Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's Blog, page 118
July 7, 2016
Today in Photo
Looking up at the roof at the Anokhi textile museum (sadly closed for the season). Photo by Shrayana. #traveldiary #jaipur
via Instagram
Today in Photo
When in Jaipur, dine as the princes do. At Amber Fort, just ate lunch at the GORGEOUS 1135. Best laal maas I've had so far. Eid Mubarak! #jaipur #traveldiary
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July 6, 2016
Gymkhana, Gympeena
In Delhi in the summer, the young man's fancy turns to thoughts of... club membership. Now, I am not a member of the several elite clubs that Delhi has—the Gymkhana, the Golf Club, all those Ye Olde Establishment places which smack of generations of privilege able to isolate themselves effectively from the world outside and pretend like they're back during the times of the Raj or whatever era they prefer, ignoring that in the times of the Raj, they wouldn't have been allowed into the Gymkhana club in the first place.
Do I sound jealous? Perhaps I am, a little bit. Membership-only clubs are usually great value—you get the whole experience for a yearly subscription free; cheap alcohol, decent food, vast libraries, swimming pools, tennis courts, the works. Staff that's worked there for years and years so they say hello to you when they see you and you can feel just as if you're at home. Some clubs are even generational, so membership passes on to your kids as soon as they're old enough, effectively shutting out any new members who might want to apply. (There's a lottery for new members, but this is so rare and elusive, it's usually all done by the time you hear about it.)
However, having grown up in this city, I have been invited as a guest to partake in Delhi's clubs Open Nights, as it were. The Gymkhana Club particularly has a famous Thursday Bar Night, to which everyone who is anyone comes. You'll rub shoulders with top politicians (kids) and top industrialists (kids) and you swig expensive alcohol for half the price it would cost you at a bar, and all around you there are women dressed in shiny, sequinned clothes sweating gently in the summer heat. It's a bit overwhelming if you're not used to it, all of Delhi's rich people in one place?
Many years ago, I dated men who had the Golden Ticket, as it were. I swung up to the club on their arm, tried not to blink in astonishment at all I saw around me, in my gaucheness, even spilled a vodka-orange juice that I was too young to be drinking all over my date's sister. I must have apologised a million times, it was my first time there on a Thursday night, although kind friends had taken me swimming there several years earlier.
I was dressed in what I thought were pretty cool clothes—a Weekender (remember Weekender?) halter top and skinny jeans. The halter top had a shrug to match, my hair was twisted on the top of my head and secured in a bun. I was nineteen, and there was orange juice all over my new clothes as well. When I went off to wash my hands and collect myself, the sister leaned over to my date and said, “She's adorable,” a fact which he later conveyed to me. I felt only relief back then that my drink spilling hadn't ruined everything, but now in retrospect, I'm imagining her saying it, in her not-trying-too-hard clothes, one eyebrow raised. “She's adorable.” There there. Pat pat.
A few years later, Thursday nights were something I was used to. “How nice the Gymkhana club is,” I said once, “I wish I was also a member.” The lady I was talking to, smiled, the hidden “she's adorable” in her voice. “All you have to do is marry a member.”
Maybe that's something that should go in the matrimonial ads of today. Earns such-and-such, height so-and-so, is a member of one of the prestigious clubs. I'm not sure if women can pass on their membership on marriage as well, but somehow, recalling a conversation I once had about a fancy Hyderabad club, I suspect not.
As for me, I pour myself gin and tonics and sit on my couch. The cats may not talk, but they do rub up against me, and so I am recognised. The clubs, I justify to myself, are a really long drive from where I am. My private club has a membership of two, and it's the most exclusive one there is.
(Want more eM + Gymkhana club? Here's a post from the past!)
(A version of this appeared as a column on Newsable)
Do I sound jealous? Perhaps I am, a little bit. Membership-only clubs are usually great value—you get the whole experience for a yearly subscription free; cheap alcohol, decent food, vast libraries, swimming pools, tennis courts, the works. Staff that's worked there for years and years so they say hello to you when they see you and you can feel just as if you're at home. Some clubs are even generational, so membership passes on to your kids as soon as they're old enough, effectively shutting out any new members who might want to apply. (There's a lottery for new members, but this is so rare and elusive, it's usually all done by the time you hear about it.)
However, having grown up in this city, I have been invited as a guest to partake in Delhi's clubs Open Nights, as it were. The Gymkhana Club particularly has a famous Thursday Bar Night, to which everyone who is anyone comes. You'll rub shoulders with top politicians (kids) and top industrialists (kids) and you swig expensive alcohol for half the price it would cost you at a bar, and all around you there are women dressed in shiny, sequinned clothes sweating gently in the summer heat. It's a bit overwhelming if you're not used to it, all of Delhi's rich people in one place?
Many years ago, I dated men who had the Golden Ticket, as it were. I swung up to the club on their arm, tried not to blink in astonishment at all I saw around me, in my gaucheness, even spilled a vodka-orange juice that I was too young to be drinking all over my date's sister. I must have apologised a million times, it was my first time there on a Thursday night, although kind friends had taken me swimming there several years earlier.
I was dressed in what I thought were pretty cool clothes—a Weekender (remember Weekender?) halter top and skinny jeans. The halter top had a shrug to match, my hair was twisted on the top of my head and secured in a bun. I was nineteen, and there was orange juice all over my new clothes as well. When I went off to wash my hands and collect myself, the sister leaned over to my date and said, “She's adorable,” a fact which he later conveyed to me. I felt only relief back then that my drink spilling hadn't ruined everything, but now in retrospect, I'm imagining her saying it, in her not-trying-too-hard clothes, one eyebrow raised. “She's adorable.” There there. Pat pat.
A few years later, Thursday nights were something I was used to. “How nice the Gymkhana club is,” I said once, “I wish I was also a member.” The lady I was talking to, smiled, the hidden “she's adorable” in her voice. “All you have to do is marry a member.”
Maybe that's something that should go in the matrimonial ads of today. Earns such-and-such, height so-and-so, is a member of one of the prestigious clubs. I'm not sure if women can pass on their membership on marriage as well, but somehow, recalling a conversation I once had about a fancy Hyderabad club, I suspect not.
As for me, I pour myself gin and tonics and sit on my couch. The cats may not talk, but they do rub up against me, and so I am recognised. The clubs, I justify to myself, are a really long drive from where I am. My private club has a membership of two, and it's the most exclusive one there is.
(Want more eM + Gymkhana club? Here's a post from the past!)
(A version of this appeared as a column on Newsable)
July 5, 2016
July 3, 2016
Will you still need me when I'm 64?
You've seen him at parties, I'm sure. There's always this one guy, salt and pepper hair, with the aura of wisdom and been-there-done-that-ness that is standing with a woman over ten years younger than himself. They seem happy and contented, for the most part. She buzzes about the party, he usually stays in one spot and talks to few people there for the entire evening. It's a May-December romance, the Older Man-Younger Woman romance, a tale as old as time and as cliche as those phrases are.
The first time I encountered it, I was in my early twenties, hanging with a crew also in their early twenties. We were recent graduates, some of us in our first jobs, some of us doing further degrees. We chugged our cheap drinks out of plastic cups and played music very loudly in someone's backyard, occasionally singing along. Into all this, came one of the girls bringing along with her this grey haired man, fathoms older than her, who she introduced as the man she was seeing. I was so taken by this, I even put it in my first novel (written not long after this encounter). Little did I know that evening, that person, that change that came over the gathering would be one of many, many, many meetings I'd have over the years. (I blogged about that night here.) (And no, there's no use asking me who this was or when this was, it's ancient history, bro.)
Now, of course, as we're all in our thirties, dating someone older is not so far-fetched. I like to think of maturity as a water level. It's rising through your teens and twenties, and in your thirties it reaches a plateau where things are stable and you're about as grown up as you're likely to be for the next few decades. Things like parenthood and living on your own and dealing with parents who are getting older all add to your pool of life experience. That, plus the fact that most women mature a lot faster than men leads to an almost ideal relationship when you're in your thirties and the man you're dating is older by a decade. It works.
They say that you choose partners based on your experiences with your opposite sex parent. Boys with mummy issues will choose someone who will remind them—even subconsciously—of their mothers. The same with girls with daddy issues. However, as time goes by, I'm finding this too simplistic an explanation. Perhaps this is a better one: we seek partners who repair a certain imbalance that we have within ourselves. If you are quick to fly off the handle and get stressed easily, you're drawn to the cool, calm energies of another. If you need stability and a routine, you like someone who also craves all those things. Most relationships don't work out only when those complementing energies are off.
Briefly, I went out with an older man myself. I enjoyed playing the “when you were so-and-so age, I was such-and-such” but of course, you can't build a whole relationship on that. I was sad when it ended, but somewhere in the back of my head, I knew it wasn't going to be a forever thing anyway. Not because he was older, but just that we weren't compatible. Maybe I always needed someone who was growing at the same rate I was, so we could have our life experiences together, rather than me relying on him to tell me what it was like.
The interesting thing comes when you begin to analyse your relationships. Do you have a type? And what draws you to these people? It's quite fascinating in the end.
(A version of this appeared as my relationship column on Asianet Newsable.)
The first time I encountered it, I was in my early twenties, hanging with a crew also in their early twenties. We were recent graduates, some of us in our first jobs, some of us doing further degrees. We chugged our cheap drinks out of plastic cups and played music very loudly in someone's backyard, occasionally singing along. Into all this, came one of the girls bringing along with her this grey haired man, fathoms older than her, who she introduced as the man she was seeing. I was so taken by this, I even put it in my first novel (written not long after this encounter). Little did I know that evening, that person, that change that came over the gathering would be one of many, many, many meetings I'd have over the years. (I blogged about that night here.) (And no, there's no use asking me who this was or when this was, it's ancient history, bro.)Now, of course, as we're all in our thirties, dating someone older is not so far-fetched. I like to think of maturity as a water level. It's rising through your teens and twenties, and in your thirties it reaches a plateau where things are stable and you're about as grown up as you're likely to be for the next few decades. Things like parenthood and living on your own and dealing with parents who are getting older all add to your pool of life experience. That, plus the fact that most women mature a lot faster than men leads to an almost ideal relationship when you're in your thirties and the man you're dating is older by a decade. It works.
They say that you choose partners based on your experiences with your opposite sex parent. Boys with mummy issues will choose someone who will remind them—even subconsciously—of their mothers. The same with girls with daddy issues. However, as time goes by, I'm finding this too simplistic an explanation. Perhaps this is a better one: we seek partners who repair a certain imbalance that we have within ourselves. If you are quick to fly off the handle and get stressed easily, you're drawn to the cool, calm energies of another. If you need stability and a routine, you like someone who also craves all those things. Most relationships don't work out only when those complementing energies are off.
Briefly, I went out with an older man myself. I enjoyed playing the “when you were so-and-so age, I was such-and-such” but of course, you can't build a whole relationship on that. I was sad when it ended, but somewhere in the back of my head, I knew it wasn't going to be a forever thing anyway. Not because he was older, but just that we weren't compatible. Maybe I always needed someone who was growing at the same rate I was, so we could have our life experiences together, rather than me relying on him to tell me what it was like.
The interesting thing comes when you begin to analyse your relationships. Do you have a type? And what draws you to these people? It's quite fascinating in the end.
(A version of this appeared as my relationship column on Asianet Newsable.)
July 2, 2016
Today in Photo
Most of my cat photos are of Bruno, because he follows me around from room to room for quiet time. Right now I'm reading on the window seat and he's chilling on the sill and a lovely breeze is blowing on both of us. Sometimes I think how much easier my life would be without pets but also how much less joyful. #delhidiary #catsagram
via Instagram
July 1, 2016
But first, let me take a shelfie
Last week I was all set to go to a book sale that a publishing house had in one of its warehouses. Everything massively discounted, it seemed too good to be true. Even though I told myself I didn’t need any new books, didn’t even have space for new books, I went anyway, taking along with me, my mother, who was making the same arguments to herself. By the time we got there, we had to turn around and go home. The problem? Everyone had heard of this sale, making it a much bigger success than the publishers anticipated. All the books were gone by the afternoon, the crowds so thick that they could only let in a few people at a time, and once inside, reports said you could only move along with the crowd — no time to browse or bend to look at a book jacket more closely. However, the ones who did brave the masses came out with cartons and suitcases full of books and I wished them well with their bounty, because they totally earned it.
I wondered though, if any of these people were actually going to read that carton of books. Does that sound judgemental of me? Perhaps, a little bit, but even though there were hundreds of people outside that warehouse on the outskirts of Delhi, I don’t see a reciprocal amount of people reading on Delhi’s streets or posting pictures of books on social media or whatever. A book has become a collectable, something you stack on your shelves, something which will look pretty and whose cover you will never crack open. I’m guilty of this hoarding-not-reading behaviour myself. I go to the World Book Fair every year, coming home with two bags full and for about a month I read only my new books, till something comes along to distract me and the shelf of my to-be-read grows. (This has some nice side effects, like when you discover a book you totally forgot you had and it’s as good as you thought it was going to be when you bought it.) I’m a notorious book hoarder—on my Kindle, from second hand shops whenever I see them, at sales, from the airport — I can’t seem to pass a pile of books without stopping to browse.
This is me
I used to be able to read everything I owned, sometimes even three or four times. And now I’m lucky if I finish a few books a week. Part of this is, of course, Life Stuff, but then leisure became so divided. You hang with your friends, you watch television, you browse the internet... Time with a book on the couch feels like a luxury, not the necessity it used to be. Particularly social media. It’s responsible for more than half of my reading. Long reads, shorter click bait, opinions, news, news, news. I’m consuming so much and I barely get time to read it all, let alone process and make time for it in my already very crowded brain.
When you’re on the metro now, you see more people with their faces in their smartphones, flicking through desperately, waiting for more. Even on long train journeys, meant for reading and relaxing, you see people on their phones from morning till night, stopping only to plug their chargers in. I’m almost thankful for holidays when I don’t have the internet, because then my phone lies forgotten in my bag, removed only for photographs or to check the time.
I’m glad though that there’s a revival of books in general. Whether it’s for reading or hoarding purposes. When we moved house, I ruthlessly culled my bookshelves and offered up two cartons for anyone who’d like to take them. First pickings went to my friends, the rest I put up a public post for online and they were all gone by the second day. People were so pleased with free books, a book giveaway that they travelled to my home from across the city, and went away with stuffed grocery bags that I offered them. I don’t know if they ever read them, but I was glad that they’d go to a good home.
And recently: a miracle. Someone messaged me online, a random person, asking if a book he found in a secondhand market used to belong to me. Lo and behold, there was my handwriting spelling out my name. The market was in Hyderabad, a place I’ve never given away any of my books. How far they traveled to find a home.
(A version of this appeared as my column on mydigitalfc.com)
I wondered though, if any of these people were actually going to read that carton of books. Does that sound judgemental of me? Perhaps, a little bit, but even though there were hundreds of people outside that warehouse on the outskirts of Delhi, I don’t see a reciprocal amount of people reading on Delhi’s streets or posting pictures of books on social media or whatever. A book has become a collectable, something you stack on your shelves, something which will look pretty and whose cover you will never crack open. I’m guilty of this hoarding-not-reading behaviour myself. I go to the World Book Fair every year, coming home with two bags full and for about a month I read only my new books, till something comes along to distract me and the shelf of my to-be-read grows. (This has some nice side effects, like when you discover a book you totally forgot you had and it’s as good as you thought it was going to be when you bought it.) I’m a notorious book hoarder—on my Kindle, from second hand shops whenever I see them, at sales, from the airport — I can’t seem to pass a pile of books without stopping to browse.
This is meI used to be able to read everything I owned, sometimes even three or four times. And now I’m lucky if I finish a few books a week. Part of this is, of course, Life Stuff, but then leisure became so divided. You hang with your friends, you watch television, you browse the internet... Time with a book on the couch feels like a luxury, not the necessity it used to be. Particularly social media. It’s responsible for more than half of my reading. Long reads, shorter click bait, opinions, news, news, news. I’m consuming so much and I barely get time to read it all, let alone process and make time for it in my already very crowded brain.
When you’re on the metro now, you see more people with their faces in their smartphones, flicking through desperately, waiting for more. Even on long train journeys, meant for reading and relaxing, you see people on their phones from morning till night, stopping only to plug their chargers in. I’m almost thankful for holidays when I don’t have the internet, because then my phone lies forgotten in my bag, removed only for photographs or to check the time.
I’m glad though that there’s a revival of books in general. Whether it’s for reading or hoarding purposes. When we moved house, I ruthlessly culled my bookshelves and offered up two cartons for anyone who’d like to take them. First pickings went to my friends, the rest I put up a public post for online and they were all gone by the second day. People were so pleased with free books, a book giveaway that they travelled to my home from across the city, and went away with stuffed grocery bags that I offered them. I don’t know if they ever read them, but I was glad that they’d go to a good home.
And recently: a miracle. Someone messaged me online, a random person, asking if a book he found in a secondhand market used to belong to me. Lo and behold, there was my handwriting spelling out my name. The market was in Hyderabad, a place I’ve never given away any of my books. How far they traveled to find a home.
(A version of this appeared as my column on mydigitalfc.com)
Today in Photo
Oh hi, I haven't left my house all week and now the monsoon has started, I may never leave it again. I call this one Landscape With Cats Part One. #delhidiary #homeiswheretheheartis
via Instagram
June 30, 2016
Today in Photo
Watching the rain. And also crossing my fingers that the roof to my study doesn't start leaking again, like it did the last time we had a storm. The house is an old lady in some ways, dressed up in fancy new clothes. (my study however is new and also the only spot leaking so there's THAT.) but it's hard to be stressed out in this gorgeous weather, so until the workmen come tomorrow, we've tossed a tarp over the terrace old school style. #delhidiary #homeiswheretheheartis
via Instagram
June 29, 2016
Today in Photo
My cat bookshelf. Obviously being a cat lady, my friends give me cat things. Others I collect myself. Had totally forgotten about that gorgeous Everyman's Library edition of Cat Stories which I'm reading now with my evening coffee and which begins with the encouraging lines: what does it mean to love an animal, a pet, in the fierce, entire, and unambivalent way that some of us do? #shelfie #nowreading #250in2016 #readingchallenge #bookstagram #mrmbookclub
via Instagram
