All India Radio...
Dec. 29th, 2002 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ravenTo begin with, I've noticed a lot of people have been making lists of their Christmas presents, so, in the spirit of sarcastic conformity, here's mine:
Perfection, isn't it?
Anyway, I spent yesterday morning listening to Something Corporate and shelling peas, and it was fun but not particularly interesting. I'll skip to the good part, which was when Nidhi, one of Mashi's friends, appeared, to give the two of us a lift to the Ansal Plaza. Ansal is the closest thing Delhi has to an American type mall. It reminds me of the Trafford Centre, a little... just lots smaller. So, the first thing Nidhi wanted to do was buy a top for her sister in Mumbai. So off we went to Lemon Tree, which is more a showcase for Indian designers than an actual shop.
Iit was full of the happening Dilli-wallas, which is what the upwardly mobile Delhiites call themselves, and it amused me because they are, in their way, just as screwed up as me. They so much want to be "happening" (all-purpose Indian word to mean crazysexycool) and they believe the only way it is possible is to go Western. They want to wear Western clothes, shop in Western shops, live in Western-style houses, and they happily eat in McDonald's and Barista (Starbucks-type place) as if they were the be-all and end-all of restaurants. And then, of course, the Dilli-wallas have not been in existence long enough to become discontented. So there's no goth people and mosher people and hardly anyone likes rock music... so for me to fit in, I have to take the trendycool route. I didn't mind this, so I was wearing blue jeans, slightly flared, a black top with slightly flared sleeves, and the added touch of redness and ethnicity - the red dupatta tied around my waist.
The Ketchup girls, in other words the three college girls who were doing the Ketchup dance for Mashi, looked at me like I was the scum of the earth. Because, of course, as Pedar always says, I don't look like a tourist. I have the hair, eyes and skin of a purebred Delhiite.
But then I opened my mouth, and let my accent ring in their ears long enough for them to realise I am the Real Thing, with a capital R and a capital T, and the Ketchup girls immediately began to self-combust with jealousy of the NRI child. So... I spent the afternoon with them, watching them do their dance and bitch about me. In the meantime, I stifled my deeper and more noble thoughts, dreams and aspirations, became a shallow, ditzy bitchy airhead for the afternoon, and enjoyed myself hugely.
In the evening, they were giving away the tickets for the Sony promotional party (for the Ketchup song!) except it was all a gimmick. No-one won tickets - it was all a con, because those tickets were more precious than gold or toilet paper. And the ironic thing? I had a ticket, I just didn't go. I was going to, and Mashi was going to doll me up and make me look eighteen, but I didn't feel like it. So I missed the only promo party I'm ever likely to be invited to, but fuck that. Not my thing at all. And Mashi, who was expecting to love it, came back to say it was overcrowded and boring.
I spent the night at Chittaranjan Park. In the morning, at six-thirty, Mashi dragged me out of bed, into the bathroom, pushed my nose into a coffee cup, and then dragged me with her out into a chilly Delhi morning (chilly for her!) by which time I was beginning to wake up. We reached AIR around sevenish, and I started pulling out CDs. Mashi was doing the eight to ten slot, and had no script, which I had to write as she was going along. She's good at what she does - radio jockey - just a tad disorganised. The music we played was good, despite breaking off every few minutes for adverts ("All India Radio! Sponsored by Maruti Suzuki!").
And oh, yes - thanks to me, Something Corporate, Placebo and Jimmy Eat World were played for the first time on Indian radio this morning(!) I am personally responsible... in other words, Mashi tends to trust my taste because I live in the West. Yes, there are perks to being an NRI, and I begin to understand that.
And that is that. This is my last entry from this little net place... the next entry I make will be on my own computer in my own room. We fly out tonight - or rather, tomorrow, at three am. We're leaving for the airport at eleven, and as I got up at six, I rather think I will find somewhere to curl up and sleep for a while. My mother and Mashi have gone back to Connaught Place for mehndi/facials/waxing/lalala, and when they asked if I wanted to come with them, I solemnly informed them I would rather die.
Therefore I am here. And this entry is rather too long, but has been cathartic.
NB. I'll edit the time and date of the last post. These people are mad and can't keep their computers on the right time, is my only defence.
- Packet of biscuits
- Eeyore in Eeyore mug
- U2 album, Joshua Tree
- a rose
Perfection, isn't it?
Anyway, I spent yesterday morning listening to Something Corporate and shelling peas, and it was fun but not particularly interesting. I'll skip to the good part, which was when Nidhi, one of Mashi's friends, appeared, to give the two of us a lift to the Ansal Plaza. Ansal is the closest thing Delhi has to an American type mall. It reminds me of the Trafford Centre, a little... just lots smaller. So, the first thing Nidhi wanted to do was buy a top for her sister in Mumbai. So off we went to Lemon Tree, which is more a showcase for Indian designers than an actual shop.
Iit was full of the happening Dilli-wallas, which is what the upwardly mobile Delhiites call themselves, and it amused me because they are, in their way, just as screwed up as me. They so much want to be "happening" (all-purpose Indian word to mean crazysexycool) and they believe the only way it is possible is to go Western. They want to wear Western clothes, shop in Western shops, live in Western-style houses, and they happily eat in McDonald's and Barista (Starbucks-type place) as if they were the be-all and end-all of restaurants. And then, of course, the Dilli-wallas have not been in existence long enough to become discontented. So there's no goth people and mosher people and hardly anyone likes rock music... so for me to fit in, I have to take the trendycool route. I didn't mind this, so I was wearing blue jeans, slightly flared, a black top with slightly flared sleeves, and the added touch of redness and ethnicity - the red dupatta tied around my waist.
The Ketchup girls, in other words the three college girls who were doing the Ketchup dance for Mashi, looked at me like I was the scum of the earth. Because, of course, as Pedar always says, I don't look like a tourist. I have the hair, eyes and skin of a purebred Delhiite.
But then I opened my mouth, and let my accent ring in their ears long enough for them to realise I am the Real Thing, with a capital R and a capital T, and the Ketchup girls immediately began to self-combust with jealousy of the NRI child. So... I spent the afternoon with them, watching them do their dance and bitch about me. In the meantime, I stifled my deeper and more noble thoughts, dreams and aspirations, became a shallow, ditzy bitchy airhead for the afternoon, and enjoyed myself hugely.
In the evening, they were giving away the tickets for the Sony promotional party (for the Ketchup song!) except it was all a gimmick. No-one won tickets - it was all a con, because those tickets were more precious than gold or toilet paper. And the ironic thing? I had a ticket, I just didn't go. I was going to, and Mashi was going to doll me up and make me look eighteen, but I didn't feel like it. So I missed the only promo party I'm ever likely to be invited to, but fuck that. Not my thing at all. And Mashi, who was expecting to love it, came back to say it was overcrowded and boring.
I spent the night at Chittaranjan Park. In the morning, at six-thirty, Mashi dragged me out of bed, into the bathroom, pushed my nose into a coffee cup, and then dragged me with her out into a chilly Delhi morning (chilly for her!) by which time I was beginning to wake up. We reached AIR around sevenish, and I started pulling out CDs. Mashi was doing the eight to ten slot, and had no script, which I had to write as she was going along. She's good at what she does - radio jockey - just a tad disorganised. The music we played was good, despite breaking off every few minutes for adverts ("All India Radio! Sponsored by Maruti Suzuki!").
And oh, yes - thanks to me, Something Corporate, Placebo and Jimmy Eat World were played for the first time on Indian radio this morning(!) I am personally responsible... in other words, Mashi tends to trust my taste because I live in the West. Yes, there are perks to being an NRI, and I begin to understand that.
And that is that. This is my last entry from this little net place... the next entry I make will be on my own computer in my own room. We fly out tonight - or rather, tomorrow, at three am. We're leaving for the airport at eleven, and as I got up at six, I rather think I will find somewhere to curl up and sleep for a while. My mother and Mashi have gone back to Connaught Place for mehndi/facials/waxing/lalala, and when they asked if I wanted to come with them, I solemnly informed them I would rather die.
Therefore I am here. And this entry is rather too long, but has been cathartic.
NB. I'll edit the time and date of the last post. These people are mad and can't keep their computers on the right time, is my only defence.
