digress. I was going to say that I have little respect for Delhi because it’s so full of the show-off shit. It’s bad enough that they are running the government from there, but no, Delhi also wants to be the entertainment and business capital. And so they go ahead and host the Commonwealth Games. According to Reuters, the following happened when Delhi was being over-ambitious:

JULY
* The shooting range is damaged by heavy rains while monsoon downpours cause water to seep through the roof and walls of the swimming pool complex. A loose grill tripped and injured a swimmer at a test event.

* Sports minister MS Gill reveals that the estimated cost of staging the Games has escalated from 6.5 billion rupees ($142 million) to 115 billion.

AUGUST

* Three senior Delhi Games officials are suspended over financial irregularities during the Queen’s Baton Relay launch in London in 2009. The government’s anti-corruption watchdog identifies 16 projects where financial irregularities are suspected. Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh orders an investigation into the corruption charges. Corruption is suspected in award of contracts and in hiring or purchase of equipment such as air conditioners and treadmills and even toilet paper, Indian media reported.

* With less than two months to go to the opening ceremony, much of the Indian capital resembles a building site. Piles of rubble and digging machines have squeezed even tighter the usual snarl of cars, rickshaws and bikes, upsetting residents.

* An outbreak of dengue fever is also cause for concern. Local media allege stagnant pools at construction sites have become breeding grounds for mosquitoes, forcing organisers to double the number of hand-operated fogging machines used in the Games Village area.

SEPTEMBER

* Security fears are highlighted just 13 days before the Games begin following the shooting of two foreign visitors by suspected militants near India’s main mosque in Old Delhi. A car also explodes at the same place.

* A day after the shooting, a footbridge being built just outside the main stadium collapses, highlighting India’s lax construction standards. Twenty seven people are injured.

* Concerns over security and health force discus world champion Dani Samuels of Australia to pull out of the Games.

* Commonwealth Games Federation president Michael Fennell said the two-week event is seriously compromised by conditions at the Games village that have “shocked the majority.” Complaints from team officials ranging from cleanliness to Internet access at the athletes’ village further embarrass organisers.

You’d imagine Delhi had learned some lessons after that one. But no, this time they wanted to hold the F1 races. What happened? The Economic Times said the following did:

Three major hurdles came the way of the organisers, Jaypee Sports International (JPSI), who together with Federation of Motor Sports Club of India helped bring F1 to country. They were asked to pay custom duty, running in several hundred crores, on the temporary import of equipment to the country and then Enforcement Directorate issued a notice to them for FEMA violation. Then a litigation was filed in the Supreme Court for the entertainment tax exemption given to organisers.

But yes, that was definitely not the end. Delhi couldn’t stop a dog, or two, entering the tracks in the practice session. I don’t blame the dog. He saw a new road being made and wanted to be the first one to claim its territorial rights over it. I would not be surprised if there were cows, horses and even auto rickshaws on the fucking racing track! Yeah, saddi dilli has its own charms.

Some learn their lessons fast, and Delhi believes in being third time lucky. Enter Metallica. Delhi hosted the concert at a park where there were goal posts. Metallica refused to perform because the goalposts were a danger to the crowd. The organisers couldn’t remove them in time, and then fans went berserk. They apparently threw 10-liter plastic water bottles on the stage! How they got 10-liter bottles in is amazing. But yes, Metallica did not perform, a stampede happened, and Metallica flew to Bangalore where they did a fantastic show.

And now? The Auto Expo. Crowded, mismanaged, bad security and a ton of other problems (on press day no less) made Anand Mahindra say:

The crowd management is dismal. Wall-to-wall people on a media day? Either management is lax, or media is the most popular profession in India

Still think Delhi deserves to host big events? Really, they ostracized Calcutta when the crowd erupted at Eden once, but Delhi gets away with all this? How? But then when it comes to the gun-wielding people of Delhi you don’t ask these questions. You can only hope that someone with a little brain would realize it’s time India got a new venue for hassle-free events.

Till then, we see the Delhi Belly swaying with the winds of power. Amen.

 

Ugh, Sunburn!

“Suchis, are you going to Sunburn?”
“Suchis!!!!!!!!! It must be so much fun to be in Goa for the Sunburn fest and New Year!”
“Suchis, what are you wearing to Sunburn?”

And these messages flooded my cell. Beyond a point I wanted to scream. No honestly, it is fun for you, for you who does not live in Goa. For us, it is a bloody pain in the ass.

Ok, so a total of 15 people live in Goa, each one has two bikes and a car. So that makes 45 vehicles in all. That also means that our roads never have traffic jams. That makes our roads all high-speed stretches. We regularly touch a 120 in the car and 90 on the bike. We do not know any more what stop go traffic is. Our vehicles do not need too many changes in the clutch wire, and give excellent mileage. We do a 10 km distance in 10 minutes or so.

Even better? Our ATMs do not have queues. We do not need to wait behind 10 other people in a departmental store billing counter. We don’t get diverted to other lanes because one alley is so full of people that even a fly can’t get through it. We can go for some fresh air at the beach every evening and have a calming ride through the beach road. We buy water at MRP for the most part.

And thanks to Sunburn, all that takes a turn for the worst imaginable. Goa had close to 3,00,000 tourists in that last week of the year. Now D and I live 300 m from the main artery that connects the northern beach belt to the highway, and that means every tourist, thin, fat, tall, short, overdressed, nearly naked, copying filmstars, Rastafarian, with dreadlocks, bald, everyone took that road. And it took us 40 fucking minutes to go those 300 meters. D stared at the ugly Humvee, and the very graceful 599 GTB Fiorano, while I had an entire post in mind about the women who paired heavy eye makeup with deep red lipstick in those 40 minutes.

Number plates from Maharashtra, Karnataka, Delhi, Rajasthan, UP, AP, Tamil Nadu and all the other states/UTs of India flooded the roads. Men hung out of sunroofs, screaming strange things, whistled at women, and gathered in scores looking for a little “body messege by a ladies” outside every beauty parlour (No, Goa doesn’t offer prostitutes at every beauty parlour, some do, but not all. These men were mostly disappointed). They parked at no-parking zones and then said “Yeh Goa hai meri jaan” (This is Goa, love). I had to stop myself from hitting them on the head and asking “So?”

Women wore strange clothes and then glared at each other. Some didn’t realize that you don’t wear stilettos to the beach. Some looked strangely at me only because I was dressed appropriately to buy water and eggs at the local store. Again, I felt like hitting them on the head and asking “What the fuck do you wear when you buy eggs?” But y’know, they probably don’t. They think nothing about shelling out a hundred bucks for a bottle of water. Strange are the tourists who come to Goa I tell you.

Ok, so the point of the post is, life is all nice and calm in Goa, maybe a tad too nice and calm, but then these ‘biknas” (D hates my using the term…it’s derogatory slang for visitors from outside the state) come and they assume that because they are in Goa, every woman is a slut, every bottle of beer can be dumped anywhere on the roads or in the sea, every person on the road wants to listen to the trance playing in their car, everyone is ok with being rude to, and that everyone will enjoy their mindless revelry. I am no saint, I drink as much as they do, and I know how to show myself a good time too, but c’mon, have some consideration here. Don’t size up my breasts through my tee and jacket. Don’t.

Honestly? I am so glad the whole thing is over. Now we can have the more decent crowd in Goa, who mind their own business and let you be too. Now is the time for those young people who can dip their feet in the water and sip on their beer without showing off their pubic hair jutting out of the extra-tight trunks. Seriously, I am talking from a Goa resident’s point of view here, we like them tourists, but we like them now. We hated them last week. Totally did.